PKS'55 POEMS. Pfcs xy POEMS. From a Medallion by Thomas Woolner. POEMS BY ALFRED TENNYSON, D.C.L., }'OET LAUREATE. ILLUSTRATED BY T. URESWICK, J. E. MILLAIS, W. MULREADY, D. MAOLISE, CLARKSON STANFIELD, J. C. HORSLEY, &c. LONDON : EDWARD MOXON AND CO., DOVER STREET. 1862. LONDON BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. TO THE QUEEN. Revered, beloved — you that hold A nobler office upon earth Than arms, or power of brain, or birth Could give the warrior kings of old, Victoria, — since your Royal grace To one of less desert allows This laurel greener from the brows Of him that utter'd nothing base ; And should your greatness, and the care That yokes with empire, yield you time To make demand of modern rhyme If aught of ancient worth be there ; Then — while a sweeter music wakes, And thro' wild March the throstle calls, Where all about your palace -walls The sun-lit almond-blossom shakes — TO THE QUEEN. Take, Madam, this poor book of song ; For tho' the faults were thick as dust In vacant chambers, I could trust Your kindness. May you rule us long, And leave us rulers of your blood As noble till the latest day ! May children of our children say, ' She wrought her people lasting good ; ' Her court was pure ; her life serene ; God gave her peace ; her land reposed ; A thousand claims to reverence closed In her as Mother, Wife and Queen ; ' And statesmen at her council met Who knew the seasons when to take Occasion by the hand, and make The bounds of freedom wider yet By shaping some august decree, Which kept her throne unshaken still, Broad-based upon her people's will, And compass'd by the inviolate sea.' March, 1851. CONTENTS. Pago CLARIBEL . 1 LILIAN 3 ISABEL 5 MARIANA 7 TO 11 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS 13 MADELINE 20 SONG— THE OWL 22 SECOND SONG.— TO THE SAME 23 ODE TO MEMORY 24 SONG 29 THE SEA FAIRIES .31 ADELINE 33 A CHARACTER 36 THE POET 38 THE POETS MIND 41 THE DESERTED HOUSE 43 THE DYING SWAN 45 A DIRGE 47 LOVE AND DEATH 00 viii CONTENTS. Pago THE BALLAD OP ORIANA 51 THE MERMAN 56 THE MERMAID 58 SONNET TO J. M. K . . . 61 CIRCUMSTANCE 62 THE LADY OP SHALOTT 67 ELEANORE 76 MARIANA IN THE SOUTH 82 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER 86 FATIMA 97 GENONE 99 THE SISTERS 109 TO 112 THE PALACE OP ART 113 LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE 128 THE MAY QUEEN 131 NEW YEAR'S EVE ..134 CONCLUSION 137 THE LOTOS-EATERS 141 A DREAM OP FAIR WOMEN 149 MARGARET 163 THE BLACKBIRD 166 TO J. 8 168 THE DEATH OP THE OLD YEAR 172 "YOU ASK ME, WHY, THO' ILL AT EASE," 175 "OP OLD SAT FREEDOM ON THE HEIGHTS," 177 "LOVE THOU THY LAND, WITH LOVE FAR-BROUGHT" 179 THE GOOSE ' 184 CONTENTS. IX Page THE EPIC 189 MORTE D'ARTHUR 191 THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; OR, THE PICTURES 203 DORA 213 AUDLEY COURT 220 WALKING TO THE MAIL 224 EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE 228 ST. SIMEON STYLITES 234 THE TALKING OAK 242 LOVE AND DUTY 256 THE GOLDEN YEAR 260 ULYSSES 264 LOCKSLEY HALL 267 GODIVA 281 THE TWO VOICES 285 SIR GALAHAD 305 ST. AGNES* EVE 309 AMPHION 312 THE DAY-DREAM:— PROLOGUE 316 THE SLEEPING PALACE 317 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY . 320 THE ARRIVAL 321 THE REVIVAL 322 THE DEPARTURE 324 MORAL 326 L'ENVOI . 326 EPILOGUE 329 b x CONTENTS. Page WILL WATERPROOFS LYRICAL MONOLOGUE 330 EDWARD GRAY 340 TO , AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS 343 TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE 345 A FAREWELL 347 LADY CLARE 349 THE LORD OF BURLEIGH 353 SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE 357 THE BEGGAR MAID 359 THE VISION OF SIN 361 " COME NOT, WHEN I AM DEAD," 370 "MOVE EASTWARD, HAPPY EARTH, AND LEAVE" 371 THE EAGLE 372 "BREAK, BREAK, BREAK," 373 THE POET'S SONG 375 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Artists. CLARIBEL T. Cbeswick, R.A . MARIANA J. E. Millais, A R.A. RECOLLECTIONS OP THE ARABIAN) \ W. II. Hunt NIGHTS j Do. Do. ... ODE TO MEMORY T. Creswick, R.A. . THE SEA-FAIRIES W. Mulready, R.A. . THE DESERTED HOUSE ... Do. . A DIRGE T. Creswick, R.A. . THE BALLAD OF ORIANA . . . W. II. Hunt Do. . . Do. . . . CIRCUMSTANCE J. C. Horslet, A.R.A. Do. p.. ... THE LADY OF SHALOTT . . . W. H. Hunt Do. . . . D. G. Rossetti . . MARIANA IN THE SOUTH ... Do. THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER . . . J. E. Millais, A.R.A. Do. Do. IENONE C. Stanfield, R.A. . Engravers. Pago T. W11.LIAM8 . 1 Dalziel, Brothers 7 T. Williams . 13 J. Thompson . . 19 W. J. Linton 24 J. Thompson . . 31 Do. 43 W. J. Linton . . 47 Dalziel, Brothers 51 Do. . 65 J. Thompson . 62 W. J. Linton . . 63 J. Thompson . 67 Dalziel, Brothers 75 W. J. Linton . 82 T. Williams . . S6 J. Thompson 93 W. J. Linton . . 99 xii LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Artists. Engravers. Page THE SISTERS . . . . . . J. E. Millais, A.R.A. Dalziel, Brothers 109 THE PALACE OP ART . . . . D. G. Rossetti . . Do. . . 113 Do. ... Do. . Do. . . 119 THE MAY QUEEN J. C. Horsley, A.R.A. W. J. Linton . . 131 NEW YEAR'S EVE .... Do. . . Do. . . 134 CONCLUSION Do. ... Do. ... 137 THE LOTOS-EATERS . C. Stanfield, R.A. . Do. . . 141 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN . . . J. E. Millais, A.R.A. Do. . . 149 Do. . . . Do. . . Dalziel, Brothers 161 THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR . Do. ... Do. . . 172 THE GOOSE W. Mclready, R.A. . J. Thompson . . 184 MORTE D'ARTHUR D. Maclise, R.A. . . Do. . . 191 Do. Do. . . Dalziel, Brothers 199 THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; OR, " - J. C. Hobsley, A.R.A. J.Thompson. . 203 THE PICTURES DORA J- E. Millais, A.R.A. T. Williams . . 213 Do. Do. . . . J. Thompson . . 219 EDWIN MORRIS ; OR, THE LAKE . C. Stanfield, R.A. . W. J. Linton . . 228 THE TALKING OAK J. E. Millais, A.R.A. J. Thompson . . 242 Do. .... Do. . Dalziel, Brothers 255 THE GOLDEN YEAR T. Creswick, R.A. . W. T. Green . . 260 ULYSSES C. Stanfield, R.A. . Do. . . 264 LOCKSLEY HALL J. E. Millais, A.R.A. J. Thompson . . 267 Do. Do. . Dalziel, Brothers 274 GODIVA W. H. Hunt ... Do. . . 281 SIR GALAHAD D. G. Rossetti . . W. J. Linton . 305 ST. AGNES' EVE J. E. Millais, A.R.A. Dalziel, Brothers 309 Do. C. Stanfield, R.A. . W. J. Linton . 311 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. xiii Artists. Engravers Papo THE DAY-DREAM J. E. Millais, A.R.A. W. J. Linton . . S17 Do. Do. . C T. Thompson . 323 WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MO-} NOLOGUE, MADE AT THE COCK J EDWARD GRAY . . . . J. E. Millais, A.R.A. Do. . . 340 A FAREWELL T. Creswick, R.A. . T. Williams . . 347 THE LORD OF BURLEIGH . . . J. E. Millais, A.R.A. Dalziel, Brothers 353 THE BEGGAR MAID W. H. Hunt . . . T. Williams . . 359 "MOVE EASTWARD, HAPPY EARTH, [•W. Mulready, R.A. . J. Thompson . . 330 :) > T. Creswick, R.A. . W. T. Green . . 371 AND LEAVE" BREAK, BREAK, BREAK," . . . C. Stanfield, R.A. . Do. . . 373 POEMS. (published 1830.) CLARIBEL. A MKI.ODT. Where Claribel low-lieth The breezes pause and die, Letting the rose-leaves fall : But the solemn oak-tree sigheth, CLARIBEL. Thick-leaved, ambrosial, With an ancient melody Of an inward agony, Where Claribel low-lieth. At eve the beetle boometh Athwart the thicket lone : At noon the wild bee hummeth About the moss'd headstone : At midnight the moon cometh, And looketh down alone. Her song the lintwhite swelleth, The clear- voiced mavis dwelleth, The callow throstle lispeth, The slumbrous Avave outwelleth, The babbling runnel crispeth, The hollow grot replieth Where Claribel low-lieth. LILIAN. Airy, fairy Lilian, Flitting, fairy Lilian, When I ask her if she love me, Claps her tiny hands above me, Laughing all she can ; She'll not tell me if she love me, Cruel little Lilian. When my passion seeks Pleasance in love-sighs She, looking thro' and thro' me Thoroughly to undo me, Smiling, never speaks : So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple, From beneath her gather' d wimple Glancing with black-beaded eyes, Till the lightning laughters dimple The baby-roses in her cheeks ; Then away she flies. LILIAN. Prythee weep, May Lilian ! Gaiety without eclipse Wearieth me, May Lilian : Thro' my very heart it thrilleth When from crimson-threaded lips Silver-trehle laughter trilleth : Prythee weep, May Lilian. Praying all I can, If prayers will not hush thee, Airy Lilian, Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, Fairy Lilian. ISABEL. Eyes not down-dropt nor over-bright, but fed With the clear-pointed flame of chastity, Clear, without heat, undying, tended by Pure vestal thoughts in the translucent fane Of her still spirit ; locks not wide-dispread, Madonna-wise on either side her head ; Sweet lips whereon perpetually did reign The summer calm of golden charity, Were fixed shadows of thy fixed mood, Revered Isabel, the crown and head, The stately flower of female fortitude, Of perfect wifehood and pure lowlihead. The intuitive decision of a bright And thorough-edged intellect to part Error from crime ; a prudence to withhold The laws of marriage character'd in gold Upon the blanched tablets of her heart ; A love still burning upward, giving light ISABEL. To read those laws ; an accent very low In blandishment, but a most silver flow Of subtle -paced counsel in distress, Right to the heart and brain, tho' undescried, Winning its way with extreme gentleness Thro' all the outworks of suspicious pride ; A courage to endure and to obey ; A hate of gossip parlance, and of sway, Crown'd Isabel, thro' all her placid life, The queen of marriage, a most perfect wife. The mellow'd reflex of a winter moon ; A clear stream flowing with a muddy one, Till in its onward current it absorbs With swifter movement and in purer light The vexed eddies of its wayward brother : A leaning and upbearing parasite, Clothing the stem, which else had fallen quite, With cluster'd flower-bells and ambrosial orbs Of rich fruit-bunches leaning on each other — Shadow forth thee : — the world hath not another (Tho' all her fairest forms are types of thee, And thou of God in thy great charity) Of such a finish'd chasten'd purity. MARIANA. Mariana in the moated grange." — Measure for Measure. With blackest moss the flower-plots Were thickly crusted, one and all : The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the peach to the garden-wall. MARIANA. The broken sheds look'cl sad and strange Unlifted was the clinking latch ; Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange. She only said, " My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said ; She said, " I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead ! " Her tears fell with the dews at even ; Her tears fell ere the dews were dried ; She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide. After the flitting of the hats, When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement-curtain by, And glanced athwart the glooming flats. She only said, " The night is dreary, He cometh not," she said ; She said, " I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead ! " Upon the middle of the night, Waking she heard the night-fowl crow : The cock sung out an hour ere light : From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her : without hope of change, In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn, Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange. MARIANA. She only said, " The day is dreary, He cometh not," she said ; She said, "lam aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead ! " About a stone-cast from the wall A sluice with blacken'd waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small, The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway, All silver-green with gnarled bark : For leagues no other tree did mark The level waste, the rounding gray. She only said, " My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said ; She said, " I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead ! " And ever when the moon was low, And the shrill winds were up and away, In the white curtain, to and fro, She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low, And wild winds bound within their cell, The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow. She only said, " The night is dreary, He cometh not," she said ; She said, " I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead ! " 10 MARIANA. All day within the dreamy house, The doors upon their hinges creak'd ; The blue fly sung in the pane ; the mouse Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd, Or from the crevice peer'd about. Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors, Old footsteps trod the upper floors, Old voices called her from without. She only said, " My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said ; She said, "lam aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead ! " The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof The poplar made, did all confound Her sense ; but most she loathed the hour When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day Was sloping toward his Avestern bower. Then, said she, "lam very dreary, He will not come," she said; She wept, " I am aweary, aweary, Oh God, that I were dead ! " 1L TO Clear-headed friend, whose joyful scorn, Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atwain The knots that tangle human creeds, The wounding cords that hind and strain The heart until it bleeds, Ray -fringed eyelids of the morn Roof not a glance so keen as thine : If aught of prophecy be mine, Thou wilt not live in vain. Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit ; Falsehood shall bare her plaited brow : Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not now With shrilling shafts of subtle wit. Nor martyr-names, nor trenchant swords Can do away that ancient lie ; A gentler death shall Falsehood die, Shot thro' and thro' with cunning words. 12 TO Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch, Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost need, Thy kingly intellect shall feed, Until she he an athlete hold, And weary with a finger's touch Those writhed limbs of lightning speed ; Like that strange angel which of old, Until the breaking of the light, Wrestled with wandering Israel, Past Yabbok brook the livelong night, And heaven's mazed signs stood still In the dim tract of Penuel. RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free In the silken sail of infancy, The tide of time flow'd back with me, The forward-flowing tide of time ; And many a sheeny summer-morn, Adown the Tigris I was borne, By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold, High -walled gardens green and old ; True Mussulman was I and sworn, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. 14 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. Anight my shallop, rustling thro' The low and bloomed foliage, drove The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove The citron- shadows in the blue : By garden porches on the brim, The costly doors flung open wide, Gold glittering thro' lamplight dim, And broider'd sofas on each side : In sooth it was a goodly time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Often, where clear-stemm'd platans guard The outlet, did I turn away The boat-head down a broad canal From the main river sluiced, where all The sloping of the moon-lit sward Was damask-work, and deep inlay Of braided blooms unmown, which crept Adown to where the water slept. A goodly place, a goodly time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. A motion from the river won Ridged the smooth level, bearing on My shallop thro' the star-strown calm, Until another night in night I enter'd, from the clearer light, RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 15 Imbower'd vaults of pillar'd palm, Imprisoning sweets, which, as they clomb Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the dome Of hollow boughs. — A goodly time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Still onward ; and the clear canal Is rounded to as clear a lake. From the green rivage many a fall Of diamond rillets musical, Thro' little crystal arches low Down from the central fountain's flow Fall'n silver-chiming, seem'd to shake The sparkling flints beneath the prow. A goodly place, a goodly time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Above thro' many a bowery turn A walk with vary-colour'd shells Wander'd engrain'd. On either side All round about the fragrant marge From fluted vase, and brazen urn In order, eastern flowers large, Some dropping low their crimson bells Half-closed, and others studded wide With disks and tiars, fed the time With odour in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. 16 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. Far off, and where the lemon-grove In closest coverture upsprung, The living airs of middle night Died round the bulbul as he sung ; Not he : but something which possess'd The darkness of the world, delight, Life, anguish, death, immortal love, Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd, Apart from place, withholding time, But nattering the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Black the garden-bowers and grots Slumber'd : the solemn palms were ranged Above, unwoo'd of summer wind : A sudden splendour from behind Flush'd all the leaves with rich gold-green, And, flowing rapidly between Their interspaces, counterchanged The level lake with diamond-plots Of dark and bright. A lovely time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead, Distinct with vivid stars inlaid, Grew darker from that under- flame : So, leaping lightly from the boat, With silver anchor left afloat, ItECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 17 J n marvel whence that glory came Upon me, as in sleep I sank In cool soft turf upon the bank, Entranced with that place and time, So worthy of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Thence thro' the garden I was drawn — A realm of pleasance, many a mound, And many a shadow-chequer'd lawn Full of the city's stilly sound, And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round The stately cedar, tamarisks, Thick rosaries of scented thorn, Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks Graven with emblems of the time, In honour of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. With dazed vision unawares From the long alley's latticed shade Emerged, I came upon the great Pavilion of the Caliphat. Right to the carven cedarn doors, Flung inward over spangled floors, Broad-based flights of marble stairs Ran up with golden balustrade, After the fashion of the time, And humour of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. 18 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. XII. The fourscore windows all alight As with the quintessence of flame, A million tapers flaring bright From twisted silvers look'd to shame The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd Upon the mooned domes aloof In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd Hundreds of crescents on the roof Of night new-risen, that marvellous time, To celebrate the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Then stole I up, and trancedly Gazed on the Persian girl alone, Serene with argent-lidded eyes Amorous, and lashes like to rays Of darkness, and a brow of pearl Tressed with redolent ebony, In many a dark delicious curl, Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone ; The sweetest lady of the time, Well worthy of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. XIV. Six columns, three on either side, Pure silver, underpropt a rich Throne of the massive ore, from which Down-droop'd, in many a floating fold, Engarlanded and diaper'd RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 19 With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold. Thereon, his deep eye laughter- stirr'd With merriment of kingly pride, Sole star of all that place and time, I saw him — in his golden prime, The Good Haroun Alraschid ! 20 MADELINE Thou art not steep'd in golden languors, No tranced summer calm is thine, Ever varying Madeline. Thro' light and shadow thou dost range, Sudden glances, sweet and strange, Delicious spites and darling angers, And airy forms of flitting change. Smiling, frowning, evermore, Thou art perfect in love -lore. Revealings deep and clear are thine Of wealthy smiles : but who may know Whether smile or frown be fleeter ? Whether smile or frown be sweeter, Who may know ? Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow Light-glooming over eyes divine, Like little clouds sun -fringed, are thine, Ever varying Madeline. MADELINE. 21 Thy smile and frown are not aloof From one another, Each to each is dearest brother ; Hues of the silken sheeny woof Momently shot into each other. All the mystery is thine ; Smiling, frowning evermore, Thou art perfect in love -lore, Ever varying Madeline. A subtle, sudden flame, By veering passion fann'd, About thee breaks and dances ; When I would kiss thy hand, The flush of anger'd shame O'erflows thy calmer glances, And o'er black brows drops down A sudden-curved frown : But when I turn away, Thou, willing me to stay, Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest ; But, looking fixedly the while, All my bounding heart entanglest In a golden-netted smile ; Then in madness and in bliss, If my lips should dare to kiss Thy taper fingers amorously, Again thou blushest angerly ; And o'er black brows drops down A sudden-curved frown. 22 SONG.— THE OWL. When cats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground, And the far-off stream is dumb, And the whirring sail goes round, And the whirring sail goes round ; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits. When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay, Twice or thrice his roundelay ; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits. 23 SECOND SONG. TO THE SAME. Thy tuwhits are lull'd I wot, Thy tuwhoos of yesternight, Which upon the dark afloat, So took echo with delight, So took echo with delight, That her voice untuneful grown, Wears all day a fainter tone. I would mock thy chaunt anew ; But I cannot niiniick it ; Not a whit of thy tuwhoo, Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, With a lengthen'd loud halloo, Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o. ODE TO MEMOEY. Thou who stealest fire, From the fountains of the past, To glorify the present ; oh, haste, Visit my low desire ! Strengthen me, enlighten me ! I faint in this obscurity, Thou dewy dawn of memory. ODE TO MEMORY. 25 Come not as thou earnest of late, Flinging the gloom of yesternight On the white day ; but robed in soften'd light Of orient state. Whilome thou earnest with the morning mist, Even as a maid, whose stately brow The dew-impearled winds of dawn have kiss'd, When she, as thou, Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight Of overflowing blooms, and earliest shoots Of orient green, giving safe pledge of fruits, Which in wintertide shall star The black earth with brilliance rare. Whilome thou earnest with the morning mist, And with the evening cloud, Showering thy gleaned wealth into my open breast, (Those peerless flowers which in the rudest wind Never grow sere, When rooted in the garden of the mind, Because they are the earliest of the year). Nor was the night thy shroud. In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest Thou leddest by the hand thine infant Hope. The eddying of her garments caught from thee The light of thy great presence ; and the cope Of the half-attain'd futurity, Tho' deep not fathomless, Was cloven with the million stars which tremble O'er the deep mind of dauntless infancy. 26 ODE TO MEMORY. Small thought was there of life's distress ; For sure she deem'd no mist of earth could dull Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and beautiful Sure she was nigher to heaven's spheres, Listening the lordly music flowing from The illimitable years. strengthen me, enlighten me ! 1 faint in this obscurity, Thou dewy dawn. of memory. Come forth I charge thee, arise, Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes ! Thou comest not with shows of flaunting vines Unto mine inner eye, Divinest Memory ! Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall Which ever sounds and shines A pillar of white light upon the wall Of purple cliffs, aloof descried : Come from the woods that belt the gray hill-side, The seven elms, the poplars four That stand beside my father's door, And chiefly from the brook that loves To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand, Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves, Drawing into his narrow earthen urn, In every elbow and turn, The filter'd tribute of the rough woodland. O ! hither lead thy feet ! Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat ODE TO MEMORY. 27 Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled folds, Upon the ridged wolds, When the first matin -song hath waken' d loud Over the dark dewy earth forlorn, What time the amber morn Forth gushes from beneath a low -hung cloud. Large dowries doth the raptured eye To the young spirit present When first she is wed ; And like a bride of old In triumph led, With music and sweet showers Of festal flowers, Unto the dwelling she must sway. Well hast thou done, great artist Memory, In setting round thy first experiment With royal frame-work of wrought gold ; Needs must thou dearly love thy first essay, And foremost in thy various gallery Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls Upon the storied walls ; For the discovery And newness of thine art so pleased thee, That all which thou hast drawn of fairest Or boldest since, but lightly weighs With thee unto the love thou bearest The first-born of thy genius. Artist-like, Ever retiring thou dost gaze On the prime labour of thine early days : No matter what the sketch might be ; 28 ODE TO MEMORY. Whether the high field on the bushless Pike, Or even a sand-built ridge Of heaped hills that mound the sea, Overblown with murmurs harsh, Or even a lowly cottage whence we see Stretch'd wide and wild the waste enormous marsh, Where from the frequent bridge, Like emblems of infinity, The trenched waters run from sky to sky ; Or a garden bower'd close With plaited alleys of the trailing rose, Long alleys falling down to twilight grots, Or opening upon level plots Of crowned lilies, standing near Purple-spiked lavender : Whither in after life retired From brawling storms, From weary wind, With youthful fancy reinspired, We may hold converse with all forms Of the many-sided mind, And those whom passion hath not blinded, Subtle-thoughted, myriad-minded. My friend, with you to live alone, Were how much better than to own A crown, a sceptre, and a throne ! strengthen me, enlighten me ! 1 faint in this obscurity, Thou dewy dawn of memory. 29 SONG. A spirit haunts the year's last hours Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers : To himself he talks ; For at eventide, listening earnestly, At his work you may hear him sob and sigh In the walks ; Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks Of the mouldering flowers : Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i' the earth so chilly ; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. The air is damp, and hush'd, and close, As a sick man's room when he taketh repose An hour before death ; My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves, 30 SONG. And the breath Of the fading edges of box beneath, And the year's last rose. Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i' the earth so chilly ; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. THE SEA-FAIRIES. Slow sail'd the weary mariners and saw, Betwixt the green brink and the running foam, Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest To little harps of gold ; and while they mused, Whispering to each other half in fear, Shrill music reach'd them on the middle sea. Whither away, whither away, whither away? fly no more. Whither away from the high green field, and the happy blossoming shore ? Day and night to the billow the fountain calls ; Down shower the gambolling waterfalls 32 THE SEA-FAIRIES. From wandering over the lea : Out of the live-green heart of the dells The}'- freshen the silvery-crimson shells, And thick with white bells the clover-hill swells High over the full-toned sea : O hither, come hither and furl your sails, Come hither to me and to me : Hither, come hither and frolic and play ; Here it is only the mew that wails ; We will sing to you all the day : Mariner, mariner, furl your sails, For here are the blissful downs and dales, And merrily merrily carol the gales, And the spangle dances in bight and bay, And the rainbow forms and flies on the land Over the islands free ; And the rainbow lives in the curve of the sand ; Hither, come hither and see ; And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave, And sweet is the colour of cove and cave, And sweet shall your welcome be : O hither, come hither, and be our lords For merry brides are we : We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet words : O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten With pleasure and love and jubilee : O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten When the sharp clear twang of the golden chords Runs up the ridged sea. Who can light on as happy a shore All the world o'er, all the world o'er ? Whither away? listen and stay: mariner, mariner, fly no more. 33 ADELINE. Mystery of mysteries, Faintly smiling Adeline, Scarce of earth nor all divine, Nor unhappy, nor at rest, But beyond expression fair With thy floating flaxen hair ; Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes Take the heart from out my breast. Wherefore those dim looks of thine, Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? Whence that aery bloom of thine, Like a lily which the sun Looks thro' in his sad decline, And a rose-bush leans upon, Thou that faintly smilest still, As a Naiad in a well, Looking at the set of day, Or a phantom two hours old 34 ADELINE. Of a maiden past away, Ere the placid lips be cold ? Wherefore those faint smiles of thine, Spiritual Adeline ? What hope or fear or joy is thine ? Who talketh with thee, Adeline ? For sure thou art not all alone : Do beating hearts of salient springs Keep measure with thine own ? Hast thou heard the butterflies What they say betwixt their wings ? Or in stillest evenings With what voice the violet woos To his heart the silver dews ? Or when little airs arise, How the merry bluebell rings To the mosses underneath ? Hast thou look'd upon the breath Of the lilies at sunrise ? Wherefore that faint smile of thine, Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? Some honey-converse feeds thy mind, Some spirit of a crimson rose In love with thee forgets to close His curtains, wasting odorous sighs All night long on darkness blind. What aileth thee ? whom waitest thou With thy soften'd, shadow'd brow, ADELINE. 35 And those dew-lit eyes of thine, Thou faint smiler, Adeline ? Lovest thou the doleful wind When thou gazest at the skies ? Doth the low-tongued Orient Wander from the side of the morn, Dripping with Sabrean spice On thy pillow, lowly bent With melodious airs lovelorn, Breathing Light against thy face, While his locks a-dropping twined Round thy neck in subtle ring Make a carcanet of rays, And ye talk together still, In the language wherewith Spring Letters cowslips on the hill ? Hence that look and smile of thine, Spiritual Adeline. 30 A CHARACTER With a half-glance upon the sky At night he said, " The wanderings Of this most intricate Universe Teach me the nothingness of things." Yet could not all creation pierce Beyond the bottom of his eye. He spake of beauty : that the dull Saw no divinity in grass, Life in dead stones, or spirit in air ; Then looking as 'twere in a glass, He smooth'd his chin and sleek'd his hair, And said the earth was beautiful. He spake of virtue : not the gods More purely, when they wish to charm Pallas and Juno sitting by : And with a sweeping of the arm, And a lack-lustre dead-blue eye, Devolved his rounded periods. A CHARACTER. 37 Most delicately hour by hour He canvass'd human mysteries, And trod on silk, as if the winds Blew his own praises in his eyes, And stood aloof from other minds In impotence of fancied power. With lips depress'd as he were meek, Himself unto himself he sold : Upon himself himself did feed : Quiet, dispassionate, and cold, And other than his form of creed, With chisell'd features clear and sleek. 38 THE POET. The poet in a golden clime was born, With golden stars above ; Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love. He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill, He saw thro' his own soul. The marvel of the everlasting will, An open scroll, Before him lay : with echoing feet he threaded The secretest walks of fame : The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed And wing'd with flame, Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue, And of so fierce a flight, From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung, Filling with light THE POET. 39 And vagrant melodies the winds which bore Them earthward till they lit ; Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower, The fruitful wit Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew Where'er they fell, behold, Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew A flower all gold, And bravely furnish'd all abroad to fling The winged shafts of truth, To throng with stately blooms the breathing spring Of Hope and Youth. So many minds did gird their orbs with beams, Tho' one did fling the fire. Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many dreams Of high desire. Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world Like one great garden show'd, And thro' the wreaths of floating dark upcurl'd, Rare sunrise flow'd. And Freedom rear'd in that august sunrise Her beautiful bold brow, When rites and forms before his burning eyes Melted like snow. 40 . THE POET. There was no blood upon her maiden robes Sunn'd by those orient skies ; But round about the circles of the globes Of her keen eyes And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame Wisdom, a name to shake All evil dreams of power — a sacred name. And when she spake, Her words did gather thunder as they ran, And as the lightning to the thunder Which follows it, riving the spirit of man, Making earth wonder, So was their meaning to her words. No sword Of wrath her right arm whirl'd, But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word She shook the world. 41 THE POET'S MIND. i. Vex not thou the poet's mind With thy shallow wit : Vex not thou the poet's mind ; For thou canst not fathom it. Clear and bright it should be ever, Flowing like a crystal river ; Bright as light, and clear as wind. Dark-brow'd sophist, come not anear ; All the place is holy ground ; Hollow smile and frozen sneer Come not here. Holy water will I pour Into every spicy flower Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around. The flowers would faint at your cruel cheer. In your eye there is death, There is frost in your breath 42 THE POET'S MIND. Which would blight the plants. Where you stand you cannot hear From the groves within The wild-bird's din. In the heart of the garden the merry bird chants, It would fall to the ground if you came in. In the middle leaps a fountain Like sheet lightning, Ever brightening With a low melodious thunder ; All day and all night it is ever drawn From the brain of the purple mountain Which stands in the distance yonder : It springs on a level of bowery lawn, And the mountain draws it from Heaven above, And it sings a song of undying love ; And yet, tho' its voice be so clear and full, You never would hear it ; your ears are so dull ; So keep where you are : you are foul with sin ; It would shrink to the earth if you came in. THE DESERTED HOUSE. Life and Thought have gone away Side by side, Leaving door and windows wide Careless tenants they ! All within is dark as night : In the windows is no light ; And no murmur at the door, So frequent on its hinge before. 44 THE DESERTED HOUSE. Close the door, the shutters close, Or thro' the windows we shall see The nakedness and vacancy Of the dark deserted house. Come away : no more of mirth Is here or merry-making sound. The house was builded of the earth, And shall fall again to ground. Come away : for Life and Thought Here no longer dwell ; But in a city glorious — A great and distant city — have bought A mansion incorruptible. Would they could have stayed with us ! 45 THE DYING SWAN. The plain was grassy, wild and bare, Wide, wild, and open to the air, Which had built up everywhere An under-roof of doleful gray. With an inner voice the river ran, Adown it floated a dying swan, And loudly did lament. It was the middle of the day. Ever the weary wind went on, And took the reed-tops as it went. Some blue peaks in the distance rose, And white against the cold-white sky, Shone out their crowning snows. One willow over the river wept, And shook the wave as the wind did sigh ; Above in the wind was the swallow, Chasing itself at its own wild will, And far thro' the marish green and still 40 THE DYING SWAN. The tangled water-courses slept, Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow. The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy Hidden in sorrow : at first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear ; And floating about the under- sky, Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear ; But anon her awful jubilant voice, With a music strange and manifold, Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold ; As when a mighty people rejoice With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold, And the tumult of their acclaim is roll'd Thro' the open gates of the city afar, To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star. And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds, And the willow-branches hoar and dank, And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds, And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank, And the silvery marish-flowers that throng The desolate creeks and pools among, Were flooded over with eddying song. W&F' W* A DIKGE. Now is done thy long day's work ; Fold thy palms across thy breast, Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. Let them rave. Shadows of the silver hirk Sweep the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. 48 A DIKGE. Thee nor carketh care nor slander ; Nothing but the small cold worm Fretteth thine enshrouded form. Let them rave. Light and shadow ever wander O'er the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed ; Chaunteth not the brooding bee Sweeter tones than calumny ? Let them rave. Thou wilt never raise thine head From the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. Crocodiles wept tears for thee ; The woodbine and eglatere Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear. Let them rave. Rain makes music in the tree O'er the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. Round thee blow, self -pleached deep, Bramble-roses, faint and pale, And long purples of the dale. Let them rave. A DIRGE. 49 These in every shower creep Thro' the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. The gold-eyed kingcups fine ; The frail bluebell peereth over Rare broidry of the purple clover. Let them rave. Kings have no such couch as thine, As the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. Wild words wander here and there ; God's great gift of speech abused Makes thy memory confused : But let them rave. The balm-cricket carols clear In the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. 50 LOVE AND DEATH. What time the mighty moon was gathering light Love paced the thymy plots of Paradise, And all about him roll'd his lustrous eyes ; When, turning round a cassia, full in view Death, walking all alone beneath a yew, And talking to himself, first met his sight : "You must begone," said Death, " these walks are mine. Love wept and spread his sheeny vans for flight ; Yet ere he parted said, " This hour is thine : Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree Stands in the sun and shadows all beneath, So in the light of great eternity Life eminent creates the shade of death ; The shadow passeth when the tree shall fall, But I shall reign for ever over all." THE BALLAD OF OEIANA. My heart is wasted with my woe, Oriana. There is no rest for me below, Oriana. When the long dun wolds are ribb'd with snow, And loud the Norland whirl winds blow, Oriana, Alone I wander to and fro, Oriana. 52 THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. ii. Ere the light on dark was growing, Oriana, At midnight the cock was crowing, Oriana : Winds were blowing, waters flowing, We heard the steeds to battle going, Oriana ; Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, Oriana. in. In the yew-wood black as night, Oriana, Ere I rode into the fight, Oriana, While blissful tears blinded my sight By star-shine and by moonlight, Oriana, I to thee my troth did plight, Oriana. She stood upon the castle wall, Oriana : She watch'd my crest among them all, Oriana : She saw me fight, she heard me call, When forth there stept a foeman tall, Oriana, Atween me and the castle wall, Oriana. THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. 53 The bitter arrow went aside, Oriana : The false, false arrow went aside, Oriana : The damned arrow glanced aside, And pierced thy heart, my love, my bride, Oriana ! Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, Oriana ! VI. Oh ! narrow, narrow was the space, Oriana. Loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, Oriana. Oh ! deathful stabs were dealt apace, The battle deepen'd in its place, Oriana ; But I was down upon my face, Oriana. They should have stabb'd me where I lay, Oriana ! How could I rise and come away, Oriana ? How could I look upon the day ? They should have stabb'd me where I lay, Oriana — They should have trod me into clay, Oriana. 54 THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. O breaking heart that will not break, Oriana ! O pale, pale face so sweet and meek, Oriana ! Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, And then the tears run down my cheek, Oriana : What wantest thou ? whom dost thou seek, Oriana ? I cry aloud : none hear my cries, Oriana. Thou comest atween me and the skies, Oriana. I feel the tears of blood arise Up from my heart unto my eyes, Oriana. Within thy heart my arrow lies, Oriann. () cursed hand ! O cursed blow ! Oriana ! O happy thou that liest low, Oriann ! All night the silence seems to flow Beside me in my utter woe, Oriana. A weary, weary way I go, Oriana. THE BALLAD OF OKIANA. 55 When Norland winds pipe down the sea, Oriana, I walk, I dare not think of thee, Oriana. Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, I dare not die and come to thee, Oriana. I hear the roaring of the sea, Oriana. 56 THE MERMAN. i. Who would be A merman bold, Sitting alone, Singing alone Under the sea, With a crown of gold, On a throne ? I would be a merman bold ; I would sit and sing the whole of the day ; I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power ; But at night I would roam abroad and play With the mermaids in and out of the rocks, Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower ; And holding them back by their flowing locks I would kiss them often under the sea, And kiss them again till they kiss'd me Laughingly, laughingly ; THE MERMAN. hi And then we would wander away, away To the pale -green sea- groves straight and high, Chasing each other merrily. There would be neither moon nor star ; But the wave would make music above us afar — Low thunder and light in the magic night — Neither moon nor star. We would call aloud in the dreamy dells, Call to each other and whoop and cry All night, merrily, merrily ; They would pelt me with starry spangles and shells, Laughing and clapping their hands between, All night, merrily, merrily : But I would throw to them back in mine Turkis and agate and almondine : Then leaping out upon them unseen I would kiss them often under the sea, And kiss them again till they kiss'd me Laughingly, laughingly. Oh ! what a happy life were mine Under the hollow-hung ocean green ! Soft are the moss-beds under the sea ; We would live merrily, merrily. 58 THE MERMAID. Who -would be A mermaid fair, Singing alone, Combing her hair Under the sea, In a golden curl With a comb of pearl, On a throne ? I would be a mermaid fair ; I would sing to myself the whole of the day ; With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair ; And still as I comb'd I would sing and say, " Who is it loves me ? who loves not me ? " I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall, Low adown, low adown, From under my starry sea-bud crown Low adown and around, And I should look like a fountain of gold THE MKRMAID. 5«> Springing alone With a shrill inner sound, Over the throne In the midst of the hall ; Till that great sea-snake under the sea From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps Would slowly trail himself sevenfold Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate With his large calm eyes for the love of me. And all the mermen under the sea Would feel their immortality Die in their hearts for the love of me. But at night I would wander away, away, I would fling on each side my low-flowing locks, And lightly vault from the throne and pla}' With the mermen in and out of the rocks ; We would run to and fro, and hide and seek, On the hroad sea-wolds in the crimson shells, Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea. But if any came near I would call, and shriek, And adown the steep like a wave I would leap From the diamond-ledges that jut from the dells; For I would not be kiss'd by all who would list, Of the bold merry mermen under the sea ; They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me, In the purple twilights under the sea ; But the king of them all would carry me, Woo me, and win me, and marry me, CO THE MERMAID. In the branching jaspers under the sea ; Then all the dry pied things that be ' In the hueless mosses under the sea Would curl round my silver feet silently, All looking up for the love of me. And if I should carol aloud, from aloft All things that are forked, and horned, and soft Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea, All looking down for the love of me. 01 SONNET TO J. M. K. My hope and heart is with thee — thou wilt be A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest To scare church-harpies from the master's feast ; Our dusted velvets have much need of thee : Thou art no sabbath- drawler of old saws, Distill'd from some worm-canker'd homily ; But spurr'd at heart with fieriest energy To embattail and to wall about thy cause With iron-worded proof, hating to hark The humming of the drowsy pulpit-drone Half God's good sabbath, while the worn-out clerk Brow-beats his desk below. Thou from a throne Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the dark Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark. CIKCUMSTANCE, Two children in two neighbour villages Playing mad pranks along the heathy leas ; Two strangers meeting at a festival ; Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall ; Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease ; CIRCUMSTANCE. 63 Two graves grass-green beside a gray church-tower, Wash'd with still rains and daisy-blossomed ; Two children in one hamlet born and bred ; So runs the round of life from hour to hour. »; ^r- :■:-'•"*>:.?. POEMS. (published 1832.) THE LADY OF SHALOTT. PART T. On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky ; And thro' the field the road runs by To many-tower'd Camelot ; 68 THE LADY OF SHALOTT. And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies hlow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott. Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Thro' the wave that runs for ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott. By the margin, willow-veil'd, Slide the heavy barges trail'd By slow horses ; and unhail'd The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd Skimming down to Camelot But who hath seen her wave her hand ? Or at the casement seen her stand ? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott ? Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 60 Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to tower'd Camelot : And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers " "lis the fairy Ladv of Shalott." PART II. There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott. And moving thro' a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot THE LADY OF SHALOTT. There the river eddy whirls, And there the surly village-churls, And the red cloaks of market girls, Pass onward from Shalott. Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling" pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, Goes by to tower'd Camelot ; And sometimes thro' the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two : She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott. But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often thro' the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights, And music, went to Camelot Or when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed ; " I am half-sick of shadows," said The Lady of Shalott. THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 71 PART HI. A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley-sheaves, The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott. The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down to Camelot And from his blazon'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armour rung, Beside remote Shalott. All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle -leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burn'd like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot. THE LADY OF SHALOTT. As often thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, trailing light, Moves over still Shalott. His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd ; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode ; From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flash'd into the crystal mirror, " Tirra lirra," by the river Sang Sir Lancelot. She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces thro' the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide ; The mirror crack' d from side to side ; " The curse is come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott. THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 73 PART IV. In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining, Heavily the low sky raining Over tower'd Camelot ; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And round about the prow she wrote The Lady of Shalott. And down the river's dim expanse — Like some bold seer in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance — With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the clay She loosed the chain, and down she lay ; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott. Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right — The leaves upon her falling light — Thro' the noises of the night " She floated down to Camelot 74 THE LADY OF SHALOTT. And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott. Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darken'd wholly, Turn'd to tower'd Camelot ; For ere she reach' d upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott. Under tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and burgher, lord and dame, And round the prow they read her name, The Lady of Shalott. Who is this ? and what is here ? And in the lighted palace near THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 75 Died the sound of royal cheer ; And they cross'd themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot But Lancelot mused a little space ; He said, " She has a lovely face ; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott." 76 ELEANORE. Thy dark eyes open'd not, Nor first reveal'd themselves to English air, For there is nothing here, Which, from the outward to the inward brought, Moulded thy baby thought. Far off from human neighbourhood, Thou Avert born, on a summer morn, A mile beneath the cedar-wood. Thy bounteous forehead was not fann'd With breezes from our oaken glades, But thou wert nursed in some delicious land Of lavish lights, and floating shades : And flattering thy childish thought The oriental fairy brought, At the moment of thy birth, From old well-heads of haunted rills, And the hearts of purple hills, And shadow'd coves on a sunny shore, The choicest wealth of all the earth, Jewel or shell, or starry ore, To deck thy cradle, Eleiinore. ELEANORE. 77 Or the yellow-banded bees, Thro' half-open lattices Coming in the scented breeze, Fed thee, a child, lying alone, With whitest honey in fairy gardens cull'd — A glorious child, dreaming alone, In silk-soft folds, upon yielding clown, With the hum of swarming bees Into dreamful slumber lull'd. Who may minister to thee ? Summer herself should minister To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded On golden salvers, or it may be, Youngest Autumn, in a bower Grape-thicken'd from the light, and blinded With many a deep-hued bell-like flower Of fragrant trailers, when the air Sleepeth over all the heaven, And the crag that fronts the Even, All along the shadowing shore, Crimsons over an inland mere, Eleiinore ! How may full-sail'd verse express, How may measured words adore The full-flowing harmony Of thy swan-like stateliness, Eleiinore ? 78 ELEANORE. The luxuriant symmetry Of thy floating gracefulness, Eleanore ? Every turn and glance of thine, Every lineament divine, Eleanore, And the steady sunset glow, That stays upon thee ? For in thee Is nothing sudden, nothing single ; Like two streams of incense free From one censer, in one shrine, Thought and motion mingle, Mingle ever. Motions flow To one another, even as tho' They were modulated so To an unheard melody, Which lives about thee, and a sweep Of richest pauses, evermore Drawn from each other mellow-deep ; Who may express thee, Eleanore ? I stand before thee, Eleanore ; I see thy beauty gradually unfold, Daily and hourly, more and more. I muse, as in a trance, the while Slowly, as from a cloud of gold, Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile. I muse, as in a trance, whene'er The languors of thy love -deep eyes Float on to me. I would I were So tranced, so rapt in ecstacies, ELEANORE. 79 To stand apart, and to adore, Gazing on thee for evermore, Serene, imperial Eleiinore ! Sometimes, with most intensity Gazing, I seem to see Thought folded over thought, smiling asleep, Slowly awaken'd, grow so full and deep In thy large eyes, that, overpower'd quite, I cannot veil, or droop my sight, But am as nothing in its light : As tho' a star, in inmost heaven set, Ev'n while we gaze on it, Should slowly round his orb, and slowly grow To a full face, there like a sun remain Fix'd — then as slowly fade again, And draw itself to what it was before ; So full, so deep, so slow, Thought seems to come and go In thy large eyes, imperial Eleanore. As thunder-clouds that, hung on high, Roof 'd the world with doubt and fear, Floating thro' an evening atmosphere, Grow golden all about the sky ; In thee all passion becomes passionless, Touch'd by thy spirit's mellowness, Losing his fire and active might In a silent meditation, - Falling into a still delight, 80 ELEANORE. And luxury of contemplation : As waves that up a quiet cove Rolling slide, and lying still Shadow forth the banks at will : Or sometimes they swell and move, Pressing up against the land, With motions of the outer sea : And the self- same influence Controlleth all the soul and sense Of Passion gazing upon thee. His bow-string slacken'd, languid Love, Leaning his cheek upon his hand, Droops both his wings, regarding thee, And so would languish evermore, Serene, imperial Eleanore. But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconfined, While the amorous, odorous wind Breathes low between the sunset and the moon ; Or, in a shadowy saloon, On silken cushions half reclined ; I watch thy grace ; and in its place My heart a charmed slumber keeps, While I muse upon thy face ; And a languid fire creeps Thro' my veins to all my frame, Dissolvingly and slowly : soon From thy rose -red lips my name Floweth ; and then, as in a swoon, With dinning sound my ears are rife, My tremulous tongue faltereth, ELEANORE. 81 I lose my colour, I lose my breath, I drink the cup of a costly death, Brimm'd with delirious draughts of warmest life. I die with my delight, before I hear what I would hear from thee ; Yet tell my name again to me, I ivould be dying evermore, So dying ever, Eleiinore. MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. With one black shadow at its feet, The house thro' all the level shines, Close -latticed to the brooding heat, And silent in its dusty vines : A faint-blue ridge upon the right, An empty river-bed before, MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 83 And shallows on a distant shore, In glaring sand and inlets bright. But " Ave Mary," made she moan, And " Ave Mary," night and morn, And " Ah," she sang, " to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn." She, as her carol sadder grew, From brow and bosom slowly down Thro' rosy taper fingers drew Her streaming curls of deepest brown To left and right, and made appear, Still-lighted in a secret shrine, Her melancholy eyes divine, The home of woe without a tear. And " Ave Mary," was her moan, "Madonna, sad is night and morn ; " And " Ah," she sang, " to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn." Till all the crimson changed, and past Into deep orange o'er the sea, Low on her knees herself she cast, Before Our Lady murmur'd she ; Complaining, "Mother, give me grace To help me of my weary load." And on the liquid mirror glow'd The clear perfection of her face. " Is this the form," she made her moan, " That won his praises night and morn ? " And " All," she said, " but I wake alone, I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn." 84 MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat, Nor any cloud would cross the vault, But day increased from heat to heat, On stony drought and steaming salt ; Till now at noon she slept again, And seem'd knee-deep in mountain grass, And heard her native breezes pass, And runlets babbling down the glen. She breathed in sleep a lower moan, And murmuring, as at night and morn, •She thought, "My spirit is here alone, Walks forgotten, and is forlorn." Dreaming, she knew it was a dream : She felt he was and was not there. She woke : the babble of the stream Fell, and, without, the steady glare Shrank one sick willow sere and small. The river-bed was dusty- white ; And all the furnace of the light Struck up against the blinding wall. She whisper'd, with a stifled moan More inward than at night or morn, " Sweet Mother, let me not here alone Live forgotten and die forlorn." And, rising, from her bosom drew Old letters, breathing of her worth, For " Love," they said, " must needs be true, To what is loveliest upon earth." An image seem'd to pass the door, To look at her with slight, and say, MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 85 " But now thy beauty flows away, So be alone for evermore." " O cruel heart," she changed her tone, " And cruel love, whose end is scorn, Is this the end to be left alone, To live forgotten, and die forlorn ! " But sometimes in the falling day An image seem'd to pass the door, To look into her eyes and say, " But thou shalt be alone no more." And flaming downward over all From heat to heat the day decreased, And slowly rounded to the east The one black shadow from the wall. " The day to night," she made her moan, " The day to night, the night to morn, And day and night I am left alone To live forgotten, and love forlorn." At eve a dry cicala sung, There came a sound as of the sea ; Backward the lattice-blind she flung, And lean'd upon the balcony. There all in spaces rosy -bright Large Hesper glitter'd on her tears, And deepening thro' the silent spheres, Heaven over Heaven rose the night. And weeping then she made her moan, " The night comes on that knows not morn, When I shall cease to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn." THE MILLERS DAUGHTER. I see the wealthy miller yet, His double chin, his portly size, And who that knew him could forget The busy wrinkles round his eyes ? THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 87 The slow wise smile that, round about His dusty forehead drily curl'd, Seem'd half-within and half-without, And full of dealings with the world ? In yonder chair I see him sit, Three fingers round the old silver cup I see his gray eyes twinkle yet At his own jest — gray eyes lit up With summer lightnings of a soul So full of summer warmth, so glad, So healthy, sound, and clear and whole, His memory scarce can make me sad. Yet fill my glass : give me one kiss : My own sweet Alice, we must die. There's somewhat in this world amiss Shall be unriddled by and by. There's somewhat flows to us in life, But more is taken quite away. Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife, That we may die the self-same day. Have I not found a happy earth ? I least should breathe a thought of pain. Would God renew me from my birth I'd almost live my life again. So sweet it seems with thee to walk, And once again to woo thee mine — 88 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. It seems in after-dinner talk Across the walnuts and the wine- To be the long and listless boy Late -left an orphan of the squire, Where this old mansion mounted high Looks down upon the village spire : For even here, where I and you Have lived and loved alone so long, Each morn my sleep was broken thro' By some wild skylark's matin song. And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan ; But ere I saw your eyes, my love, I had no motion of my own. For scarce my life with fancy play'd Before I dream'd that pleasant dream- Still hither thither idly sway'd Like those long mosses in the stream. vir. Or from the bridge I lean'd to hear The milldam rushing down with noise, And see the minnows everywhere In crystal eddies glance and poise, The tall flag-flowers when they sprung Below the range of stepping-stones, Or those three chestnuts near, that hung In masses thick with milky cones. THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 89 But, Alice, what an hour was that, When after roving in the woods ('Twas April then), I came and sat Below the chestnuts, when their buds Were glistening to the breezy blue ; And on the slope, an absent fool, I cast me down, nor thought of you, But angled in the higher pool. A love-song I had somewhere read, An echo from a measured strain, Beat time to nothing in my head From some odd corner of the brain. It haunted me, the morning long, With weary sameness in the rhymes, The phantom of a silent song, That went and came a thousand times. Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood I watch'd the little circles die ; They past into the level flood, And there a vision caught my eye ; The reflex of a beauteous form, A glowing arm, a gleaming neck, As when a sunbeam wavers warm Within the dark and dimpled beck. For you remember, you had set, That morning, on the casement's edge < )0 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. A long green box of mignonette, And you were leaning from the ledge : And when I raised my eyes, above They met with two so full and bright — Such eyes ! I swear to you, my love, That these have never lost their light. I loved, and love dispell' d the fear That I should die an early death : For love possess'd the atmosphere, And fill'd the breast with purer breath. My mother thought, What ails the boy ? For I was alter'd, and began To move about the house with joy, And with the certain step of man. I loved the brimming wave that swam Thro' quiet meadows round the mill, The sleepy pool above the dam, The pool beneath it never still, The meal-sacks on the whiten'd floor, The dark round of the dripping wheel, The very air about the door Made misty with the floating meal. And oft in ramblings on the wold, When April nights began to blow, And April's crescent glimmer' d cold, I saw the village lights below ; THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 91 I knew your taper far away, And full at heart of trembling hope, From off the Avoid I came, and lay Upon the freshly-flower'd slope. The deep brook groan'd beneath the mill ; And " by that lamp," I thought, " she sits ! " The white chalk-quarry from the hill Gleam'd to the flying moon by fits. " O that I were beside her now ! O will she answer if I call ? O would she give me vow for vow, Sweet Alice, if I told her all ? " Sometimes I saw you sit and spin ; And, in the pauses of the wind, Sometimes I heard you sing within ; Sometimes your shadow cross'd the blind. At last you rose and moved the light, And the long shadow of the chair Flitted across into the night, And all the casement darken' d there. But when at last I dared to speak, The lanes, you know, were white with may, Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek Flush'd like the coming of the day ; And so it was — half-sly, half-shy, You would, and would not, little one ! 02 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. Although I pleaded tenderly, And you and I were all alone. And slowly was my mother brought To yield consent to my desire : She wish'd me happy, but she thought I might have look'd a little higher ; And I was young — too young to wed : " Yet must I love her for your sake ; Go fetch your Alice here," she said : Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake. And down I went to fetch my bride : But, Alice, you were ill at ease ; This dress and that by turns you tried, Too fearful that you should not please. I loved you better for your fears, I knew you could not look but well ; And dews, that would have fall'n in tears, I kiss'd away before they fell. I watch'd the little flutterings, The doubt my mother would not see ; She spoke at large of many things, And at the last she spoke of me ; And turning look'd upon your face, As near this door you sat apart, And rose, and, with a silent grace Approaching, press'd you heart to heart. THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 03 Ah, well — but sing the foolish song I gave you, Alice, on the day When, arm in arm, we went along, A pensive pair, and you were gay With bridal flowers — that I may seem, As in the nights of old, to lie Beside the mill-wheel in the stream, While those full chestnuts Avhisper b} r , 94 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. It is the miller's daughter, And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would he the jewel That trembles at her ear : For hid in ringlets day and night, I'd touch her neck so warm and white. And I would be the girdle About her dainty dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me, In sorrow and in rest : And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight. And I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom, With her laughter or her sighs, And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be unclasp'd at night. A trifle, sweet ! which true love spells — True love interprets — right alone. His light upon the letter dwells, For all the spirit is his own. So, if I waste words now, in truth You must blame Love. His early rage Had force to make me rhyme in youth, And makes me talk too much in age. And now those vivid hours are gone, Like mine own life to me thou art, Where Past and Present, wound in one, Do make a garland for the heart : THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 95 So sing that other song 1 made, Half -anger' d with my happy lot, The day, when in the chestnut shade I found the blue Forget-me-not. Love that hath us iu the net, Can he pass, and we forget ? Many suns arise and set. Many a chance the years heget. Love the gift is Love the debt. Even so. Love is hurt with jar and fret. Love is made a vague regret. » Eyes with idle tears are wet. Idle habit links us yet. What is love ? for we forget : Ah, no! no! Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife, Round my true heart thine arms entwine ; My other dearer life in life, Look thro' my very soul with thine ! Untouch'd with any shade of years, May those kind eyes for ever dwell ! They have not shed a many tears, Dear eyes, since first I knew them well. Yet tears they shed : they had their part Of sorrow : for when time was ripe, The still affection of the heart Became an outward breathing type, 1)6 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. That into stillness past again, And left a want unknown before ; Although the loss that brought us pain, That loss but made us love the more, With farther lookings on. The kiss, The woven arms, seem but to be Weak symbols of the settled bliss, The comfort, I have found in thee : But that God bless thee, dear — who wrought Two spirits to one equal mind — With blessings beyond hope or thought, With blessings which no words can find. Arise, and let us wander forth, To yon old mill across the wolds ; For look, the sunset, south and north, Winds all the vale in rosy folds, And fires your narrow casement glass, Touching the sullen pool below : On the chalk-hill the bearded grass Is dry and dewless. Let us go. 97 FATIMA. O Love, Love, Love ! O withering might ! sun, that from thy noonday height Shudderest when I strain my sight, Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light, Lo, falling from my constant mind, Lo, parch'd and wither'd, deaf and blind, I whirl like leaves in roaring wind. Last night I wasted hateful hours Below the city's eastern towers : 1 thirsted for the brooks, the showers : I roll'd among the tender flowers : I crush'd them on my breast, my mouth : I look'd athwart the burning drouth Of that long desert to the south. Last night, when some one spoke his name, From my swift blood that went and came A thousand little shafts of flame Were shiver'd in my narrow frame. 98 FATIMA. Love, O fire ! once he drew With one long kiss my whole soul thro' My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew. Before he mounts the hill, I know He cometh quickly : from below Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow Before him, striking on my brow. In my dry brain my spirit soon, Down-deepening from swoon to swoon, Faints like a dazzled morning moon. The wind sounds like a silver wire, And from beyond the noon a fire Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher The skies stoop down in their desire ; And, isled in sudden seas of light, My heart, pierced thro' with fierce delight, Bursts into blossom in his sight. My whole soul waiting silently, All naked in a sultry sky, Droops blinded with his shining eye : I will possess him or will die. 1 will grow round him in his place, Grow, live, die looking on his face, Die, dying clasp'd in his embrace. :*■*.'.* TO/11 _s (ENONE. There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen, Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand The lawns and meadow-ledges midwaj' down 100 (ENONE. Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine In cataract after cataract to the sea. Behind the valley topmost Gargarus Stands up and takes the morning : but in front The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal Troas and Ilion's column'd citadel, The crown of Troas. Hither came at noon Mournful (Enone, wandering forlorn Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest. She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine, Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff. " O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. For now the noonday quiet holds the hill : The grasshopper is silent in the grass : The lizard, with his shadow on the stone, Rests like a shadow, and the cicala sleeps. The purple flowers droop : the golden bee Is lily-cradled : I alone awake. My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim, And I am all aweary of my life. " O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Hear me O Earth, hear me O Hills, O Caves (ENONE. 101 That house the cold crown'd snake ! mountain brooks, I am the daughter of a River- God, Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, A cloud that gather'd shape : for it may be That, while I speak of it, a little while My heart may wander from its deeper woe. " O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. I waited underneath the dawning hills, Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark, And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine : Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, white-hooved, Came up from reedy Simois all alone. " O mother Ida, harken ere I die. Far-off the torrent call'd me from the cleft : Far up the solitary morning smote The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes I sat alone : white -breasted like a star Fronting the dawn he moved ; a leopard skin Droop'd from his shoulder, but his sunny hair Cluster'd about his temples like a God's ; And his cheek brighten'd as the foam-bow brightens When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came. " Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm 102 (ENONE. Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold, That smelt ambrosially, and while I look'd And listen'd, the full-flowing river of speech Came down upon my heart. " ' My own (Enone, Beautiful-brow'd (Enone, my own soul, Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingrav'n " For the most fair," would seem to award it thine, As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace Of movement, and the charm of married brows.' " Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. He prest the blossom of his lips to mine, And added ' This was cast upon the board, When all the full-faced presence of the .Gods Ranged in the halls of Peleus ; whereupon Rose feud, with question unto whom 'twere due : But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, Delivering, that to me, by common voice Elected umpire, Here comes to-day, Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.' " Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. It was the deep midnoon : one silvery cloud Had lost his way between the piney sides Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came, Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower, (ENONE. 103 And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, Lotos and lilies : and a wind arose, And overhead the wandering ivy and vine, This way and that, in many a wild festoon Han riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs With bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro'. " mother Ida, harken ere I die. On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit, And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, and lean'd Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that grows Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made Proffer of royal power, ample rule Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue Wherewith to embellish state, ' from many a vale And river- sunder' d champaign clothed with corn, Or labour'd mines undrainable of ore. Honour,' she said, ' and homage, tax and toll, From many an inland town and haven large, Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing citadel In glassy bays among her tallest towers.' " O mother Ida, harken ere I die. Still she spake on and still she spake of power, 1 Which in all action is the end of all ; Power fitted to the season ; wisdom -bred And throned of wisdom — from all neighbour crowns Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand 104 (ENONE. Fail from the sceptre -staff. Such boon from me, From me, Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee king-born, A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born, Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power Only, are likest gods, who have attain'd Rest in a happy place and quiet seats Above the thunder, with undying bliss In knowledge of their own supremacy.' " Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit Out at arm's-length, so much the thought of power Flatter'd his spirit ; but Pallas where she stood Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, The while, above, her full and earnest eye Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply. " ' Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, These three alone lead life to sovereign power. Yet not for power, (power of herself Would come uncall'd for) but to live by law, Acting the law we live by without fear ; And, because right is right, to follow right Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.' " Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Again she said : ' I woo thee not with gifts. Sequel of guerdon could not alter me To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am, (ENONE. 105 So shalt thou find me fairest. Yet, indeed, If gazing on divinity disrobed Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, Unbiass'd by self-profit, oh ! rest thee sure That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee, So that my vigour, wedded to thy blood, Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God's, To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks, Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow Sinew'd with action, and the full-grown will, Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, Commeasure perfect freedom.' " Here she ceased, And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, ' O Paris, Give it to Pallas ! ' but he heard me not, Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me ! " O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Idalian Aphrodite beautiful, Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells, With rosy slender fingers backward drew From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat And shoulder : from the violets her light foot Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form Between the shadows of the vine -bunches Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved. " Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, 106 (ENONE. The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh Half-whisper'd in his ear, ' I promise thee The fairest and most loving wife in Greece.' She spoke and laugh'd : I shut my sight for fear : But when I look'd, Paris had raised his arm, And I beheld great Here's angry eyes, As she withdrew into the golden cloud, And I was left alone within the bower ; And from that time to this I am alone, And I shall be alone until I die. " Yet, mother Ida, harken ere I die. Fairest — why fairest wife ? am I not fair ? My love hath told me so a thousand times. Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday, When I past by, a wild and wanton pard, Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most loving is she ? Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. " O mother, hear me yet before I die. They came, they cut away my tallest pines, My dark tall pines, that plumed the craggy ledge High over the blue gorge, and all between The snowy peak and snow-white cataract Foster' d the callow eaglet — from beneath Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark morn The panther's roar came muffled, while I sat CENONE. 107 Low in the valley. Never, never more Shall lone (Enone see the morning mist Sweep thro' them ; never see them overlaid With narrow moon -lit slips of silver cloud, Between the loud stream and the trembling stars. " O mother, hear me yet before I die. I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds, Among the fragments tumbled from the glens, Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her, The Abominable, that uninvited came Into the fair Peleian banquet-hall, And cast the golden fruit upon the board, And bred this change ; that I might speak my mind, And tell her to her face how much I hate Her presence, hated both of Gods and men. " O mother, hear me yet before I die. Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times, In this green valley, under this green hill, Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone ? Seal'd it with kisses ? water' d it with tears ? O happy tears, and how unlike to these ! O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face ? O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight ? death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud, There are enough unhappy on this earth, Pass by the happy souls, that love to live : 1 pray thee, pass before my light of life, And shadow all my soul, that I may die. Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, Weigh heavy on my eyelids : let me die. 108 (ENONE. " O mother, hear me yet before I die. I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts Do shape themselves within me, more and more, Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills, Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother Conjectures of the features of her child Ere it is born : her child ! — a shudder comes Across me : never child be born of me, Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes ! " O mother, hear me yet before I die. Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone, Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me Walking the cold and starless road of Death Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love With the Greek woman. I will rise and go Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says A fire dances before her, and a sound Rings ever in her ears of armed men. What this may be I know not, but I know That, wheresoe'er I am by night and day, All earth and air seem only burning fire." THE SISTERS. We were two daughters of one race : She was the fairest in the face : The wind is blowing in turret and tree. They were together, and she fell ; Therefore revenge became me well. O the Earl was fair to see ! HO THE SISTERS. She died : she went to burning flame : She mix'd her ancient blood with shame. The wind is howling in turret and tree. Whole weeks and months, and early and late, To win his love I lay in wait : O the Earl was fair to see ! I made a feast ; I bad him come ; I won his love, I brought him home. The wind is roaring in turret and tree. And after supper, on a bed, Upon my lap he laid his head : O the Earl was fair to see ! I kiss'd his eyelids into rest : His ruddy cheek upon my breast. The wind is raging in turret and tree. I hated him with the hate of hell, But I loved his beauty passing well. O the Earl was fair to see ! I rose up in the silent night : I made my dagger sharp and bright. The wind is raving in turret and tree. As half- a sleep his breath he drew, Three times I stabb'd him thro' and thro' O the Earl was fair to see ! THE SISTERS. m I curl'd and comb'd his comely head, He look'd so grand when he was dead. The wind is blowing in turret and tree. I wrapt his body in the sheet, And laid him at his mother's feet. O the Earl was fair to see ! 112 TO WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM. I send you here a sort of allegory, (For you will understand it) of a soul, A sinful soul possess'd of many gifts, A spacious garden full of flowering weeds, A glorious Devil, large in heart and brain, That did love Beauty only, (Beauty seen In all varieties of mould and mind) And Knowledge for its beauty ; or if Good, Good only for its beauty, seeing not That Beauty, Good, and Knowledge, are three sisters That doat upon each other, friends to man, Living together under the same roof, And never can be sunder'd without tears. And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall be Shut out from Love, and on her threshold lie Howling in outer darkness. Not for this Was common clay ta'en from the common earth, Moulded by God, and temper' d with the tears Of angels to the perfect shape of man. THE PALACE OF ART. I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. I said, " Soul, make merry and carouse, Dear soul, for all is well." 114 THE PALACE OF ART. A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd brass, I chose. The ranged ramparts bright From level meadow-bases of deep grass Suddenly scaled the light. Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf The rock rose clear, or winding stair. My soul would live alone unto herself In her high palace there. And " while the world runs round and round," I said, " Reign thou apart, a quiet king, Still as, while Saturn whirls, his stedfast shade Sleeps on his luminous ring." To which my soul made answer readily : " Trust me, in bliss I shall abide In this great mansion, that is built for me, So royal-rich and wide." Four courts I made, East, West and South and North, In each a squared lawn, wherefrom The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth A flood of fountain-foam. THE PALACE OF ART. 115 And round the cool green courts there ran a row Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods, Echoing all night to that sonorous flow Of spouted fountain-floods. And round the roofs a gilded gallery That lent broad verge to distant lands, Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky Dipt down to sea and sands. From those four jets four currents in one swell Across the mountain stream'd below In misty folds, that floating as they fell Lit up a torrent-bow. And high on every peak a statue seem'd To hang on tiptoe, tossing up A cloud of incense of all odour steam'd From out a golden cup. So that she thought, " And who shall gaze upon My palace with unblinded eyes, While this great bow will waver in the sun, And that sweet incense rise ? " For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd, And, while day sank or mounted higher, The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd, Burnt like a fringe of fire. 116 THE PALACE OF ART. Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd and traced, Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires From shadow' d grots of arches interlaced, And tipt with frost-like spires. Full of long-sounding corridors it was, That over- vaulted grateful gloom, Thro' which the livelong day my soul did pass, Well-pleased, from room to room. Full of great rooms and small the palace stood, All various, each a perfect whole From living Nature, fit for every mood And change of my still soul. For some were hung with arras green and blue, Showing a gaudy summer-morn, Where with puff'd cheek the belted hunter blew His wreathed bugle-horn. One seem'd all dark and red — a tract of sand, And some one pacing there alone, Who paced for ever in a glimmering land, Lit with a low large moon. THE PALACE OF ART. 117 One show'd an iron coast and angry waves. You seem'd to hear them climb and fall And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves, Beneath the windy wall. And one, a full-fed river winding slow By herds upon an endless plain, The ragged rims of thunder brooding low, With shadow-streaks of rain. And one, the reapers at their sultry toil. In front they bound the sheaves. Behind Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil, And hoary to the wind. And one, a foreground black with stones and slags, Beyond, a line of heights, and higher All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags, And highest, snow and fire. And one, an English home — gray twilight pour'd On dewy pastures, dewy trees, Softer than sleep — all things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace. Nor these alone, but every landscape fair, As fit for every mood of mind, Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there, Not less than truth design'd. 118 THE PALACE OF ART. Or the maid -mother by a crucifix, In tracts of pasture sunny-warm, Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx Sat smiling, babe in arm. Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea, Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair Wound with white roses, slept St. Cecily ; An angel look'd at her. Or thronging all one porch of Paradise, A group of Houris bow'd to see The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes That said, We wait for thee. Or mythic Uther's deeply- wounded son In some fair space of sloping greens Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, And watch'd by weeping queens. Or hollowing one hand against his ear, To list a foot-fall, ere he saw The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian king to hear Of wisdom and of law. THE PALACE OF ART. 119 Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd, And many a tract of palm and rice, The throne of Indian Cama slowly sail'd A summer fann'd with spice. Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasp'd, From off her shoulder backward borne : From one hand droop 'd a crocus : one hand grasp'd The mild bull's golden horn. 120 THE PALACE OF ART. Or else flush 'd Ganymede, his rosy thigh Half-buried in the Eagle's down, Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky Above the pillar'd town. Nor these alone : but every legend fair Which the supreme Caucasian mind Carved out of Nature for itself, was there, Not less than life, design'd. Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung, Moved of themselves, with silver sound ; And with choice paintings of wise men I hung The roval dais round. For there was Milton like a seraph strong, Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild ; And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd his song, And somewhat grimly smiled. And there the Ionian father of the rest ; A million wrinkles carved his skin ; A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast, From cheek and throat and chin. THE PALACE OF ART. 121 Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set Many an arch high up did lift, And angels rising and descending met With interchange of gift. Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd With cycles of the human tale Of this wide world, the times of every land So wrought, they will not fail. The people here, a beast of burden slow, Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads and stings ; Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro The heads and crowns of kings ; Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind All force in bonds that might endure, And here once more like some sick man declined, And trusted any cure. But over these she trod : and those great bells Began to chime. She took her throne : She sat betwixt the shining Oriels, To sing her songs alone. And thro' the topmost Oriels' colour'd flame Two godlike faces gazed below ; Plato the wise, and large-brow'd Verulam, The first of those who know. 122 THE PALACE OF ART. And all those names, that in their motion were Full-welling fountain-heads of change, Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon'd fair In diverse raiment strange : Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blue, Flush'd in her temples and her eyes, And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, drew Rivers of melodies. No nightingale delighteth to prolong Her low preamble all alone, More than my soul to hear her echo'd song Throb thro' the ribbed stone ; Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth, Joying to feel herself alive, Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth, Lord of the senses five ; Communing with herself: "All these are mine, And let the world have peace or wars, 'Tis one to me." She — when young night divine Crown 'd dying day with stars, Making sweet close of his delicious toils — Lit light in wreaths and anadems, And pure quintessences of precious oils In hollow' d moons of gems, THE PALACE OF ART. 123 To mimic heaven ; and clapt her hands and cried, " I marvel if my still delight In this great house so royal-rich, and wide, Be flatter'd to the height. " O all things fair to sate my various eyes ! shapes and hues that please me well ! O silent faces of the Great and Wise, My Gods, with whom I dwell ! " O God-like isolation which art mine, 1 can but count thee perfect gain, What time I watch the darkening droves of swine That range on yonder plain. " In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin, They graze and wallow, breed and sleep ; And oft some brainless devil enters in, And drives them to the deep." Then of the moral instinct would she prate, And of the rising from the dead, As hers by right of full-accomplish'd Fate ; And at the last she said : " I take possession of man's mind and deed. I care not what the sects may brawl. I sit as God holding no form of creed, But contemplating all." 124 THE PALACE OF ART. Full oft the riddle of the painful earth Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone, Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth, And intellectual throne. And so she throve and prosper'd : so three years She prosper'd : on the fourth she fell, Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears, Struck thro' with pangs of hell. Lest she should fail and perish utterly, God, before whom ever lie bare The abysmal deeps of Personality, Plagued her with sore despair. When she would think, where'er she turn'd her sight, The airy hand confusion wrought, Wrote " Mene, mene," and divided quite The kingdom of her thought. Deep dread and loathing of her solitude Fell on her, from which mood was born Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood Laughter at her self -scorn. THE PALACE OF ART. 125 " What ! is not this my place of strength," she said, " My spacious mansion built for me, Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid Since my first memory ? " But in dark corners of her palace stood Uncertain shapes ; and unawares On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood, And horrible nightmares, And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame, And, with dim fretted foreheads all, On corpses three-months-old at noon she came, That stood against the wall. A spot of dull stagnation, without light Or power of movement, seem'd my soul, 'Mid onward- sloping motions infinite Making for one sure goal. A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of sand ; Left on the shore ; that hears all night The plunging seas draw backward from the land Their moon-led waters white. A star that with the choral starry dance Join'd not, but stood, and standing saw The hollow orb of moving Circumstance Itoll'd round by one fix'd law. 126 THE PALACE OF ART. Back on herself her serpent pride had curl'd. " No voice," she shriek'd in that lone hall, " No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this world : One deep, deep silence all ! " She, mouldering with the dull earth's mouldering sod, Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame, Lay there exiled from eternal God, Lost to her place and name ; And death and life she hated equally, And nothing saw, for her despair, But dreadful time, dreadful eternity, No comfort anywhere ; Remaining utterly confused with fears, And ever worse with growing time, And ever unrelieved b} r dismal tears, And all alone in crime : Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round With blackness as a solid wall, Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound Of human footsteps fall. As in strange lands a traveller walking slow, In doubt and great perplexity, A little before moon-rise hears the low Moan of an unknown sea ; THE PALACE OF ART. 127 And knows not if it be thunder or a sound Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry Of great wild beasts ; then thinketh, " I have found A new land, but I die." She howl'd aloud, " I am on fire within. There comes no murmur of reply. What is it that will take away my sin, And save me lest I die ? " So when four years were wholly finished, She threw her royal robes away. " Make me a cottage in the vale," she said, " "Where I may mourn and pray. " Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are So lightly, beautifully built : Perchance I may return with others there When I have purged my guilt." 128 LADY CLAKA VERE DE VERE. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Of me you shall not win renown : You thought to break a country heart For pastime, ere you went to town. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled I saw the snare, and I retired : The daughter of a hundred Earls, You are not one to be desired. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I know you proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for mine, Too proud to care from whence I came. Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that doats on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Some meeker pupil you must find, For were you queen of all that is, I could not stoop to such a mind. LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. 129 You sought to prove how I could love, And my disdain is my reply. The lion on your old stone gates Is not more cold to you than I. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, You put strange memories in my head. Not thrice your branching limes have blown Since I beheld young Laurence dead. Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies : A great enchantress you may be ; But there was that across his throat "Which you had hardly cared to see. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind, She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed I heard one bitter word That scarce is fit for you to hear ; Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, There stands a spectre in your hall : The guilt of blood is at your door : You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare, And slew him with your noble birth. 130 LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood. I know you, Clara Vere de Vere : You pine among your halls and towers : The languid light of your proud eyes Is wearied of the rolling hours. In glowing health, with boundless wealth, But sickening of a vague disease, You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must play such pranks as these. Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, If Time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate, Nor any poor about your lands ? Oh ! teach the orphan-boy to read, Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, Pray Heaven for a human heart, And let the foolish yeoman go. THE MAY QUEEN. You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear ; To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year ; Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day ; For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May, 132 THE MAY QUEEN. There's many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine ; There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline : But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say, So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break : But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay. For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see, But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree ? He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yester- day,— But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be : They say his heart is breaking, mother — what is that to me ? There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. THE MAY QUEEN. 133 Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen ; For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers, And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers; And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen, o' the May. The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass; There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the live-long day, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still, And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year : To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. NEW-YEAK'S EVE. If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear, For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. It is the last New-year that I shall ever see, Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me. NEW-YEAR'S EVE. 135 To-night I saw the sun set : he set and left behind The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind ; And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. Last May we made a crown of flowers : we had a merry day ; Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May ; And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse, Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney -tops. There's not a flower on all the hills : the frost is on the pane : I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high : I long to see a flower so before the day I die. The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree, And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave, But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine, Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night ; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. 136 NEW-YEAR'S EVE. You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass, With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now ; You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go ; Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild, You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child. If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place ; Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face ; Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall harken what you say, And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away. Goodnight, goodnight, when I have said goodnight for evermore, And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door ; Don't let Erne come to see me till my grave be growing green : She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. She'll find my garden- tools upon the granary floor : Let her take 'em : they are hers : I shall never garden more : But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set About the parlour-window and the box of mignonette. Good-night, sweet mother : call me before the day is born. All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. CONCLUSION. I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am ; And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year ! To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here. 138 CONCLUSION. O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise, And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done ! But still I think it can't be long before I find release ; And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair ! And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there ! blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head ! A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin. Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in: Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be, For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. 1 did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat, There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet: But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call ; It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all ; The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. CONCLUSION. 139 For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear ; I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resign'd, And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed, And then did something speak to me — I know not what was said; For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, And up the valley came again the music on the wind. But you were sleeping ; and I said, " It's not for them : it's mine." And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars. So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away. And say to Kobin a kind word, and tell him not to fret ; There's many worthier than I, would make him happy yet. If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his wife ; But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine — Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. 140 CONCLUSION. O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun — For ever and for ever with those just souls and true — And what is life, that we should moan ? why make we such ado ? For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home — And there to wait a little while till you and Erne come — To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast — And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. THE LOTOS-EATEES. " Courage ! " he said, and pointed toward the land, " This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." In the afternoon they came unto a land, In which it seemed always afternoon. 142 THE LOTOS-EATERS. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. Full-faced above the valley stood the moon ; And like a downward smoke, the slender stream Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. A land of streams ! some, like a downward smoke, Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go ; And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke, Eolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. They saw the gleaming river seaward flow From the inner land : far off, three mountain-tops, Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, Stood sunset-flush'd : and, dew'd with showery drops, Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. The charmed sunset linger'd low adown In the red West : thro' mountain clefts the dale Was seen far inland, and the yellow down Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale And meadow, set with slender galingale ; A land where all things always seem'd the same ! And round about the keel with faces pale, Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came. Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave To each, but whoso did receive of them, And taste, to him the gushing of the wave Far far away did seem to mourn and rave THE LOTOS-EATERS. 143 On alien shores ; and if his fellow spake, His voice was thin, as voices from the grave ; And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake, And music in his ears his beating heart did make. They sat them down upon the yellow sand, Between the sun and moon upon the shore ; And sweet it was to dream of Father-land, Of child, and wife, and slave ; but evermore Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar, Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. Then some one said, " We will return no more ; " And all at once they sang, " Our island home Is far beyond the wave ; we will no longer roam." CHOEIC SONG. There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass ; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes ; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. 144 THE LOTOS-EATERS. Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, And utterly consumed with sharp distress, While all things else have rest from weariness ? All things have rest : why should we toil alone, We only toil, who are the first of things, And make perpetual moan, Still from one sorrow to another thrown : Nor ever fold our wings, And cease from wanderings, Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm ; Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, " There is no joy but calm ! " Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things ? Lo ! in the middle of the wood, The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud With winds upon the branch, and there Grows green and broad, and takes no care, Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon Nightly dew-fed ; and turning yellow Falls, and floats adown the air. Lo ! sweeten' d with the summer light, The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, Drops in a silent autumn night. All its allotted length of days, The flower ripens in its place, Eipens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. THE LOTOS-EATERS. 145 IV. Hateful is the dark-blue sky, ' Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. Death is the end of life ; ah, why Should life all labour be ? Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, And in a little while our lips are dumb. Let us alone. "What is it that will last ? All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. Let us alone. What pleasure can we have To war with evil ? Is there any peace In ever climbing up the climbing wave ? All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence ; ripen, fall and cease : Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease. How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, With half- shut e3'es ever to seem Falling asleep in a half- dream ! To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height ; To hear each other's whisper'd speech ; Eating the Lotos day by day, To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, And tender curving lines of creamy spray ; To lend our hearts and spirits wholly To the influence of mild -minded melancholy ; To muse and brood and live again in memory, With those old faces of our infancy 146 THE LOTOS-EATERS. Heap'd over with a mound of grass, Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass ! Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, And dear the last embraces of our wives And their warm tears : but all hath suffer'd change ; For surely now our household hearths are cold : Our sons inherit us : our looks are strange : And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. Or else the island princes over-bold Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings Before them of the ten -years' war in Troy, And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. Is there confusion in the little isle ? Let what is broken so remain. The Gods are hard to reconcile : 'Tis hard to settle order once again. There is confusion worse than death, Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, Long labour unto aged breath, Sore task to hearts worn out with many wars And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars. But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) With half-dropt eyelids still, Beneath a heaven dark and holy, To watch the long bright river drawing slowly His waters from the purple hill — THE LOTOS-EATERS. 147 To hear the dewy echoes calling From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine — To watch the emerald-colour'd water falling Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine ! Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine. The Lotos blooms below the barren peak : The Lotos blows by every winding creek : All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone : Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown. We have had enough of action, and of motion we, Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was seething free, Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea. Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, In the hollow Lotos -land to live and lie reclined On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are huiTd Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world : Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands, Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands. J 48 THE LOTOS-EATERS. But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong ; Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil ; Till they perish and they suffer — some, 'tis whisper'd — down in hell Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell, Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar ; Oh rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more. A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. I read, before my eyelids dropt their shade, " The Legend of Good Women," long ago Sung by the morning star of song, who made His music heard below ; 150 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath Preluded those melodious bursts, that fill The spacious times of great Elizabeth. With sounds that echo still. And, for a while, the knowledge of his art Held me above the subject, as strong gales Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho' my heart, Brimful of those wild tales, Charged both mine eyes with tears. In every land I saw, wherever light illumineth, Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand The downward slope to death. Those far-renowned brides of ancient song Peopled the hollow dark, like burning stars, And I heard sounds of insult, shame, and wrong, And trumpets blown for wars ; And clattering flints batter d with clanging hoofs : And I saw crowds in column'd sanctuaries ; And forms that pass'd at windows and on roofs Of marble palaces ; Corpses across the threshold ; heroes tall Dislodging pinnacle and parapet Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall ; Lances in ambush set ; A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 151 And high shrine-doors burst thro' with heated blasts That run before the fluttering tongues of fire ; White surf wind-scatter'd over sails and masts, And ever climbing higher ; Squadrons and squares of men in brazen plates, Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers woes, Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron grates, And hush'd seraglios. So shape chased shape as swift as, when to land Bluster the winds and tides the self-same way, Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level sand, Torn from the fringe of spray. I started once, or seem'd to start in pain, Resolved on noble things, and strove to speak, As when a great thought strikes along the brain, And flushes all the cheek. And once my arm was lifted to hew down A cavalier from off his saddle-bow, That bore a lady from a leaguer'd town ; And then, I know not how, All those sharp fancies, by down-lapsing thought Stream'd onward, lost their edges, and did creep Roll'd on each other, rounded, smooth'd, and brought Into the gulfs of sleep. 152 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. At last methought that I had wander'd Far In an old wood : fresh-wash'd in coolest dew, The maiden splendours of the morning star Shook in the steadfast blue. Enormous elmtree -holes did stoop and lean Upon the dusky brushwood underneath Their broad curved branches, fledged with clearest green, New from its silken sheath. The dim red morn had died, her journey done, And with dead lips smiled at the twilight plain, Half-fall'n across the threshold of the sun, Never to rise again. There was no motion in the dumb dead air, Not any song of bird or sound of rill ; Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre Is not so deadly still As that wide forest. Growths of jasmine turn'd Their humid arms festooning tree to tree, And at the root thro' lush green grasses bum'd The red anemone. I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I knew The tearful glimmer of the languid dawn On those long, rank, dark wood-walks drench'd in dew, Leading from lawn to lawn. A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 153 The smell of violets, hidden in the green, Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame The times when I remember to have been Joyful and free from blame. And from within me a clear under-tone Thrill'd thro' mine ears in that unblissful clime " Pass freely thro' : the wood is all thine own, Until the end of time." At length I saw a lady within call, Stiller than chisell'd marble, standing there ; A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely fair. Her loveliness with shame and with surprise Froze my swift speech : she turning on my face The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes, Spoke slowly in her place. " I had great beauty : ask thou not my name : No one can be more wise than destiny. Many drew swords and died. Where'er I came I brought calamity." " No marvel, sovereign lady : in fair field Myself for such a face had boldly died," I answer'd free ; and turning I appeal'd To one that stood beside. 154 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. But she, with sick and scornful looks averse, To her full height her stately stature draws ; " My youth," she said, " was blasted with a curse : This woman was the cause. " I was cut off from hope in that sad place, Which yet to name my spirit loathes and fears : My father held his hand upon his face ; I, blinded with my tears, " Still strove to speak : my voice was thick with sighs As in a dream. Dimly I could descry The stern black-bearded kings with wolfish eyes, Waiting to see me die. " The high masts flicker' d as they lay afloat ; The crowds, the temples, waver'd, and the shore ; The bright death quiver'd at the victim's throat ; Touch'd ; and I knew no more." Whereto the other with a downward brow : " I would the white cold heavy-plunging foam, Whirl' d by the wind, had roll'd me deep below, Then when I left my home." Her slow full words sank thro' the silence drear, As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping sea : Sudden I heard a voice that cried, " Come here, That I may look on thee." A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 155 I turning saw, throned on a flowery rise, One sitting on a crimson scarf unroll'd ; A queen, with swarthy cheeks and bold black eyes, Brow-bound with burning gold. She, flashing forth a haughty smile, began : " I govern'd men by change, and so I sway'd All moods. 'Tis long since I have seen a man. Once, like the moon, I made " The ever-shifting currents of the blood According to my humour ebb and flow. I have no men to govern in this wood : That makes my only woe. " Nay — yet it chafes me that I could not bend One will ; nor tame and tutor with mine eye That dull cold-blooded Csssar. Prythee, friend, Where is Mark Antony ? " The man, my lover, with whom I rode sublime On Fortune's neck : we sat as God by God : The Nilus would have risen before his time And flooded at our nod. " We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, and lit Lamps which outburn'd Canopus. O my life In Egypt ! O the dalliance and the wit, The flattery and the strife, 156 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. "And the wild kiss, when fresh from war's alarms, My Hercules, my Eoman Antony, My mailed Bacchus leapt into my arms, Contented there to die ! " And there he died : and when I heard my name Sigh'd forth with life I would not brook my fear Of the other : with a worm I balk'd his fame. What else was left ? look here ! " (With that she tore her robe apart, and half The polish'd argent of her breast to sight Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a laugh, Showing the aspick's bite) " I died a Queen. The Koman soldier found Me lying dead, my crown about my brows, A name for ever ! — lying robed and crown'd, Worthy a Roman spouse." Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest range Struck by all passion, did fall down and glance From tone to tone, and glided thro' all change Of liveliest utterance. When she made pause I knew not for delight ; Because with sudden motion from the ground She raised her piercing orbs, and fill'd with light The interval of sound. A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 157 Still with their fires Love tipt his keenest darts ; As once they drew into two burning rings All beams of Love, melting the mighty hearts Of captains and of kings. Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I heard A noise of some one coming thro' the lawn, And singing clearer than the crested bird, That claps his wings at dawn. " The torrent brooks of hallo w'd Israel From craggy hollows pouring, late and soon, Sound all night long, in falling thro' the dell, Far-heard beneath the moon. " The balmy moon of blessed Israel Floods all the deep -blue gloom with beams divine All night the splinter'd crags that wall the dell With spires of silver shine." As one that museth where broad sunshine laves The lawn by some cathedral, thro' the door Hearing the holy organ rolling waves Of sound on roof and floor Within, and antliem sung, is charm'd and tied To where he stands, — so stood I, when that flow Of music left the lips of her that died To save her father's vow ; 158 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. The daughter of the warrior Gileadite, A maiden pure ; as when she went along From Mizpeh's tower'd gate with welcome light, With timbrel and with song. My words leapt forth : " Heaven heads the count of crimes With that wild oath." She render'd answer high : " Not so, nor once alone ; a thousand times I would be born and die. " Single I grew, like some green plant, whose root Creeps to the garden water-pipes beneath, Feeding the flower ; but ere my flower to fruit Changed, I was ripe for death. " My God, my land, my father — these did move Me from my bliss of life, that Nature gave, Lower'd softly with a threefold cord of love Down to a silent grave. " And I went mourning, ' No fair Hebrew boy Shall smile away my maiden blame among The Hebrew mothers ' — emptied of all joy, Leaving the dance and song, " Leaving the olive-gardens far below, Leaving the promise of my bridal bower, The valleys of grape-loaded vines that glow Beneath the battled tower. A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 159 " The light white cloud swam over us. Anon We heard the lion roaring from his den ; We saw the large white stars rise one by one, Or, from the darken' d glen, " Saw God divide the night with flying flame, And thunder on the everlasting hills. I heard Him, for He spake, and grief became A solemn scorn of ills. " When the next moon was roll'd into the sky, Strength came to me that equall'd my desire. How beautiful a thing it was to die For God and for my sire ! " It comforts me in this one thought to dwell, That I subdued me to my father's will ; Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell, Sweetens the spirit still. " Moreover it is written that my race Hew'd Ammon, hip and thigh, from Aroer On Arnon unto Minneth." Here her face Glow'd, as I look'd at her. She lock'd her lips : she left me where I stood " Glory to God," she sang, and past afar, Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood, Toward the morning-star. 160 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. Losing her carol I stood pensively, As one that from a casement leans his head, When midnight bells cease ringing suddenly, And the old year is dead. " Alas ! alas ! " a low voice, full of care, Murmur' d beside me : " Turn and look on me I am that Eosamond, whom men call fair, If what I was I be. " Would I had been some maiden coarse and poor ! me, that I should ever see the light ! Those dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor Do hunt me, day and night." She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and trust : To whom the Egyptian : "0, you tamely died ! You should have clung to Fulvia's waist, and thrust The dagger thro' her side." With that sharp sound the white dawn's creeping beams, Stol'n to my brain, dissolved the mystery Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams Ruled in the eastern sky. Morn broaden'd on the borders of the dark, Ere I saw her, who clasp'd in her last trance Her murder'd father's head, or Joan of Arc, A light of ancient France ; A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 101 Or her, who knew that Love can vanquish Death, Who kneeling, with one arm ahout her king, Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath, Sweet as new buds in Spring. No memory labours longer from the deep Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep To gather and tell o'er 162 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to strike Into that wondrous track of dreams again ! But no two dreams are like. As when a soul laments, which hath been blest, Desiring what is mingled with past years, In yearnings that can never be exprest By signs or groans or tears ; Because all words, tho' cull'd with choicest art, Failing to give the bitter of the sweet, Wither beneath the palate, and the heart Faints, faded by its heat. 103 MARGARET. O sweet pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, What lit your eyes with tearful power, Like moonlight on a falling shower ? Who lent you, love, your mortal dower Of pensive thought and aspect pale, Your melancholy sweet and frail As perfume of the cuckoo-flower ? From the westward-winding flood, From the evening-lighted wood, From all things outward you have won A tearful grace, as tho' you stood Between the rainbow and the sun. The very smile before you speak, That dimples your transparent cheek, Encircles all the heart, and feedeth The senses with a still delight Of dainty sorrow without sound, Like the tender amber round, Which the moon about her spreadeth, Moving thro' a fleecy night. 164 MARGARET. You love, remaining peacefully, To hear the murmur of the strife, But enter not the toil of life. Your spirit is the calmed sea, Laid by the tumult of the fight. You are the evening star, alway Remaining betwixt dark and bright : Lull'd echoes of laborious day Come to you, gleams of mellow light Float by you on the verge of night. What can it matter, Margaret, What songs below the waning stars The lion-heart, Plantagenet, Sang looking thro' his prison bars ? Exquisite Margaret, who can tell The last wild thought of Chatelet, Just ere the falling axe did part The burning brain from the true heart, Even in her sight he loved so well ? A fairy shield your Genius made And gave you on your natal day. Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade, Keeps real sorrow far away. You move not in such solitudes, You are not less divine, But more human in your moods, Than your twin-sister, Adeline. MARGARET. 105 Your hair is darker, and your eyes Touch'd with a somewhat darker hue, And less aerially blue, But ever trembling thro' the dew Of dainty-woeful sympathies. O sweet pale Margaret, rare pale Margaret, Come down, come down, and hear me speak : Tie up the ringlets on your cheek : The sun is just about to set, The arching limes are tall and shady, And faint, rainy lights are seen, Moving in the leavy beech. Rise from the feast of sorrow, lad} r , Where all day long you sit between Joy and woe, and whisper each. Or only look across the lawn, Look out below your bower-eaves, Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn Upon me thro' the jasmine -leaves. 160 THE BLACKBIED. Blackbird ! sing me something well : While all the neighbours shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell. The espaliers and the standards all Are thine ; the range of lawn and park : The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark, All thine, against the garden wall. Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring, Thy sole delight is, sitting still, With that gold dagger of thy bill To fret the summer jenneting. A golden bill ! the silver tongue, Cold February loved, is dry : Plenty corrupts the melody That made thee famous once, when young : THE BLACKBIRD. 1C7 And in the sultry garden -squares, Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarse, I hear thee not at all, or hoarse As when a hawker hawks his wares. Take warning ! he that will not sing While yon sun prospers in the blue, Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new, Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. 108 TO J. S. The wind, that beats the mountain, blows More softly round the open wold, And gently conies the world to those That are cast in gentle mould. And me this knowledge bolder made, Or else I had not dared to flow In these words toward you, and invade Even with a verse your holy woe. 'Tis strange that those we lean on most, Those in whose laps our limbs are nursed, Fall into shadow, soonest lost : Those we love first are taken first. God gives us love. Something to love He lends us ; but, when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone. TO J. S. 169 This is the curse of time. Alas ! In grief I am not all unlearn'd ; Once thro' mine own doors Death did pass ; One went, who never hath return'd. He will not smile — not speak to me Once more. Two years his chair is seen Empty before us. That was he Without whose life I had not been. Your loss is rarer ; for this star Rose with you thro' a little arc Of heaven, nor having wander'd far Shot on the sudden into dark. I knew your brother : his mute dust I honour and his living worth : A man more pure and bold and just Was never born into the earth. I have not look'd upon you nigh, Since that dear soul hath fall'n asleep. Great Nature is more wise than I : I will not tell you not to weep. And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew, Drawn from the spirit thro' the brain, I will not even preach to you, " Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain." 170 TO J. s. Let Grief be her own mistress still. She loveth her own anguish deep More than much pleasure. Let her will Be done — to weep or not to weep. I will not say " God's ordinance Of Death is blown in every wind ; " For that is not a common chance That takes away a noble mind. His memory long will live alone In all our hearts, as mournful light That broods above the fallen sun, And dwells in heaven half the night. Vain solace ! Memory standing near Cast down her eyes, and in her throat Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear Dropt on the letters as I wrote. I wrote I know not what. In truth, How sliould I soothe you anyway, Who miss the brother of your youth ? Yet something I did wish to say : For he too was a friend to me : Both are my friends, and my true breast Bleedeth for both ; yet it may be That only silence suiteth best. TO J. S. 171 Words weaker than your grief would make Grief more. 'Twere better I should cease ; Although myself could almost take The place of him that sleeps in peace. Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace : Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, While the stars burn, the moons increase, And the great ages onward roll. Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. Nothing comes to thee new or strange. Sleep full of rest from head to feet ; Lie still, dry dust, secure of change. THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing : Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, And tread softly and speak low, For the old year lies a-dying. THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR, 173 Old year, you must not die ; You came to us so readily, You lived with us so steadily, Old year, you shall not die. He lieth still : he doth not move : He will not see the dawn of day. He hath no other life above. He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, And the New -year will take 'em away. Old year, you must not go ; So long as you have been with us, Such joy as you have seen with us, Old year, you shall not go. in. He froth'd his bumpers to the brim ; A jollier year we shall not see. Hut tho' his eyes are waxing dim, And tho' his foes speak ill of him, He was a friend to me. Old year, you shall not die ; We did so laugh and cry with you, I've half a mind to die with you, Old year, if you must die. IV. He was full of joke and jest, But all his merry quips are o'er. To see him die, across the waste His son and heir doth ride post-haste, But he'll be dead before. 174 THE DEATH OP THE OLD YEAR. Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend, And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend, Comes up to take his own. How hard he breathes ! over the snow I heard just now the crowing cock. The shadows flicker to and fro : The cricket chirps : the light burns low : Tis nearly twelve o'clock. Shake hands, before you die. Old year, we'll dearly rue for yon : What is it we can do for you ? Speak out before you die. VI. His face is growing sharp and thin. Alack ! our friend is gone. Close up his eyes : tie up his chin : Step from the corpse, and let him in That standeth there alone, And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, And a new face at the door, my friend, A new face at the door. 175 You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, Within this region I subsist, Whose spirits falter in the mist, And languish for the purple seas ? It is the land that freemen till, That sober-suited Freedom chose, The land, where girt with friends or foes A man may speak the thing he will ; A land of settled government, A land of just and old renown, Where Freedom broadens slowly down From precedent to precedent : Where faction seldom gathers head, But by degrees to fullness wrought, The strength of some diffusive thought Hath time and space to work and spread. 176 Should banded unions persecute Opinion, and induce a time When single thought is civil crime, And individual freedom mute ; Tho' Power should make from land to land The name of Britain trebly great — Tho' every channel of the State Should almost choke with golden sand — Yet waft me from the harbour-mouth, Wild wind ! I seek a warmer sky, And I will see before I die The palms and temples of the South. 177 Of old sat Freedom on the heights, The thunders hreaking at her feet : Above her shook the starry lights : She heard the torrents meet. There in her place she did rejoice, Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind, But fragments of her mighty voice Came rolling on the wind. Then stept she down thro' town and field To mingle with the human race, And part by part to men reveal'd The fullness of her face — Grave mother of majestic works, From her isle-altar gazing down, Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, And, King-like, wears the crown : 178 Her open eyes desire the truth. The wisdom of a thousand years Is in them. May perpetual youth Keep dry their light from tears ; That her fair form may stand and shine, Make bright our days and light our dreams, Turning to scorn with lips divine The falsehood of extremes ! 179 Love thou thy land, with love far-brought From out the storied Past, and used Within the Present, but transfused Thro' future time by power of thought. True love turn'd round on fixed poles, Love, that endures not sordid ends, For English natures, freemen, friends, Thy brothers and immortal souls. But pamper not a hasty time, Nor feed with crude imaginings The herd, wild hearts and feeble wings, That every sophister can lime. Deliver not the tasks of might To weakness, neither hide the ray From those, not blind, who wait for day, Tho' sitting girt with doubtful light. 180 Make knowledge circle with the winds ; But let her herald, Reverence, fly Before her to whatever sky Bear seed of men and growth of minds. Watch what main -currents draw the years : Cut Prejudice against the grain : But gentle words are always gain : Regard the weakness of thy peers : Nor toil for title, place, or touch Of pension, neither count on praise : It grows to guerdon after-days : Nor deal in watch-words overmuch ; Not clinging to some ancient saw ; Not master'd by some modern term ; Not swift nor slow to change, but firm : And in its season bring the law ; That from Discussion's lip may fall With Life, that, working strongly, binds- Set in all lights by many minds, To close the interests of all. For Nature also, cold and warm, And moist and dry, devising long, Thro' many agents making strong, Matures the individual form. 181 Meet is it changes should control Our being, lest we rust in ease. We all are changed by still degrees, All but the basis of the soul. So let the change which comes be free To ingroove itself with that, which flies, And work, a joint of state, that plies Its office, moved with sympathy. A saying, hard to shape in act ; For all the past of Time reveals A bridal dawn of thunder-peals, Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact. Ev'n now we hear with inward strife A motion toiling in the gloom — The Spirit of the years to come Yearning to mix himself with Life. A slow-develop'd strength awaits Completion in a painful school ; Phantoms of other forms of rule, New Majesties of mighty States — The warders of the growing hour, But vague in vapour, hard to mark ; And round them sea and air are dark With great contrivances of Power. 182 Of many changes, aptly join'd, Is bodied forth the second whole. Regard gradation, lest the soul Of Discord race the rising wind ; A wind to puff your idol-fires, And heap their ashes on the head ; To shame the boast so often made, That we are wiser than our sires. Oh yet, if Nature's evil star Drive men in manhood, as in youth, To follow flying steps of Truth Across the brazen bridge of war — If New and Old, disastrous feud, Must ever shock, like armed foes, And this be true, till Time shall close, That Principles are rain'd in blood ; Not yet the wise of heart would cease To hold his hope thro' shame and guilt, But with his hand against the hilt, Would pace the troubled land, like Peace ; Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay, Would serve his kind in deed and word, Certain, if knowledge bring the sword, That knowledge takes the sword away — 183 Would love the gleams of good that broke From either side, nor veil his eyes : And if some dreadful need should rise Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke : To-morrow yet would reap to-day, As we bear blossom of the dead ; Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay. JOHN THOMPSON THE GOOSE. I knew an old wife lean and poor, Her rags scarce held together ; There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather. He held a goose upon his arm, He utter'd rhyme and reason, " Here, take the goose, and keep you warm, It is a stormy season." THE GOOSE. 185 She caught the white goose by the leg, A goose — 'twas no great matter. The goose let fall a golden egg With cackle and with clatter. She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf, And ran to tell her neighbours ; And bless'd herself, and cursed herself, And rested from her labours. And feeding high, and living soft, Grew plump and able-bodied ; Until the grave churchwarden doff'd, The parson smirk'd and nodded. So sitting, served by man and maid, She felt her heart grow prouder : But ah ! the more the white goose laid It clack'd and cackled louder. It clutter' d here, it chuckled there ; It stirr'd the old wife's mettle : She shifted in her elbow-chair, And hurl'd the pan and kettle. " A quinsy choke thy cursed note ! " Then wax'd her anger stronger. " Go, take the goose, and wring her throat, I will not bear it longer." 180 THE GOOSE. Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat ; Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer. The goose flew this way and flew that, And fill'd the house with clamour. As head and heels upon the floor They flounder'd all together, There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather : He took the goose upon his arm, He utter'd words of scorning ; " So keep you cold, or keep you warm, It is a stormy morning." The wild wind rang from park and plain, And round the attics rumbled, Till all the tables danced again, And half the chimneys tumbled. The glass blew in, the fire blew out, The blast was hard and harder. Her cap blew off, her gown blew up, And a whirlwind clear'd the larder ; And while on all sides breaking loose Her household fled the danger, Quoth she, " The Devil take the goose, And God forget the stranger ! " ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS. (published 1842.) THE EPIC. At Francis Allen's on the Christmas-eve, — The game of forfeits done — the girls all kiss'd Beneath the sacred bush and past away — The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall, The host, and I sat round the wassail-bowl, Then half-way ebb'd : and there we held a talk, How all the old honour had from Christmas gone, Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd games In some odd nooks like this ; till I, tired out With cutting eights that day upon the pond, Where, three times slipping from the outer edge, I bump'd the ice into three several stars, Fell in a doze ; and half-awake I heard The parson taking wide and wider sweeps, Now harping on the church-commissioners, Now hawking at Geology and schism ; Until I woke, and found him settled down Upon the general decay of faith Right thro' the world, " at home was little left, And none abroad : there was no anchor, none, To hold by." Francis, laughing, clapt his hand 190 THE EPIC. On Everard's shoulder, with "I hold by hini." "And I," quoth Everard, "by the wassail-bowl." " Why yes," I said, " we knew your gift that way At college : but another which you had, I mean of verse (for so we held it then,) What came of that ?" " You know," said Frank, " he burnt His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve books " — And then to me demanding why ? " Oh, sir, He thought that nothing new was said, or else Something so said 'twas nothing — that a truth Looks freshest in the fashion of the day : God knows : he has a mint of reasons : ask. It pleased me well enough." " Nay, nay," said Hall, "Why take the style of those heroic times ? For nature brings not back the Mastodon, Nor we those times ; and why should any man Remodel models ? these twelve books of mine Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing-worth, Mere chaff and draff, much better burnt." " But I," Said Francis, " pick'd the eleventh from this hearth, And have it : keep a thing, its use will come. I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes." He laugh' d, and I, though sleepy, like a horse That hears the corn-bin open, prick'd my ears ; For I remember'd Everard's college fame When we were Freshmen : then at my request He brought it ; and the poet little urged, But with some prelude of disparagement, Read, mouthing out his hollow oes and aes, Deep-chested music, and to this result. MORTE D'ARTHUR. So all day long the noise of battle roll'd Among the mountains by the winter sea ; 192 MORTE D'ARTHUR. Until King Arthur's table, man by man, Had fall'n in Lyonness about their Lord, King Arthur : then, because his wound was deep, The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights, And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, A broken chancel with a broken cross, That stood on a dark strait of barren land. On one side lay the Ocean, and on one Lay a great water, and the moon was full. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : " The sequel of to-day unsolders all The goodliest fellowship of famous knights Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep They sleep — the men I loved. I think that we Shall never more, at any future time, Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, Walking about the gardens and the halls Of Camelot, as in the days that were. I perish by this people which I made, — Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again To rule once more — but let what will be, be, I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm That without help I cannot last till morn. Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, Which was my pride : for thou rememberest how In those old days, one summer noon, an arm Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, Clothed in white samite, nrystic, wonderful, Holding the sword — and how I row'd across And took it, and have worn it, like a king : And, wheresoever I am sung or told MORTE D' ARTHUR. 193 In aftertime, this also shall be known : But now delay not : take Excalibur, And fling him far into the middle mere : Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word." To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : " It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm. A little thing may harm a wounded man. Yet I thy best will all perform at full, "Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word." So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, "Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock, Came on the shining levels of the lake. There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon, Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt : For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, Myriads of topaz -lights, and jacinth -work Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood, This way and that dividing the swift mind, In act to throw : but at the last it seem'd Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd There in the many-knotted waterflags, That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. So strode he back slow to the wounded King. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 194 MORTE D' ARTHUR. " Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave ? What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast heard ? " And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : " I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, And the wild water lapping on the crag." To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale : " Thou hast betray 'd thy nature and thy name, Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : For surer sign had follow'd, either hand, Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. This is a shameful thing for men to lie. Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing I bad thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.*' Then went Sir Bedivere the second time Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought ; But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, How curiously and strangely chased, he smote His palms together, and he cried aloud. " And if indeed I cast the brand away, Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, Should thus be lost for ever from the earth, Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. What good should follow this, if this were done ? What harm, undone ? deep harm to disobey, Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. Were it well to obey then, if a king demand An act unprofitable, against himself? The King is sick, and knows not what he does. What record, or what relic of my lord I M011TE D'ARTHUR. 195 Should be to aftertime, but empty breath And rumours of a doubt ? but were this kept, Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, Some one might show it at a joust of arms, Saying, ' King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' So might some old man speak in the aftertime To all the people, winning reverence. But now much honour and much fame were lost." So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, And hid Excalibur the second time, And so strode back slow to the wounded King. Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily : " What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast heard ? " And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : " I heard the water lapping on the crag, And the long ripple washing in the reeds." To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath : " Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is me ! Authority forgets a dying king, Laid widow'd of the power in his eye That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art, For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, In whom should meet the offices of all, Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt ; Either from lust of gold, or like a girl Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, And the third time may prosper, get thee hence : 196 MORTE D' ARTHUR. But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, I will arise and slay thee with my hands." Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the sword, And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon, And flashing round and round, and whiiTd in an arch, Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, Seen where the moving isles of winter shock By night, with noises of the northern sea. So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur : But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him Three times, and drew him under in the mere. And lightly went the other to the King. Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath : " Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. Speak out : what is it thou hast heard, or seen ? " And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : " Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men, So great a miracle as yonder hilt. Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him ; But when I look'd again, behold an arm, Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him Three times, and drew him under in the mere." And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard : MORTE D'ARTHUR. 197 u My end draws nigh ; 'tis time that I were gone. Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, And bear me to the margin ; yet I fear My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." So saying, from the pavement he half rose, Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears, And would have spoken, but he found not words, Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands, And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. But, as lie walk'd, King Arthur panted hard, Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King, Muttering and murmuring at his ear " Quick, quick ! I fear it is too late, and I shall die." But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd, Larger than human on the frozen hills. He heard the deep behind him, and a cry Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves And barren chasms, and all to left and right The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang Sharp -smitten with the dint of armed heels — And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake, And the long glories of the winter moon. Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, 198 MORTE D' ARTHUR. Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, Beneath them ; and descending they were ware That all the decks were dense with stately forms Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these Three Queens with crowns of gold — and from them rose A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars, And, as it were one voice, an agony Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills All night in a waste land, where no one comes, Or hath come, since the making of the world. Then murmur'd Arthur, " Place me in the barge," And to the barge they came. There those three Queens Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. But she, that rose the tallest of them all And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands, And call'd him by his name, complaining loud, And dropping bitter tears against his brow Striped with dark blood : for all his face was white And colourless, and like the wither'd moon Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east ; And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops Of onset ; and the light and lustrous curls — That made his forehead like a rising sun High from the dais-throne — were parch'd with dust ; Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. So like a shatter'd column lay the King ; Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, From spur to plume a star of tournament, Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. MORTE D'ARTHUR. 199 Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere, " Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go ? 200 MORTE D' ARTHUR. Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes ? For now I see the true old times are dead, When every morning brought a noble chance, And every chance brought out a noble knight. Such times have been not since the light that led The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. But now the whole" round table is dissolved Which was an image of the mighty world ; And I, the last, go forth companionless, And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds." And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge : " The old order changeth, yielding place to new, And God fulfils himself in many ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me ? I have lived my life, and that which I have done May He within himself make pure ! but thou, If thou shouldst never see my face again, Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain, If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend ? For so the whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. But now farewell. I am going a long way With these thou seest — if indeed I go — (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) To the island-valley of Avilion ; MORTE D'ARTHUR. 201 Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound." So said he, and the barge with oar and sail Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere Revolving many memories, till the hull Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn, And on the mere the wailing died away. Here ended Hall, and our last light, that long Had wink'd and threaten'd darkness, flared and fell At which the Parson, sent to sleep with sound, And waked with silence, grunted " Good ! " but we Sat rapt : it was the tone with which he read — Perhaps some modern touches here and there Redeem'd it from the charge of nothingness — Or else we loved the man, and prized his work ; I know not : but we sitting, as I said, The cock crew loud ; as at that time of year The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn : Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill-used, " There now — that's nothing ! " drew a little back, And drove his heel into the smoulder'd log, That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue : And so to bed ; where yet in sleep I seem'd 202 MORTE D' ARTHUR. To sail with Arthur under looming shores, Point after point, ; till on to dawn, when dreams Begin to feel the truth and stir of day, To me, methought, who waited with a crowd, There came a hark that, blowing forward, bore King Arthur, like a modern gentleman Of stateliest port ; and all the people cried, " Arthur is come again : he cannot die." Then those that stood upon the hills behind Repeated — " come again, and thrice as fair ; " And, further inland, voices echoed — " come With all good things, and war shall be no more." At this a hundred bells began to peal, That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas morn. THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; OR, THE PICTURES. This morning is the morning of the day, When I and Eustace from the city went To see the Gardener's Daughter ; I and he, Brothers in Art ; a friendship so complete 204 THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; Portion'd in halves between us, that we grew The fable of the city where we dwelt. My Eustace might have sat for Hercules ; So muscular he spread, so broad of breast. He, by some law that holds in love, and draws The greater to the lesser, long desired A certain miracle of symmetry, A miniature of loveliness, all grace Summ'd up and closed in little ;— Juliet, she So light of foot, so light of spirit — oh, she To me myself, for some three careless moons, The summer pilot of an empty heart Unto the shores of nothing ! Know you not Such touches are but embassies of love, To tamper with the feelings, ere he found Empire for life ? but Eustace painted her, And said to me, she sitting with us then, " When will you paint like this ? " and I replied, (My words were half in earnest, half in jest,) " 'Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March." And Juliet answer'd laughing, " Go and see The Gardener's daughter : trust me, after that, You scarce can fail to match his masterpiece." And up we rose, and on the spur we went. Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. News from the humming city comes to it In sound of funeral or of marriage bells ; OR, THE PICTURES. 205 And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear The windy clanging of the minster clock ; Altho' between it and the garden lies A league of grass, wash'd by a slow broad stream, That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the oar, Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on, Barge -laden, to three arches of a bridge Crown'd with the minster-towers. The fields between Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-udder'd kine, And all about the large lime feathers low, The lime a summer home of murmurous wings. In that still place she, hoarded in herself, Grew, seldom seen : not less among us lived Her fame from lip to lip. Who had not heard Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter ? Where was he, So blunt in memory, so old at heart, At such a distance from his youth in grief, That, having seen, forgot ? The common mouth, So gross to express delight, in praise of her Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love, And Beauty such a mistress of the world. And if I said that Fancy, led by Love, Would play with flying forms and images, Yet this is also true, that, long before I look'd upon her, when I heard her name My heart was like a prophet to my heart, And told me I should love. A crowd of hopes, That sought to sow themselves like winged seeds, Born out of everything I heard and saw, Flutter'd about my senses and my soul ; And vague desires, like fitful blasts of balm 200 THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; To one that travels quickly, made the air • Of Life delicious, and all kinds of thought, That verged upon them, sweeter than the dream Dream'd by a happy man, when the dark East, Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn. And sure this orbit of the memory folds For ever in itself the day we went To see her. All the land in flowery squares, Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind, Smelt of the coming summer, as one large cloud Drew downward : but all else of Heaven was pure Up to the Sun, and May from verge to verge, And May with me from head to heel. And now, As tho' 'twere yesterday, as tho' it were The hour just flown, that morn with all its sound, (For those old Mays had thrice the life of these,) Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot to graze, And, where the hedge -row cuts the pathway, stood, Leaning his horns into the neighbour field, And lowing to his fellows. From the woods Came voices of the well-contented doves. The lark could scarce get out his notes for joy, But shook his song together as he near'd His happy home, the ground. To left and right, The cuckoo told his name to all the hills ; The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm ; The redcap whistled ; and the nightingale Sang loud, as tho' he were the bird of day. And Eustace turn'd, and smiling said to me, " Hear how the bushes echo ! by my life, These birds have joyful thoughts. Think you they sing Like poets, from the vanity of song ? OR, THE PICTURES. 207 Or have they any sense of why they sing ? And would they praise the heavens for what they have ? " And I made answer, " Were there nothing else For which to praise the heavens but only love, That only love were cause enough for praise." Lightly he laugh'd, as one that read my thought, And on we went ; but ere an hour had pass'd, We reach'd a meadow slanting to the North ; Down which a well-worn pathway courted us To one green wicket in a privet hedge ; This, yielding, gave into a grassy walk Thro' crowded lilac -ambush trimly pruned ; And one warm gust, full-fed with perfume, blew Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool. The garden stretches southward. In the midst A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade. The garden-glasses shone, and momently The twinkling laurel scatter'd silver lights. " Eustace," I said, " This wonder keeps the house." He nodded, but a moment afterwards He cried, " Look ! look ! " Before he ceased I turn'd, And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there. For up the porch there grew an Eastern rose, That, flowering high, the last night's gale had caught, And blown across the walk. One arm aloft — Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to the shape — Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood. A single stream of all her soft brown hair Pour'd on one side : the shadow of the flowers Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist — All, happy shade — and still went wavering down, 208 THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; But, ere it touch'd a foot, that might have danced The greensward into greener circles, dipt, And mix'd with shadows of the common ground ! But the full day dwelt on her brows, and sunn'd Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe -bloom, And doubled his own warmth against her lips, And on the bounteous wave of such a breast As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade, She stood, a sight to make an old man young. So rapt, we near'd the house ; but she, a Rose In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil, Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance turn'd Into the world without ; till close at hand, And almost ere I knew mine own intent, This murmur broke the stillness of that air Which brooded round about her : " Ah, one rose, One rose, but one, by those fair fingers cull'd, Were worth a hundred kisses press'd on lips Less exquisite than thine." She look'd : but all Suffused with blushes — neither self-possess'd Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and that, Divided in a graceful quiet — paused, And dropt the branch she held, and turning, wound Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd her lips For some sweet answer, tho' no answer came, Nor 3 r et refused the rose, but granted it, And moved away, and left me, statue-like, In act to render thanks. I, that whole day, Saw her no more, altho' I linger'd there OR, THE PICTURES. 209 Till every daisy slept, and Love's white star Beam'd thro' the thicken'd cedar in the dusk. So home we went, and all the livelong way With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me. " Now," said he, " will you climb the top of Art. You cannot fail but work in hues to dim The Titianic Flora. Will you match My Juliet ? you, not you, — the Master, Love, A more ideal Artist he than all." So home I went, but could not sleep for joy, Heading her perfect features in the gloom, Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and o'er, And shaping faithful record of the glance That graced the giving — such a noise of life Swarm'd in the golden present, such a voice Call'd to me from the years to come, and such A length of bright horizon rimm'd the dark. And all that night I heard the watchmen peal The sliding season r all that night I heard The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy hours. The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good, O'er the mute city stole with folded wings, Distilling odours on me as they went To greet their fairer sisters of the East. Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to all, Made this night thus. Henceforward squall nor storm Could keep me from that Eden where she dwelt. Light pretexts drew me : sometimes a Dutch love For tulips ; then for roses, moss or musk, To grace my city-rooms ; or fruits and cream Served in the weeping elm ; and more and more A word could bring the colour to my cheek ; 210 THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; A thought would fill my eyes with happy dew ; Love trebled life within me, and with each The year increased. The daughters of the year, One after one, thro' that still garden pass'd : Each garlanded with her peculiar flower Danced into light, and died into the shade ; And each in passing touch'd with some new grace Or seem'd to touch her, so that day by day, Like one that never can be wholly known, Her beauty grew ; till Autumn brought an hour For Eustace, when I heard his deep " I will," Breathed, like the covenant of a God, to hold From thence thro' all the worlds : but I rose up Full of his bliss, and following her dark eyes Felt earth as air beneath me, till I reach'd The wicket-gate, and found her standing there. There sat we down upon a garden mound, Two mutually enfolded ; Love, the third, Between us, in the circle of his arms Enwound us both ; and over many a range Of waning lime the gray cathedral towers, Across a hazy glimmer of the west, Reveal'd their shining windows : from them clash'd The bells ; we listen'd ; with the time Ave play'd ; We spoke of other things ; we coursed about The subject most at heart, more near and near, Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling round The central wish, until we settled there. Then, in that time and place, I spoke to her, Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine own, Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear, OR, THE PICTURES. 211 llequiring at her hand the greatest gift, A woman's heart, the heart of her I loved ; And in that time and place she answer' d me, And in the compass of three little words, More musical than ever came in one, The silver fragments of a broken voice, Made me most happy, faltering " I am thine." Shall I cease here ? Is this enough to say That my desire, like all strongest hopes, By its own energy fulfill'd itself, Merged in completion ? Would you learn at full How passion rose thro' circumstantial grades Beyond all grades develop'd ? and indeed I had not staid so long to tell you all, But while I mused came Memory with sad eyes, Holding the folded annals of my youth ; And while I mused, Love with knit brows went by, And with a flying finger swept my lips, And spake, " Be wise : not easily forgiven Are those, who setting wide the doors, that bar The secret bridal chambers of the heart, Let in the day." Here, then, my words have end. Yet might I tell of meetings, of farewells — Of that which came between, more sweet than each, In whispers, like the whispers of the leaves That tremble round a nightingale — in sighs Which perfect Joy, perplex'd for utterance, Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not tell Of difference, reconcilement, pledges given, And vows, where there was never need of vows, And kisses, where the heart on one wild leap Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above 212 THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleeting stars ; Or while the balmy glooming, crescent-lit, Spread the light haze along the river-shores, And in the hollows ; or as once we met Unheedful, tho' beneath a whispering rain Night slid down one long stream of sighing wind, And in her bosom bore the baby, Sleep. But this whole hour your eyes have been intent On that veil'd picture — veil'd, for what it holds May not be dwelt on by the common day. This prelude has prepared thee. Raise thy soul ; Make thine heart ready with thine eyes : the time Is come to raise the veil. Behold her there, As I beheld her ere she knew my heart, My first, last love ; the idol of my youth, The darling of my manhood, and, alas ! Now the most blessed memory of mine age. DOKA. With farmer Allan at the farm abode William and Dora. William was his son, And she his niece. He often look'd at them, And often thought " I'll make them man and wife. Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, 214 DORA. And yearn'd towards William ; but the youth, because He had been always with her in the house, Thought not of Dora. Then there came a day When Allan call'd his son, and said, " My son : I married late, but I would wish to see My grandchild on my knees before I die : And I have set my heart upon a match. Now therefore look to Dora ; she is well To look to ; thrifty too beyond her age. She is my brother's daughter : he and I Had once hard words, and parted, and he died In foreign lands ; but for his sake I bred His daughter Dora : take her for your wife ; For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day, For many years." But William answer'd short ; " I cannot marry Dora ; by my life, I will not marry Dora." Then the old man Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said : " You will not, boy ! you dare to answer thus ! But in my time a father's word was law, And so it shall be now for me. Look to it ; Consider, William : take a month to think, And let me have an answer to my wish ; Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, And never more darken my doors again." But William answer'd madly ; bit his lips, ' And broke away. The more he look'd at her The less he liked her ; and his ways were harsh ; But Dora bore them meekly. Then before The month was out he left his father's house, And hired himself to work within the fields ; DORA. 215 And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed A labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison. Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd His niece and said : " My girl, I love you well ; But if you speak with him that was my son, Or change a word with her he calls his wife, My home is none of yours. My will is law." And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, " It cannot be : my uncle's mind will change ! " And days went on, and there was born a boy To William ; then distresses came on him ; And day by day he pass'd his father's gate, Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not. But Dora stored what little she could save, And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest time he died. Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said : " I have obey'd my uncle until now, And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me This evil came on William at the first. But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, And for your sake, the woman that he chose, And for this orphan, I am come to you : You know there has not been for these live years So full a harvest : let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle's eye Among the wheat ; that when his heart is glad Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone." 216 DORA. And Dora took the child, and went her way Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies grew. Far off the farmer came into the field And spied her not ; for none of all his men Dare tell him Dora waited with the child ; And Dora would have risen and gone to him, But her heart fail'd her ; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. But when the morrow came, she rose and took The child once more, and sat upon the mound ; And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it round his hat To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. Then when the farmer pass'd into the field He spied her, and he left his men at work, And came and said; "Where were you yesterday? Whose child is that ! What are you doing here ? " So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, And answer'd softly, " This is William's child ! " " And did I not," said Allan, " did I not Forbid you, Dora ? " Dora said again ; " Do with me as you will, but take the child And bless him for the sake of him that's gone ! " And Allan said, " I see it is a trick Got up betwixt you and the woman there. I must be taught my duty, and by you ! You knew my word was law, and yet you dared To slight it. Well— for I will take the boy ; But go you hence, and never see me more." So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell DORA. 217 At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, And the boy's cry came to her from the field, More and more distant. She bow'd down her head, Remembering the day when first she came, And all the things that had been. She bow'd down And wept in secret ; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy Was not Avith Dora. She broke out in praise To God, that help'd her in her widowhood. And Dora said, " My uncle took the boy ; But, Mary, let me live and work with you : He says that he will never see me more." Then answer'd Mary, " This shall never be, That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself: And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, For he will teach him hardness, and to slight His mother ; therefore thou and I will go, And I will have my boy, and bring him home ; And I will beg of him to take thee back ; But if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one house, And work for William's child, until he grows Of age to help us." So the women kiss'd Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm. The door was off the latch : they peep'd, and saw The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, Like one that loved him ; and the lad stretch'd out 218 DOE A. And babbled for the golden seal, that hung From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. Then they came in : but when the boy beheld His mother, he cried out to come to her : And Allan set him down, and Mary said : " Father ! — if you let me call you so — I never came a-begging for myself, Or William, or this child ; but now I come For Dora : take her back ; she loves you well. Sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men ; for I ask'd him, and he said, He could not ever rue his marrying me — 1 had been a patient wife : but, Sir, he said That he was wrong to cross his father thus : ' God bless him ! ' he said, ' and may he never know The troubles I have gone thro' ! ' Then he turn'd His face and pass'd — unhappy that I am ! But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight His father's memory ; and take Dora back, And let all this be as it was before." So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room ; And all at once the old man burst in sobs : — " I have been to blame — to blame. I have kill'd my son. I have kill'd him — but I loved him — my dear son. May God forgive me ! — I have been to blame. Kiss me, my children." Then they clung about The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times. And all the man was broken with remorse ; And all his love came back a hundredfold ; DORA. 219 And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child, Thinking of William. So those four abode Within one house together ; and as years Went forward, Mary took another mate ; But Dora lived unmarried till her death. 220 AUDLEY COUKT. " The Bull, the Fleece are cramm'd, and not a room For love or money. Let us picnic there At Audley Court." I spoke, while Audley feast Humm'd like a hive all round the narrow quay, To Francis, with a hasket on his arm, To Francis just alighted from the boat, And breathing of the sea. " With all my heart," Said Francis. Then we shoulder'd thro' the swarm, And rounded by the stillness of the beach To where the bay runs up its latest horn. We left the dying ebb that faintly lipp'd The flat red granite ; so by many a sweep Of meadow smooth from aftermath we reach'd The griffin-guarded gates, and pass'd thro' all The pillar'd dusk of sounding sycamores, And cross'd the garden to the gardener's lodge, With all its casements bedded, and its walls And chimneys muffled in the leafy vine. There, on a slope of orchard, Francis laid AUDLEY COURT. 221 A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound, Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home, And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly-made, Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay, Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks Imbedded and injellied ; last, with these, A flask of cider from his father's vats, Prime, which I knew ; and so we sat and eat And talk'd old matters over ; who was dead, Who married, who was like to be, and how The races went, and who would rent the hall : Then touch'd upon the game, how scarce it was This season ; glancing thence, discuss'd the farm, The fourfield system, and the price of grain ; And struck upon the corn-laws, where we split, And came again together on the king With heated faces ; till he laugh'd aloud ; And, while the blackbird on the pippin hung To hear him, clapt his hand in mine and sang — " Oh ! who would fight and march and countermarch, Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field, And shovell'd up into a bloody trench Where no one knows ? but let me live my life. " Oh ! who would cast and balance at a desk, Perch'd like a crow upon a three-legg'd stool, Till all his juice is dried, and all his joints Are full of chalk ? but let me live my life. " Who'd serve the state ? for if I carved my name Upon the cliffs that guard my native land, 222 AUDLEY COURT. I might as well have traced it in the sands ; The sea wastes all : but let me live my life. " Oh ! who would love ? I woo'd a woman once, But she was sharper than an eastern wind, And all my heart turn'd from her, as a thorn Turns from the sea : but let me live my life." He sang his song, and I replied with mine : I found it in a volume, all of songs, Knock'd down to me, when old Sir Kobert's pride, His books — the more the pity, so I said — Came to the hammer here in March — and this — I set the words, and added names I knew. " Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and dream of me : Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister's arm, And sleeping, haply dream her arm is mine. " Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia's arm ; Emilia, fairer than all else but thou, For thou art fairer than all else that is. " Sleep, breathing health and peace upon her breast Sleep, breathing love and trust against her lip : I go to-night : I come to-morrow morn. " I go, but I return : I would I were The pilot of the darkness and the dream. Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream of me." So sang we each to either, Francis Hale, AUDLEY COURT. 223 The farmer's son who lived across the bay, My friend ; and I, that having wherewithal, And in the fallow leisure of my life A rolling stone of here and everywhere, Did what I would ; but ere the night we rose And saunter'd home beneath a moon, that, just In crescent, dimly rain'd about the leaf Twilights of airy silver, till we reach'd The limit of the hills ; and as we sank From rock to rock upon the glooming quay, The town was hush'd beneath us : lower down The bay was oily-calm ; the harbour-buoy With one green sparkle ever and anon Dipt by itself, and we were glad at heart. 224 WALKING TO THE MAIL. John. I'm glad I walk'd. How fresh the meadows look Above the river, and, but a month ago, The whole hill- side was redder than a fox. Is yon plantation where this byway joins The turnpike ? James. Yes. John. And when does this come by ? James. The mail ? At one o'clock. John. What is it now ? James. A quarter to. John. Whose house is that I see ? No, not the County Member's with the vane : Up higher with the yewtree by it, and half A score of gables. James. That ? Sir Edward Head's : But he's abroad : the place is to be sold. John. Oh, his. He was not broken. James. No, sir, he, Yex'd with a morbid devil in his blood That veil'd the world with jaundice, hid his face From all men, and commercing with himself, WALKING TO THE MAIL. 225 He lost the sense that handles daily life — That keeps us all in order more or less — And sick of home went overseas for change. John. And whither ? James. Na}% who knows ? he's here and there. But let him go ; his devil goes with him, As well as with his tenant, Jocky Dawes. John. What's that ? James. You saw the man — on Monday, was it ? — There by the humpback'd willow ; half stands up And bristles ; half has fall'n and made a bridge ; And there he caught the younker tickling trout — Caught in flagrante — what's the Latin word ? — Delicto : but his house, for so they say, Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that shook The curtains, whined in lobbies, tapt at doors, And rummaged like a rat : no servant stay'd : The farmer vext packs up his beds and chairs, And all his household stuff ; and with his boy Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the tilt, Sets out, and meets a friend who hails him, " What ! You're flitting ! " " Yes, we're flitting," says the ghost (For they had pack'd the thing among the beds,) " Oh well," says he, " you flitting with us too — Jack, turn the horses' heads and home again." John. He left his wife behind ; for so I heard. James. He left her, yes. I met my lady once : A woman like a butt, and harsh as crabs. John. Oh yet but I remember, ten years back — 'Tis now at least ten years — and then she was — You could not light upon a sweeter thing : A body slight and round, and like a pear 22G WALKING TO THE MAIL. In growing, modest eyes, a hand, a foot Lessening in perfect cadence, and a skin As clean and white as privet when it flowers. James. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, and they that loved At first like dove and dove were cat and dog. She was the daughter of a cottager, Out of her sphere. What betwixt shame and pride, New things and old, himself and her, she sour'd To what she is : a nature never kind ! Like men, like manners : like breeds like, they say. Kind nature is the best : those manners next That fit us like a nature second-hand ; Which are indeed the manners of the great. John. But I had heard it was this bill that past, And fear of change at home, that drove him hence. James. That was the last drop in the cup of gall. I once was near him, when his bailiff brought A Chartist pike. You should have seen him wince As from a venomous thing : he thought himself A mark for all, and shudder'd, lest a cry Should break his sleep by night, and his nice eyes Should see the raw mechanic's bloody thumbs Sweat on his blazon'd chairs ; but, sir, you know That these two parties still divide the world — Of those that want, and those that have : and still The same old sore breaks out from age to age With much the same result. Now I myself, A Tory to the quick, was as a boy Destructive, when I had not what I would. I was at school — a college in the South : There lived a flayflint near ; we stole his fruit, His hens, his eggs ; but there was law for as ; WALKING TO THE MAIL. 227 We paid in person. He had a sow, sir. She, With meditative grunts of much content, Lay great with pig, wallowing in sun and mud. By night we dragg'd her to the college tower From her warm hed, and up the corkscrew stair With hand and rope we haled the groaning sow, And on the leads we kept her till she pigg'd. Large range of prospect had the mother sow, And but for daily loss of one she loved, As one by one we took them — but for this — As never sow was higher in this world — Might have been happy : but what lot is pure ? We took them all, till she was left alone Upon her tower, the Niobe of swine, And so return'd unfarrow'd to her sty. John. They found you out ? James. Not they. John. Well — after all — What know we of the secret of a man ? His nerves were wrong. What ails us, who are sound, That we should mimic this raw fool the world, Which charts us all in its coarse blacks or whites, As ruthless as a baby with a worm, As cruel as a schoolboy ere he grow r s To Pity — more from ignorance than will. But put your best foot forward, or I fear That we shall miss the mail : and here it comes With five at top : as quaint a four-in-hand As you shall see — three pyebalds and a roan. EDWIN MOEKIS; OR, THE LAKE. me, my pleasant rambles by the lake, My sweet, wild, fresh three quarters of a year, My one Oasis in the dust and drouth EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. 229 Of city life ! I was a sketcher then : See here, my doing : curves of mountain, bridge, Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built When men knew how to build, upon a rock, With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock : And here, new-comers in an ancient hold, New-comers from the Mersey, millionaires, Here lived the Hills — a Tudor-chimnied bulk Of mellow brickwork on an isle of bowers. O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake With Edwin Morris and with Edward Bull The curate ; he was fatter than his cure. But Edwin Morris, he that knew the names, Long learned names of agaric, moss and fern, Who forged a thousand theories of the rocks, Who taught me how to skate, to row, to swim, Who read me rhymes elaborately good, His own — I call'd him Crichton, for he seem'd All-perfect, finish' d to the finger nail. And once I ask'd him of his early life, And his first passion ; and he answer'd me ; And well his words became him : was he not A full-cell'd honeycomb of eloquence Stored from all flowers ? Poet-like he spoke. ' My love for Nature is as old as I ; But thirty moons, one honeymoon to that, And three rich sennights more, my love for her. My love for Nature and my love for her, 230 EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. Of different ages, like twin-sisters grew, Twin-sisters differently beautiful. To some full music rose and sank the sun, And some full music seem'd to move and change With all the varied changes of the dark, And either twilight and the day between ; For daily hope fulfill'd, to rise again Revolving toward fulfilment, made it sweet To walk, to sit, to sleep, to wake, to breathe.' Or this or something like to this he spoke. Then said the fat-faced curate Edward Bull, 1 1 take it, God made the woman for the man, And for the good and increase of the world. A pretty face is well, and this is well, To have a dame indoors, that trims us up, And keeps us tight ; but these unreal ways Seem but the theme of writers, and indeed Worn threadbare. Man is made of solid stuff. I say, God made the woman for the man, And for the good and increase of the world.' ' Parson ' said I ' you pitch the pipe too low : But I have sudden touches, and can run My faith beyond my practice into his : Tho' if, in dancing after Letty Hill, I do not hear the bells upon my cap, I scarce hear other music : yet say on. What should one give to light on such a dream ? ' I ask'd him half-sardonically. ' Give ? Give all thou art ' he answer'd, and a light EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. 231 Of laughter dimpled in his swarthy cheek ; ' I would have hid her needle in my heart, To save her little finger from a scratch No deeper than the skin : my ears could hear Her lightest breaths : her least remark was worth The experience of the wise. I went and came ; Her voice fled always thro' the summer land ; I spoke her name alone. Thrice -happy days ! The flower of each, those moments when we met, The crown of all, we met to part no more.' Were not his words delicious, I a beast To take them as I did ? but something jarr'd ; Whether he spoke too largely ; that there seem' d A touch of something false, some self-conceit, Or over-smoothness : howsoe'er it was, He scarcely hit my humour, and I said : ' Friend Edwin, do not think yourself alone Of all men happy. Shall not Love to me, As in the Latin song I learnt at school, Sneeze out a full God-bless-you right and left ? But you can talk : yours is a kindly vein : I have, I think, — Heaven knows — as much within ; Have, or should have, but for a thought or two, That like a purple beech among the greens Looks out of place : 'tis from no want in her : It is my shyness, or my self- distrust, Or something of a wayward modern mind Dissecting passion. Time will set me right.' So spoke I knowing not the things that were. 232 EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward Bull : ' God made the woman for the use of man, And for the good and increase of the world.' And I and Edwin laugh'd ; and now we paused About the windings of the marge to hear The soft wind blowing over meadowy holms And alders, garden-isles ; and now we left The clerk behind us, I and he, and ran By ripply shallows of the lisping lake, Delighted with the freshness and the sound. But, when the bracken rusted on their crags, My suit had wither'd, nipt to death by him That was a God, and is a lawyer's clerk, The rentroll Cupid of our rainy isles. 'Tis true, we met ; one hour I had, no more : She sent a note, the seal an Elle vous suit, The close ' Your Letty, only yours ; ' and this Thrice underscored. The friendly mist of morn Clung to the lake. I boated over, ran My craft aground, and heard with beating heart The Sweet- Gale rustle round the shelving keel ; And out I stept, and up I crept: she moved, Like Proserpine in Enna, gathering flowers : Then low and sweet I whistled thrice ; and she, She turn'd, we closed, we kiss'd, swore faith, I breathed In some new planet : a silent cousin stole Upon us and departed : ' Leave ' she cried ' O leave me ! ' ' Never, dearest, never : here I brave the worst : ' and while we stood like fools Embracing, all at once a score of pugs And poodles yell'd within, and out they came EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. 233 Trustees and Aunts and Uncles. ' What, with him ! Go ' (shrill'd the cottonspinning chorus) ' him ! ' I choked. Again they shriek' d the burthen ' Him ! ' Again with hands of wild rejection ' Go ! — Girl, get you in ! ' She went — and in one month They wedded her to sixty thousand pounds, To lands in Kent and messuages in York, And slight Sir Robert with his watery smile And educated whisker. But for me, They set an ancient creditor to work : It seems I broke a close with force and arms : There came a mystic token from the king To greet the sheriff, needless courtesy ! I read, and fled by night, and flying turn'd : Her taper glimmer'd in the lake below : I turn'd once more, close-button'd to the storm ; So left the place, left Edwin, nor have seen Him since, nor heard of her, nor cared to hear. Nor cared to hear ? perhaps : yet long ago I have pardon'd little Letty ; not indeed, It may be, for her own dear sake but this, She seems a part of those fresh days to me ; For in the dust and drouth of London life She moves among my visions of the lake, While the prime swallow dips his wing, or then While the gold-lily blows, and overhead The light cloud smoulders on the summer crag. 234 ST. SIMEON STYLITES. Altho' I be the basest of mankind, From scalp to sole one slough and crust of sin, Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meet For troops of devils, mad with blasphemy, I will not cease to grasp the hope I hold Of saintdom, and to clamour, mourn and sob, Battering the gates of heaven with storms of prayer, Have mercy, Lord, and take away my sin. Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty God, This not be all in vain, that thrice ten years, Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs, In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold, In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes and cramps, A sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud, Patient on this tall pillar I have borne Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, and snow ; And I had hoped that ere this period closed Thou wouldst have caught me up into thy rest, Denying not these weather-beaten limbs The meed of saints, the white robe and the palm. ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 235 O take the meaning, Lord : I do not breathe, Not whisper, any munnur of complaint. Pain heap'd ten-hundred-fold to this, were still Less burthen, by ten-hundred-fold, to bear, Than were those lead -like tons of sin, that crush 'd My spirit flat before thee. Lord, Lord, Thou knowest I bore this better at the first, For I was strong and hale of body then ; And tho' my teeth, which now are dropt away, Would chatter with the cold, and all my beard Was tagg'd with icy fringes in the moon, I drown'd the whoopings of the owl with sound Of pious hymns and psalms, and sometimes saw An angel stand and watch me, as I sang. Now am I feeble grown ; my end draws nigh ; I hope my end draws nigh : half deaf I am, So that I scarce can hear the people hum About the column's base, and almost blind, And scarce can recognise the fields I know ; And both my thighs are rotted with the dew ; Yet cease I not to clamour and to cry, While my stiff spine can hold my weary head, Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from the stone, Have mercy, mercy : take away my sin. O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul, Who may be saved ? who is it may be saved ? Who may be made a saint, if I fail here ? Show me the man hath suffer'd more than I. For did not all thy martyrs die one death ? For either they were stoned, or crucified, 236 ST. SIMEON STYLITES. Or burn'd in fire, or boil'd in oil, or sawn In twain beneath the ribs ; but I die here To-day, and whole years long, a life of death. Bear witness, if I could have found a way (And needfully I sifted all my thought) More slowly -painful to subdue this home Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and hate, I had not stinted practice, O my God. For not alone this pillar-punishment, Not this alone I bore : but while I lived In the white convent down the valley there, For many weeks about my loins I wore The rope that haled the buckets from the well, Twisted as tight as I could knot the noose ; And spake not of it to a single soul, Until the ulcer, eating thro' my skin, Betray'd my secret penance, so that all My brethren marvell'd greatly. More than this I bore, whereof, O God, thou knowest all. Three winters, that my soul might grow to thee, I lived up there on yonder mountain side. My right leg chain'd into the crag, I lay Pent in a roofless close of ragged stones ; Inswathed sometimes in wandering mist, and twice Black'd with thy branding thunder, and sometimes Sucking the damps for drink, and eating not, Except the spare chance -gift of those that came To touch my body and be heal'd, and live : And they say then that I work'd miracles, Whereof my fame is loud amongst mankind, ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 237 Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. Thou, O God, Knowest alone whether this was or no. Have mercy, mercy ; cover all my sin. Then, that I might be more alone with thee, Three years I lived upon a pillar, high Six cubits, and three years on one of twelve ; And twice three years I crouch'd on one that rose Twenty b} r measure ; last of all, I grew Twice ten long weary weary years to this, That numbers forty cubits from the soil. I think that I have borne as much as this — Or else I dream — and for so long a time, If I may measure time by yon slow light, And this high dial, which my sorrow crowns — So much — even so. And yet I know not well, For that the evil ones come here, and say, " Fall down, Simeon : thou hast suffer' d long For ages and for ages ! " then they prate Of penances I cannot have gone thro', Perplexing me with lies ; and oft I fall, Maybe for months, in such blind lethargies, That Heaven, and Earth, and Time are choked. But yet Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and all the saints Enjoy themselves in heaven, and men on earth House in the shade of comfortable roofs, Sit with their wives by fires, eat wholesome food, And wear warm clothes, and even beasts have stalls, I, 'tween the spring and downfall of the light, 238 ST. SIMEON STYLITES. Bow down one thousand and two hundred times, To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the Saints ; Or in the night, after a little sleep, I wake : the chill stars sparkle ; I am wet With drenching dews, or stiff with crackling frost. I wear an undress'd goatskin on my back ; A grazing iron collar grinds my neck ; And in my weak, lean arms I lift the cross, And strive and wrestle with thee till I die : mercy, mercy ! wash away my sin. O Lord, thou knowest what a man I am ; A sinful man, conceived and born in sin : 'Tis their own doing ; this is none of mine ; Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for this, That here come those that worship me ? Ha ! ha ! They think that I am somewhat. What am I ? The silly people take me for a saint, And bring me offerings of fruit and flowers : And I, in truth (thou wilt bear witness here) Have all in all endured as much, and more Than many just and holy men, whose names Are register'd and calendar'd for saints. Good people, you do ill to kneel to me. What is it I can have done to merit this ? 1 am a sinner viler than you all. It may be I have wrought some miracles, And cured some halt and maim'd ; but what of that ? It may be, no one, even among the saints, May match his pains with mine ; but what of that ? Yet do not rise : for you may look on me, ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 239 And in your looking you may kneel to God. Speak ! is there any of you halt or maim'd ? I think you know I have some power with Heaven From my long penance : let him speak his wish. Yes, I can heal him. Power goes forth from me. They say that they are heal'd. Ah, hark ! they shout " St. Simeon Stylites." Why, if so, God reaps a harvest in me. O my soul, God reaps a harvest in thee. If this be, Can I work miracles and not be saved ? This is not told of any. They were saints. It cannot be but that I shall be saved ; Yea, crown'd a saint. They shout, " Behold a saint ! " And lower voices saint me from above. Courage, St. Simeon ! This dull chrysalis Cracks into shining wings, and hope ere death Spreads more and more and more, that God hath now Sponged and made blank of crimeful record all My mortal archives. O my sons, my sons, I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname Stylites, among men ; I, Simeon, The watcher on the column till the end ; I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine bakes ; I, whose bald brows in silent hours become Unnaturally hoar with rime, do now From my high nest of penance here proclaim That Pontius and Iscariot by my side Show'd like fair seraphs. On the coals I lay, A vessel full of sin : all hell beneath Made me boil over. Devils pluck'd my sleeve ; 240 ST. SIMEON STYLITES. Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me. I smote them with the cross ; they swarm'd again. In bed like monstrous apes they crush'd my chest : They flapp'd my light out as I read : I saw Their faces grow between me and my book : With colt-like whinny and with hoggish whine They burst my prayer. Yet this way was left, And by this way I 'scaped them. Mortify Your flesh, like me, with scourges and with thorns ; Smite, shrink not, spare not. If it may be, fast Whole Lents, and pray. I hardly, with slow steps, With slow, faint steps, and much exceeding pain, Have scrambled past those pits of fire, that still Sing in mine ears. But yield not me the praise : God only thro' his bounty hath thought fit, Among the powers and princes of this world, To make me an example to mankind, Which few can reach to. Yet I do not say But that a time may come — yea, even now, Now, now, his footsteps smite the threshold stairs Of life — I say, that time is at the doors When you may worship me without reproach ; For I will leave my relics in your land, And you may carve a shrine about my dust, And burn a fragrant lamp before my bones, When I am gather'd to the glorious saints. While I spake then, a sting of shrewdest pain Ban shrivelling thro' me, and a cloudlike change, In passing, with a grosser film made thick These heavy, horny eyes. The end ! the end ! Surely the end ! What's here ? a shape, a shade, ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 241 A flash of light. Is that the angel there That holds a crown ? Come, blessed brother, come. I know thy glittering face. I waited long ; My brows are ready. What ! deny it now '? Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I clutch it. Christ ! 'Tis gone : 'tis here again ; the crown ! the crown ! So now 'tis fitted on and grows to me, And from it melt the dews of Paradise, Sweet ! sweet ! spikenard, and balm, and frankincense. Ah ! let me not be fool'd, sweet saints : I trust That I am whole, and clean, and meet for Heaven. Speak, if there be a priest, a man of God, Among you there, and let him presently Approach, and lean a ladder on the shaft, And climbing up into my airy home, Deliver me the blessed sacrament ; For by the warning of the Holy Ghost, I prophesy that I shall die to-night, A quarter before twelve. But thou, O Lord, Aid all this foolish people ; let them take Example, pattern : lead them to thy light. THE TALKING OAK. Once more the gate behind me falls ; Once more before my face I see the moulder'd Abbe3 r -walls, That stand within the chace. Beyond the lodge the city lies, . Beneath its drift of smoke ; And ah ! with what delighted eyes I turn to yonder oak. THE TALKING OAK. 243 For when my passion first began, Ere that, which in me burn'd, The love, that makes me thrice a man, Could hope itself return'd ; To yonder oak within the field I spoke without restraint, And with a larger faith appeal'd Than Papist unto Saint. For oft I talk'd with him apart, And told him of my choice, Until he plagiarised a heart, And answer'd with a voice. Tho' what he whisper'd, under Heaven None else could understand ; I found him garrulously given, A babbler in the land. But since I heard him make reply Is many a weary hour ; 'Twere well to question him, and try If yet he keeps the power. Hail, hidden to the knees in fern, Broad Oak of Sumner-chace, Whose topmost branches can discern The roofs of Sumner-place ! 244 THE TALKING OAK. Say thou, whereon I carved her name, If ever maid or spouse, As fair as my Olivia, came To rest beneath thy boughs. — " O Walter, I have shelter'd here Whatever maiden grace The good old Summers, year by year, Made ripe in Sumner-chace : " Old Summers, when the monk was fat, And, issuing shorn and sleek, Would twist his girdle tight, and pat The girls upon the cheek, " Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence, And number'd bead, and shrift, Bluff Harry broke into the spence, And turn'd the cowls adrift : " And I have seen some score of those Fresh faces, that would thrive When his man-minded offset rose To chase the deer at five ; " And all that from the town would stroll, Till that wild wind made work In which the gloomy brewer's soul Went by me, like a stork : THE TALKING OAK. 245 " The slight she-slips of loyal blood, And others, passing praise, Strait-laced, but ail-too -full in bud For puritanic stays : " And I have shadow'd many a group Of beauties, that were born In teacup -times of hood and hoop, Or while the patch was worn ; " And, leg and arm with love-knots gay, About me leap'd and laugh'd The modish Cupid of the day, And shrill'd his tinsel shaft. " I swear (and else may insects prick Each leaf into a gall) This girl, for whom your heart is sick, Is three times worth them all ; " For those and theirs, by Nature's law, Have faded long ago ; But in these latter springs I saw Your own Olivia blow, " From when she gamboll'd on the greens, A baby-germ, to when The maiden blossoms of her teens Could number five from ten. 240 THE TALKING OAK. " I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain, (And hear me with thine ears,) That, tho' I circle in the grain Five hundred rings of years — " Yet, since I first could cast a shade, Did never creature pass So slightly, musically made, So light upon the grass : " For as to fairies, that will flit To make the greensward fresh, I hold them exquisitely knit, But far too spare of flesh." Oh, hide thy knotted knees in fern, And overlook the chace ; And from thy topmost branch discern The roofs of Sumner-place. But thou, whereon I carved her name, That oft hast heard my vows, Declare when last Olivia came To sport beneath thy boughs. " O yesterday, you know, the fair Was holden at the town ; Her father left his good arm-chair, And rode his hunter down. THE TALKING OAK. 247 " And with him Albert came on his. I look'd at him with joy : As cowslip unto oxlip is, So seems she to the hoy. " An hour had past — and, sitting straight Within the low-wheel'd chaise, Her mother trundled to the gate Behind the dappled grays. " But, as for her, she stay'd at home, And on the roof she went, And down the way } r ou use to come, She look'd with discontent. " She left the novel half- uncut Upon the rosewood shelf; She left the new piano shut : She could not please herself. " Then ran she, gamesome as the colt, And livelier than a lark She sent her voice thro' all the holt Before her, and the park. " A light wind chased her on the wing, And in the chase grew wild, As close as might be would he cling About the darling child : 248 THE TALKING OAK. " But light as any wind that blows So fleetly did she stir, The flower, she touch'd on, dipt and rose, And turn'd to look at her. " And here she came, and round me play'd, And sang to me the whole Of those three stanzas that you made About my ' giant bole ; ' " And in a fit of frolic mirth She strove to span my waist : Alas, I was so broad of girth, I could not be embraced. " I wish'd myself the fair young beech That here beside me stands, That round me, clasping each in each, She might have lock'd her hands. " Yet seem'd the pressure thrice as sweet As woodbine's fragile hold, Or when I feel about my feet The berried briony fold." O muffle round thy knees with fern, And shadow Sumner-chace ! Long may thy topmost branch discern The roofs of Sumner-place ! THE TALKING OAK. 249 But tell me, did she read the name I carved with many vows When last with throbbing heart I came To rest beneath thy boughs ? " O yes, she wander'd round and round These knotted knees of mine, And found, and kiss'd the name she found, And sweetly murmur'd thine. " A teardrop trembled from its source, And down my surface crept. My sense of touch is something coarse, But I believe she wept. " Then flush'd her cheek with rosy light, She glanced across the plain ; But not a creature was in sight : She kiss'd me once again. " Her kisses were so close and kind, That, trust me on my word, Hard wood I am, and wrinkled rind, But yet my sap was stirr'd : " And even into my inmost ring A pleasure I discern 'd, Like those blind motions of the Spring, That show the year is turn'd. 250 THE TALKING OAK. " Thrice-happy he that may caress The ringlet's waving balm — The cushions of whose touch may press The maiden's tender palm. " I, rooted here among the groves, But languidly adjust My vapid vegetable loves With anthers and with dust : " For ah ! my friend, the days were brief Whereof the poets talk, When that, which breathes within the leaf, Could slip its bark and walk. " But could I, as in times foregone, From spray, and branch, and stem, Have suck'd and gather'd into one The life that spreads in them, " She had not found me so remiss ; But lightly issuing thro', I would have paid her kiss for kiss With usury thereto." O flourish high, with leafy towers, And overlook the lea, Pursue thy loves among the bowers, But leave thou mine to me. THE TALKING OAK. 251 O flourish, hidden deep in fern, Old oak, I love thee well ; A thousand thanks for what I learn And what remains to tell. " 'Tis little more : the day was warm ; At last, tired out with play, She sank her head upon her arm, And at my feet she lay. " Her eyelids dropp'd their silken eaves. I breathed upon her eyes Thro' all the summer of my leaves A welcome mix'd with sighs. " I took the swarming sound of life — The music from the town — The murmurs of the drum and fife And lull'd them in my own. " Sometimes I let a sunbeam slip, To light her shaded eye ; A second flutter'd round her lip Like a golden butterfly ; " A third would glimmer on her neck To make the necklace shine ; Another slid, a sunny fleck, From head to ancle fine. 252 THE TALKING OAK. " Then close and dark my arms I spread, And shadow' d all her rest — Dropt dews upon her golden head, An acorn in her breast. " But in a pet she started up, And pluck'd it out, and drew My little oakling from the cup, And flung him in the dew. " And yet it was a graceful gift — I felt a pang within As when I see the woodman lift His axe to slay my kin. " I shook him down because he was The finest on the tree. He lies beside thee on the grass. kiss him once for me. " O kiss him twice and thrice for me, That have no lips to kiss, For never yet was oak on lea Shall grow so fair as this." Step deeper yet in herb and fern, Look further thro' the chace, Spread upward till thy boughs discern The front of Sumner-place. THE TALKING OAK. 253 This fruit of thine by Love is blest, That but a moment lay Where fairer fruit of Love may rest Some happy future clay. I kiss it twice, I kiss it thrice, The warmth it thence shall win To riper life may magnetise The baby-oak within. But thou, while kingdoms overset, Or lapse from hand to hand, Thy leaf shall never fail, nor yet Thine acorn in the land. May never saw dismember thee, Nor wielded axe disjoint, That art the fairest-spoken tree From here to Lizard-point. O rock upon thy towery top All throats that gurgle sweet ! All starry culmination drop Balm-dews to bathe thy feet ! All grass of silky feather grow — And while he sinks or swells The full south-breeze around thee blow The sound of minster bells. 254 THE TALKING OAK. The fat earth feed thy branchy root, That under deeply strikes ! The northern morning o'er thee shoot, High up, in silver spikes ! Nor ever lightning char thy grain, But, rolling as in sleep, Low thunders bring the mellow rain, That makes thee broad and deep ! And hear me swear a solemn oath, That only by thy side Will I to Olive plight my troth, And gain her for my bride. And when my marriage morn may fall, She, Dryad-like, shall wear Alternate leaf and acorn-ball In wreath about her hair. And I will work in prose and rhyme, And praise thee more in both Than bard has honour'd beech or lime, Or that Thessalian growth, In which the swarthy ringdove sat, And mystic sentence spoke ; And more than England honours that, Thy famous brother-oak, THE TALKING OAK. 255 Wherein the younger Charles abode Till all the paths were dim, And far below the Roundhead rode, And humm'd a surly hymn. 256 LOVE AND DUTY. Of love that never found his earthly close, What sequel ? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts ? Or all the same as if he had not been ? Not so. Shall Error in the round of time Still father Truth ? O shall the braggart shout For some blind glimpse of freedom work itself Thro' madness, hated by the wise, to law System and empire ? Sin itself be found The cloudy porch oft opening on the Sun ? And only he, this wonder, dead, become Mere highway dust ? or year by year alone Sit brooding in the ruins of a life, Nightmare of youth, the spectre of himself? If this were thus, if this, indeed, were all, Better the narrow brain, the stony heart, The staring eye glazed o'er with sapless days, The long mechanic pacings to and fro, The set gray life, and apathetic end. But am I not the nobler thro' thy love ? three times less unworthy ! likewise thou LOVE AND DUTY. 257 Art more thro' Love, and greater than thy years. The Sun will run his orbit, and the Moon Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will bring The drooping flower of knowledge changed to fruit Of wisdom. Wait : my faith is large in Time, And that which shapes it to some perfect end. Will some one say, then why not ill for good ? Why took ye not your pastime ? To that man My work shall answer, since I knew the right And did it ; for a man is not as God, But then most Godlike being most a man. — So let me think 'tis Avell for thee and me — Ill-fated that I am, what lot is mine Whose foresight preaches peace, my heart so slow To feel it ! For how hard it seem'd to me, When eyes, love-languid thro' half-tears, would dwell One earnest, earnest moment upon mine, Then not to dare to see ! when thy low voice, Faltering, would break its syllables, to keep My own full-tuned, — hold passion in a leash, And not leap forth and fall about thy neck, And on thy bosom, (deep-desired relief !) Raio out the heavy mist of tears, that weigh' d Upon my brain, my senses and my soul ! For Love himself took part against himself To warn us off, and Duty loved of Love — O this world's curse, — beloved but hated — came Like Death betwixt thy dear embrace and mine, And crying, " Who is this ? behold thy bride," She pusli'd me from thee. 258 LOVE AND DUTY. If the sense is hard To alien ears, I did not speak to these — No, not to thee, but to thyself in me : Hard is my doom and thine : thou knowest it all. Could Love part thus ? was it not well to speak, To have spoken once ? It could not but be well. The slow sweet hours that bring us all things good, The slow sad hours that bring us all things ill, And all good things from evil, brought the night In which we sat together and alone, And to the want, that hollow'd all the heart, Gave utterance by the yearning of an eye, That burn'd upon its object thro' such tears As flow but once a life. The trance gave waj r To those caresses, when a hundred times In that last kiss, which never was the last, Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and died. Then follow'd counsel, comfort, and the words That make a man feel strong in speaking truth ; Till now the dark was worn, and overhead The lights of sunset and of sunrise mix'd In that brief night ; the summer night, that paused Among her stars to hear us ; stars that hung Love-charm'd to listen : all the wheels of Time Spun round in station, but the end had come. O then like those, who clench their nerves to rush Upon their dissolution, we two rose, There — closing like an individual life — In one blind cry of passion and of pain, LOVE AND DUTY. 259 Like bitter accusation ev'n to death, Caught up the whole of love and utter'd it, And bade adieu for ever. Live — yet live — Shall sharpest pathos blight us, knowing all Life needs for life is possible to will — live happy ; tend thy flowers ; be tended by My blessing ! Should my Shadow cross thy thoughts Too sadly for their peace, remand it thou For calmer hours to Memory's darkest hold, If not to be forgotten — not at once — Not all forgotten. Should it cross thy dreams, O might it come like one that looks content, With quiet eyes unfaithful to the truth, And point thee forward to a distant light, Or seem to lift a burthen from thy heart And leave thee freer, till thou wake refresh'd, Then when the first low matin-chirp hath grown Full quire, and morning driv'n her plow of pearl Far furrowing into light the mounded rack, Beyond the fair green field and eastern sea. THE GOLDEN YEAR. Well, you shall have that song which Leonard wrote It was last summer on a tour in Wales : Old James was with me : we that day had been Up Snowdon ; and I wish'd for Leonard there, And found him in Llanberis : then we crost Between the lakes, and clamber' d half way up THE GOLDEN YEAR. 2<>1 The counter side ; and that same song of his He told me ; for I banter'd him, and swore They said he lived shut up within himself, A tongue-tied Poet in the feverous days, That, setting the how much before the how, Cry, like the daughters of the horseleech, " Give, Cram us with all," but count not me the herd ! To which " They call me what they will," he said : " But I was born too late : the fair new forms, That float about the threshold of an age, Like truths of Science waiting to be caught — Catch me who can, and make the catcher crown'd — Are taken by the forelock. Let it be. But if you care indeed to listen, hear These measured words, my work of yestermorn. " We sleep and wake and sleep, but all things move ; The Sun flies forward to his brother Sun ; The dark Earth follows wheel'd in her ellipse ; And human things returning on themselves .Move onward, leading up the golden year. " Ah, tho' the times, when some new thought can bud. Are but as poets' seasons when they flower, Yet seas, that daily gain upon the shore, Have ebb and flow conditioning their march, And slow and sure comes up the golden year. " When wealth no more shall rest in mounded heaps, But smit with freer light shall slowly melt In many streams to fatten lower lands. 262 THE GOLDEN YEAR. And light shall spread, and man be liker man Thro' all the season of the golden year. " Shall eagles not be eagles ? wrens be wrens ? If all the world were falcons, what of that ? The wonder of the eagle were the less, But he not less the eagle. Happy days Boll onward, leading up the golden year. " Fly happy happy sails and bear the Press ; Fly happy with the mission of the Cross ; Knit land to land, and blowing havenward With silks, and fruits, and spices, clear of toll, Enrich the markets of the golden year. " But we grow old. Ah ! when shall all men's good Be each man's rule, and universal Peace Lie like a shaft of light across the land, And like a lane of beams athwart the sea, Thro' all the circle of the golden year ? " Thus far he flow'd, and ended ; whereupon " Ah, folly ! " in mimic cadence answer'd James— " Ah, folly ! for it lies so far away, Not in our time, nor in our children's time, 'Tie like the second world to us that live ; 'Twere all as one to fix our hopes on Heaven As on this vision of the golden year." With that he struck his staff against the rocks And broke it, — James, — you know him, — old, but full Of force and choler, and firm upon his feet, THE GOLDEN YEAR. 203 And like an oaken stock in winter woods, O'erflourish'd with the hoary clematis : Then added, all in heat : "What stuff is this ! Old writers push'd the happy season back, — The more fools they, — we forward : dreamers both : You most, that in an age, when every hour Must sweat her sixty minutes to the death, Live on, God love us, as if the seedsman, rapt Upon the teeming harvest, should not dip His hand into the bag : but well I know That unto him who works, and feels he works, This same grand year is ever at the doors." He spoke ; and, high above, I heard them blast The steep slate -quarry, and the great echo flap And buffet round the hills from bluff to bluff. ULYSSES. It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel : I will drink Life to the lees : all times I have enjoy 'd Greatly, have suifer'd greatly, both with those ULYSSES. 2C6 That loved me, and alone ; on shore, and when Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea : I am become a name ; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known ; cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honour'd of them all ; And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met ; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades For ever and for ever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use ! As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains : but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things ; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge, like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. This is my son, mine own Telemachus, To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil This labour, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail 266 ULYSSES. In offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. There lies the port : the vessel puffs her sail : There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me- That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old ; Old age hath yet his honour and his toil ; Death closes all : but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks : The long day wanes : the slow moon climbs : the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows ; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down : It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides ; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven ; that which we are, we are ; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. LOCKSLEY HALL. Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early Hiorn : Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle horn. 'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call, Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall ; 268 LOOKSLEY HALL. Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts, And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest, Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West. Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow shade, Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid. Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time ; When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed ; When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed : When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see ; Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be. In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast ; In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest ; In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove ; In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young, And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung. LOCKSLEY HALL. 269 And I said, " My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me, Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee." On her pallid cheek and forehead came a colour and a light, As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night. And she turn'd — her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs — All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes — Saying, " I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong ; " Saying, " Dost thou love me, cousin ? " weeping, " I have loved thee long." Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands ; Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight. Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring, And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fullness of the Spring. Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships, And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips. 270 LOCKSLEY HALL. O niy cousin, shallow-hearted ! O my Amy, mine no more ! O the dreary, dreary moorland ! O the barren, barren shore ! Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung, Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue ! Is it well to wish thee happy ? — having known me — to decline On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine ! Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level day by day, What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathise with clay. As the husband is, the wife is : thou art mated with a clown, And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. What is this ? his eyes are heavy : think not they are glazed with wine. Go to him : it is thy duty : kiss him : take his hand in thine. It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought : Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought. LOCKSLEY HALL. 271 He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand — Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with my hand ! Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace, Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth ! Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth ! Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule ! Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the fool! Well — 'tis well that I should bluster ! — Hadst thou less un- worthy proved — Would to God — for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved. Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit ? I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at the root. Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years should come As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery home. Where is comfort ? in division of the records of the mind ? Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind ? 272 LOCKSLEY HALL. I remember one that perish'd : sweetly did she speak and move : Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love. Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore ? No — she never loved me truly : love is love for evermore. Comfort? comfort scorn'd of devils! this is truth the poet sings, That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof, In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof. Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall, Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall. Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep, To thy widow'd marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. Thou shalt hear the " Never, never," whisper'd by the phantom years, And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears ; LOCKSLEY HALL. 273 And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow : get thee to thy rest again. Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; for a tender voice will cry. 'Tis a purer life than thine ; a lip to drain thy trouble dry. Baby lips will laugh me down : my latest rival brings thee rest. Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast. O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due. Half is thine and half is his : it will be worthy of the two. O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part, With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart. " They were dangerous guides the feelings — she herself was not exempt — Truly, she herself had suffer d " — Perish in thy self-contempt ! Overlive it — lower yet — be happy ! wherefore should I care ? I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these ? Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden keys. Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets overflow. I have but an angry fancy : what is that which I should do ? 274 LOCKSLEY HALL. I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground, When the ranks are roll'd in vapour, and the winds are laid with sound. But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honour feels, And the nations do hut murmur, snarling at each other's heels. LOCKSLEY HALL. 275 Can I but relive in sadness ? I will turn that earlier page. Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother- Age! Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife, When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life ; Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield, Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field, And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn, Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn ; And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then, Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men ; Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new: That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do : For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be; Saw the heavens fill witli commerce, argosies of magic sails, Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales ; 276 LOCKSLEY HALL. Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly dew From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue ; Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thunder- storm ; Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle -flags were furl'd In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. So I triumph'd, ere my passion sweeping thro' me left me dry, Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye; Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint, Science moves, but slowly slowly, creeping on from point to point: Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping nigher, Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly-dying fire. Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs, And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process of the suns. LOCKSLEY HALL. 277 What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, Tho' the deep heart of existence beat for ever like a boy's ? Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore, And the individual withers, and the world is more and more. Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast, Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest. Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle- horn, They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn : Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string ? I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so slight a thing. Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! woman's pleasure, woman's pain — Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain : Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with mine, Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine — Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. All, for some retreat Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat ; 278 LOCKSLEY HALL. Where in wild Mahratta- battle fell my father evil-starr'd ; — I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward. Or to burst all links of habit — there to wander far away, On from island unto island at the gateways of the day. Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies, Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise. Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag, Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag ; Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree — Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind, In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind. There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope and breathing-space ; I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they shall run, Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun ; LOCKSLEY HALL. 279 Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks, Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books — Fool, again the dream, the fancy ! but I know my words are wild, But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child. I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains, Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were sun or clime ? I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time — I that rather held it better men should perish one by one, Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon ! Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range. Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change. Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day : Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. Mother-Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begun : Iiift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the Sun — 280 LOCKSLEY HALL. O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set. Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet. Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall ! Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over heath and holt, Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow ; For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. GODIVA. I waited for the train at Coventry; I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge, To watch the three tall spires ; and there I shaped The city's ancient legend into this : — Not only we, the latest seed of Time, 282 GODIVA. New men, that in the flying of a wheel Cry down the past, not only we, that prate Of rights and wrongs, have loved the people well, And loathed to see them overtax'd ; but she Did more, and underwent, and overcame, The woman of a thousand summers back, Godiva, wife to that grim Earl, who ruled In Coventry : for when he laid a tax Upon his town, and all the mothers brought Their children, clamouring, " If we pay, we starve ! " She sought her lord, and found him, where he strode About the hall, among his dogs, alone, His beard a foot before him, and his hair A yard behind. She told him of their tears, And pray'd him, " If they pay this tax, they starve." Whereat he stared, replying, half-amazed, " You would not let your little finger ache For such as these?" — "But I would die," said she. He laugh'd, and swore by Peter and by Paul : Then fillip'd at the diamond in her ear ; "0 ay, ay, ay, you talk ! " — "Alas ! " she said, "But prove me what it is I would not do." And from a heart as rough as Esau's hand, He answer'd, " Ride you naked thro' the town, And I repeal it; " and nodding, as in scorn, He parted, with great strides among his dogs. So left alone, the passions of her mind, As winds from all the compass shift and blow, Made war upon each other for an hour, Till pity won. She sent a herald forth, And bad him cry, with sound of trumpet, all GODIVA. 283 The hard condition ; but that she would loose The people : therefore, as they loved her well, From then till noon no foot should pace the street, No eye look down, she passing ; but that all Should keep within, door shut, and window barr'd. Then fled she to her inmost bower, and there Unclasp'd the wedded eagles of her belt, The grim Earl's gift ; but ever at a breath She linger'd, looking like a summer moon Half-dipt in cloud : anon she shook her head, And shower'd the rippled ringlets to her knee ; Unclad herself in haste ; adown the stair Stole on ; and, like a creeping sunbeam, slid From pillar unto pillar, until she reach'd The gateway ; there she found her palfrey trapt In purple blazon'd with armorial gold. Then she rode forth, clothed on with chastity : The deep air listen'd round her as she rode, And all the low wind hardly breathed for fear. The little wide-mouth'd heads upon the spout Had cunning eyes to see : the barking cur Made her cheek flame : her palfrey's footfall shot Light horrors thro' her pulses : the blind walls Were full of chinks and holes ; and overhead Fantastic gables, crowding, stared : but she Not less thro' all bore up, till, last, she saw The wliite-flower'd elder-thicket from the field Gleam thro' the Gothic archways in the wall. Then she rode back, clothed on with chastity : 284 GODIVA. And one low churl, compact of thankless earth, The fatal byword of all years to come, Boring a little augur-hole in fear, Peep'd — but his eyes, before they had their will, Were shrivell'd into darkness in his head, And dropt before him. So the Powers, who wait On noble deeds, cancell'd a sense misused ; And she, that knew not, pass'd : and all at once, With twelve great shocks of sound, the shameless noon Was clash'd and hammer'd from a hundred towers, One after one : but even then she gain'd Her bower; whence reissuing, robed and crown'd, To meet her lord, she took the tax away, And built herself an everlasting name. 285 THE TWO VOICES. A still small voice spake unto me, " Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be ? " Then to the still small voice I said ; " Let me not cast in endless shade What is so wonderfully made." To which the voice did urge reply ; " To-day I saw the dragon-fly Come from the wells where he did lie. " An inner impulse rent the veil Of his old husk : from head to tail Came out clear plates of sapphire mail. " He dried his wings : like gauze they grew Thro' crofts and pastures wet with dew A living flash of light he flew." 286 THE TWO VOICES. I said, " When first the world began, Young Nature thro' five cycles ran, And in the sixth she moulded man. " She gave him mind, the lordliest Proportion, and, above the rest, Dominion in the head and breast." Thereto the silent voice replied ; " Self-blinded are you by your pride : Look up thro' night : the world is wide. " This truth within thy mind rehearse, That in a boundless universe Is boundless better, boundless worse. " Think you this mould of hopes and fears Could find no statelier than his peers In yonder hundred million spheres ? " It spake, moreover, in my mind : " Tho' thou wert scatter'd to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind." Then did my response clearer fall : " No compound of this earthly ball Is like another, all in all." To which he answer'd scoffingly ; " Good soul ! suppose I grant it thee, Who'll weep for thy deficiency ? THE TWO VOICES. 287 " Or will one beam be less intense, When thy peculiar difference Is cancell'd in the world of sense ? " I would have said, " Thou canst not know," . But my full heart, that work'd below, Rain'd thro' my sight its overflow. Again the voice spake unto me : " Thou art so steep'd in misery, Surely 'twere better not to be. " Thine anguish will not let thee sleep, Nor any train of reason keep : Thou canst not think, but thou wilt weep." I said, " The years with change advance : If I make dark my countenance, I shut my life from happier chance. " Some turn this sickness yet might take, Ev'n yet." But he : " What drug can make A wither'd palsy cease to shake ? " I wept, " Tho' I should die, I know That all about the thorn will blow In tufts of rosy-tinted snow ; " And men, thro' novel spheres of thought Still moving after truth long sought, W ill learn new things when I am not." 288 THE TWO VOICES. " Yet," said the secret voice, " some time, Sooner or later, will gray prime Make thy grass hoar with early rime. " Not less swift souls that yearn for light, Rapt after heaven's starry flight, Would sweep the tracts of day and night. " Not less the bee would range her cells, The furzy prickle fire the dells, The foxglove cluster dappled hells." I said that " all the years invent ; Each month is various to present The world with some development. " Were this not well, to bide mine hour, Tho' watching from a ruin'd tower How grows the day of human power ? " " The highest-mounted mind," he said, " Still sees the sacred morning spread The silent summit overhead. " Will thirty seasons render plain Those lonely lights that still remain, Just breaking over land and main ? . " Or make that morn, from his cold crown And crystal silence creeping down, Flood with full daylight glebe and town ? THE TWO VOICES. 289 " Forerun thy peers, thy time, and let Thy feet, millenniums hence, be set In midst of knowledge, dream' d not yet. " Thou hast not gain'd a real height, Nor art thou nearer to the light, Because the scale is infinite. " 'Twere better not to breathe or speak, Than cry for strength, remaining weak, And seem to find, but still to seek. " Moreover, but to seem to find Asks what thou lackest, thought resign'd, A healthy frame, a quiet mind." I said, " When I am gone away, ' He dared not tarry,' men will say, Doing dishonour to my clay." " This is more vile," he made reply, " To breathe and loathe, to live and sigh, Than once from dread of pain to die. " Sick art thou — a divided will Still heaping on the fear of ill The fear of men, a coward still. " Do men love thee ? Art thou so bound To men, that how thy name may sound Will vex thee lying underground ? 290 THE TWO VOICES. " The memory of the wither'd leaf In endless time is scarce more brief Than of the garner' d Autumn -sheaf. " Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust ; The right ear, that is fill'd with dust, Hears little of the false or just." " Hard task, to pluck resolve," I cried, " From emptiness and the waste wide Of that abyss, or scornful pride ! " Nay — rather yet that I could raise One hope that warm'd me in the days While still I yearn'd for human praise. " When, wide in soul and bold of tongue, Among the tents I paused and sung, The distant battle flash'd and rung. " I sung the joyful Paean clear, And, sitting, burnish'd without fear The brand, the buckler, and the spear — " Waiting to strive a happy strife, To Avar with falsehood to the knife, And not to lose the good of life — " Some hidden principle to move, To put together, part and prove, And mete the bounds of hate and love — THE TWO VOICES. 291 " As far as might be, to carve out Free space for every human doubt, That the whole mind might orb about — " To search thro' all I felt or saw, The springs of life, the depths of awe, And reach the law within the law : " At least, not rotting like a weed, But, having sown some generous seed, Fruitful of further thought and deed, " To pass, when Life her light withdraws, Not void of righteous self- applause, Nor in a merely selfish cause — " In some good cause, not in mine own, To perish, wept for, honour'd, known, And like a warrior overthrown ; " Whose eyes are dim with glorious tears, When, soil'd with noble dust, he hears His country's war-song thrill his ears : " Then dying of a mortal stroke, What time the foeman's line is broke, And all the war is roll'd in smoke." " Yea ! " said the voice, " thy dream was good, While thou abodest in the bud. It was the stirring of the blood. 292 THE TWO VOICES. " If Nature put not forth her power About the opening of the flower, Who is it that could live an hour ? " Then conies the check, the change, the fall. Pain rises up, old pleasures pall. There is one remedy for all. " Yet hadst thou, thro' enduring pain, Link'd month to month with such a chain Of knitted purport, all were vain. " Thou hadst not between death and birth Dissolved the riddle of the earth. So were thy labour little-worth. " That men with knowledge merely play'd, I told thee — hardly nigher made, Tho' scaling slow from grade to grade ; " Much less this dreamer, deaf and blind, Named man, may hope some truth to find, That bears relation to the mind. " For every worm beneath the moon Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon. " Cry, faint not : either Truth is born Beyond the polar gleam forlorn, Or in the gateways of the morn. THE TWO VOICES. 293 " Cry, faint not, climb : the summits slope Beyond the furthest flights of hope, Wrapt in dense cloud from base to cope. " Sometimes a little corner shines, As over rainy mist inclines A gleaming crag with belts of pines. " I will go forward, sayest thou, I shall not fail to find her now. Look up, the fold is on her brow. " If straight thy track, or if oblique, Thou know'st not. Shadows thou dost strike, Embracing cloud, Ixion -like ; " And owning but a little more Than beasts, abidest lame and poor, Calling thyself a little lower " Than angels. Cease to wail and brawl ! Why inch by inch to darkness crawl ? There is one remedy for all." " O dull, one-sided voice," said I, " Wilt thou make everything a lie, To flatter me that I may die ? " I know that age to age succeeds, Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, A dust of systems and of creeds. 294 THE TWO VOICES. " I cannot hide that some have striven, Achieving calm, to whom was given The joy that mixes man with Heaven : " Who, rowing hard against the stream, Saw distant gates of Eden gleam, And did not dream it was a dream ; " But heard, by secret transport led, Ev'n in the charnels of the dead, The murmur of the fountain-head — " Which did accomplish their desire, Bore and forbore, and did not tire, Like Stephen, an unquenched fire. " He heeded not reviling tones, Nor sold his heart to idle moans, Tho' cursed and scorned, and bruised with stones " But looking upward, full of grace, He pray'd, and from a happy place God's glory smote him on the face." The sullen answer slid betwixt : " Not that the grounds of hope were fix'd, The elements were kindlier mix'd." I said, " I toil beneath the curse, But, knowing not the universe, I fear to slide from bad to worse. THE TWO VOICES. 295 " And that, in seeking to undo One riddle, and to find the true, I knit a hundred others new : " Or that this anguish fleeting hence, Unmanacled from bonds of sense, Be fix'd and froz'n to permanence : " For I go, weak from suffering here ; Naked I go, and void of cheer : What is it that I may not fear ? " " Consider well," the voice replied, " His face, that two hours since hath died ; Wilt thou find passion, pain or pride ? " "Will he obey when one commands ? Or answer should one press his hands ? He answers not, nor understands. " His palms are folded on his breast : There is no other thing express'd But long disquiet merged in rest. " His lips are very mild and meek : Tho' one should smite him on the cheek, And on the mouth, he will not speak. " His little daughter, whose sweet face He kiss'd, taking his last embrace, Becomes dishonour to her race — 296 THE TWO VOICES. " His sons grow up that bear his name, Some grow to honour, some to shame, — But he is chill to praise or blame. " He will not hear the north-wind rave, Nor, moaning, household shelter crave From winter rains that beat his grave. " High up the vapours fold and swim : About him broods the twilight dim : The place he knew forge tteth him." " If all be dark, vague voice," I said, " These things are wrapt in doubt and dread, Nor canst thou show the dead are dead. " The sap dries up : the plant declines. A deeper tale my heart divines. Know I not Death ? the outward signs ? " I found him when my years were few ; A shadow" on the graves I knew, And darkness in the village yew. " From grave to grave the shadow crept : In her still place the morning wept : Touch'd by his feet the daisy slept. " The simple senses crown'd his head : ' Omega ! thou art Lord,' they said, ' We find no motion in the dead.' THE TWO VOICES. 297 " Why, if man rot in dreamless ease, Should that plain fact, as taught hy these, Not make him sure that lie shall cease ? " Who forged that other influence, That heat of inward evidence, By which he doubts against the sense ? " He owns the fatal gift of eyes, That read his spirit blindly wise, Not simple as a tiling that dies. " Here sits he shaping wings to fly : His heart forebodes a mystery : He names the name Eternity. " That type of Perfect in his mind In Nature can he nowhere find. He sows himself on every wind. " He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend, And thro' thick veils to apprehend A labour working to an end. " The end and the beginning vex His reason : many things perplex, With motions, checks, and counterchecks. " He knows a baseness in his blood At such strange war with something good, He may not do the thing he would. QQ 298 THE TWO VOICES. " Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn, Vast images in glimmering dawn, Half shown, are broken and withdrawn. " Ah ! sure within him and without, Could his dark wisdom find it out, There must be answer to his doubt. " But thou canst answer not again. With thine own weapon art thou slain, Or thou wilt answer but in vain. " The doubt would rest, I dare not solve. In the same circle we revolve. Assurance only breeds resolve." As when a billow, blown against, Falls back, the voice with which I fenced A little ceased, but recommenced. " Where wert thou when thy father play'd In his free field, and pastime made, A merry boy in sun and shade ? " A merry boy they called him then. He sat upon the knees of men In days that never come again. " Before the little ducts began To feed thy bones with lime, and ran Their course, till thou wert also man : THE TWO VOICES. 299 ■• \Yh<> took a wife, who rear'tl his race, Whose wrinkles gather'd on his face, Whose troubles number with his days : " A life of nothings, nothing- worth, From that first nothing ere his birth To that last nothing under earth ! " " These words," I said, " are like the rest, No certain clearness, but at best A vague suspicion of the breast : " But if I grant, thou might'st defend The thesis which thy words intend — That to begin implies to end ; " Yet how should 1 for certain hold, Because my memory is so cold, That I first was in human mould ? " I cannot make this matter plain, But I would shoot, howe'er in vain, A random arrow from the brain. " It may be that no life is found, Which only to one engine bound Falls off, but cycles always round. " As old mythologies relate, Some draught of Lethe might await The slipping thro' from state to state. 300 THE TWO VOICES. " As here we find in trances, men Forget the dream that happens then, Until they fall in trance again. " So might we, if our state were such As one before, remember much, For those two likes might meet and touch. " But, if I lapsed from nobler place, Some legend of a fallen race Alone might hint of my disgrace ; " Some vague emotion of delight In gazing up an Alpine height, Some yearning toward the lamps of night. " Or if thro' lower lives I came — Tho' all experience past became Consolidate in mind and frame— " I might forget my weaker lot ; For is not our first year forgot ? The haunts of memory echo not. " And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind. " Much more, if first I floated free, As naked essence, must I be Incompetent of memory : THE TWO VOICES. 301 " For memory dealing but with time, And he with matter, could she climb litvond her own material prime ? " Moreover, something is or seems, That touches me with mystic gleams, Like glimpses of forgotten dreams — " Of something felt, like something here ; Of something done, I know not where ; Such as no language may declare." The still voice laugh'd. " I talk," said he, " Not with thy dreams. Suffice it thee Thy pain is a reality." " But thou," said I, " hast miss'd thy mark, Who sought'st to wreck my mortal ark, By making all the horizon dark. " Why not set forth, if I should do This rashness, that which might ensue With this old soul in organs new ? " Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly long'd for death. " 'Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant, Oh life, not death, for which we pant ; More life, and fuller, that I want." 302 THE TWO VOICES. I ceased, and sat as one forlorn. Then said the voice, in quiet scorn, " Behold, it is the Sabbath morn." And I arose, and I released The casement, and the light increased With freshness in the dawning east. Like soften'd airs that blowing steal, When meres begin to uncongeal, The sweet church bells began to peal. On to God's house the people prest : Passing the place where each must rest, Each enter'd like a welcome guest. One walk'd between his wife and child, With measur'd footfall firm and mild, And now and then he gravely smiled. The prudent partner of his blood Lean'd on him, faithful, gentle, good, Wearing the rose of womanhood. And in their double love secure, The little maiden walk'd demure, Pacing with downward eyelids pure. These three made unity so sweet, My frozen heart began to beat, Remembering its ancient heat. THE TWO VOICES. 303 I blest them, and they Avander'd on : I spoke, hut answer came there none : The dull and bitter voice was gone. A second voice was at mine ear, A little whisper silver-clear, A murmur, "Be of better cheer." As from some blissful neighbourhood, A notice faintly understood, " I see the end, and know the good." A little hint to solace woe, A hint, a whisper breathing low, " I may not speak of what I know." Like an ^Eolian harp that wakes No certain air, but overtakes Far thought with music that it makes : Such seem'd the whisper at my side : " What is it thou knowest, sweet voice ? " I cried. " A hidden hope," the voice replied : So heavenly -toned, that in that hour From out my sullen heart a power Broke, like the rainbow from the shower, To feel, altho' no tongue can prove, That every cloud, that spreads above And veileth love, itself is love. 304 THE TWO VOICES. And forth into the fields I went, And Nature's living motion lent The pulse of hope to discontent. I wonder'd at the bounteous hours, The slow result of winter showers : You scarce could see the grass for flowers. I Avonder'd, while I paced along : The woods were fill'd so full with song, There seem'd no room for sense of wrong. So variously seem'd all things wrought, I marvell'd how the mind was brought To anchor by one gloomy thought ; And wherefore rather I made choice To commune with that barren voice, Than him that said, " Rejoice ! rejoice ! " SIR GALAHAD. My good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance, thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure. 300 SIR GALAHAD. The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splinter'd spear-shafts craek and fly, The horse and rider reel : They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies' hands. How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favours fall ! For them I battle till the end, To save from shame and thrall : But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine : I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden's hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill ; So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will. When down the stormy crescent goes, A light before me swims, Between dark stems the forest glows, I hear a noise of hymns : Then by some secret shrine I ride ; I hear a voice, but none are there ; The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair. SIR GALAHAD. 307 Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chaunts resound between. Sometimes on lonely mountain -meres I find a magic bark ; I leap on board : no helmsman steers : I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light ! Three angels bear the holy Grail : With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail. Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! My spirit beats her mortal bars, As down dark tides the glory slides, And star-like mingles with the stars. When on my goodly charger borne Thro' dreaming towns I go, The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow. The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, spins from brand and mail ; But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height; No branchy thicket shelter yields ; But blessed forms in whistling storms Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 308 SIR GALAHAD. A maiden knight — to me is given Such hope, I know not fear ; I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven That often meet me here. I muse on joy that will not cease, Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odours haunt my dreams ; And, stricken by an angel's hand, This mortal armour that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. The clouds are broken in the sky, And thro' the mountain-walls A rolling organ-harmony Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices hover clear : " O just and faithful knight of God ! Ride on ! the prize is near." So pass I hostel, hall, and grange ; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, Until I find the holy Grail. ST. AGNES' EVE. Deep on the convent-roof the snows Are sparkling to the moon : My breath to heaven like vapour goes May my soul follow soon ! 310 ST. AGNES' EVE. The shadows of the convent-towers Slant down the snowy sward, Still creeping with the creeping hours That lead me to my Lord : Make Thou my spirit pure and clear As are the frosty skies, Or this first snowdrop of the year That in my bosom lies. As these white robes are soil'd and dark, To yonder shining ground ; As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round ; So shows my soul before the Lamb, My spirit before Thee ; So in mine earthly house I am, To that I hope to be. Break up the heavens, O Lord ! and far, Thro' all yon starlight keen, Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, In raiment white and clean. He lifts me to the golden doors ; The flashes come and go ; All heaven bursts her starry floors. And strows her lights below, And deepens on and up ! the gates Roll back, and far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits. To make me pure of sin. ST. AGNES' KVK. 311 The sabbaths of Eternity, One sabbath deep and wide — A light upon the shining sea — The Bridegroom with his bride ! 312 AMPHION. My father left a park to me, But it is wild and barren, A garden too with scarce a tree And waster than a warren : Yet say the neighbours when they call, It is not bad but good land, And in it is the germ of all That grows within the woodland. O had I lived when song was great In days of old Amphion, And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, Nor cared for seed or scion ! And had I lived when song was great, And legs of trees were Umber, And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, And fiddled in the timber ! 'Tis said he had a tuneful tongue, Such happy intonation, Wherever he sat down and sung He left a small plantation ; AMPHION. 313 Wherever in a lonely grove He set up his forlorn pipes, The gouty oak began to move, And flounder into hornpipes. The mountain stirr'd its bushy crown, And, as tradition teaches, Young ashes pirouetted down Coquetting with young beeches ; And briony-vine and ivy-wreath Ran forward to his rhyming, And from the valleys underneath Came little copses climbing. The linden broke her ranks and rent The woodbine wreaths that bind her, And down the middle buzz ! she went With all her bees behind her : The poplars, in long order due, With cypress promenaded, The shock-head willows two and two By rivers gallopaded. Came wet- shot alder from the wave, Came yews, a dismal coterie ; Each pluck'd his one foot from the grave, Poussetting with a sloe -tree : Old elms came breaking from the vine, The vine stream'd out to follow, And, sweating rosin, plump'd the pine From many a cloudy hollow. 314 AMPHION. And wasn't it a sight to see, When, ere his song was ended, Like some great landslip, tree by tree, The country-side descended ; And shepherds from the mountain-eaves Look'd down, half-pleased, half-frighten'd, As dash'd about the drunken leaves The random sunshine lighten'd ! Oh, nature first was fresh to men, And wanton without measure ; So youthful and so flexile then, You moved her at your pleasure. Twang out, my fiddle ! shake the twigs ! And make her dance attendance ; Blow, flute, and stir the stiff-set sprigs, And scirrhous roots and tendons. 'Tis vain ! in such a brassy age I could not move a thistle ; The very sparrows in the hedge Scarce answer to my whistle ; Or at the most, when three-parts-sick With strumming and with scraping, A jackass heehaws from the rick, The passive oxen gaping. But what is that I hear ? a sound Like sleepy counsel pleading : Lord ! — 'tis in my neighbour's ground, The modern Muses reading. AMPHION. 315 They read Botanic Treatises, And Works on Gardening thro' there, And Methods of transplanting trees, To look as if they grew there. The wither' d Misses ! how they prose O'er books of travell'd seamen, And show you slips of all that grows From England to Van Diemen. They read in arbours dipt and cut, And alleys, faded places, By squares of tropic summer shut And warm'd in crystal cases. But these, tho' fed with careful dirt, Are neither green nor sappy ; Half-conscious of the garden- squirt, The spindlings look unhappy. Better to me the meanest weed That blows upon its mountain, The vilest herb that runs to seed Beside its native fountain. And I must work thro' months of toil, And years of cultivation, Upon my proper patch of soil To grow my own plantation. I'll take the showers as they fall, I will not vex my bosom : Enough if at the end of all A little garden blossom. 316 THE DAY-DEEAM. PROLOGUE. O, Lady Flora, let me speak : A pleasant hour has past away While, dreaming on your damask cheek, The dewy sister-eyelids lay. As hy the lattice you reclined, I went thro' many wayward moods To see you dreaming — and, behind, A summer crisp with shining woods. And I too dream'd, until at last Across my fancy, brooding warm, The reflex of a legend past, And loosely settled into form. And would you have the thought I had, And see the vision that I saw, Then take the broidery-frame, and add A crimson to the quaint Macaw, And I will tell it. Turn your face, Nor look with that too -earnest eye — The rhymes are dazzled from their place, And order'd words asunder fly. THE DAY-DREAM. 317 THE SLEEPING PALACE. The varying year with blade and sheaf Clothes and reclothes the happy plains ; Here rests the sap within the leaf, Here stays the blood along the veins. Faint shadows, vapours lightly curl'd, Faint murmurs from the meadows come, 318 THE DAY-DREAM. Like hints and echoes of the world To spirits folded in the womb. Soft lustre bathes the range of urns On every slanting terrace-lawn. The fountain to his place returns Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. Here droops the banner on the tower, On the hall-hearths the festal fires, The peacock in his laurel bower, The parrot in his gilded wires. Roof -haunting martins warm their eggs : In these, in those the life is stay'd. The mantles from the golden pegs Droop sleepily : no sound is made, Not even of a gnat that sings. More like a picture seemeth all Than those old portraits of old kings, That watch the sleepers from the wall. Here sits the Butler with a flask Between his knees, half-drain'd ; and there The wrinkled steward at his task, The maid-of-honour blooming fair : The page has caught her hand in his : Her lips are sever'd as to speak : His own are pouted to a kiss : The blush is fix'd upon her cheek. THE DAY-DREAM. 319 Till all the hundred summers pass, The beams, that thro' the Oriel shine, Make prisms in every carven glass, And beaker brimm'd with noble wine. Each baron at the banquet sleeps, Grave faces gather'd in a ring. His state the king reposing keeps. He must have been a jovial king. All round a hedge upshoots, and shows At distance like a little wood ; Thorns, ivies, woodbine, misletoes, And grapes with bunches red as blood ; All creeping plants, a wall of green Close-matted, bur and brake and briar, And glimpsing over these, just seen, High up, the topmost palace-spire. When will the hundred summers die, And thought and time be born again, And newer knowledge, drawing nigh, Bring truth that sways the soul of men ? Here all things in their place remain, As all were order'd, ages since. Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain, And bring the fated fairy Prince. 320 THE DAY-DREAM. THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. i. Year after year unto her feet, She lying on her couch alone, Across the purpled coverlet, The maiden's jet-black hair has grown, On either side her tranced form Forth streaming from a braid of pearl : The slumbrous light is rich and warm, And moves not on the rounded curl. The silk star-broider'd coverlid Unto her limbs itself doth mould Languidly ever ; and, amid Her full black ringlets downward roU'd, Glows forth each softly-shadow'd arm With bracelets of the diamond bright : Her constant beauty doth inform Stillness with love, and day with light. She sleeps : her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd That lie upon her charmed heart. She sleeps : on either hand upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest : She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest. THE DAY-DREAM. 321 THE AEEIVAL. i. All precious things, discover' d late, To those that seek them issue forth ; For love in sequel works with fete, And draws the veil from hidden worth. He travels far from other skies — His mantle glitters on the rocks — A fairy Prince, with joyful eyes, And lighter-footed than the fox. The bodies and the bones of those That strove in other days to pass, Are wither' d in the thorny close, Or scatter' d blanching on the grass. He gazes on the silent dead : " They perish'd in their daring deeds. This proverb flashes thro' his head, " The many fail : the one succeeds." He comes, scarce knowing what he seeks : He breaks the hedge : he enters there : The colour flies into his cheeks : He trusts to light on something fair ; For all his life the charm did talk About his path, and hover near With words of promise in his walk, And whisper'd voices at his ear. 322 THE DAY-DREAM. More close and close his footsteps wind ; The Magic Music in his heart Beats quick and quicker, till he find The quiet chamber far apart. His spirit flutters like a lark, He stoops — to kiss her — on his knee. " Love, if thy tresses be so dark, How dark those hidden eyes must be ! ' THE EEVIVAL. A touch, a kiss ! the charm was snapt. There rose a noise of striking clocks, And feet that ran, and doors that clapt, And barking dogs, and crowing cocks ; A fuller light illumined all, A breeze thro' all the garden swept, A sudden hubbub shook the hall, And sixty feet the fountain leapt. The hedge broke in, the banner blew, The butler drank, the steward scrawl'd, The fire shot up, the martin flew, The parrot scream'd, the peacock squall'd, The maid and page renew 'd their strife, The palace bang'd, and buzz'd and clackt, And all the long-pent stream of life Dash'd downward in a cataract. THE DAYDREAM. 323 And last with these the king awoke, And in his chair himself nprear'd, And yawn'd, and ruhh'd his face, and spoke, " By holy rood, a royal beard ! How say you ? we have slept, my lords. My beard has grown into my lap." The barons swore, with many words, 'Twas but an after-dinner's nap. 324 THE DAY-DREAM. " Pardy," return'd the king, " but still My joints are something stiff or so. My lord, and shall we pass the bill I mention'd half an hour ago ? " The chancellor, sedate and vain, In courteous words return'd reply : But dallied with his golden chain, And, smiling, put the question by. THE DEPASTURE. And on her lover's arm she leant, And round her waist she felt it fold, And far across the hills they went In that new world which is the old : Across the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, And deep into the dying day The happy princess follow'd him. " I'd sleep another hundred years, O love, for such another kiss ; " " O wake for ever, love," she hears, " O love, 'twas such as this and this. THE DAY-DREAM. 325 And o'er them many a sliding star, And many a merry wind was borne, And, stream' d thro' many a golden bar, The twilight melted into morn. " eyes long laid in happy sleep ! " " O happy sleep, that lightly fled ! " " O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep ! " " O love, thy kiss would wake the dead ! And o'er them many a flowing range Of vapour buoy'd the crescent-bark, And, rapt thro' many a rosy change, The twilight died into the dark. " A hundred summers ! can it be ? And whither goest thou, tell me where ? " O seek my father's court with me, For there are greater wonders there." And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Thro' all the world she follow'd him. 32C THE DAY-DREAM. MOEAL. So, Lady Flora, take my lay, And if you find no moral there, Go, look in any glass and say, What moral is in being fair. Oh, to what uses shall we put The wildweed-flower that simply blows ? And is there any moral shut Within the bosom of the rose ? But any man that walks the mead, In bud or blade, or bloom, may find, According as his humours lead, A meaning suited to his mind. And liberal applications lie In Art like Nature, dearest friend ; So 'twere to cramp its use, if I Should hook it to some useful end. L'ENVOI. i. You shake your head. A random string Your finer female sense offends. Well — were it not a pleasant thing To fall asleep with all one's friends ; THE DAY-DREAM. 327 To pass with all our social ties To silence from the paths of men ; And every hundred years to rise And learn the world, and sleep again ; To sleep thro' terms of mighty wars, And wake on science grown to more, On secrets of the brain, the stars, As wild as aught of fairy lore ; And all that else the years will show, The Poet-forms of stronger hours, The vast Republics that may grow, The Federations and the Powers ; Titanic forces taking birth In divers seasons, divers climes ; For we are Ancients of the earth, And in the morning of the times. So sleeping, so aroused from sleep Thro' sunny decads new and strange, Or gay quinquenniads would we reap The flower and quintessence of change. Ah, yet would I — and would I might ! So much your eyes my fancy take — Be still the first to leap to light That I might kiss those eyes awake ! For, am I right or am I wrong, To choose your own you did not care ; You'd have my moral from the song, And I will take my pleasure there : 328 THE DAY-DREAM. And, am I right or am I wrong, My fancy, ranging thro' and thro', To search a meaning for the song, Perforce will still revert to you ; Nor finds a closer truth than this All-graceful head, so richly curl'd, And evermore a costly kiss The prelude to some brighter world. For since the time when Adam first Embraced his Eve in happy hour, And every bird of Eden burst In carol, every bud to flower, What eyes, like thine, have waken'd hopes ? What lips, like thine, so sweetly join'd? Where on the double rosebud droops The fullness of the pensive mind ; Which all too dearly self-involved, Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me ; A sleep by kisses undissolved, That lets thee neither hear nor see : But break it. In the name of wife, And in the rights that name may give, Are clasp'd the moral of thy life, And that for which I care to live. THE DAY-DREAM. 329 EPILOGUE. So, Lady Flora, take my lay, And, if you find a meaning there, O whisper to your glass, and say, " What wonder, if he thinks me fair ? " What wonder I was all unwise, To shape the song for your delight Like long-tail'd birds of Paradise, That float thro' Heaven, and cannot light ? Or old-world trains, upheld at court By Cupid -boys of blooming hue — But take it — earnest wed with sport, And either sacred unto you. WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE MADE AT THE COCK. O plump head-waiter at The Cock, To which I most resort, How goes the time ? 'Tis five o'clock. Go fetch a pint of port : But let it not be such as that You set before chance-comers, But such whose father-grape grew fat On Lusitanian summers. WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 331 No vain libation to the Muse, But may she still be kind, And whisper lovely words, and use Her influence on the mind, To make me write my random rhymes, Ere they be half-forgotten ; Nor add and alter, many times, Till all be ripe and rotten. I pledge her, and she comes and dips Her laurel in the wine, And lays it thrice upon my lips, These favour'd lips of mine ; Until the charm have power to make New lifeblood warm the bosom, And barren commonplaces break In full and kindly blossom. I pledge her silent at the board ; Her gradual fingers steal And touch upon the master-chord Of all I felt and feel. Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans, And phantom hopes assemble ; And that child's heart within the man's Begins to move and tremble. Thro' many an hour of summer suns By many pleasant ways, Against its fountain upward runs The current of my days : 332 WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. I kiss the lips I once have kiss'd ; The gas -light wavers dimmer ; And softly, thro' a vinous mist, My college friendships glimmer. I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, Unboding critic-pen, Or that eternal want of pence, Which vexes public men, Who hold their hands to all, and cry For that which all deny them — Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry, And all the world go by them. Ah yet, tho' all the world forsake, Tho' fortune clip my wings, I will not cramp my heart, nor take Half- views of men and things. Let Whig and Tory stir their blood ; There must be stormy weather ; But for some true result of good All parties work together. Let there be thistles, there are grapes ; If old things, there are new ; Ten thousand broken lights and shapes, Yet glimpses of the true. Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme, We lack not rhymes and reasons, As on this whirligig of Time We circle with the seasons. WILL WATERPROOFS LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 333 This earth is rich in man and maid ; With fair horizons bound : This whole wide earth of light and shade Comes out, a perfect round. High over roaring Temple-bar, And, set in Heaven's third story, I look at all things as they are, But thro' a kind of glory. Head-waiter, honour'd by the guest Half-mused, or reeling-ripe, The pint, you brought me, was the best That ever came from pipe. But tho' the port surpasses praise, My nerves have dealt with stiffer. Is there some magic in the place ? Or do my peptics differ ? For since I came to live and learn, No pint of white or red Had ever half the power to turn This wheel within my head, Which bears a season'd brain about, Unsubject to confusion, Tho' soak'd and saturate, out and out, Thro' every convolution. For I am of a numerous house, With many kinsmen gay, Where long and largely we carouse As who shall say me nay : 334 WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. Each month, a birth-day coming on, We drink defying trouble, Or sometimes two would meet in one, And then we drank it double ; Whether the vintage, yet unkept, Had relish fiery-new, Or, elbow-deep in sawdust, slept, As old as Waterloo ; Or stow'd (when classic Canning died) In musty bins and chambers, Had cast upon its crusty side The gloom of ten Decembers. The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is ! She answer'd to my call, She changes with that mood or this, Is all-in-all to all : She lit the spark within my throat, To make my blood run quicker, Used all her fiery will, and smote Her life into the liquor. And hence this halo lives about The waiter's hands, that reach To each his perfect pint of stout, His proper chop to each. He looks not like the common breed That with the napkin dally ; I think he came like Ganymede, From some delightful valley. WILL WATERPROOFS LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 335 The Cock was of a larger egg Than modern poultry drop, Stept forward on a firmer leg, And cramm'd a plumper crop ; Upon an ampler dunghill trod, Crow'd lustier late and early, Sipt wine from silver, praising God, And raked in golden barley. A private life was all his joy, Till in a court he saw A something-pottle-bodied boy, That knuckled at the taw : He stoop'd and clutch'd him, fair and good, Flew over roof and casement : His brothers of the weather stood Stock-still for sheer amazement. But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire, And follow'd with acclaims, A sign to many a staring shire, Came crowing over Thames. Right down by smoky Paul's they bore, Till, where the street grows straiter, One fix'd for ever at the door, And one became head-waiter. But whither would my fancy go ? How out of place she makes The violet of a legend blow Among the chops and steaks ! 336 WILL WATERPROOFS LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 'Tis but a steward of the can, One shade more plump than common ; As just and mere a serving-man As any, born of woman. I ranged too high : what draws me down Into the common day ? Is it the weight of that half-crown, Which I shall have to pay ? For, something duller than at first, Nor wholly comfortable, I sit (my empty glass reversed), And thrumming on the table : Half fearful that, with self at strife I take myself to task ; Lest of the fullness of my life I leave an empty flask : For I had hope, by something rare, To prove myself a poet ; But, while I plan and plan, my hair Is gray before I know it. So fares it since the years began, Till they be gather'd up ; The truth, that flies the flowing can, Will haunt the vacant cup : And others' follies teach us not, Nor much their wisdom teaches ; And most, of sterling worth, is what Our own experience preaches. WILL WATERPROOFS LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 337 Ah, let the rusty theme alone ! We know not what we know. But for my pleasant hour, 'tis gone, Tis gone, and let it go. Tis gone : a thousand such have slipt Away from my embraces, And fall'n into the dusty crypt Of darken'd forms and faces. Go, therefore, thou ! thy betters went Long since, and came no more ; With peals of genial clamour sent From many a tavern -door, With twisted quirks and happy hits, From misty men of letters ; The tavern-hours of mighty wits — Thine elders and thy betters. Hours, when the Poet's words and looks Had yet their native glow : Nor yet the fear of little books Had made him talk for show ; But, all his vast heart sherris-warm'd, He flash'd his random speeches; Ere days, that deal in ana, swarm'd His literary leeches. So mix for ever with the past, Like all good tilings on earth ! For should I prize thee, couldst thou last, At half thy real worth ? 338 WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. I hold it good, good things should pass : With time I will not quarrel : It is but yonder empty glass That makes me maudlin-moral. Head-waiter of the chop-house here, To which I most resort, I too must part : I hold thee dear For this good pint of port. For this, thou shalt from all things suck Marrow of mirth and laughter ; And, wheresoe'er thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after. But thou wilt never move from hence, The sphere thy fate allots : Thy latter days increased with pence Go down among the pots : Thou battenest by the greasy gleam In haunts of hungry sinners, Old boxes, larded with the steam Of thirty thousand dinners. We fret, we fume, would shift our skins, Would quarrel with our lot ; Thy care is, under polish'd tins, To serve the hot-and-hot ; To come and go, and come again, Returning like the pewit, And watch'd by silent gentlemen, That trifle with the cruet. WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 339 Live long, ere from thy topmost head The thick-set hazel dies ; Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread The corners of thine e} r es : Live long, nor feel in head or chest Our changeful equinoxes, Till mellow Death, like some late guest, Shall call thee from the boxes. But when he calls, and thou shalt cease To pace the gritted floor, And, laying down an unctuous lease Of life, shalt earn no more ; No carved cross-bones, the types of Death, Shall show thee past to Heaven : But carved cross-pipes, and, underneath, A pint-pot, neatly graven. EDWARD GRAY. Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town Met me walking on yonder way, " And have you lost your heart ? " she said ; " And are you married yet, Edward Gray ? " EDWARD GRAY. 341 Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me : Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : " Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more Can touch the heart of Edward Gray. " Ellen Adair she loved me well, Against her father's and mother's will : To-day I sat for an hour and wept, By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill. " Shy she was, and I thought her cold ; Thought her proud, and fled over the sea ; Fill'd I was with folly and spite, When Ellen Adair was dying for me. " Cruel, cruel the words I said ! Cruelly came they back to-day : 1 You're too slight and fickle,' I said, ' To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.' " There I put my face in the grass — Whisper'd, ' Listen to my despair : I repent me of all I did : Speak a little, Ellen Adair ! ' " Then I took a pencil, and wrote On the mossy stone, as I lay, ' Here lies the body of Ellen Adair ; And here the heart of Edward Gray ! ' 342 EDWARD GRAY. " Love may come, and love may go, And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree But I will love no more, no more, Till Ellen Adair come back to me. " Bitterly wept I over the stone : Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : There lies the body of Ellen Adair ! And there the heart of Edward Gray ! 343 TO , AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS. "Cursed be he that moves my bones." — Shakespeare's Epitaph. You might have won the Poet's name, If such be worth the winning now, And gain'd a laurel for your brow Of sounder leaf than I can claim ; But you have made the wiser choice, A life that moves to gracious ends Thro' troops of unrecording friends, A deedful life, a silent voice : And you have miss'd the irreverent doom Of those that wear the Poet's crown : Hereafter, neither knave nor clown Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. For now the Poet cannot die Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry : 344 TO . " Proclaim the faults he would not show : Break lock and seal : betray the trust : Keep nothing sacred : 'tis but just The many-headed beast should know." Ah shameless ! for he did but sing A song that pleased us from its worth ; No public life was his on earth, No blazon'd statesman he, nor king. He gave the people of his best : His worst he kept, his best he gave. My Shakespeare's curse on clown and knave Who will not let his ashes rest ! Who make it seem more sweet to be The little life of bank and brier, The bird that pipes his lone desire And dies unheard within his tree, Than he that warbles long and loud And drops at Glory's temple-gates, For whom the carrion vulture waits To tear his heart before the crowd ! 345 TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE. Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls Of water, sheets of summer glass, The long divine Penei'an pass, The vast Akrokeraunian walls, Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair, With such a pencil, such a pen, You shadow forth to distant men, I read and felt that I was there : And trust me while I turn'd the page, And track' d you still on classic ground, I grew in gladness till I found My spirits in the golden age. For me the torrent ever pour'd And glisten'd — here and there alone The broad-limh'd Gods at random thrown By fountain-urns ; — and Naiads oar'd 346 TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE. A glimmering shoulder under gloom Of cavern pillars ; on the swell The silver lily heaved and fell ; And many a slope was rich in bloom From him that on the mountain lea By dancing rivulets fed his flocks, To him who sat upon the rocks, And fluted to the morning sea. A FAKEWELL. Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, Thy tribute wave deliver : No more by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. 348 A FAREWELL. Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, A rivulet then a river : No where by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. But here will sigh thine alder tree, And here thine aspen shiver ; And here by thee will hum the bee, For ever and for ever. A thousand suns will stream on thee, A thousand moons will quiver ; But not by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. 349 LADY CLAKE. It was the time when lilies blow, And clouds are highest up in air, Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe To give his cousin, Lady Clare. I trow they did not part in scorn : Lovers long-betroth'd were they : They two will wed the morrow morn ; God's blessing on the day ! " He does not love me for my birth, Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well," said Lady Clare. In there came old Alice the nurse, Said, " Who was this that went from thee ? " It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, " To-morrow he weds with me." 350 LADY CLARE. " O God be thank'd ! " said Alice the nurse, " That all comes round so just and fair : Lord Eonald is heir of all your lands, And you are not the Lady Clare." " Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse ? Said Lady Clare, " that ye speak so wild ? " " As God's above," said Alice the nurse, " I speak the truth : you are my child. " The old Earl's daughter died at my breast ; I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead." " Falsely, falsely have ye done, mother," she said, " if this be true, To keep the best man under the sun So many j^ears from his due." " Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, " But keep the secret for your life, And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, When you are man and wife." " If I'm a beggar born," she said, " I will speak out, for I dare not lie. Pull off, pull off, the broach of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by." LADY CLARE. 351 " Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, " But keep the secret all ye can." She said " Not so : but I will know If there be any faith in man." " Nay now, what faith ? " said Alice the nurse, " The man will cleave unto his right." " And he shall have it," the lady replied, " Tho' I should die to-night." " Yet give one kiss to your mother dear ! Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee." " O mother, mother, mother," she said, " So strange it seems to me. " Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, My mother dear, if this be so, And lay your hand upon my head, And bless me, mother, ere I go." She clad herself in a russet gown, She was no longer Lady Clare : She went by dale, and she went by down, With a single rose in her hair. The lily-white doe Lord Eonald had brought Leapt up from where she lay, Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, And follow'd her all the way. 352 LADY CLARE. Down stept Lord Konald from his tower : " O Lady Clare, you shame your worth ! Why come you drest like a village maid, That are the flower of the earth ? " " If I come drest like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are : I am a beggar born," she said, " And not the Lady Clare." " Play me no tricks," said Lord Konald, " For I am yours in word and in deed. Play me no tricks," said Lord Konald, " Your riddle is hard to read." O and proudly stood she up ! Her heart within her did not fail : She look'd into Lord Konald's eyes, And told him all her nurse's tale. He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn : He turn'd, and kiss'd her where she stood " If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, " the next in blood — " If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, " the lawful heir, We two will wed to-morrow morn, And you shall still be Lady Clare." THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. In her ear lie whispers gaily, " If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily, And I think thou lov'st me well." She replies, in accents fainter, " There is none I love like thee." He is but a landscape-painter, And a village maiden she. 354 THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. He to lips, that fondly falter, Presses his without reproof: Leads her to the village altar, And they leave her father's roof. " I can make no marriage present; Little can I give my wife. Love will make our cottage pleasant, And I love thee more than life." They by parks and lodges going See the lordly castles stand : Summer woods, about them blowing, Made a murmur in the land. From deep thought himself he rouses, Says to her that loves him well, " Let us see these handsome houses Where the wealthy nobles dwell." So she goes by him attended, Hears him lovingly converse, Sees Avhatever fair and splendid Lay betwixt his home and hers ; Parks with oak and chestnut shady, Parks and order'd gardens great, Ancient homes of lord and lady, Built for pleasure and for state. All he shows her makes him dearer : Evermore she seems to gaze On that cottage growing nearer, Where they twain will spend their days. O but she will love him truly ! He shall have a cheerful home ; She will order all things duly, When beneath his roof they come. THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. 355 Thus her heart rejoices greatly, Till a gateway she discerns With armorial bearings stately, And beneath the gate she turns ; Sees a mansion more majestic Than all those she saw before : Many a gallant gay domestic Bows before him at the door. And they speak in gentle murmur, When they answer to his call, While he treads with footstep firmer, Leading on from hall to hall. And, while now she wonders blindly, Nor the meaning can divine, Proudly turns he round and kindly, " All of this is mine and thine." Here he lives in state and bounty, Lord of Burleigh, fair and free, Not a lord in all the county Is so great a lord as he. All at once the colour flushes Her sweet face from brow to chin : As it were with shame she blushes, And her spirit changed within. Then her coimtenance all over Pale again as death did prove : But he clasp'd her like a lover, And he cheer'd her soul with love. So she strove against her weakness, Tho' at times her spirits sank : Shaped her heart with woman's meekness To all duties of her rank : 356 THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. And a gentle consort made he, And her gentle mind was such That she grew a noble lady, And the people loved her much. But a trouble weigh'd upon her, And perplex'd her, night and morn, With the burthen of an honour Unto which she was not born. Faint she grew, and ever fainter, As she murmur'd, " Oh, that he Were once more that landscape-painter, Which did win my heart from me ! " So she droop'd and droop'd before him, Fading slowly from his side : Three fair children first she bore him, Then before her time she died. Weeping, weeping late and early, Walking up and pacing down, Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh, Burleigh -house by Stamford-town. And he came to look upon her, And he look'd at her and said, " Bring the dress and put it on her, That she wore when she was wed." Then her people, softly treading, Bore to earth her body, drest In the dress that she was wed in, That her spirit might have rest. 357 SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE. A FKAGMKNT. Like souls that balance joy and pain, With tears and smiles from heaven again The maiden Spring upon the plain Came in a sun-lit fall of rain. In crystal vapour everywhere Blue isles of heaven laugh'd between. And, far in forest-deeps unseen, The topmost elmtree gather'd green From draughts of balmy air. Sometimes the linnet piped his song : Sometimes the throstle whistled strong : Sometimes the sparhawk, wheel' d along, Hush'd all the groves from fear of wrong : By grassy capes with fuller sound In curves the yellowing river ran, And drooping chestnut-buds began To spread into the perfect fan, Above the teeming ground. 358 SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE. Then, in the boyhood of the year, Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere Rode thro' the coverts of the deer, With blissful treble ringing clear. She seem'd a part of joyous Spring : A gown of grass-green silk she wore, Buckled with golden clasps before ; A light-green tuft of plumes she bore Closed in a golden ring. Now on some twisted ivy-net, Now by some tinkling rivulet, In mosses mixt with violet Her cream-white mule his pastern set : And fleeter now she skimm'd the plains Than she whose elfin prancer springs By night to eery warblings, When all the glimmering moorland rings With jingling bridle-reins. As she fled fast thro' sun and shade, The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid : She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd The rein with dainty finger-tips, A man had given all other bliss, And all his worldly worth for this, To waste his whole heart in one kiss Upon her perfect lips. THE BEGGAB MAID. Her arms across her breast she laid ; She was more fair than words can say Bare -footed came the beggar maid Before the king Cophetua. In robe and crown the king stept down, To meet and greet her on her way ; " It is no wonder," said the lords, " She is more beautiful than day." 560 THE BEGGAR MAID. As shines the moon in clouded skies, She in her poor attire was seen : One praised her ancles, one her eyes, One her dark hair and lovesome mien. So sweet a face, such angel grace, In all that land had never been : Cophetua sware a royal oath : " This beggar maid shall be my queen ! 361 THE VISION OF SIN. I had a vision when the night was late : A youth came riding toward a palace-gate. He rode a horse with wings, that would have flown. But that his heavy rider kept him down. And from the palace came a child of sin, And took him by the curls, and led him in, Where sat a company with heated eyes, Expecting when a fountain should arise : A sleepy light upon their brows and lips — As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse, Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles and capes — Suffused them, sitting, lying, languid shapes, By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, and piles of grapes. Then methought I heard a mellow sound, Gathering up from all the lower ground ; Narrowing in to where they sat assembled Low voluptuous music winding trembled, Wov'n in circles : they that heard it sigh'd, Panted hand in hand with faces pale, 3 a 362 THE VISION OF SLY. Swung themselves, and in low tones replied ; Till the fountain spouted, showering wide Sleet of diamond- drift and pearly hail ; Then the music touch'd the gates and died ; Eose again from where it seem'd to fail, Storm'd in orbs of song, a growing gale ; Till thronging in and in, to where they waited, As 'twere a hundred-throated nightingale, The strong tempestuous treble throbb'd and palpitated ; Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound, Caught the sparkles, and in circles, Purple gauzes, golden hazes, liquid mazes, Flung the torrent rainbow round : Then they started from their places, Moved with violence, changed in hue, Caught each other with wild grimaces, Half -invisible to the view, Wheeling with precipitate paces To the melody, till they flew, Hair, and eyes, and limbs, and faces, Twisted hard in fierce embraces, Like to Furies, like to Graces, Dash'd together in blinding dew : Till, kill'd with some luxurious agony, The nerve -dissolving melody Flutter'd headlong from the sky. And then I look'd up toward a mountain-tract, That girt the region with high cliff and lawn : I saw that every morning, far withdrawn Beyond the darkness and the cataract, THE VISION OF SIN. 363 God made himself an awful rose of dawn, Unheeded : and detaching, fold by fold, From those still heights, and, slowly drawing near, A vapour heavy, hueless, formless, cold, Came floating on for many a month and year, Unheeded : and I thought I would have spoken, And warn'd that madman ere it grew too late : But, as in dreams, I could not. Mine was broken, When that cold vapour touch'd the palace gate, And link'd again. I saw within my head A gray and gap-tooth'd man as lean as death, Who slowly rode across a wither'd heath, And lighted at a ruin'd inn, and said : " Wrinkled ostler, grim and thin ! Here is custom come your way ; Take my brute, and lead him in, Stuff his ribs with mouldy hay. " Bitter barmaid, waning fast ! See that sheets are on my bed ; What ! the flower of life is past : It is long before you wed. " Slip -shod waiter, lank and sour, At the Dragon on the heath ! Let us have a quiet hour, Let us hob-and-nob with Death. 364 THE VISION OF SIN. "lam old, but let me drink ; Bring me spices, bring me wine ; I remember, when I think, That my youth was half divine. " Wine is good for shrivell'd lips, When a blanket wraps the day, When the rotten woodland drips, And the leaf is stamp'd in clay. " Sit thee down, and have no shame, Cheek by jowl, and knee by knee : What care I for any name ? What for order or degree ? " Let me screw thee up a peg : Let me loose thy tongue with wine : Callest thou that thing a leg ? Which is thinnest ? thine or mine ? " Thou shalt not be saved by works Thou hast been a sinner too : Euin'd trunks on wither'd forks, Empty scarecrows, I and you ! " Fill the cup, and fill the can : Have a rouse before the morn : Every moment dies a man, Every moment one is born. THE VISION OF SIN. 365 " We are men of ruin'd blood ; Therefore comes it we are wise. Fish are we that love the mud, Rising to no fancy-flies. " Name and fame ! to fly sublime Thro' the courts, the camps, the schools, Is to be the ball of Time, Bandied by the hands of fools. " Friendship ! — to be two in one — Let the canting liar pack ! Well I know, when I am gone, How she mouths behind my back. " Virtue ! — to be good and just — Every heart, when sifted well, Is a clot of warmer dust, Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell. " O ! we two as well can look Whited thought and cleanly life As the priest, above his book Leering at his neighbour's wife. " Fill the cup, and fill the can : Have a rouse before the morn : Every moment dies a man, Every moment one is born. 306 THE VISION OF SIN. " Drink, and let the parties rave : They are fill'd with idle spleen ; Rising, falling, like a wave, For they know not what they mean. " He that roars for liberty Faster binds a tyrant's power ; And the tyrant's cruel glee Forces on the freer hour. " Fill the can, and fill the cup : All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again. " Greet her with applausive breath, Freedom, gaily doth she tread ; In her right a civic wreath, In her left a human head. " No, I love not what is new ; She is of an ancient house : And I think we know the hue Of that cap upon her brows. " Let her go ! her thirst she slakes Where the bloody conduit runs : Then her sweetest meal she makes On the first-born of her sons. THE VISION OF SIN. 3(57 " Drink to lofty hopes that cool — Visions of a perfect State : Drink we, last, the public fool, Frantic love and frantic hate. " Chant me now some wicked stave, Till thy drooping courage rise, And the glow-worm of the grave Glimmer in thy rheumy eyes. " Fear not thou to loose thy tongue ; Set thy hoary fancies free ; What is loathsome to the young Savours well to thee and me. " Change, reverting to the years, When thy nerves could understand What there is in loving tears, And the warmth of hand in hand. " Tell me tales of thy first love — April hopes, the fools of chance ; Till the graves begin to move, And the dead begin to dance. " Fill the can, and fill the cup : All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again. 368 THE VISION OF SIN. " Trooping from their mouldy dens The chap-fallen circle spreads : Welcome, fellow-citizens, Hollow hearts and empty heads ! ".You are bones, and what of that? Every face, however full, Padded round with flesh and fat, Is but modell'd on a skull. " Death is king, and Vivat Rex ! Tread a measure on the stones, Madam — if I know your sex, From the fashion of your bones. " No, I cannot praise the fire In your eye — nor yet your lip : All the more do I admire Joints of cunning workmanship. " Lo ! God's likeness — the ground-plan- Neither modell'd, glazed, or framed : Buss me, thou rough sketch of man, Far too naked to be shamed ! " Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, While we keep a little breath ! Drink to heavy Ignorance ! Hob-ancl-nob with brother Death ! THE VISION OF SIN. 369 " Thou art mazed, the night is long, And the longer night is near : What ! I am not all as wrong As a bitter jest is dear. " Youthful hopes, by scores, to all, When the locks are crisp and curl'd ; Unto me my maudlin gall And my mockeries of the world. " Fill the cup, and fill the can ! Mingle madness, mingle scorn ! Dregs of life, and lees of man : Yet we will not die forlorn." The voice grew faint : there came a further change : Once more uprose the mystic mountain-range : Below were men and horses pierced with worms, And slowly quickening into lower forms ; By shards and scurf of salt, and scum of dross, Old plash of rains, and refuse patch'd with moss. Then some one spake : " Behold ! it was a crime Of sense avenged by sense that wore with time." Another said : " The crime of sense became The crime of malice, and is equal blame." And one : " He had not wholly quench'd his power ; A little grain of conscience made him sour." At last I heard a voice upon the slope Cry to the summit, " Is there any hope ? " 3 B 370 To which an answer peal'd from that high land, But in a tongue no man could understand ; And on the glimmering limit far withdrawn God made Himself an awful rose of dawn. Come not, when I am dead, To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, To trample round my fallen head, And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save. There let the wind sweep and the plover cry ; But thou, go by. Child, if it were thine error or thy crime I care no longer, being all unblest : Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time, And I desire to rest. Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie : Go by, go by. Move eastward, happy earth, and leave Yon orange sunset waning slow : From fringes of the faded eve, 0, happy planet, eastward go ; 372 THE EAGLE. Till over thy dark shoulder glow Thy silver sister-world, and rise To glass herself in dewy eyes That watch me from the glen below. Ah, bear me with thee, smoothly borne, Dip forward under starry light, And move me to my marriage -morn, And round again to happy night. THE EAGLE. FRAGMENT. He clasps the crag with hooked hands ; Close to the sun in lonely lands, King'd with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls : He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls. Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. 374 well for the fisherman's 003% That he shouts with his sister at play ! O well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay ! And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill ; But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still ! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, Sea ! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. 375 THE POET'S SONG. The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, He pass'd by the town and out of the street, A light wind blew from the gates of the sun, And waves of shadow went over the wheat, And he sat him down in a lonely place, And chanted a melody loud and sweet, That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud, And the lark drop down at his feet. The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee, The snake slipt under a spray, The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak, And stared, with his foot on the prey, And the nightingale thought, " I have sung many songs, But never a one so gay, For he sings of what the world will be When the years have died away." [The second division of this volume was published in the winter of 1 832. Some of the poems have been considerably altered. Others have been added, which, with one exception, were written in 1833.] HUADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WU1TEFUI AKS.