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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 A 
 
 DREAM OF THE GIRONDE
 
 DREAM OF THE GIRONDE 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 EVELYN PYNE 
 
 LONDON 
 SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE 
 
 1877 
 
 [All righti reserved}
 
 n 
 
 si 13 
 
 TO 
 
 THE DEAR MEMORY OF HER 
 
 WHO 
 
 DEAD TO THE WORLD 
 
 BLOOMS A STAR IN MY HEART FOR EVER 

 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE 
 
 POEMS: 
 
 The Star-God . 
 Lost Happiness 
 Thistle-Blossom 
 Dulcamara . 
 
 PAGE 
 I 
 
 "5 
 
 147 
 
 '55 
 21;
 
 
 DREAM OF THE GIRONDE 
 
 B
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 ■ Girondists. 
 
 Montagnards, at first friends of the 
 Gironde. 
 
 Violent revolutionists. 
 
 Roland 
 
 Buzot 
 
 Barbaroux 
 
 Petion 
 
 Brissot 
 
 Vergniaud 
 
 LOUVET 
 
 Danton 
 Robespierre 
 Camille Desmoulins 
 Cham fort 
 S. Huruge 
 rossignol 
 jourdain 
 Legendre 
 Louis, King of France. 
 Raoul. 
 
 President of Tribunal. 
 Madame Roland, wife to Roland. 
 Marie, her child. 
 
 Marie Antoinette, Queen of France. 
 Her t?vo children. 
 
 Madame Elizabeth, sister to Louis. 
 Princesse de Lamballe. 
 Madame Bonchaud, jailor's wife. 
 
 Theroigne de Meric^urt, a violent revolutionist betrayed 
 and deserted by Raoul. 
 
 Nurse to Marie. 
 Beggar. 
 Old Man. 
 Public Accuser. 
 
 Executioner. 
 
 Jailor. 
 
 Various citizens. 
 
 Officers. 
 
 Scene.—//; and near Fan's.
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — Roland's House. Madame Roland alone. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 The years roll back, and I again am young : 
 A merry child, yet thoughtful 'midst my glee, 
 And bearing still about me a faint trace 
 Of heaven, I left with tears — and a dim glance 
 (They tell me) of that heaven in pensive eyes, 
 And brow attuned to wonder, and low voice, 
 Which ever knocked at hearts, and craved a place — 
 In joy or sorrow, — only just a place, — 
 A little niche — a cranny — there to rest — 
 Nor feel alone in this wide earth of tears. 
 And still that feeling lives, and still it leads 
 Me from the abstract to the personal : 
 I feel the urging of my woman soul 
 Against the man's strong will, which must endure 
 Tho' cast from kindred hearts, and all alone 
 Forced to toil on ; a blessing, but unbless'd : 
 Until death lifts the curtain, and men feel 
 What they could never see, and know too late 
 The God's gift, which they counted all too poor 
 For little human love to rest upon ! . . . . 
 My God, Thou knowest that my soul is set, 
 
 B 2
 
 4 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act i. 
 
 Firm as the earth, upon my country's weal ; 
 
 Thou knowest that from youth, my every thought 
 
 Was but a seeking of that narrow path 
 
 Prepared for each, and leading through the grave 
 
 Straight onward to the stars : — and now at last 
 
 The way seems clear ; — the power is in my hands ; 
 
 Yet these weak woman hands delay to grasp, 
 
 And tremble at the treasure ! I could cast 
 
 The costly bauble down, and never sigh 
 
 If ... . (ah these 'ifs !' the woman's weakness — fault — 
 
 Misfortune — what you will — they ever come,) 
 
 In one heart I might reign : — but this is sin, 
 
 Not merely weakness ; does it spring, alas, 
 
 From sweetness in my mother, whose meek heart, 
 
 Tho' hidden, still returns in me, her child ? 
 
 Ah Mother, early lost but ne'er forgot, 
 
 Is it your gentle spirit that draws near 
 
 When most I feel the woman ? Bless me now, 
 
 Oh spirit ! bless me : for I am thy child, 
 
 Tho' different, yet thine own : and I still feel 
 
 That longing to gain entrance in each heart 
 
 Around me (ah ! the woman's weakness still :) 
 
 The one, and not the many ; the dear one, 
 
 And not the suffering many ; the one love 
 
 Is thought of, prayed for, kissed, and yet (ah me !) 
 
 The many are passed o'er with careless glance 
 
 Or mutter'd benediction : — I pray God 
 
 To tear this woman heart away from me — 
 
 Destroy all merely personal loving, 
 
 And take away this thirsting for one heart, 
 
 My mother's gift, my sweet dead mother's gift : — 
 
 For detail was to her as daily bread,
 
 scene i. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 
 
 Or morning draught of water ; she would miss 
 The level sunlight slanting o'er the plain, 
 Embracing mountain peaks with holy kiss, 
 And lighting forests with the mystic glow 
 Of o'er entwined branches, whose dim shade 
 A woven emerald darkness half concealed, 
 And half (enraptured) sighed to full display ; 
 To watch the truant beam on leaf or flower : 
 Perhaps she lost the star-glow (who can say ?) 
 In groping for stellaria ; yet her life 
 Passed bless'd and blessing, out of human ken, 
 And left a fragrance, faint and tender still, 
 A perfume like the passing monthly rose 
 Or fragile mignonette : — and I her child 
 Have echoes of her nature, and look back 
 From glory — freedom — to a humble home, 
 And quiet joys, with something of regret : 
 I would not that 'twere possible to change 
 My visions into truth ; yet there are hours 
 When life seems all too hard — joy all too brief — 
 And dreams a sweet reality 1 There love 
 Springs in a moment fire-winged unto heaven, 
 And pierces the empyrean — there my soul 
 Needs no support, and Liberty my god, 
 And goddess, (for no sex is there, but full 
 Of both, yet neither, reigns as both in one,) 
 Comes to me crowned, triumphant : then indeed 
 I am content, yes then — yet some slight thing — 
 A voice — the merest trifle — breaks my dream 
 And drags me down to life, then — then I long, 
 In weakness of the flesh, for but one hour 
 Of joy, were death the end, that I might taste
 
 6 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act 1. 
 
 One second of life's wine, then dash the cup 
 
 For ever into fragments. But enough 
 
 Of these vain foolish thoughts— actions not dreams 
 
 Are now my part ; and I feel strong and firm, 
 
 If need, to grasp the sword — the sword of death. 
 
 Have I not read of Romans till their soul 
 
 Hath entered into mine ? Away regrets ! 
 
 No selfish dreams of happiness for me ; 
 
 My country is my love, and shall be served 
 
 As I would serve my lover — unto death ! 
 
 Scene II. 
 Enter Buzot. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 Good morrow friend, bring you good news? {anxiously) 
 
 but no, 
 You look too grave for fortune. 
 
 BUZOT. 
 
 Is it so ? 
 Then ask no further ; bad news wing their way 
 Too quickly ever— let me choose I pray 
 The subject of our speech. 
 
 madame roland {gazing earnestly at him). 
 
 Of course 'twill be 
 Our country's happiness and liberty ; 
 No other theme befits the time, and thee. 
 Speak on then, Buzot, ever true and free.
 
 scene ii. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 7 
 
 BUZOT. 
 
 Our country's happiness ! yes, that's our aim ; 
 Yet what is happiness except a name ? 
 Can it be found ? I doubt it. 
 
 madame roland {passionately). 
 
 Happiness ! 
 We seek for happiness instead of truth ; 
 We choose out pleasure, and ignore the right, 
 Then call life dark : eternity will judge 
 If darkness be not shadow of ourselves 
 O'ercasting all — our love — our hope — our life ! 
 Self must be blotted out — a thing of naught — 
 Forgotten — non-existent, ere we catch 
 The light which our life holds, but does not hide 
 From those who truly seek. [Taking his hand; 
 
 Oh friend, be strong 
 Forget thyself, and thine own petty griefs, 
 Think of thy country, think on Liberty ! 
 Strive not for thine own happiness — in vain — 
 It will elude thee even to the end ; — 
 But set thyself apart from all mankind 
 In some wild spot, where Nature only dwells, 
 And looking deeply into thine own soul 
 (No thought of self to darken, or deceive), 
 Tell over all thy dreams, and hopes and aims, 
 From thy youth upwards, — and then choose the one 
 Which seemeth best to thee (for thou art great 
 In thine own heart, and hast not left the shore 
 Of youth so long, but echoes float across 
 From heaven hovering o'er our infancy).
 
 8 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act i. 
 
 Thine aim once fixed, pursue it unto death. 
 Be gracious to thy friends, loving to all, 
 Patient and brave ; but ever follow on 
 To thy ideal. Wilt thou find life dark ? 
 I tell thee no ; this, thine aim, being high, 
 High as the stars which shine above us still, 
 The very strife to near, and reach, will bring 
 Light to thy path, and thou wilt truly feel 
 Life's object — noble aims accomplished. 
 
 [She drops his hand and half turns away. 
 
 BUZOT. 
 
 My guardian angel ! heaven speaks by thee. 
 I will obey ; and yet, before I flee, 
 One question more : in this thine own bright way 
 Oh, art thou happy ? tell me this, I pray. 
 
 madame roland (dreami/y). 
 
 Happy ? — I happy ? — yes : I think I'm so. 
 
 Yet what is happiness ? does one not know 
 
 When one feels bright, or gay, or sad, or ill ? 
 
 But happy ? — ah that cannot be, until 
 
 The depths of misery are left behind, 
 
 The world's deep scorn — hatred of friends unkind, — 
 
 An empty heart, where love has always been, — 
 
 A hideous wreck, where bright hopes bloomed unseen — 
 
 No change, or chance of change to mar or cure, 
 
 Simply a dull hard blank : — this to endure 
 
 As in a dream, and then to wake and find 
 
 It was not real — a phantom of the mind 
 
 Or something less, and that we live and love, 
 
 Have joy on earth, and hope of bliss above,
 
 scene II. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 9 
 
 And that the longings of our inmost soul 
 Are realised, — that we have reached the goal 
 Our spirit pined for ; and the heart that still 
 Had loved, believed, and soothed us in the ill 
 Now shared the good, and made our perfect bliss 
 If possible more perfect ; as a kiss 
 Seals and confirms the love — ' yes ' whispered low 
 By bashful maid, and he who feared the ' no,' 
 That knell to his fair hopes, now smiles serene, 
 Nor cares to think how lately doubt had been 
 His happiest state ; he hardly dared to rest 
 His love on her, yet found her aye the best ; 
 Whether she smiled, or frowned, or passed him by 
 With but averted glance of her blue eye, 
 Or o'er him cast it scornful — still she seemed 
 The future queen, of whose love he had dreamed : 
 And now he knows her so ; the coming years 
 May bring him peace, or pass in bitter tears, 
 He heeds not ; for the present glowing joy 
 Is now enough : — and like the enamoured boy 
 I too, would say ' enough : ' I know not why 
 I feel to-day that I could gladly die, 
 A coward thought; and yet — and yet — it comes — 
 (Drums and trampling of many feet heard in the 
 distance.} 
 Hark ! hear you not the sound of music — drums, 
 And many voices, and the myriad tread 
 Of our brave brothers, wakened from the dead, 
 And ready to lay down their lives, and fight 
 For ever for fair freedom, and the right ?
 
 10 
 
 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. ACT I. 
 
 BUZOT. 
 
 I go to join and lead them ; so farewell. 
 
 May happiness be yours ! I cannot tell 
 
 If it be worth the having {aside), but I know 
 
 I leave all hope behind me when I go. [Exit Buzot. 
 
 ( Voices heard chanting as they march.) 
 
 Brothers, let us on, 
 
 Till our fight be won ; 
 
 Liberty before us — 
 
 Justice watching o'er us. 
 March ! let us march ! have no fear ! 
 If we die, we are free, shed no tear. 
 
 Kings who would enslave 
 
 Fall before the brave, 
 
 Traitors who would sell 
 
 Swift are sent to hell. 
 March ! let us march ! have no fear ! 
 If we die, we are free, shed no tear. 
 
 madame roland (as the last words are wafted to 
 her ear). 
 
 * March ! let us march ! have no fear ! ' 
 Ah friends, my countrymen, may I still hear 
 That soul-inspiring song, while I have breath, 
 And if it may be 'mid the shades of death, 
 (That everlasting sleep) that mortal sound 
 Can pierce the stillness, may its notes resound 
 And glad me midst my slumbers.
 
 scene in. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. u 
 
 Scene III. 
 Roland {enters hastily). 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 Bring you news ? 
 
 ROLAND. 
 
 Aye, weighty ones ; the king does now refuse 
 To recognise us, ministers : and we 
 Are cast again into the surging sea 
 Of citizens. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 Rejoice ! 'tis better so ! 
 'Twas with misgiving heart I saw you go 
 Unto that traitor's palace ; tho' I knew 
 The honour Liberty would gain thro' you, 
 And felt all the swift rapture of a choice 
 Which sought you out, the people's chosen voice 
 And Liberty's — But now there opens fair 
 A path for our Republic. 
 
 ROLAND. 
 
 I declare 
 Your burning words inspire me. When I left 
 The palace spurned, and of the title reft 
 The nation had forced on me, I did think 
 Our cause half lost, and trembling on the brink 
 Of ruin all our projects ; I perceive, 
 Since your words fell, there is no cause to grieve, 
 But rather joy ; our comrades follow me ; 
 We will receive them now : the people see
 
 12 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act i. 
 
 With grand approving eye our meetings here 
 In freedom's cause : tyrants have all to fear 
 When patriots are united. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Enter Robespierre. 
 
 robespierre {with great excitement). 
 Are you friend 
 Still, Roland? We have reached the end 
 Of life, and may give up and die. 
 Is my head upon my shoulders 
 Still ? faith I hardly know— but hark— 
 I hear them after us — alas ! 
 The tyrant's butchers ! Can you hide 
 Me here ? You hesitate— ah where 
 
 [ gazing anxiously round the room. 
 Shall I find refuge ? I can hear 
 Them now, they climb the stairs— I'm lost. 
 
 \_Slips behind a curtain. 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 Enter Buzot, Barbaroux, Camille Desmoulins, 
 etc. speaking hurriedly. 
 
 barbaroux. 
 
 The Marseillais are here ! the people shout 
 For their brave Roland, and he must come out
 
 scene IV. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 13 
 
 And show himself; they think the traitor king 
 Has murdered him perhaps — hark how they sing ! 
 
 [The Marseillaise heard chanted by hundreds of 
 voices, people shouting, drums beating, etc. 
 
 Tremblez tyrans et vous perfides, 
 
 [Madame Roland overpowered by enthusiasm seizes 
 her husband's hand and rushes out into the bal- 
 cony singing the co>iti?iuation. 
 
 Tout est soldat pour vous combattre, 
 S'ils tombent. 
 
 people {shouting). 
 
 They shall not fall — hurrah for Roland ! 
 Down with the traitor Louis ! 
 Perish all aristocrats ! 
 Down with the tyrant ! 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 
 1ST CITIZEN. 
 
 Liberty ! Liberty ! for ever ! 
 
 2ND CITIZEN. 
 
 Fraternity ! Eternal brotherhood ! 
 
 3RD CITIZEN. 
 
 Equality ! down with everybody ! 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah !
 
 14 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act i. 
 
 people (all together). 
 Liberty, Fraternity, Equality, for evermore ! 
 
 Marseillaise (continuing). 
 Marchons, qu'un sang impur, &c. 
 
 [Gradually dies away. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 
 Robespierre within the room, coming from behind the 
 
 curtain. 
 
 Robespierre (aside). 
 
 Why all this shout of Roland? who is he? 
 
 Why not for Robespierre? Seems to me 
 
 This people is most brutish in its taste ; 
 
 But still time goes, and slowly or with haste 
 
 My hour comes : the people shout for him, 
 
 And link his name with Liberty's blest hymn : 
 
 That tune shall change — I feel it shall. It must. 
 
 And she, this priestess, whom we all entrust 
 
 With our religion, she shall bow to me, 
 
 "Whom now she scorns, to me and Liberty. 
 
 (Aloud.) Dear friends, we have been rescued once 
 
 again, 
 To live for Liberty; yet 'twere no pain, 
 Methinks, to die for her. 
 
 camille (aside). 
 
 Nay, 'twere great gain 
 If thou alone could'st die ! The coward, slave 
 To his own vanity.
 
 scene vii. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 15 
 
 I Aloud sneer ingfy.) Dear friend, how brave 
 You lately have become ! Are you certain 
 You felt no qualms of fear 'neath that curtain ? 
 Or did you fight a foe ? Since walls have ears, 
 Perhaps they too have swords ! 
 
 [Exit Robespierre, casting at him a malignant 
 glance, but saying nothing. 
 
 Scene VII. 
 
 Madame Roland and Camille ; in another part of the 
 room Barbaroux and Roland, bending attentively 
 over maps and marking them. 
 
 CAMILLE. 
 
 There goes a friend 
 I would were bitterest foe, for then I dare 
 Unmask him, and in the clear eye of day 
 Show forth his vileness : morning, noon, and night, 
 Where'er we meet, or our blest watchword sounds, 
 That man's malignant eye is tracking us 
 To our destruction, while his raven voice 
 Is ever croaking ' Danger ! danger ! danger ! ' 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 Oh speak not thus ! believe me, that man's life 
 Is one long sobbing gasp ' suspicion : ' 
 'Tis a defect of nature, and must be 
 (As 'tis by nature) pardoned : for he has 
 The strongest claims upon us, freedom's love, 
 And weakness, which is anguish in her cause. 
 Oh friend, we can but struggle 'gainst our hearts,
 
 16 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act i. 
 
 Nor ever wholly conquer ! Some have souls 
 Which Romanly can strive for Roman aims ; 
 While some (alas ! and this our friend is one) 
 Can truly see their high aims from afar, 
 And longing still, yet ever stumble on 
 Against one hindrance. Trifles to the rest 
 To them are mountains, and the smallest stone 
 Appears a rock which blots out the fair skies. 
 Yet Nature pardons him, and showers down 
 The creature-loves upon him ; sister, wife, 
 All simple sweet home ties do fetter him — 
 Then surely we can suffer him, my friend. 
 
 ROLAND. 
 
 Yes : mark the boundary here, Barbaroux ; 
 From Auvergne mountains, straight unto the sea, 
 For our Republic ! We will bid farewell 
 To fickle Paris, ever surging o'er 
 With new requirements ere the old are won, 
 And with as many changes as a woman 
 While still within her teens. And you are sure 
 You know this southern people, that their heart 
 Keeps ever time with ours ; that tyrant kings, 
 Or treacherous ministers, suspicious friends, 
 Or grasping populace can never mar 
 The law of Liberty, and make her reign 
 The anarch's boast? 'Tis hard, tho', thus to leave 
 Our dearly tended hopes, and quit this place, 
 The pride of Europe, and the earth's bright eye : 
 Where aught of genius, beauty, still has birth, 
 And shines thro' the world's darkness! Yes — 'tis 
 hard.
 
 scene vii. A DREAM OF THE G1R0NDE. 17 
 
 BARBAROUX. 
 
 It is our only chance, unless Fate turns 
 
 Her Janus-face again. Let's hope she will ; 
 
 But if she does not, there are hearts as brave, 
 
 Souls genius-winged, and faces bright as here, 
 
 In my fair South. Ah, country of my heart ! 
 
 Who would not love thee? Certain, I thy son 
 
 Adore thee as the first, the blessedest, 
 
 And most deserving land for Liberty 
 
 To dwell and reign in, as in thy sons' hearts 
 
 She ever has, thro' life, thro' death, thro' hell ! 
 
 Good-bye, my friend ; a few short days will prove 
 
 If Paris or the South shall shine thro' time 
 
 With ever-brightening glory, as the throne 
 
 Of Freedom, chased round earth, and finding there 
 
 A refuge and a triumph. 
 
 (To Madame Roland.) Fare thee well, 
 Fair priestess of our goddess ! May'st though reign 
 A queen with her, or, falling, shine a star 
 To lead the unborn children on to fame, 
 When our weak dust is scattered ! Fare thee well ! 
 [Exit Barbaroux, singing as he goes. 
 
 If hope here fails, our Southern vales 
 
 Shall see us firm united ; 
 Come day, come night, we fall or fight 
 
 Till Liberty be righted. 
 
 A solemn band, with life in hand, 
 
 To give or keep all ready, 
 We firmly bare our swords, and dare 
 
 Our foe, with voices steady. 
 
 C
 
 1 8 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act i. 
 
 Where'er we roam we'll make our home 
 
 A terror to the tyrant ; 
 Then traitor, fear, but hold us dear, 
 
 Blest Liberty's aspirant. 
 
 \His voice dies away in the distance. Roland 
 continues to gaze fixedly at the marked maps, 
 then commences to write. Madame Roland. 
 with clasped hands, dreamily soliloquises. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 How strange it seems that we, who so much need 
 
 Forgiveness for our actions, should hold back 
 
 Our pardon for a weakness in a friend, 
 
 And put our base constructions on those deeds 
 
 We cannot understand, being not him, 
 
 But outside all his feelings and his soul : 
 
 How can we know the workings of his heart? 
 
 The weak spot here, the tender feeling there, 
 
 The influence of a word, a look, a sigh — 
 
 The hardness of a scar which once has bled 
 
 Until it lost all feeling ! Even Louis 
 
 Has rights on his side, and should not be hurled 
 
 From off his tottering throne, could we but see 
 
 A chance of justice for our citizens 
 
 Beneath its shadow. Ah ! the upas-tree 
 
 Is this vile Catholic Church, who ever strives 
 
 To crush all actions and all aims beyond 
 
 Her own too-narrow doors! Could we but free 
 
 Our country from the altar and the throne, 
 
 Then Liberty might blossom ; but I fear 
 
 This shedding blood to water her dry roots 
 
 Will never make her flourish.
 
 scene vii. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 19 
 
 {She pauses.) Am I right 
 
 (The doubt will come, when lonely with my soul 
 
 I commune) in thus seeking to cast down 
 
 These long-established landmarks ? Do I serve 
 
 The God I worship, when I overturn 
 
 The altar, and cast forth the canting priest 
 
 To howl his curses in a foreign land? 
 
 And am I really anxious to set up 
 
 Sublime religion of humanity 
 
 Upon the broken columns of the Church ; 
 
 And plant the holy tree of Liberty 
 
 Upon the ruins of an earthly throne? 
 
 I trust I am, but still this haunting doubt 
 
 Will backward rush, if I am quite sincere, 
 
 Or if in cobwebbed corner of my mind 
 
 There dwells some decked-out image of myself 
 
 In Liberty's blest semblance : can it be 
 
 That under all professions of high aims, 
 
 And noble thoughts, there lurks that grinning shame 
 
 Of egotism? that poison of the mind ! 
 
 Oh God, alone Thou knowest my inmost soul, 
 
 If it be pure, as Thou would'st have it pure ; 
 
 If not, oh tear the veil away from me, 
 
 And let all people see the sham I am, 
 
 That having no retreat, I straight may flee 
 
 Unto Thy feet, and weeping there may learn 
 
 To make my life and words at one with Thine .' 
 
 c 2
 
 20 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. ACT I. 
 
 Scene VIII. 
 
 Little Marie rushes in, all flushed with running, 
 flowers in her hands, and red Phrygian cap 
 upon her head. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 Come my best loved one, come my little one, 
 Come kiss thy mother's lips and charm away 
 The dark thoughts which perplex her ; come and tell 
 Me where my pet has been, and what she saw. 
 
 [Notices the red cap. 
 What hast thou on thy head, oh daughter mine? 
 Too young and innocent art thou to don 
 That sign of bloody madness. Come to me. 
 
 [ Takes the child in her arms, and throws down the 
 cap. 
 
 MARIE. 
 
 Ah mother, take these flowers ! for thee, for thee, 
 J gathered them this morning ; but oh ! see 
 They're sprinkled with red drops, and when I shrank 
 Away from them in fear, a great man said — 
 (A great man with red hair and starting eyes, 
 Who frightened me, and made me cry for thee), 
 ' Take them, oh child, 'tis dew of liberty ! 
 ( Jo, take them to thy mother, and bid her 
 Weave thee a chaplet for la guillotine.' 
 What meant he, mother? 'tis not pretty dew 
 Like we had long ago on our white flowers, 
 So sparkling in the sunbeams, and so clear ;
 
 scene viii. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 21 
 
 I like not Paris dew. I took the flowers 
 Because a woman kissed me soft, and smiled 
 To the big man, and whispered : ' Baby hands 
 Were never meant for blood/ and placed this cap 
 Upon my head with, ' Bless thee, little lamb ! ' 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 Bless thee, my little lamb ! [Kissing her. 
 
 Give me the flowers, 
 Fair Liberty has no such dew as this ; 
 No blood is on her flowers, but precious dew 
 Falls heaven-like from heaven, and makes them free 
 From this pollution. Kiss thy father, love, 
 And then to dreamland, where thy little soul 
 May roam amidst the angels' dewy flowers. 
 
 [Marie kisses Roland, who is still immersed in 
 study, then runs back to her mother coaxingly. 
 
 MARIE. 
 
 Marie is good, and wants mamma's sweet song. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 Poor little darling ! I had quite forgot ; 
 Marie shall have the song, and then to sleep. 
 
 (Sings.) 
 
 Lily-buds folded 
 
 Whisper ' good-night ; ' 
 Roses dew-laden 
 
 Turn from the light ; 
 Stars in their brightness 
 
 Gem the deep skies : 
 Close now, my darling. 
 
 Thy tired eyes.
 
 22 A DREAM OF THE GIKONDE. act I. 
 
 Angels are weaving 
 
 Dreams for thy soul, 
 While their star-chariots 
 Round the sun roll — 
 Dream, till their star-eyes close, 
 Wake not till sunlight glows. 
 
 We must be working 
 
 While thou may'st sleep, 
 And o'er thy young heart 
 
 Angels watch keep ; 
 May all love bless thee, 
 
 Keep thee from harm, 
 And God's peace hold thee 
 
 Safe from alarm ! 
 God's love down-shower 
 
 Lily-heart mild, 
 Rose-love and beauty 
 
 On my own child ! 
 Rest till the morning breaks, 
 Sleep till the bird awakes. 
 
 [T/ie Utile one's eyes gradually close, and as 
 Madame Roland very softly sings the last 
 notes she has fallen asleep. Madame Roland 
 takes her in her arms and exit.
 
 scene I. A DREAM OF THE GIA'OA'DE. 23 
 
 ACT II. 
 Scene I. — /// the Street. 
 
 Theroigne de Mericourt, S. Huruge, Rossig- 
 nol, Jourdain, &=c. 6rc, afterwa?'ds Raoul. 
 
 Theroigne in a riding habit the colour of blood, 
 a plume of the same hue upon her helmet, her 
 dark hair streaming below it, grasping in her 
 hand the sabre voted to her at the taking of the 
 Bastille, rides across the scene, followed in a few 
 moments by crowds of men, women, and children 
 and the above mentioned, all shouting and sing- 
 ing scraps of ' Ca ira,' ' Carmagnole,' and other 
 revolutio7iary songs. 
 
 THEROIGNE 
 
 [riding across the scene alone, brandishing her sabre). 
 
 To arms ! To arms ! This is the day at last 
 In which my hatred of the race shall find 
 A breast to strike at, and that breast a queen's ; 
 A queen forsooth ! a queen like unto me, 
 Whom all men scoff at, while they bow the knee! 
 Just such a queen, no more ; yet she shall feel 
 The sharpness and the anguish of this sword 
 Piercing her heart, and thro' her heart the king's. 
 Ah, how I hate these men ! the fickle worms !
 
 24 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act ii. 
 
 Now shouting ' Long-live Louis ! ' and now, ' Death 
 Unto the traitor ! ' Do they call me mad? 
 'Tis such a madness as they gave to me 
 Thro' outraged love, thro' hope's death, and thro' 
 hell ! [People appear on the scene. 
 
 theroigne (aloud to s. huruge). 
 
 And you are mad, they say, and I am mad. 
 Well, let our madness make itself a way 
 Where sanity would pause. Let's to the king : 
 Deeds we can do (our madness for a cloak) 
 Will make the sane world tremble in its path, 
 And all the blinking stars shut up their eyes 
 In horror at our madness. 
 
 ( To the People, raising her voice. ) 
 Are you sure 
 You know the project thoroughly? To-day 
 We need each one, and each one must be armed 
 Xot only with a sword, but with firm will 
 To cast all pity for the trait'rous brood 
 Away from patriot heart, and be resolved 
 To die perchance, at any rate to kill. 
 
 people shout wildly 
 
 We are resolved, 
 Lead us but on, we'll die but never pity ! 
 (Renewed shouting of) Liberty, Fraternity, Equality ! 
 Death ! Death ! Death ! 
 
 s. huruge (leading the shout). 
 
 Death ! Death ! Death ! 
 That is our watchword ; let it sound to-day
 
 scene l. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 25 
 
 In triumph o'er the ruins of that place 
 The tyrant has polluted. On, my friends ! 
 I (once a noble) cast from me the name 
 With loathing and with horror ! I am mad, 
 Yea drunk with nobles' treasons, and will strike 
 Each noble thro' the heart, were he my son. 
 Ah ! would the whole accursed race were sons 
 That I might quick destroy them ! Liberty, 
 Equality ; Fraternity are now 
 But names, tho' loud ye shout them ; but to-day 
 Shall prove their strength, and make them truths 
 indeed. \_Renewed shouting. 
 
 theroigne {hurriedly to jourdain). 
 
 Ha ! look you there, my God ! who is that man 
 Creeping and shrinking with a traitor's gait ? 
 Some dastard noble, spying for the king. 
 Drag him up here, and let the people taste 
 Their christening cup of vengeance. 
 
 [Jourdain rushes forzvard, seizes and drags the 
 disguised Raoul before Theroigne. 
 
 JOURDAIN. 
 
 Here he is ; 
 The man your vulture eye sought out to pledge 
 The people in a sacramental blood 
 As strengthening for the combat : look at him 
 And gloat o'er all his terrors, ere you pierce 
 His traitor heart. 
 
 [Raoul stands for a moment motion/ess, stupefied, 
 gazing at Theroigne, then throws himself at 
 her feet, catches her habit, and speaks quickly in 
 a low voice.
 
 26 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act ii. 
 
 RAOUL. 
 
 Can you forget the time, 
 The happy time long past, when you and I 
 Thought but of love, and wished no other thought ? 
 When innocent and sweet, you roamed the fields, 
 Made sweeter by your passing; when the stars 
 Seemed but to shine that we might be at rest 
 And dream each of the other ; when the morn 
 Brought life and gladness, and the twitt'ring bird 
 Sang at your lattice ' Love ! love ! love ! ' alone, 
 And you were satisfied ? Have you forgot ? 
 It cannot be, you must remember now ! 
 How can you, with the sweet thought of our love, 
 Pour out my blood, that this loud rav'ning mob 
 May crush the lips you kissed, and set its heel 
 Upon this heart where you once loved to rest ? 
 You must remember — save me ! save me now ! 
 
 theroigne {passionately). 
 
 Do I remember ? God ! could I forget ? 
 And happy would'st thou be could I forget, 
 And all my world I'd give, could I forget ! 
 But shame is burned into my brow with fire, 
 And Cain-brand never dies : yet thou shalt feel 
 If not th' eternal anguish that I know, 
 Yet some faint likeness. If reproach could kill 
 Eternally, it should ; if by a word, 
 One little word, the simplest ' yea,' or ' nay,' 
 I could restore thee to thy home and friends, 
 And better actions in the time to come, 
 And sweeter hopes of heaven by human love
 
 scene I. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 27 
 
 (Not passion as was ours), my tongue should cleave 
 
 Unto my mouth, and straight be torn from thence 
 
 Ere I would speak it ! Canst thou come to me, 
 
 To me, to whom the wide world is a hell, 
 
 More wretched far than hells that bigots frame ; 
 
 To me, whose simple joy in light, and air, 
 
 Bright flowers, blue skies, bird-songs, and lover's 
 
 voice, 
 And innocent home pleasures, was so great, 
 Until thou cam'st and cursed me ? Is it sin 
 Thus to revenge my father's, mother's, sighs, 
 Dying grief-stricken on their lowly hearth ; 
 My brothers', sisters', shame, that I was shamed; 
 Joy crushed from out our lives, and that sad soul 
 In me, for which Christ died, hustled away 
 From heaven's gate ; that thou perchance might feel 
 One moment all the wild beast in thee glad 
 And passion have her way ? Have I forgot ? 
 
 \Laughi11g wildly 
 Judge now ; look in my eyes ; have I forgot ? 
 
 RAOUL. 
 
 Ah The'roigne, I wronged you ! Pardon me, 
 As you may hope for pardon in God's love. 
 
 th£roigne. 
 
 ' God's love ' ! you've made me doubt it if it be ; 
 And even if it be round-clasping earth. 
 And over-shadowing mountains with its wings, 
 It cannot shelter me. Have I not sinned 
 Beyond forgiveness ? Father's, mother's curse 
 Would drag me from before the golden throne,
 
 28 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act II. 
 
 God's presence-seat, if angels bore me there ! 
 Talk not of love to me, pardon to me, 
 Whose life is one long vengeance. I shall fall 
 By these same tigers I now gorge with blood, 
 Revenge thus ever back rebounds — I know 
 It cannot last for ever ; but by heaven 
 Thou shalt not see my fall ! and in that hell 
 Thou'st made for me, thy spirit shall be first 
 To greet mine on its entrance. 
 
 RAOUL. 
 
 There's no hope ? . . . 
 I can but die then. Be it as you will : 
 The time may come when you will have out-grown 
 This childish thirst for vengeance ; as it is 
 You are not great enough — not high enough 
 To pardon: I have sinned to God and you, 
 I know and do confess it ; you can kill 
 My body and take vengeance on my flesh, 
 But for my soul I have it in His care ; 
 And if that hell you rave of be as deep 
 As your revenge, He yet can rescue me, 
 And make a ladder of His punishments 
 For my soiled soul to climb by. Strike me now ! 
 [Theroigne hesitates; Rossignol, coming for- 
 ward scoffingly. 
 
 ROSSIGNOL. 
 
 What ! our fair Lie'goise struck dumb by him ! 
 Where is her courage? Where? Is he her love, 
 This milk-faced traitor? That he did her wrong 
 Seems now his boast ; no doubt his heaven's pledge :
 
 scene I. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 29 
 
 God is no sans-culotte, and noble's joys 
 Must be provided, let who suffer may : 
 The ewe-lamb of the people must be slain 
 And garnished gaily for the noble's feast, 
 While God looks on, and angels deck the board : 
 We want no noble's god ! Strike down the man, 
 And let his blood a morning offering be 
 To freedom, brothers ! Strike him ! down with him ! 
 [A himdred knives are pushed forward. Raoul 
 falls lifeless in a pool of blood ; Theroigne 
 watches him fall, and then turns to Rossignol. 
 
 th£roigne. 
 
 Am I struck dumb by him ? This day will show ! 
 Come, pledge me in his blood ! 
 
 [She dips her hand into the pool of blood and touches 
 it with her lips. 
 
 Such was my hate 
 For him, my Judas, could I sip each drop 
 'Twould be to me as nectar, did he feel 
 The anguish of a death drawn slowly out : 
 I'd give my soul to torment thro' all time 
 To gain it him, were Paradise for me 
 With him to share it ! Now I'm mad indeed ; 
 Let us not talk, his blood has made me fierce 
 For Louis' blood. 
 
 [She gallops on, followed by the crowd.
 
 30 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act II. 
 
 Scene II. — The Tuileries, a room opening out of 
 
 another. 
 
 louis {alone). 
 
 Alas ! alas ! life seems some baleful dream ! 
 
 I feel this nightmare of the mind must end 
 
 Or life shall cease for me ; I cannot live 
 
 Thus ; ever thinking when the sun dawns fair 
 
 • To-day will be the last : ' — and yet it goes 
 
 (Ah God, how slowly !) and the anguished hours 
 
 Drag themselves on, and still I live, and still 
 
 I suffer, as none suffered, sure, before. 
 
 What have I done ? What direful sin in me 
 
 Calls down such vengeance on my erring heart ? 
 
 I know not, and my holy Catholic Church 
 
 Finds no fault in me. Show me, oh my God ! 
 
 Where is my crime, that I may cast it out, 
 
 And save my queen and children from this hour, 
 
 This ever-growing hour of shame and woe. — 
 
 Was I not born a king ? and now they say 
 
 (These rabble sans-culottes) because my sire 
 
 Bequeathed to me a crown, it is my sin 
 
 That I have worn it in the time gone by 
 
 As 'twere not their good gift ; their gift, forsooth ! 
 
 What can they know of God-anointed kings 
 
 Heaven sends to curb their humours, and keep down 
 
 This base-born rabble in its native mud — 
 
 God sends them to obey, and us to reign ; 
 
 They envy what's beyond them ; could they teach 
 
 Me all their meanness and coarse thoughts, and oaths, 
 
 Then might I reign in peace, the nation's king,
 
 sCExNEii. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 31 
 
 As Roland is its minister. 'Fore God, 
 
 Feather than yield one inch of royal grace, 
 
 I'll shed my royal blood ! and they shall see 
 
 Their tortures have not tamed me, while their crime 
 
 Shall bring them vengeance from all kings on earth, 
 
 And the Great King in heav'n, who sent me here, 
 
 Me, His anointed, to defend His church. . . . 
 
 And yet, my wife, my children — what for you 
 
 Remains were I to fall ? can I not save 
 
 You from these traitors ? I would glad submit 
 
 For your dear sakes — if need be, I must feign 
 
 Submission for the time — would I were dead, 
 
 Ere, shamed and scoffed at by my father's slaves, 
 
 I, Louis, stoop to falsehood ! And God knows 
 
 I've ever borne this people in my heart, 
 
 And sought their good, if not their liberties : 
 
 Could I have giv'n them bread, how willingly 
 
 Should corn have ripened o'er the land's wide plain, 
 
 And hunger never seeded to revolt ; 
 
 'Twas not my fault ; I never took their food, 
 
 Or burned their houses, or laid waste their fields, 
 
 Or tore their daughters from their cottage homes 
 
 To my embraces ; no ; I never wronged 
 
 One man of all the nation, and yet now 
 
 They seek my death, with outcries fierce for blood 
 
 Of all my house, more innocent than I. 
 
 \_He sighs deeply, rests his head on his hands and 
 appears sunk in thought, and quite oblivious of 
 the shouts and curses which have begun to echo 
 round the palace, as the crowd, led by S. Huruge, 
 Theroigne, etc., march up and surround it, 
 pouring in at every opening; at length they begin
 
 32 A DREAM OF THE G1R0NDE. act n. 
 
 to batter the door with cries of ' Where is the 
 Tyrant ? ' ' Show us the Austrian Woman ! ' 
 
 louis (starting up to tiuo lackeys who wait in the 
 adjoining room). 
 
 Throw the doors open ; let the rabble see 
 I fear them not ; throw the doors open wide ! 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 He folds his arms, and advances to the excited 
 mob as the doors are thrown open. 
 
 LOUIS. 
 
 You called for me, my people ? here I am ! 
 Behold me, Louis, King of France and you ! 
 The doors are open, enter then and see 
 Your monarch and your father. 
 
 jourdain (furiously). 
 
 Fear you not ? 
 A hundred swords are thirsting for your blood ; 
 A hundred knives are trembling in the hands 
 Of your would-be assassins. 
 
 louis (calmly). 
 
 Fear? Why fear? 
 I feel no fear ; what cause have I to fear 
 While standing 'midst my people ? Here I am,
 
 SCENE in. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 33 
 
 Your king: — the hundred swords may drink my blood. 
 And then ? why then they in their turn drink yours 
 For leading them to mine. — I fear you not. 
 
 [People shout ' Down with the Veto ! ' The- 
 
 roigne rushes in, pressed forward by the croivd 
 
 surging on. 
 
 THEROIGNE. 
 
 Where is the traitor Louis ? Let my sword 
 (Won on the Bastille, where his tyrant will 
 Did patriot hearts to death, and where the tree 
 Of Liberty now blooms), let my sword pierce 
 His coward heart, and hers, and all the brood. 
 Oh Jezebel of France, thine hour is come ! 
 Thy blood shall be poured out before all men, 
 And this thine Ahab, led to crime by thee, 
 Be witness, and be sharer in thy shame. 
 
 LOU 1 s (confronting her) . 
 What have I done to thee, that thou dost thirst 
 To sheathe thy sword in innocent pure hearts 
 Of women and of children ? Let me learn 
 The crime which drives thee, young and fair thyself. 
 In madness to cast down thy sex and age 
 And league thyself with murder. Drop thy sword, 
 Oh woman ! those white fingers should be kissed 
 By lover's warm lips, not by sword's cold steel ; 
 Thy wondrous beauty should fill hearts with joy, 
 Not lash them into madness. 
 
 THEROIGNE. 
 
 Drop my sword ! 
 I'll cling to it, the one thing left to me, 
 
 u
 
 34 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act II. 
 
 Till death takes both ! — Thou art a traitor, thou — 
 Seek not with soft fair words to turn my wrath 
 (My wrath against mankind) from thy false breast, 
 I strike for Liberty ! For vengeance ! — 
 
 [Strikes out furiously ; one of the officers who have 
 now joined the king pushes up her arm, and she 
 is forced back by the advancing crowd. 
 
 rossignol {handing up a Phrygian cap on the top of a 
 
 pike). 
 
 If thou indeed art king, and lovest us, 
 Put on the people's colours ; crown thyself 
 With Liberty's insignia. 
 
 [Louis takes the cap and places it on his head ; 
 shouts of 1 Long live the king ! ' immediately re- 
 sound through the room. 
 
 LOUIS. 
 
 Oh my friends ! 
 Did you but know my heart, you soon would see 
 Your colours there ; your wishes graven there ! 
 
 \ Cries from below in the gardens, 'Strike down 
 the tyrant ! ' ' Throw down his head ! ' etc. A 
 beggar passes up a bottle. 
 
 BEGGAft. 
 
 An Louis loves us, let him drink to us. 
 
 LOUIS {takes the bottle and drinks fearlessly). 
 
 I drink the people's health, and may they learn 
 How dear and precious to their patriot king 
 Is their good health and comfort. — Your good health ! 
 [Renewed shouts of ' Long live King Louis the
 
 scene iv. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 35 
 
 people's king !' The crowd opens, and makes way 
 
 respectfully for Petion with escort of National 
 Guards. Petion hastening to the king's side. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 PETION. 
 
 I trust, Sire, you are safe ; I but now heard 
 Of this tumultuous greeting, and came fast 
 To bid your lieges .... 
 
 louis (haughtily interrupting him). 
 
 Peace ! I want no words 
 To speak your service ; words are more than vain 
 When actions contradict them. — Do your will, 
 But prate not of your loyalty to me. 
 
 [Turns away. 
 
 petion (addressing the mob who begin to retire, and 
 make way for him). 
 
 I, Petion, do request you for the law 
 Disperse, and to your homes ; the time goes fast, 
 And evening shades draw on ; return then now ; 
 Your mission is accomplished, and the king 
 Has personally heard, and strongly pledged 
 Himself to your petition. Citizens, 
 I pray you leave the palace and return 
 As you did come, for Liberty and law ; 
 Not for revenge, or personal small aims, 
 But with all moderation, to make clear 
 
 d 2
 
 36 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act II. 
 
 Your wishes to the king : those wishes heard, 
 Disperse, ere it be said your patriot aim 
 Was not for Liberty, and right and truth, 
 But for sedition, pillage, robbery — 
 I, Petion, do request you to disperse 
 In the name of law, and your assembly. 
 
 [Cries of' Long live Potion !' ' Hurrah for Law 
 and Liberty ! ' People gradually disperse. 
 
 Scene V. 
 Petion and Louis. 
 
 PETION. 
 
 You now are free, Sire ; what are your commands ? 
 
 louis {bitterly). 
 
 'Twas not your fault I am not free indeed, 
 
 Free from the life your friends have made a curse. 
 
 Commands ? I take them— I have none to give — 
 
 My one command is (and that one a prayer 
 
 Since I cannot enforce it), leave me now, 
 
 If possible, in peace. 
 
 petion. 
 
 Sire, I am gone. 
 [Exeunt Petion and National Guards. 
 
 louis {alone). 
 
 Where is the queen ? I trust that I alone 
 Was favoured by this greeting, ' for the law ' —
 
 scene vi. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 37 
 
 The law of base desires, the devil's law, 
 To judge it by its fruits. — I'll to the queen. 
 
 [Exit Louis. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 
 The Queen in a bow window, a heavy table rolled 
 in front of her for protection, on which is seated 
 the Dauphin with the Phrygian cap on his head, 
 the Princess leaning close against the Queen who 
 has her arm round her. Everything in disorder, 
 tables and chairs overturned — carpets torn up, pictures 
 scattered over the floor — the Queen striving to appear 
 calm but with tears in her eyes. Princess de Lam- 
 balle returning from looking out of the door. 
 
 PRINCESS DE LAMBALLE. 
 
 They've gone at last, my queen ; the last foul face 
 Has passed your royal doors ; and now in peace 
 You can repose and weep. 
 
 [Marie Antoinette comes from behind the table 
 and throws herself into an armchair. 
 
 My queen ! My queen ! 
 
 {Passionately weeping). 
 Ah ! could I bear this shame and agony, 
 So that thy royal head might ne'er be bowed, 
 How willingly I would ! My queen ! my queen ! 
 Would that my love for thee a shield might be 
 To quench their hatred, and beat back their scorn ! 
 Oh could this breast receive blows aimed at thee, 
 'Twould count them kisses. Oh my queen ! my queen ! 
 [She throws her arms round her and kisses her.
 
 38 A DREAM OF THE GIKONDE. act ii. 
 
 Scene VII. 
 
 Enter Louis, the Phrygian cap still on his head ; 
 the Queen rises and Louis receives her in his 
 arms ; the Children press close to them. 
 
 LOUIS. 
 
 Ah Madame, you are safe then ! God be praised ! 
 But why this desolation ? Did they come 
 (This rebel people) with threats for your ears 
 And trait'rous cries ? My God ! Why did I bring 
 You from your fatherland to share my crown ! 
 A crown of misery — had I but known .... 
 
 [Stops overcome. 
 
 marie Antoinette {tenderly). 
 
 Dear Louis, speak not thus : I would not change 
 Our danger if I could, so it be ' ours,' 
 Not ' mine,' or ' thine,' but ' ours : ' — we are alone 
 When 'mine' or 'thine' comes first, but 'ours' sounds 
 
 sweet 
 E'en now — the bitter-sweet they've left to us. 
 
 (Sees the Phrygian cap upon his head.) 
 ( )h Louis, cleanse thy brow from that foul sign, 
 The image of revolt, of treason, death — 
 And worse than death, dishonour— tear it off 
 And trample it. — Ah heaven ! on my child 
 I see its sign of blood. 
 
 {Tears it off the Dauphin's head, and tramples it 
 underfoot. 
 
 Can I forget 
 The poisoned words of him who placed it there ?
 
 scene vii. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 39 
 
 Words I can ne'er repeat, and ne'er forgive, 
 They're branded on my soul ! That I, a queen, 
 A woman, should be forced by coward slaves 
 And rebels such as these, to hear my name 
 Made filthy by their lips — marred by their thoughts — 
 And dragged thro' deeds I dreamed not of ! A wife 
 Abused by that dear name (most tender, sweet, 
 And holy of all names), which I have striven, 
 As best I knew, to keep as lily-pure 
 As when it first was mine — a child reviled 
 Because of her proud lineage ! Oh my friend, 
 Unutterable words I've heard to-day, 
 An Austrian, a wife, can ne'er forgive ! 
 My heart is sore with bearing — I must rest, 
 Or weak flesh will betray me ; I shall quail 
 Beneath the hating eyes which hunt me down 
 And count each hard-wrung tear a triumph pearl 
 To deck their envy with : poor triumph, theirs — 
 To force the Austrian's tears from her sad eyes 
 For country lost — love lost — all lost — would life 
 Were lost with all the rest ! — Farewell to you ; 
 Yield not one step ; we all must die at last, 
 'Twill be but sooner. — Struggle to the end ! 
 
 \Exeunt Queen, Children, and Lamballe. 
 
 Scene VIII. 
 
 louis {alone). 
 Why did I bring her from her happy home 
 So lovely and so proud ? I can recall
 
 4 o A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act ii. 
 
 When first a bride she flashed thro' all the land 
 
 'Mid glimmering jewels, drums, and triumph shouts — 
 
 All people loving her for her fair face 
 
 And gracious words — a blessing and a crown 
 
 To this gay land, and me ; and now to-day, 
 
 Instead of those blithe shouts, and merry jests, 
 
 A cursing from all mouths, and swords upraised 
 
 To pierce our helpless bosoms. Ah my God, 
 
 ' Thy ways are not our ways ' ! I cannot tell 
 
 If this be sent me for my sins gone-by, 
 
 Or crimes of my fore-fathers (pauses). It is past 
 
 For this once more ; the death-wave has rolled back, 
 
 And left us stranded ; but another tide 
 
 Will bear us from all landmarks far away 
 
 Into the surging ocean of revolt, 
 
 Which knows no bounds or fetters but — a grave. 
 
 [Covers his face with his clasped hands and leans 
 forward on the table overcome with sadness.
 
 scene I. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 41 
 
 ACT III. 
 Scene I. 
 
 A Wood near Paris, sunlight and shadow amidst the 
 trees. Barbaroux and Camille Desmoulins 
 walking. 
 
 BARBAROUX. 
 
 How lovely Nature seems after the din 
 Of rival factions ! how her beauty falls, 
 Like dew in summer, on our weary hearts 
 Made thirsty, and worn sore by constant strain, 
 In clanging Paris ! Almost I could cast 
 The crown of fame I strive for to the winds, 
 And grasp the poet's crown of fresh green leaves 
 I feel within my reach. We are not one, 
 Friend, in our aims, but in our poets' joy 
 We are united, and fair Nature's voice 
 Speaks to our hearts alike, and speaks to-day. 
 
 CAMILLE. 
 
 What ! Barbaroux, my firebrand of the South ! 
 Is that thy voice, which speaks of poets' joys, 
 Despising heroes' ? Can it be indeed 
 The daring man who summoned from Marseilles 
 The Revolution's spirit and its song ?
 
 42 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE, act in. 
 
 BARBAROUX. 
 
 ' How well and wisely spake the Christ of old 
 
 " Ye cannot serve two masters ; " that will hold 
 
 While the world lasts • if love we choose to serve 
 
 We must resign all else, and strain each nerve 
 
 To do her bidding ; but if we aspire 
 
 To Godlike intellect, that divine fire 
 
 Crowning the grand art-heights, and hope to reach 
 
 The summit of all glory, we must teach 
 
 Our hearts to beat responsive to no touch 
 
 Of earth, or earth's allurements, we must clutch 
 
 Our nature, nor release, till pale and dead 
 
 It takes each hue of art, and passive led 
 
 Drags no more backward to the joys behind 
 
 Whose voices faintly reach us down the wind 
 
 As upward still we climb, and never rest 
 
 (Or dream of resting) on a dearer breast 
 
 Than earth's, which greets us coldly at the last 
 
 When art is realised, for life is past ! ' 
 
 So wrote a poet once ; he felt its truth 
 
 As I feel it to-day ; and yet I know 
 
 I still shall join the combat, and shall strive 
 
 As I have striven before. — Ah Camille ! thou 
 
 Canst understand this weakness, and dost know 
 
 Our actions seldom show the best in us, 
 
 But only passion's strength in mastery : 
 
 What's loveliest is weakest in our souls. 
 
 CAMILLE. 
 
 Dear friend, I catch your meaning, and I know 
 Your actions noble as the heart which prompts,
 
 SCENE i. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 43 
 
 Though I, a poet, feel my poet's soul 
 
 All glorious in the combat for our rights ; 
 
 I triumph in the battle, and could shout 
 
 My song of triumph as the traitors fall 
 
 And Liberty blooms free ! No vain regrets 
 
 Hold back my hand from grasping the sharp sword 
 
 And piercing traitor hearts. I feel inspired 
 
 To fight and sing together, as they fall ; 
 
 But there are voiceless poets, whose deep souls 
 
 Can ne'er express one half the mystery 
 
 They find in their own depths, so silently 
 
 Make their life sing, what words are weak to say ; 
 
 The greatest are like this, and you are one ; 
 
 But your life speaks, a glorious burning speech, 
 
 A hymn of Liberty, which we can hear, 
 
 And carry in our hearts, and combat for ! 
 
 BARBAROUX. 
 
 Your words describe not me, but speak of her, 
 Our voice, our inspiration ! at whose side 
 Cowards grow brave, and traitors become true ; 
 Our own fair Roland, noblest, truest, best 
 Of all her sex ; the strongest and most free, 
 The emblem of our faith — of Liberty ! 
 
 CAMILLE. 
 
 The thought of her inspires us, each and all, 
 To combat to the end, with voice, and sword, 
 And life, and deed — her presence goes before 
 Like fiery cloud, and leads us ever on, 
 Nor hell nor devil bar our victory. 
 
 \They turn towards Paris.
 
 44 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act hi. 
 
 BARBAROUX. 
 
 This silence is not healthy ; I misgive 
 This most unusual silence ; these last weeks 
 Our Paris has scarce breathed ; 'twill prove, I trust, 
 The calm before the thunder, cleansing quick 
 With mighty force the creeping pestilence, 
 Then passing into peace ; not the fierce storm 
 Which sweeps o'er earth destroying, nor takes count 
 Of its own ravage, seeking but to slay. 
 
 CAMILLE. 
 
 This Paris, once let loose, will rage, I fear, 
 
 With boundless ruin : throne and altar down, 
 
 It will attack its leaders ; — but who fears ? 
 
 We shall at least have triumphed, and the end 
 
 We have no power to see, and no desire. 
 
 We struggle to surmount the jagged cliff 
 
 Of popular favour, that most giddy height, 
 
 Yet still surmountable to clinging hands, 
 
 And hearts resolved to conquer ; but beware ! 
 
 Look not behind, the precipice below 
 
 Will chill thy courage, paralyse thy strength, 
 
 And cast thee shuddering down the dread abyss 
 
 Passed safely if not thought of : tremble not, 
 
 Who trembles falls — but who with stedfast eye 
 
 Looks up unshrinking, he shall reach the heights, 
 
 And victory shall crown him at the top ! — 
 
 The present is my god : I would be free 
 
 From king and church, that won — then — then — why 
 
 then — 
 
 We'll think what more to strive for. 
 
 [They enter Paris.
 
 scene ii. A DREAM OF THE G1R0NDE. 45 
 
 See, my friend, 
 Our sleeping breathless Paris hath awaked 
 From her short slumber ; hear the cries and shouts ! 
 Some deed is doing I were loth to lose. 
 Come, let us hasten. [They pass on rapidly. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 A Street in Paris ; crowd appear bearing a bullock's 
 heart pierced, with the inscription ' Aristocrat's 
 heart.' People shouting ' Down with the tyrant ! ' 
 ' Long live Roland ! ' ' Robespierre, the people's 
 friend, for ever ! ' 
 
 CAMILLE. 
 
 Who shouts for Roland and Robespierre ? 
 I shout with you, but wherefore shout to-day ? 
 
 1ST CITIZEN. 
 
 Where have you come from, that you do not know ? 
 
 2ND CITIZEN. 
 
 You must be traitor since you do not know. 
 
 3RD CITIZEN. 
 
 His face speaks treason, strike the traitor down ! 
 
 camille (drawing his sword). 
 
 What, citizens ! I, Camille, I your friend, 
 
 And you not know me ? Shame upon your eyes,
 
 46 A DREAM OF THE GTRONDE. act hi. 
 
 So blinded, you forget your faithful friends ! 
 
 Shame on you, shame ! Throw down your swords, or I 
 
 Will hew them from your hands. 
 
 1ST CITIZEN. 
 
 It is a friend. 
 
 2ND CITIZEN. 
 
 Why ! our brave Camille, here's long life to thee, 
 Our patriot poet ! If our eyes were dim, 
 'Twas blindness from the traitor. 
 
 [Crowd passes on with renewed shouting. 
 
 Scene III. 
 Roland's House, interior. Roland, Madame Roland. 
 
 ROLAND. 
 
 I still fear 
 This Paris must be left, and in the South 
 Our withered Liberty take root again ; 
 The people sleep, and in their dreamless rest 
 Seem to forget that slumber must mean death 
 To those on precipice of tyrant's faith : — 
 ' Down with the Veto ! ' has now died away 
 Into grim silence, and the tyrant's star 
 Seems brightening in its course for the eclipse 
 It suffered with that cry. Could we unite, 
 We well might dare the world, with all its kings, 
 Its armies, and its pride, to cast us down, 
 But as it is, I tremble. Robespierre
 
 scene iv. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 47 
 
 Keeps his ideas so secret, friend or foe 
 
 Ne'er know his object ; when his speech seems fair 
 
 Tis but to mask its depth. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 Fear not, my friend, 
 He is with us, I feel it ; did we not 
 Save him when threatened? how then could he cast 
 Suspicion over us ? His only fault 
 Is that one weakness, he is true as steel 
 To Liberty and us — but hear those shouts, 
 They sound not like deep slumber ; 'tis thy name 
 I hear them shout, and his, in concert too, 
 A happy omen. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 People appear under the windows, shouting 
 ' Long live Roland and Robespierre ! ' 
 ' Hurrah for Danton ! ' ' Liberty , Equality, 
 Fraternity ! ' ' Down with all tyrants ! ' Buzot 
 rushes in hurriedly. 
 
 BUZOT. 
 
 Roland, they shout for you ; 
 The patriot ministry is back recalled — 
 The people joy — all parties are at one — 
 Show thyself now ; the tyrant is deposed 
 And lodged within the Temple ! show thyself. 
 
 [Roland goes to the window. Renewed shouting 
 as before.
 
 48 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act in. 
 
 ROLAND. 
 
 Thanks, friends and citizens ! you make me proud 
 
 To hear my humble name resounding clear 
 
 With sacred Liberty's : I firmly trust 
 
 They e'er may be united, — that my deeds 
 
 Be lighted ever by those triple lamps 
 
 I bear within my heart. [Great shouting. 
 
 Yet, one more word : 
 I would beseech you conquering people, 
 As ye have triumphed, be ye merciful 
 In your great triumph ; let it ne'er be said 
 The sons of Liberty forgot their queen, 
 And trampled on the banner they had raised ; 
 Shed not your brothers' blood ; be merciful, 
 And raise those brothers, erring in the dark, 
 Not crush them in their darkness ; brothers still, 
 Brothers in blood and heart, they are to you. 
 Oh let that blessed light shine in their eyes, 
 The light ye joy in, in their darkened eyes, 
 That they may clearly see ; and never hurl 
 (Because they're blinded) deeper gloom on them. 
 I pray you now, dear friends, be pitiful ! 
 If ye can trust my words — be pitiful ! 
 If I have served you well — be pitiful ! 
 In Liberty's blest name — be pitiful ! 
 'Tis the one lesson I would fain teach you, 
 "Who gloriously can combat, who can die, 
 Nor murmur nor shrink back, can give your blood, 
 Your sons, your land, your all, for Liberty — 
 Oh Roman people, struggling for your rights, 
 And conquering as ye must, be pitiful !
 
 SCENE v. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 
 
 49 
 
 Tis my last word, your service calls me now : 
 Farewell brave citizens, be pitiful ! 
 
 [Roland bows and retires. People 'continue shout- 
 ing, then gradually retire. 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 Roland coming back from the window. Enter D anton, 
 Robespierre, Brissot, &>c. Madame Roland, 
 Buzot as before. 
 
 DANTON. 
 
 Roland, you've heard the news? United now 
 All parties march together — on — on — on — 
 Till naught remains to conquer, none to die ! 
 No power can curb us, no power but our walls. 
 Hurrah for our Republic ! let the name 
 Be shouted till the echo, speaking it, 
 Gives forth no other tone — until each tongue 
 Grows weary with the utt'rance and forgets 
 All other forms of speech — until the names 
 King, monarchy, and treason, have no sense, 
 And yield no meaning to the intellect : 
 Hurrah for our Republic ! now at last 
 I can breathe openly ; all other thoughts 
 Of Louis' fate, the war, our private aims, 
 Can be deferred : triumphantly we'll shout 
 That magic name Republic ! far and wide 
 Its glory shall be seen, we'll swift convert 
 The whole dull world to our great Liberty ! 
 What matter thousands falling ? their red blood
 
 5 o A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act ill. 
 
 Will make the plains more fertile, and send up 
 
 A stronger, greener, tree of Liberty. 
 
 Mow down the fruitless ears, and clear the grain 
 
 From useless growing weeds, which suck the fields 
 
 Dry, for their uselessness, and leave the corn 
 
 All with'ring in the sun-glare— mow them down ; 
 
 Let no false pity for the sickly things 
 
 Urge us to spare them : — mow them swiftly down, 
 
 And clear a path across their fallen stems 
 
 For our Republic's passage. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 Nay, my friend ; 
 Our blessed new Republic scarce will pass 
 With tender feet across such bloody paths : 
 How would her beauteous face be marred and wan, 
 Her glory crushed away, and that pure brow 
 Star-crowned, be lowered, low as human hearts, 
 When they can stoop to vengeance ! To forgive, 
 To pity, pardon — should be her high aims, 
 Not to cut down the erring ; will the world 
 Receive as goddess, she, who ruthlessly 
 Tears up the strong roots of her smiling flowers, 
 Useless perhaps, in contrast with the corn, 
 And yet to those whose souls can pierce below 
 The shell of things, and note the mind beneath, 
 More useful than the grain — that can but feed 
 This human nature, this poor body's lust, 
 Which perishes so soon ; but they lift up 
 The spirit of our souls, and heaven-high 
 Raise our weak nature (not but nourish it 
 At present height), and by their beauty-crown 
 Mingle the usual in the infinite.
 
 SCENE v. A DREAM OF THE G MONDE. 51 
 
 ROBESPIERRE. 
 
 To talk in poetry is doubtless good ; 
 
 But to my mind the abstract should be sunk 
 
 Into the depths of present need and act. 
 
 'Tis not what we would wish, or love, or gain, 
 
 Or what in pure philosophy should live ; 
 
 Or what ideal republics might be made ; 
 
 But what the people need, what we can do 
 
 For their deliv'rance ; — not what should be done 
 
 By raising human nature to the stars, 
 
 But what our present nature leaves to us, 
 
 That seems to me the question ; we are men, 
 
 [Turning to Madame Roland. 
 And you speak only from your woman heart 
 In urging us to pity. I am one 
 Who turn most woman-like from sight of blood, 
 And shrink to doom e'en traitors unto death. 
 But 'tis not question now of ' like ' or ' leave,' 
 The vermin in our path must be crushed down, 
 Or they will turn and rend us. No man's death 
 Or woman's sorrow shall be due to us 
 Unless from strict necessity, to clear 
 The path for our Republic ; then indeed 
 Tremble the traitors who would stay our course ! 
 We'll mow them down by thousands, yea the earth 
 Shall be once more a void, before we pause. 
 
 BRISSOT. 
 
 You speak, Robespierre, as you ever spoke, 
 A patriot clear and true ; no other thought 
 Dwells in your mind but Liberty ; we know 
 
 e 2
 
 52 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act in. 
 
 How faithful you have been, and still will be : 
 For traitors in our path, let them beware, 
 We'll hurl them from us swiftly ; but I hold 
 We're strong enough to pardon, and to wait 
 Till slow conviction drives the mist away 
 From brothers' hearts, and lets in that clear light 
 Which glads our own. 
 
 ROLAND. 
 
 My own opinion 
 But now given to the people ; mercy yet 
 Is only justice ; let the present show 
 Our new Republic's beauty ; — soon these men 
 Who horror-struck recoil, will swift return 
 And join us, brothers in the victory. 
 The battle is half won, now we again 
 Stand firm united, and with close-clasped hands 
 And eyes straight gazing into brother-eyes 
 Together grasp the problem ; we are strong 
 In all that makes men strong, firm faith and trust 
 In our Republic, courage to cast down 
 Our present good for future weal of her ; 
 Then being strong, let us be merciful ; 
 Not merciful as fools are merciful, 
 Who spare the serpent coiling round their throats, 
 Or merciful as cowards, who refrain 
 From casting from them traitors, lest they turn 
 And randomly strike home ; no : merciful 
 As Romans knew of mercy, ere the lust 
 Of blood (which grows in shedding) filled their hearts 
 And choked out reason's voice, and so they fell.
 
 scene v. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 53 
 
 BUZOT. 
 
 Oh Roman Roland, wisely dost thou speak ! 
 
 My voice with thine for mercy, while we dare 
 
 Together banded, scoff at threats and woes : 
 
 Our dawning life in future shall not be 
 
 The conqueror's lust of old ; no : we will prove 
 
 The greatness of our end by stooping low 
 
 And gath'ring the crushed bloom from out the dust 
 
 To crown our goddess' brows ; all nature's heart 
 
 Shall be at one with ours, well count her throbs 
 
 By listening to our own, her blissful throbs 
 
 When springing swift the tender violet, 
 
 And dewy gleaming lily lie revealed, 
 
 And show her thoughts ; while reveries of grass 
 
 And high dreams of fair trees, adorn the world, 
 
 And wake in poets echoes of their birth 
 
 In mighty soul of Nature : — can we not 
 
 In such wise make our thoughts, our dreams, our 
 
 aims 
 Outblossom for the people ? and lose count 
 Of pardon or of vengeance ? I misgive 
 This constant argument ; can we not strive 
 O'er-looking those who soul-straight combat us, 
 Not crying traitors simply, but by deeds 
 Swift showing them their treasons, while we still 
 March on, not pausing to cut down ; too great 
 The lion is to heed the sting of flies, 
 But children weary and strike out their fists 
 To slay the puny terror, not seeing clear 
 The truth of higher minds : ' Who suffers calm 
 Is victor, while he suffers ! ' Oh my friends,
 
 54 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act hi. 
 
 Are we not like the lion ? we can bear 
 And live beyond this petty ' treason ' cry 
 (The children's terror, not the lion's fear). 
 Is our Republic founded in our hearts 
 Or merely in our voices ? All can shout 
 Her blessed name, but time shows who can bear 
 Her image undefiled thro' tears and blood, . 
 Her white-enwrapping robe unstained, untorn, 
 Thro' fire of treason — murder — sacrilege. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 You tell my heart-thoughts, Buzot, I can hear 
 
 In your clear voice my inmost mind expressed ; 
 
 Yes, Nature is our worship, and like her 
 
 We should, with tender dew and falling rain 
 
 Of pitying sufferance to misguided hearts, 
 
 Make manifest our love ; she does not choose, 
 
 Alone, the highest types to work upon 
 
 And glory by their growing ; she creates 
 
 A wondrous chain of being, stretching wide 
 
 From earth's fair dawn till now, when gleaming sun, 
 
 Lighting the dimness, shows the fading forms 
 
 Of shadows, held realities in the dark : 
 
 This wondrous chain of being cast across 
 
 The mist of ages, vanishes at last 
 
 In lowest form of scarcely breathing life, 
 
 Which yet exists ; while the slow-growing chain 
 
 Develops calm-browed heroes, poets crowned, 
 
 Philosophers sublime, and all the race 
 
 Holds best and noblest in the chain of life, 
 
 And, ever-lengthening while the ages roll 
 
 Their stately march, will coil thro' boundless space
 
 SCENE vi. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 55 
 
 Until it reach the star-heights that we see 
 
 And dream in gazing of infinity ! 
 
 Our souls feel in such moments that their home 
 
 Lies far beyond the present, that its joys, 
 
 Its arguments, and questions, touch them not, 
 
 Or only brush in passing ; that they wing 
 
 Their flight (the chain completed) there to shine 
 
 As stars among the stars ! Sure 'tis enough 
 
 To wither all low motives, to believe, 
 
 And feel the surety in our inmost minds 
 
 When calmly we gaze there, that such a fate 
 
 Awaits our human nature, that each one 
 
 May help the march triumphant to the stars, 
 
 By self-development and fitness for 
 
 The crowning future. . . . But who enters now ? 
 
 Scene VI. 
 
 Enter Camille Desmoulins and Barbaroux, 
 afterwards Chamfort, who comes in silently 
 and unnoticed until he speaks. Camille aside 
 to Barbaroux as they enter. 
 
 camille. 
 
 Robespierre and Danton here again ! 
 
 What tempest can have wrecked them, that they 
 
 come 
 To shelter calmly 'neath the Gironde's wing, 
 And join their voice with ours? We now shall hear 
 The meaning of those patriots whe were loth
 
 56 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. ACT III. 
 
 To leave my head upon its native stem, 
 
 But offered it a pike to rest upon, 
 
 Improving Nature ! 
 
 {Aloud.) Greet you citizens ! 
 
 Is it permitted that I, too, should know 
 
 The object of your meeting, and the cause 
 
 Ut this blithe gath'ring of long sever'd friends 
 
 I joy to see once more ? We've but now come 
 
 From wand'ring, dreaming, in the laughing woods, 
 
 And met a crowd of patriots who were fain 
 
 To send us seeking with their ready pikes 
 
 A path for dreams behind the gate of death, 
 
 Robespierre {aside). 
 
 This dreaming Gironde maunder all alike 
 
 Of dreams, and stars, and flowers. I hate this cant ! 
 
 They seek to veil behind their high-pitched shrieks 
 
 Of nature — beauty — love — their thirst for power, 
 
 The Gironde power alone, no one to share 
 
 Its shadow or its substance ; — for this time 
 
 I must dissemble, but the people soon 
 
 Will know its true friends from its dreaming ones, 
 
 Then shall these poets find their life a dream. — 
 
 {Aloud.) You will regret, friend, dreaming in the 
 
 woods, 
 When you hear this day's triumph ; as morn broke 
 The nation rose in Paris with one voice, 
 And surging to the Palace, forced the King 
 (A king no more when this speech shall be done) 
 To fly regardless, — massacred all those 
 Who rashly stood 'tween tiger and his prey, 
 And lodging Louis and his family
 
 scene vi. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 57 
 
 Within the Temple's hoary, time-worn walls, 
 Blotted the monarchy beneath a storm 
 Of traitor's blood for ever out of sight, 
 Destroyed the name of king, and leaves us now 
 To steel our minds to justice, on his head, 
 This Louis, our woe's cause : the reason this 
 Of all friends meeting, we have to agree 
 Among ourselves, his punishment, and then 
 In the Convention speak it. — Are you too 
 Minded to pity, not your own dire foe 
 But tyrant of the people ? For their sake 
 My vote will claim his blood, and hers, and theirs, 
 The adulteress and her brood — they die. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 Oh Robespierre, blinded by thy love 
 
 Of Liberty and people, think again. 
 
 Shed not his blood, nor hers, tho' sinning, still 
 
 A helpless woman ; and the' children too, 
 
 No crime have they committed ; pardon them ! 
 
 If need be, let our France cast them away 
 
 From her pure bosom, in a foreign land 
 
 To wail their falsehoods and maybe repent, 
 
 At any rate regret ; oh let not us 
 
 Who preach the universal brotherhood 
 
 Inaugurate our faith with brother's blood ! 
 
 BARBAROUX. 
 
 No ; exiles shall they be ; my voice I'll raise 
 In the Convention, and shout hoarse until 
 I wield them to that vote, ' exile not death ! ' 
 Death is too good for traitors, death is rest,
 
 58 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. ACT III. 
 
 And peace, and sleep, and calm, no vain regrets 
 Or hopeless yearnings dim death's cool retreat ; — 
 Life is for traitors, life, and endless woe, 
 And sorrow ten times stronger that they know 
 Their own base deeds poured gall into the wine 
 So sweet once to their taste : ' exile not death ! ' 
 
 DANTON. 
 
 If Louis were an ordinary man 
 
 One in the crowd, a traitor, still below 
 
 The glaring heights of life (on which to live 
 
 Needs marble hearts, opaque, unnoticing 
 
 Of scorching popular breath ) ; if he were one 
 
 E'en in the second height of mountain scale 
 
 On which some shelter dwells, a stunted bush, 
 
 Or dwarfed pine, or fading bramble twig 
 
 To yield some cover, e'en tho' thin and poor 
 
 To his enormities, I'd say ' forgive,' 
 
 ' Exile not death,' my vote ; but as it is, 
 
 He dwelling on the topmost pinnacle, 
 
 Th' eternal peak of snow, and looking down 
 
 Upon the people worshipping below, 
 
 Did curse them as a god, and make so clear, 
 
 By contrast of that snow, his blackened soul, 
 
 That all the kneeling slaves rose up firestrung 
 
 And swept him down, and trampled ; 
 
 [Pauses, then cotitinues slowly and quietly. 
 
 and were still — 
 That we, their chosen, might decide for them 
 The depth to cast him in ; earth has no gulf 
 So deep 'twould hide his blackness, death alone, 
 While blessing him with peace, not curses us
 
 scene vi. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 59 
 
 With his continual presence, maddening 
 
 Our people with his plots — his treasons — death ! 
 
 For their sake I too echo, ' Louis death ! ' 
 
 CHAMFORT. 
 
 Methinks this close-bound brotherhood will split 
 Swift into fragments ; one shouts ' death ! death ! 
 
 death ! ' 
 Another cries for mercy, and exile ; 
 In the Convention numbers will decide, 
 Or eloquence may turn, but mercy's dead 
 I see in all our hearts — no mercy now, 
 And none deserved ; for my part I would rush 
 And drag this trembling Louis from his hole 
 And let the people hunt him for their sport. 
 
 roland [sadly). 
 
 Well, the Convention must decide ; and I 
 Must cease to serve a nation drunk with blood, 
 Incapable of reason ; — if he falls 
 I feel the time draws near when ' Liberty' 
 Shall be translated ' license 3 ' when each one 
 Not for the nation, but himself, shall strike, 
 And hurl down power that he may build his own, 
 A tott'ring column on a shifting sand 
 Of daily popular change. 
 
 CAMILLE. 
 
 Night draws on ; 
 And prophecies dark as night grow with it. 
 Roland, you see but shadow, there is light 
 Beyond it : — were we one on each and all
 
 6o A DREAM OF THE CIRONDE. ACT m. 
 
 The subjects for discussion, why what need 
 
 Of any words ? E'en brothers disagree 
 
 Yet love not any less that diff'rent souls 
 
 Speak from their diff'rent bodies ; we are one 
 
 In love for our Republic, and the rest 
 
 What matters it ? Good-night to all my friends. 
 
 [Exit Camille singing. 
 
 Daylight swift fades away, 
 
 Life still rolls on ; 
 We should be blithe and gay, 
 
 Life still rolls on ; 
 Love is the light of day, 
 Life steals our love away ; 
 Ah ! little love of mine, 
 Shine thro' the darkness, shine ! 
 Kiss me to slumber, 
 
 Sing me to rest, 
 Sweetest my dreams are 
 On thy white breast. 
 
 Ah ! little love of mine, 
 
 Angels above 
 Know not the rapture 
 Of thy sweet love ; 
 Sing, little bird of mine, 
 
 Sing silver-clear, 
 Sing thro' the darkness, 
 I, thy love, hear. 
 Ah ! little love of mine, 
 Shine thro' the darkness, shine ! 
 
 [His voice dies away in the distance. All say good- 
 night and exeunt.
 
 scene i. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 61 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. — A Room tastefully furnished with books, 
 pictures, etc., one of which has a silken curtain 
 drawn over it. 
 
 buzot {alone). 
 
 Ah God ! that she and I had met before, 
 Or never met, in this world of farewells ; 
 
 Must I for ever stand without the door 
 
 And dream and long for what my nature tells 
 
 Is mine by right of sympathy ? My soul 
 Can fitly echo hers, and I express 
 
 In words her own heart-throbs ; is not our goal 
 The very same ? And as I onward press 
 Her soft eyes watch me with a mute caress. 
 
 I hate myself for dreaming, when to fight 
 Is every Frenchman's duty ; and my arm 
 
 Is strong as ever to uphold the right 
 And strike for freedom at the first alarm. 
 
 And she inspires me, yes ; my love for her 
 Floats like a banner consecrating all, 
 
 Over my life ; and still I would prefer 
 To combat 'neath that banner till I fall, 
 So she were near me when beneath the pall
 
 62 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act iv. 
 
 My stilled heart lay, and passionate no more 
 Slept quiescent beneath her tender eyes, 
 
 Nor flushed to wilder longing as of yore, 
 
 When she would wonder with a sweet surprise 
 
 At broken words, fire-quenched by their own might, 
 Half bursting forth in passionate full speech, 
 
 And crushed (how hardly !) far out of her sight, 
 Leaving but anguished eyes, whose looks beseech 
 Pardon for love, her pure soul dare not reach. 
 
 I honour Liberty with soul as true 
 
 As ever Roman bore ; and yet I know 
 
 Her image floats before me, and shines thro' 
 My loftier aims, and guides me where I go ; 
 
 And thus it should be, there's no shame in this 
 That seeing beauty, freedom, purity — 
 
 I love it from afar, tho' perfect bliss 
 Of fond possession, and the rarity 
 Of love and worship joined be not for me. 
 
 Tis better so perchance (I hate the man 
 Who pratingly can maunder ' better so, 
 
 If God so wills it : ' what God wills, he can 
 Have no conception ; of the high, the low 
 
 Knows nothing, nor can even comprehend 
 What God wills ; if God be, too much for him 
 
 To wonder at : he seeks to fix the end 
 Of what has no beginning save his whim, 
 And drowns himself in quibbles, ere he swim). 
 
 Not such my lamentation ; I would give 
 All ' betters ' in the future, so that now
 
 scene I. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 63 
 
 The ' good ' might be mine own, yea, I could live 
 A happy life, with calm contented brow 
 
 Far from ambition in a humble home, 
 
 If love dwelt with me, and her gentle hand 
 
 Led me from fame, where now my footsteps roam ; 
 Ah love were rapture ! Yet I understand 
 The greenest swamp may still be treach'rous land : 
 
 And tho' its verdure glad me, and I strain 
 My clanking fetters to break free and cast 
 
 Myself upon its fairness ; and refrain 
 Only because stern duty holds me fast 
 
 And will not let me go ; yet were it mine 
 My raptured eyes would drink its greenery, 
 
 Forgetting stars above which faithful shine 
 To guide us thro' this fleeting scenery, 
 Unto the shores of death's deep mystery. 
 
 [He rises, goes to the veiled picture and draws away 
 the curtain, disc/osing Madame Roland. 
 
 My love ! My star ! Set far above my clasp 
 In heaven's brightness ! thou canst not descend 
 
 To bless my human love, my clinging grasp 
 Must close contented on the name of friend ; 
 
 A poor name doth it seem when hungry love 
 Is longing for love's kiss, and yet most sweet 
 
 Of all earth's names, and raised far above 
 All passion-struggle — ah ! it is not meet 
 I should cast down that name which I would greet 
 
 My life's best gift ! The name which speaks to me 
 Of fairest, brightest hours ; of love and joy
 
 64 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act iv. 
 
 Of perfect peace, unstained purity, 
 
 Of happiness without shade of alloy, 
 Of sympathy in sorrow, of all trust, 
 
 Of myriad gleaming beauties which shall last 
 Graved on my heart, and when that turns to dust 
 
 A flower-poem shall upspring, and cast 
 
 A crown of memory o'er the time long-past : 
 
 Friend ! friend ! my friend ! I'll call thee love no more 
 
 Until time breaks our fetters ; if it be 
 That merciful unclasping comes before 
 
 I plunge with weary soul in that sad sea 
 The boundary of our life, then may I rest 
 
 The last brief hours with love ; and I and thou, 
 Heart clasped to heart, and loving breast to breast, 
 
 May dream of this time gone, and wonder, how 
 
 We lived before, in rapture of the ' now ' ! 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 He draws the curtain and again throws himself into 
 a chair sunk in thought. Silence for a short 
 time, then enter Roland, who falls exhausted and 
 overcome into the nearest seat. 
 
 ROLAND. 
 
 Ah Buzot ! all is lost, all reason gone — 
 
 Brute cruelty triumphant ; we may wait 
 
 Nor wait long now, our turn will come the next : 
 
 The helpless, then their shield — so runs the world —
 
 SCENE II. A DREAM OF THE G1R0NDE. 65 
 
 There lives no gratitude or reverence 
 
 In this wild people's heart. Did we not strive 
 
 In the Convention with full heart and voice 
 
 To tame this tiger madness ? Did we not 
 
 Urge pardon ? Mercy ? And the comment this — 
 
 The helpless prisoners surprised and slain, 
 
 Nor age, nor sex, nor innocence, none spared. 
 
 God ! are these creatures fiends ? They are not men ; 
 
 No human blood can circle thro' their veins, 
 
 Who calmly gaze on murder, who can drink 
 
 The palpitating life of fallen hearts 
 
 To pledge their hatred in, and calm decide 
 
 In midnight meeting of base treach'rous knaves 
 
 The morning massacre. I have no fear 
 
 For us ; they dare not strike, at least not yet, 
 
 But madness of the people grows apace : 
 
 Louis, his queen and sister, are to fall, 
 
 Then comes our turn to feast la guillotine ! 
 
 This morning he will die ; thou knowest how 
 
 We pledged our honour that he should be spared ; 
 
 We did not speak in riddles, but plain prose, 
 
 And yet this victim is torn from our hands, 
 
 Our weak faint hands, which have no power to hold — 
 
 This our Republic is trailed in the dust, 
 
 And all her glorious aims brought down to this 
 
 Mere wantonness of murder. — I can hold 
 
 (If Louis falls, I wait to hear the news) 
 
 My ministry no longer ; — with what pride 
 
 I did receive it from the people's hands, 
 
 Believing Liberty would blossom fair 
 
 Beneath our grand Republic ! and yet now 
 
 I feel my hands stained with the holding it 
 
 F
 
 66 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act iv. 
 
 While such deeds have been done, tho' my firm will 
 Ever resisted them. 
 
 BUZOT. 
 
 The tune may change 
 E'en at the last ; the people hardly knows 
 Its own requirements, and with blinded eyes 
 Follows dog-like its masters : when they shout 
 ' Down with the traitor ! ' quick it tears him down, 
 Most passively brute-like ; but swift is turned 
 To pity by a word. Louis must fall, 
 He sinned too high for pardon ; but his queen, 
 His sister, must be saved, or— we fall too : 
 Our Liberty dishonoured, what remains 
 But gallantly to die on her slain heart ! 
 
 Scene III. 
 Camille Desmoulins enters and sadly speaks. 
 
 CAMILLE. 
 
 He died (poor Louis !) every inch a king, 
 The majesty of suffering on his brow : 
 More king-like in his death, than living, he 
 Constrained the people's tears ; I saw one man 
 Red-capped, fierce-visaged, crying like a child, 
 When Louis standing calm, with straight-fixed eyes 
 And brow serene, unruffled, spread his hands 
 (Those kingly hands, so weakly thin and white)
 
 scene in. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 67 
 
 Over the surging sea around, and blessed 
 
 In clear and silver tones his murderers, 
 
 Then bowed before his priest, and laid his head, 
 
 As if to slumber, on the guillotine. 
 
 Tears fell like rain \ but soon Legendre, Jourdain, 
 
 Began the shout, ' Long live our Liberty ! ' 
 
 1 Our brotherhood is safe ! ' (their watchwords still 
 
 When brotherhood is dead, and Liberty, 
 
 Far worse than death, dishonoured) ; but the cry 
 
 Struck on the people's heart. Each swiftly gazed 
 
 To see if traitor tears were still upon 
 
 His neighbour's face, and dashed away his own 
 
 With louder shouts, and hoarser ' Liberty ! ' 
 
 They're shrieking for the queen ; we soon shall see 
 
 Her woman head struck down ' For Liberty ! ' 
 
 Elizabeth struck down ' For Liberty ! ' 
 
 The Gironde guillotined ' For Liberty ! ' 
 
 I hate the very sound of Liberty ! 
 
 \Exewit Camille and Roland. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Buzot {alone). 
 
 BUZOT. 
 
 If I have e'er had power in my speech — 
 
 If Nature's burning soul dwells in my breast : 
 
 If I have strength my fluttering tongue to teach 
 Impassioned utt'rance for the thoughts exprest- 
 
 f 2
 
 68 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act iv. 
 
 Let them now serve me, let my words of fire 
 
 Pierce thro' hearts hardened, by the growing might 
 
 Of egotism unchecked ; let me aspire 
 
 To hide the sword of death far out of sight, 
 And crown once more our Liberty with right ! 
 
 Oh woman ! I will save thee for the sake 
 
 Of her, a woman fairer than thou art ; 
 I will before thee stand, and seek to make 
 
 A shield for thee of my own beating heart ; 
 My voice shall ring distinct thro' trumpet bray 
 
 Straight to the nation's heart, and it shall learn 
 Again forgotten truths. I'll make a way 
 
 For mercy in their souls, and they shall turn 
 And pardon thee with shame and tears that burn ! 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 A Street. Crowd surrounding tumbril, on which 
 Madame Elizabeth, calm and beautiful, is 
 sitting on her way to the guillotine. 
 
 1ST CITIZEN. 
 
 Louis is dead, the perjured queen is dead, 
 And thou also wilt be with them, dead too. 
 How friendly kisses our brave guillotine ! 
 How loving are her lips ! she smiles on all, 
 The dainty noble, the proud beauty — all 
 Who seek her she receives, and welcomes them 
 So warmly they've no taste for other joys.
 
 scene'v. A 'DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 69 
 
 Elizabeth {wearily). 
 
 Friend, I am ready, for no other joys 
 
 Can ever glad me more ; my murdered Louis — 
 
 My martyr'd sister, smiling, beckon me ; 
 
 I hasten to their arms. Yet — taunt me not, 
 
 Me, dying ; think — your own death-hour draws on, 
 
 The future hides it yet, and lays bare mine, 
 
 And I go forth to greet it with a smile, 
 
 Ah, let it be in peace ! I pardon you 
 
 [Shouts of women interrupt her, ' To the guillotine ! ' 
 
 2ND CITIZEN. 
 
 'Twere well the drums beat now, and drowned her 
 
 voice, 
 Lest she, with meek pathetic eyes, corrupt 
 Our weaker brothers. 
 
 [Buzot rushes through the crowd to the side of the 
 tumbril, springs upon it and speaks passionately, 
 while it rolls slowly on. 
 
 BUZOT 
 
 Oh citizens ! bid not the drums resound 
 
 To drown her voice, which sounding angel clear 
 
 In dark days past so often swept all hearts 
 
 Into sweet music with its sympathy, 
 
 Its pureness of full loving. Oh ! my friends, 
 
 If each of you holds dear one human thing, 
 
 As each of you must do, the man lives not 
 
 Who brutal, hardened to the whole hard world, 
 
 Keeps not still one soft fount of happiness, 
 
 One little spot where flower of love up-springs,
 
 70 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act iv. 
 
 Tho' dry and empty of all nourishment 
 
 Yet still a blossom, blessing him unknown, 
 
 And holding in its beauty germs of good 
 
 For the poor heart it dwells in. By this germ 
 
 (The seed of heaven, but needing human rain 
 
 Of opportunity to spring to life), 
 
 Beseech you friends ! dear friends and countrymen, 
 
 My brothers ! hear my voice that pleading deep 
 
 For this one life, this helpless woman life, 
 
 Still knocks at your heart-portals — let her eyes, 
 
 Those meek pathetic wells of beauty, full 
 
 Of mercy — pardon, pity, gentleness — 
 
 Find echo in your souls — ah friends, dear friends, 
 
 Spare her for my sake, brother in the fight 
 
 For Liberty, and brotherhood ; dear friends, 
 
 For my sake hearken ! 
 
 1ST CITIZEN. 
 
 Guillotine him too, 
 He speaks most traitor-like ; he too is one 
 (Tho' prating glibly of fair Liberty, 
 Friendship, and brotherhood) of that foul crew 
 Whose captain, Louis, lately yielded up 
 Polluted blood . . . tear down the traitor voice ! 
 
 \_Shouts of ' Down with the traitor ! ' 
 
 BUZOT. 
 
 Nay, hear me brothers ! hear me ! but once more. 
 
 2ND CITIZEN. 
 
 We will not hear thee, tremble for thyself, 
 Who pities traitors, well may fall with them ;
 
 scene v. A DREAM OF 77IE GIRONDE. 71 
 
 Beware ! the people watch thee, thou art one 
 Of that band whose brave words resound alone 
 With no brave deeds to back them. 
 
 legendre (hoarsely). 
 
 Drummers, strike up and drown the voice of him 
 
 A traitor to the people ! 
 
 [Renewed shouting. Drums strike up, while 
 Buzot with frantic gestures endeavours to pro- 
 cure a hearing. 
 
 MADAME ELIZABETH. 
 
 I know you not, brave Frenchman, who have sought, 
 
 With danger to your own, my life to save ; 
 
 Poor thanks and prayers are all my fortunes leave 
 
 To pay my debt of utter gratitude 
 
 To that firm heart and eager stirring voice : 
 
 Thanks ! thanks, dear friend ! I little thought to feel 
 
 The glow of human greatness sweep my soul 
 
 Clear of all petty sorrows at the end, 
 
 And clothe me with the joy of sympathy 
 
 To meet my God with. Now farewell, swift go : 
 
 I trust a glorious life remains for you 
 
 Who bravely have dared death. [Holds out her hand. 
 
 BUZOT. 
 
 I will not go. 
 Perhaps .... 
 
 Elizabeth (interrupting him). 
 
 Say not ' perhaps ; ' ' perhaps ; no more 
 Has any part for me ; if my commands, 
 Which once were weighty, have not lost all charm
 
 72 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act IV. 
 
 They bore in days gone by, I conjure thee 
 
 Swift leave me now ; — I would have no more thought, 
 
 Even the purest, of mere earthly things : 
 
 I would fix soul and spirit constantly 
 
 Upon the heavenly bliss awaiting me. 
 
 Suffering is blessed, easy to forgive 
 
 When sin is absent from the suff'ring soul. 
 
 My heart holds no place for the personal 
 
 Small terror of itself, but brimmeth o'er 
 
 With pity for the anguish which o'ertakes 
 
 The one who sins, and forces heartlessly 
 
 The cup of suff'ring to another's lips. — 
 
 Farewell ! go, I command you \ and at once. 
 
 buzot (sorrowfully pressing her hand). 
 
 I go then, as you will, reluctantly. 
 
 \Exit Buzot. Procession continues to move on, 
 and disappears. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 
 Roland's House. Interior. Madame Roland. Enter 
 Roland, Petion, Buzot, Brissot, Barbaroux, 
 Vergniaud, &c. 
 
 ROLAND. 
 
 They seek to rob us of our last best gift, 
 The firmness of our minds, which dare to raise 
 Still in this madness voices of reproof 
 Against the murderers of our Liberty : —
 
 scene vil. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 73 
 
 They seek to fright us with bare swords and words 
 Of darkly hinted danger, but in vain ; — 
 As Romans have we lived, and Romanly, 
 If need be, we can die. We have no part 
 (Since we resigned our Ministry) in death, 
 Unless it be our own. Friends counsel flight, 
 How think you, Petion ? 
 
 Scene VII. 
 Louvet rushes in pale and terror- stricken. 
 
 LOUVET. 
 
 Fly ! fly ! if you would live, 'tis your one chance. 
 
 But now I entered under thick disguise 
 
 The Jacobin Club chamber, and I heard 
 
 Such hellish words, such most unnat'ral thoughts 
 
 Of blood and fire, as made my trembling limbs 
 
 Half shudder from their duty ; swift I came 
 
 To warn you of your danger : linger not, 
 
 Your blood shed by these murderers will be held 
 
 A curse to our Republic, and will breed 
 
 A race in horror to o'erthrow her state. 
 
 Fly ! tarry not, e'en now methinks I hear 
 
 The clash of swords, the jangling of fierce oaths, 
 
 As those infernals, led by him, the fiend, 
 
 (Cursed e'en by nature, mother of us all), 
 
 That viper of the gutters, Marat ! he 
 
 Who lives that he may slaughter and cut down 
 
 All greater and more blessed than himself
 
 74 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act iv. 
 
 In beauty, intellect, and purity ! 
 Oh tarry not, 'tis madness in such case, 
 Time long enough to show your bravery 
 When hope remains to guide you — but fly now ! 
 
 [Petion walks coolly to the window and gazes out. 
 
 BARBAROUX. 
 
 Fly ? leave our other friends to such a fate ? 
 
 Not I, for one ; I'd rather die with them 
 
 Than live on, and in after years look back 
 
 Upon this night, and think I saved myself 
 
 By leaving friends to bear the penalty ! 
 
 No, never will I fly ! They say each one 
 
 Has at some single moment of his life 
 
 The power to choose, and on that pivot hangs 
 
 His life's renown, or high and holily 
 
 To bear himself, or basely ; such he is 
 
 For all years after as he makes himself 
 
 At that one time-flash : and perchance to us 
 
 That moment now has come — to choose, assert 
 
 Our dignity in choosing, and make good 
 
 Our oft-repeated promises ; — I choose 
 
 To stay and die, on-fighting to the last ! [Sits down. 
 
 petion {returning from the window calmly). 
 
 Down pours the rain, 'twill cool our enemies, 
 And bring their heated brains to calmer thoughts ; 
 No fear for us to-night ; the patriot herd 
 Like their warm shelter, and disdain to wet 
 A sole of patriot foot ! Down pours the rain ; 
 For this time we may rest, and calm disperse 
 Unto our sep'rate dwellings ; so, good night. 
 
 [Exit Pet i ox.
 
 SCENE vir. A DREAM OF THE GIROMDE. 75 
 
 vergniaud (sadly). 
 
 Our hour is well-nigh come ; I feel the clouds 
 
 Of threatening fate swift gath'ring, soon they close 
 
 And hide blue heaven behind their inky folds ; 
 
 Then falls the bolt, and cleaves a fiery way 
 
 To waiting hearts, and withers them, and then 
 
 Rebounds upon the hurlers, they will fall. 
 
 I, close to death, see clearer than before ; 
 
 I see the torrent raised, but never stilled, 
 
 And bearing with its current friends and foes, 
 
 Its leaders and its victims — on — on — on — 
 
 Straight with resistless billows, reasonless 
 
 And fetterless to death ! The end I see, 
 
 The end of all things on the guillotine. — 
 
 'Tis the Republic's bitter fate to doom 
 
 Her fairest children, her most loving sons, 
 
 In blindness unto death :— an ancient saith, 
 
 ' Whom the eternal gods hate and abhor 
 
 They first make mad, and thus self-ruin them 
 
 By their own madness : ' thus it is with her, 
 
 Our loved Republic ; we have dreamed too much 
 
 Perhaps of brotherhood and Liberty, 
 
 Forgetting in our studies of old time 
 
 The weak inglorious race, who living now, 
 
 And aping young-world giants in their acts, 
 
 But parody and drag them thro' the mire 
 
 Of their base passions, powerless to see 
 
 A man must be self-victor, ere he dare 
 
 Impose his will on others. 
 
 (After a pause.) Farewell friends ! 
 
 Brissot, Buzot, and Barbaroux, are you 
 
 For homeward turning?
 
 7 6 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act iv. 
 
 ALL THREE. 
 
 Yes, we are— good-night, 
 
 BUZOT to MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 Clear hearts can sleep, while traitors watch and fear. 
 
 [Exeunt the four. 
 
 Scene VIII. 
 Roland, Madame Roland. 
 
 ROLAND. 
 
 I feel a presage of this coming storm ; 
 A most unusual languor weighs me down, 
 And nails my spirit to its cross of pain : 
 No torturing feeling that my own defects 
 Have drawn this tempest on defenceless heads 
 Maddens me with regret ; but that calm sigh 
 The wisest cannot stifle, when on Death 
 (Death present often in our thoughts and speech, 
 But realised how seldom !) he must gaze ; 
 Death, standing resolute, with hand upraised 
 To strike him down— yet pausing ; 'tis that pause, 
 And not the stroke, which shakes the firmest heart 
 As mine is shaken now. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 Friend, calm thyself ; 
 'Tis no infirmity, but rather strength, 
 That thou canst see, and calmly analyse
 
 scene ix. A DREAM OF THE CIRONDE. 77 
 
 Thy heart's new weakness ; weakness of the flesh — 
 Thy never-quailing spirit shines above 
 This human shudder, proving thee a man, 
 Tho' noblest, still a man ; not merely hewn 
 Emotionless and heartless from the stone. 
 
 [A noise of people outside the door. 
 
 Scene IX. 
 Two Officers enter. 
 
 1ST OFFICER. 
 
 We, under warrant, {showing a warrant) hasten to 
 
 arrest 
 You, Roland, traitor to this land : behold 
 The pledge of our authority, and yield 
 Yourself to us, resistance were most vain. 
 Committee of the Revolution 
 Have drawn this warrant ; look at it and see 
 How plainly it commands you, and obey. 
 
 roland (looking at the warrant). 
 
 I yield not to your warrant, and deny 
 Your vaunted power, and question utterly 
 Authority you serve ; I will not yield. 
 Return, and tell those traitors, Roland stands 
 Firm by the constitution, and dares them 
 To drag him from its shelter ! — I yield not.
 
 7S A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act IV. 
 
 2ND OFFICER. 
 
 We are not messengers 'twixt you and they, 
 But charged with your arrest. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 But are you charged 
 With violent arrest ? Are your commands 
 Merely to seize the traitor, or enforce 
 With sword-point his attendance ? Answer that, 
 Or your Committee may disown the deed 
 And leave you with the burden. How say you ? 
 
 1ST OFFICER. 
 
 Our warrant speaks not of resistance here 
 In plain words certainly ; but still I think 
 When traitors are at stake, 'tis no light thing 
 To let them slip for quibble of a word, 
 An oversight perhaps. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 Yet you must take 
 This oversight upon you, and make good 
 With your own heads his death, for taken alive 
 This Roland will not be ; think you then well 
 If you are warranted to murder him. 
 
 2ND OFFICER TO 1ST. 
 
 'Tis better that we seek a clearer, full, 
 
 And more particular authority ; 
 
 Thou know'st how ready men are now to leave
 
 scene IX. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 79 
 
 The burdens of their deeds on others' backs, 
 And stand unyoked themselves. 
 
 [Turning to Roland. 
 We shall return. 
 [Exeunt Officers. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 Return to find the threatened bird has flown 
 To safer branches ! Now, my friend, indeed 
 You must consent to shelter ; I will seek 
 In the Convention justice ; and will win 
 Safety for you ere long, but for the time 
 You must take refuge in some fast retreat 
 From which if fortune frowns, you swift can wing 
 Your way from Paris to the Provinces, 
 And there perhaps (who knows what future holds ? ) 
 Set up our dreamed Republic in the South. 
 Farewell my husband ! Fare— thee — very well ; 
 We must part now, I trust to meet again, 
 But fate lowers darkly. Let me see thee go, 
 That I may feel (my mission failing there) 
 That thou at least art safe. Oh fare — thee — well ! 
 [Takes his hand. Roland draws her towards 
 him a?id kisses her. 
 
 ROLAND. 
 
 I go. Farewell, my most dear loving wife, 
 The truest friend, and sweetest comforter, 
 A man e'er gloried in ! I'll to our friends 
 And warn them of this peril ; they must fly 
 If danger darkens. (Goes out.) 
 
 [Madame Roland, hastily throwing a shawl over 
 her shoulders, follotvs i?i a few moments.
 
 80 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act iv. 
 
 Scene X. 
 
 Street before the Tuileries, where the Convention held its 
 sittings, doors closed; crowds of armed men no longer 
 shouting, but sullenly muttering and lounging about ; 
 an occasional cry ' To the Guillotine ! ' is heard. 
 Enter Madame Roland, her head bare, the shawl 
 dung over her light dress; she hurriedly walks tip to 
 the closed doors and tries to enter. 
 
 1ST citizen. 
 
 You seek to enter those closed doors in vain ; 
 
 The country is in danger, and that cry 
 
 Has swelled the tocsin's knell, and locked those doors, 
 
 That patriots privately may concert means 
 
 To obviate the peril. — Who art thou ? 
 
 [Madame Roland turns from the door and slowly 
 
 walks away, saying nothing, but gazing sadly at 
 
 the lowering groups. 
 
 2ND citizen. 
 She dare not answer ; I suspect that face, 
 It looks not like our Marat and his friends : 
 Shall we pursue, and drag her by the hair 
 Unto the guillotine ? What say you, friends ? 
 
 3RD CITIZEN. 
 
 Twill kiss her soon enough without our hands 
 To urge the rolling wheel ; her very air 
 Of gazing straight with deep unflinching eyes 
 Speaks aristocrat plainly, and will count 
 Enough for Marat ; we may spare our toil. 
 
 \_G roups pass on sullenly muttering.
 
 scene xi. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. Si 
 
 Scene XI. — Roland's House. 
 
 Madame roland {entering alone). 
 
 It was in vain then that I trusted still 
 
 In Liberty's strong shield ; 'tis pierced thro' 
 
 With darts and arrows of men's tyrant wills, 
 
 And powerless to guard. — Thank heaven at least 
 
 My husband is in safety — he must fly 
 
 From this mad Paris hastening to her fall ; 
 
 And they, our friends, must fly, our brave young band, 
 
 Devoted hearts, and souls, born to aspire 
 
 To Liberty star-crowned ! And he my friend, 
 
 Whom still with that weak woman-heart of mine 
 
 I willingly could cling to ; he must go — 
 
 The echo of my soul, my heart expressed 
 
 In manhood's type — whose tender voice and thought 
 
 I ever felt thrill me with a glow 
 
 Of heaven's rapture ; tho' his uttered words 
 
 Spoke like mine own of friendship, it was love 
 
 Yea, love flame-pinioned, which flashed thro' our speech 
 
 The commonest, and lit it with the glow 
 
 Our hearts know once, no more ; which darkened 
 
 We never can relight ! Calm love, indeed, 
 
 And high-toned duty may fill up the void 
 
 And give us a pure life, contented, brave, 
 
 And nobly self-denying \ but the glow 
 
 W T hich shone but once, and sharpened in its light 
 
 Our rapture nigh to anguish, lighting up 
 
 The highest peaks of life, and making clear 
 
 A pathway to the stars, returns no more : 
 
 Ah ! happy they who dare enjoy the gleam, 
 
 G
 
 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act IV. 
 
 And steep their souls in it, and carry it 
 Undarkened to the end ! Some are so blessed 
 The mystic glow comes spring-like, whispering 
 With song of birds, and brooklet's murmuring, 
 And fills their chainless hearts ; and they enjoy 
 (Unknowing half their bliss) pure happiness ! 
 But some, and such my fate, are cast upon 
 A solitary shore, and, down the far 
 Of heaven's distant blueness, see the glow, 
 While wide between roll swelling ocean waves 
 Of duties, fetters — banishing the light, 
 And leaving dreams alone of what might be ! 
 
 [She leans back wearily and falls asleep. 
 
 Scene XII. 
 A knock is heard at the door repeated twice or thrice. 
 
 Madame roland {starting up half awake). 
 
 What sound was that ? [Knocking again heard. 
 
 Who knocks? At this hour too — 
 
 Enter, whoe'er you be. [Two Officers enter. 
 
 1ST OFFICER. 
 
 Where is Roland? 
 Our duty is now plain, ' Arrest the man, 
 At sword-point if need be : ' behold the words. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 He is not here ; I know not where he is.
 
 scene xni. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 83 
 
 2ND OFFICER. 
 
 Look at this other warrant, 'tis for you ; 
 
 You must prepare, and swiftly, to return 
 
 A traitress to the prison ; and your house, 
 
 Your goods, and treasures, we sign with the seal 
 
 Of the Committee. [Begins sealing up desks, ete. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 If I deny your warrant, and refuse 
 To leave my house ? 
 
 1ST OFFICER. 
 
 We straight must drag you thence ; 
 No choice, Madame, better come quietly ; 
 You can retire, and bid all due farewells ; 
 We will await you here ; but tarry not, 
 We've other labours, ere the morning breaks. 
 
 [Exit Madame Roland ; the Officers continue 
 sealing up every things ruen t he piano. 
 
 Scene XIII. 
 
 Re-enter Madame Roland with little Marie and 
 Nurse carrying a small bundle. 
 
 madame roland (to the Nurse aside). 
 
 Leave not my child one instant, until safe 
 You place her in— her arms ; she will receive 
 My treasure as a sacred trust, and hold 
 
 g 2
 
 S4 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act iv. 
 
 Her, till I can reclaim. If nevermore, 
 Alas ! [Pressing Marie tenderly to her bosom and 
 
 kissing her.) 
 My darling, may our God send down 
 A double share of mother-love to her 
 For my poor orphan ; oh my little one, 
 The hardest pang is this ! Kiss me, my sweet, 
 And twine thy little arms round mother's neck — 
 And so farewell — my child — my own — farewell ! 
 
 [Puts her down gently ; the child, frightened at the 
 Officers and her mother's tears, begins to cry. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND (to Nurse). 
 
 Take her away ; poor little love ! Too young 
 And tender for such scenes, lull her to sleep, 
 And tarry not with first blush of the morn 
 To carry her to (pauses) safety. I will write 
 A few words of farewell to go with her. 
 
 [Sits down to the table and writes. 
 
 ist officer (aside). 
 
 Treason perhaps, 'neath friendship's frippery. 
 
 I must examine. (Aloud to Madame Roland.) You 
 
 must give the name 
 Of her, or him, you write to ; in such times, 
 When treason lurks behind the simplest words, 
 Suspicion is abroad ; write down the name. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 I will not. 
 
 1ST OFFICER. 
 
 Then my duty plainly is
 
 scene xiii. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 85 
 
 To tear up that fair letter : will you say 
 To whom it is addressed ? 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 No ; I will tear 
 It into fragments rather ! (Tears tip the letter.) 
 {To the Nurse) Well, you know 
 
 All I would say. Goodbye, my faithful friend ! 
 I leave my heart's best jewel in your care. 
 
 \_Exit Nurse weeping and carrying the child ; 
 Madame Roland 7vatches them go, sighs deeply, 
 then turning to the Officers. 
 
 I wait your escort. 
 [ ist Officer takes her bundle and signs to her to 
 follow ; she docs so, 2ND Officer following 
 behind.
 
 86 A DREAM OF THE G1R0NDE. act v. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. — The Prison. 
 
 Madame Roland alone, reading ; she presently lays 
 down her book and speaks wearily. 
 
 Thro' countless weary days has time rolled on 
 
 And stranded me, half hopeless, on the shore 
 
 Of gloomy prison life ; my trust, once bright, 
 
 Of swift release, and triumph of the right, 
 
 And Liberty's return, has worn away 
 
 Itself to a mere shadow, and to-day 
 
 All hope, all trust, seem but an empty dream. 
 
 (Sighs sadly.) I read long since (I hardly know how 
 
 long: 
 Tis centuries by heart beats) of my friends 
 Forced to take refuge in the Provinces, 
 Or captive in their dwellings, waiting there 
 The sentence of their virtues, counted crimes 
 By Liberty's oppressors — oh, I yearn 
 With longing inexpressible to know 
 Their fate ! — My friends of happy days long past ! 
 My husband has escaped at least arrest, 
 But homeless wanders, far from wife and child, 
 And wearily bears ever vain regrets 
 For Liberty cast down — I cannot bear 
 
 [Rises and paces hastily np and down.
 
 SCENE II. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 87 
 
 This torture of uncertainty. How long 
 Will the dull hours slow drag themselves away 
 Unto that one I wait for, which shall give 
 Or death, or life, I reck not — so 'tis sure ! 
 
 Scene II. 
 Enter Madame Bonchaud. 
 
 MADAME BONCHAUD. 
 
 Friend (I may call you so, for sympathy 
 Knows no fictitious barriers, and can scale 
 With grand yet tender wing the dungeon tower, 
 And dare all peril, or content can bask 
 With equal joy in safety), I am come 
 The bearer of good news : 'tis sweet for me 
 That fortune should make possible to one 
 Who loves, but never hopes with feeble steps 
 Of merely loving to attain the height 
 Unconsciously you bloom on, to give proof 
 Of boasted friendship with my captive friend 
 By leading to her presence one of those 
 Whose glowing souls, strung high for Liberty, 
 Made rapturous with glory other days. 
 Buzot, your friend, has prayed me fervently 
 To overlook all orders, and admit 
 Him to your prison. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 Humbly do you speak 
 Of my one solace ; friendship sweeter far
 
 88 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act v. 
 
 As the poor prison blossom, than as when 
 
 It bloomed a rare exotic courting me, 
 
 While warm the sun, and calm and blue the sky, 
 
 But fading into nothingness when storms 
 
 Had swept away my shelter. Ah ! dear friend, 
 
 Your pure unselfishness in serving me 
 
 Raises your loving soul above the heights 
 
 You place me on ; — as far above my heart 
 
 As heaven's arch is over human brows ! — 
 
 Where is Buzot ? Ah where ? He should be far 
 
 Away from here ere now ; I fear for him 
 
 So well-known in his greatness. Bid him come. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Exit Madame Bonchaud. /;; a few moments enter 
 
 Buzot. Madame Roland rises and gives him her 
 
 hand silently, which he as silently holds while they 
 
 gaze sadly at each other, too much affected to speak 
 
 for some moments. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 Buzot, 'tis madness thus to beard grim Death 
 In his own stronghold ; Paris is no place 
 For one who loves not slaughter. Liberty, 
 Our Liberty, our aim, is now brought down 
 To a mere formula of ' guillotine.' — 
 Why hast thou come to me ? I cannot say 
 Half that I would, too full and sad my heart ; 
 Thou knowest my soul's wish, oh tell me swift —
 
 scene ill. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 89 
 
 Our friends, my husband — tell me — what their fate ? 
 Those tragic eyes speak death — see, I am calm ; 
 Life is so short for me, that I can bear 
 Ages of suffering pressed into a day. 
 Speak then. 
 
 buzot {wildly). 
 
 That I should be the one sought out 
 By irony of fate to anguish thee ! 
 Oh God, 'tis torture ! Angel ! you are calm — 
 I see it, as when queen of Girondists 
 You held your court, and each one of our band 
 Enshrined you in his heart, religion — 
 Love, Liberty in one. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 Speak not of them 
 In days gone by, but tell me of their fate. 
 
 BUZOT. 
 
 Then know, the people frantic in its rage, 
 Lashed into madness by Marat, and he 
 That Judas of our band, Robespierre, 
 Surged menace-high thro' Paris and required 
 Their truest friends should be resigned to them 
 To wreak their fury on ; and twenty-two 
 The bravest and most noted were decreed 
 To stand their trial for treason — some indeed, 
 With timely warning fluttered from the trap, 
 Among them Roland, Barbaroux, Louvet, 
 And Petion — where they wander I know not, 
 But our brave South is friendly :— for the rest 
 They were imprisoned, but their mighty hearts
 
 go A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act v. 
 
 Gave not one shudder, and the brotherhood 
 
 (By Vergniaud their voice) when brought to trial 
 
 Spoke with such fiery, burning eloquence 
 
 That tears and mercy sprang from stony ground — 
 
 The people cried for pity ; and their cause 
 
 Was well-nigh won. Alas ! the transient gleam 
 
 Of brighter fortune passed, and Vergniaud 
 
 Was silenced ; then triumphantly they doomed 
 
 The whole band to destruction ! — Calm, unmoved 
 
 The heroes heard their fate — with one accord 
 
 They raised their ringing voices mightily 
 
 With ' Long live our Republic ! ' One alone 
 
 As in a swoon down-fell, and voiceless lay ; 
 
 It was Valaze, whose fierce love was touched 
 
 With martyr longing ; who had joyed to brave 
 
 A willing death for Liberty : they found, 
 
 \\ Tien with soft hands and tender they had raised 
 
 His fallen body, that brave heart was stilled 
 
 For ever ; pierced he lay with dagger yet 
 
 Warm with his life-blood, clasped in failing hand, 
 
 And martyr rapture of embraced death 
 
 Upon his pallid brow : — the gaze on him 
 
 Strung to more vivid tension their tuned souls, 
 
 And with triumphant mien and heightened brows 
 
 They took their march to death — high rose the song, 
 
 The voice of Revolution in its flow 
 
 Resistless surging on, the Marseillaise, 
 
 Flooded the streets they passed : — as one by one, 
 
 The voices failed (the greedy guillotine 
 
 Stifling their sweetness into a death-gasp), 
 
 Louder and firmer chanted still unmoved 
 
 The ever-lessening band ; — Brissot alone
 
 scene in. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 91 
 
 At length stood singing, and with triumph song 
 
 He, smiling, met his death. — No more remains 
 
 To tell or hear ; — I glory to belong 
 
 To such a band ; tho' Girondists no more 
 
 May realise their visions, freedom now 
 
 Can never die, while tongue lives that can speak 
 
 Of such sublimity ! — A martyr's blood 
 
 Builds ever firmer, with cement of faith 
 
 Made manifest in death, its edifice, 
 
 And our Republic glorious shall arise 
 
 From ashes of her errors, purified, 
 
 Made perfect by her woe, and her sons' love. 
 
 You can inspire with that flame-winged soul 
 
 A band more blest, more fortunate than we, 
 
 And o'er our martyrs' sacrificial dust 
 
 Build Liberty's fair temple, flawless, new, 
 
 And wholly indestructible ! For this 
 
 I came to-day, to urge your swift escape, 
 
 In my name, to our friends ; means I have found 
 
 Which shall convey you safely unto them. 
 
 Hasten to fly, no time is now to lose. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 You raise my soul on heroism's wing 
 
 Beyond death to eternity; and then 
 
 Would drag it down to meanness. Not in vain 
 
 Our friends' sublime example ; I will fall 
 
 As firmly as they fell for Liberty. 
 
 Seek not to turn my mind; the pyramids 
 
 Were easier hewed down than I escape, 
 
 Escape, and leave my loving tender friend, 
 
 The only solace of my dungeon life,
 
 92 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act v. 
 
 And thee, the brightener of my happy hours, 
 The strengthener of my soul, my spirit's star, 
 To suffer in my stead ? Listen, Buzot ; 
 You cannot think me poor enough for this ! 
 You shall not hold me low enough for this ! 
 
 BUZOT. 
 
 Low ? poor ? My nature's queen, I hold you poor ? 
 
 You cannot see my heart, how fervently 
 
 I cherish you, the angel of my soul, 
 
 My life's good genius ! I can ne'er forget 
 
 The weakness once you pardoned, and made me 
 
 Look thro' the mist of passion, and see clear 
 
 Behind the moment's longing, noble thoughts, 
 
 And higher aims for seeking ; — if indeed 
 
 I have done aught worth mem'ry, 'tis to you, 
 
 To you alone, I owe it ; I am blessed 
 
 In that my fate denying me all else 
 
 Has given me the precious privilege 
 
 Of dying at your side. You will net fly ? 
 
 I also will remain — 'tis better so — 
 
 I am content — nay, chide not — I am firm 
 
 Unmoved as your own soul. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND {firmly). 
 
 'Tis frenzy, thus 
 To jest at human barriers ; while they stand 
 We may o'erlook, but never can ignore : 
 Their shadow darkens every path in life, 
 While with their fetters cobweb fine and soft 
 They hold society in union, tho' 
 They cripple some, yet to the general flock
 
 scene in. A DREAM OF THE GIROXDE. 93 
 
 They prove most strong protection, and hold back 
 The spoiler from his prey with iron bands 
 Of what will the world think ? or say ? or do ? 
 Were you my brother, ah, how willingly 
 I could cling to your side ; or were that name 
 Of closer union yours — but as it is, 
 Tho' my heart feels the sweetness and leaps up 
 In eagerness to drink at friendship's spring ; 
 Yet my firm soul denies it, and casts down 
 The sparkling draught, sweet, yes, but poison- 
 charged ! — 
 No, Buzot, you must fly ; in other lands 
 Pursue the aims you strove for in your own, 
 And find in other eyes the gift you seek 
 But vainly here in mine. Death is too near 
 For any self-deception. I may say 
 Without a blush, had life been different 
 I could have loved you, and for love resigned 
 All other thought, or hope, or aim, but you — 
 If this be any comfort, take it now. 
 We never meet again ; farewell, Buzot ! 
 
 \He makes gestures of dissent. 
 Nay, strive not, you must leave me ; I have need 
 To send some papers of great moment, swift 
 Unto my husband ; you must fly, and bear 
 Them safely to his hands. Farewell, Buzot ! 
 
 [ Gives him a packet. 
 Remember all our aims, and strive for truth, 
 For Liberty and freedom, to the end. 
 Farewell again. Farewell ! farewell ! I pray 
 For my own sake, oh leave me ! leave me now. 
 
 \Falls exhausted into a chair and covers her eyes
 
 94 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act v. 
 
 with her hand. Buzor kneels down at her side 
 and kisses the other hand. 
 
 BUZOT. 
 
 Farewell my star ! I go to do thy will, 
 
 But I return, to rescue thee or die ! [Exit Buzot. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 Madame Roland remains motion/ess for a short time, 
 then raises herself and speaks, brokenly at first, but 
 waxing clear and strong as her thoughts change. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 So the last pang is over, and now I 
 
 Must fortify myself to stand before 
 
 The murderers of my friends and Liberty 
 
 With unmoved presence, dauntless in their sight, 
 
 And hear unflinching basest calumnies 
 
 Hurled on my name. Yet I am strong to bear, 
 
 And I will show a woman can be brave, 
 
 Tho' standing shelterless in the fierce heat 
 
 Of tyrants' passions ; let them do their worst ! 
 
 I can but die ; they rob me of my life, 
 
 But that eternal thirst for Liberty, 
 
 That high endeavour for humanity, 
 
 That striving to make clear to human hearts 
 
 The lowness of their aims, and in the strife 
 
 To lighten them enlightening my own 
 
 With flash of inspiration which all work —
 
 scene iv. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 05 
 
 The humblest, and the lowest as men hold 
 
 With arbitrary will that sets a bound 
 
 To work a gentleman may venture on, 
 
 And yet not soil his hands, while baser clay 
 
 Must toil in lower fields ; all work I say, 
 
 If truly laboured at with heart and soul, 
 
 Not merely superficial dallying, 
 
 Brings inspiration to the labourer 
 
 And blesses him with sense of comforting, 
 
 And crown of satisfaction ; so he sees 
 
 The eternal gods in common daily things, 
 
 And clearly reads in wayside flower and leaf 
 
 A higher truth, a sweeter sense of right, 
 
 Of all due balancing of properties, 
 
 And true proportion which is beauty's law — 
 
 Than any gentleman who lounges on 
 
 Thro' life ; too grand he thinks (poor brainless fool) 
 
 To mar those fair white hands with labouring, 
 
 Or tan the pale skin on his snowy brow 
 
 By sweat of work and sunlight's wandering. — 
 
 I feel that I have toiled, and now the time 
 
 Has almost come when I can toil no more, 
 
 But this sweet sense of full accomplishment 
 
 They cannot take away ; they can but doom 
 
 Me to a swifter glory. — I am strong, 
 
 Yea eager, for the combat. — I will plead 
 
 With all my strength, and Liberty shall light 
 
 Me now, as ever, to the goal of life.
 
 96 A DREAM OF THE CIRONDE, act v. 
 
 Scene V. 
 Jailor enters. 
 
 JAILOR. 
 
 They call for you, and wait below to lead 
 You to the Tribunal. Will you descend ? 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 Yes, gladly ; yield me but a moment's grace ; 
 I'm still enough the woman to take count 
 Of ruffled hair, and carelessness of dress, 
 Or misplaced ribbon 'mid life's tragedy. 
 Bid them wait for me but a little time, 
 I will attend them willingly. 
 
 JAILOR. 
 
 I will. [Exit. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 
 Madame Roland retires to an inner room and quickly 
 returns dressed in white, her long dark hair floating 
 in carls over her shoulders. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 Now I am ready. 'Tis a foolish thought, 
 A vestige of life's childhood, to connect 
 The white robe with a sense of innocence; 
 And so the prejudice, or vanity,
 
 scene vil. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 97 
 
 I know not which, has led me in this hour, 
 This supreme hour of fate, to don the garb 
 Which speaks of childhood and of purity. 
 
 jailor (re-entering) 
 I grieve to hasten you. Will you descend ? 
 The officers refuse to tarry more. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 I will. Tho' death awaits me, yet I go 
 With no weak trembling ; no fear of my fate, 
 But glory far beyond it guides me now. 
 
 [Exeunt Madame Roland and Jailor. 
 
 Scene VII. 
 
 The Tribunal President, seated ; various Members of 
 Revolutionary Committee ; Public Accuser. Enter 
 Madame Roland behind the bar of the accused. 
 
 PUBLIC ACCUSER. 
 
 This woman, Marie Roland, is accused 
 Of plotting treason with the Girondists 
 Against our liberties ; to seize the power, 
 And guide the reeling vessel of the State 
 Into the quicksands of their party ends. 
 She holds communion with those traitors, and 
 Is cognisant of where the rebels lurk. — 
 I therefore on these pleas do summon her 
 To this Tribunal to show cause and proof 
 Why death be not awarded to her crimes. 
 
 H
 
 98 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act v. 
 
 PRESIDENT. 
 
 Speak, Marie Roland, answer if you can. 
 
 madame roland, in a firm and clear voice, with 
 dignified yet enthusiastic gestures, speaks. 
 
 I count these accusations, and these crimes 
 
 With which you charge me, glory ; and declare 
 
 I have no feeling I should blush to own 
 
 With all the world for witness. — Well I know 
 
 You count my union with the Girondists 
 
 The blackest of my deeds ; 'tis that alone 
 
 Of which I am accused ; T joy to hear 
 
 Such honour from your lips, and openly 
 
 Confess the proudest of my life's fair gifts 
 
 Was friendship of this Gironde, whose high aims 
 
 And noble struggles for true Liberty, 
 
 And our Republic's welfare, such as ye, 
 
 Who strive alone for empire and not right, 
 
 Cannot appreciate, or comprehend. 
 
 Think not, I, helpless, here by force was drawn. 
 
 No : friends were true, and would have made for me 
 
 A passage of escape, but that I scorned 
 
 To take advantage of their friendliness 
 
 And lure them into danger ; I saw well 
 
 The path of duty, honour, led me here ; 
 
 Duty, in that I would not injure those 
 
 In whose care I was placed, who changed for me 
 
 A prison to a home, and solaced me 
 
 For loss of freedom, by the countless small 
 
 But sweet'ning daily actions which make life
 
 scene vii. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 99 
 
 A blessing or a curse : honour — in that 
 
 If I had fled, the low malicious tongues 
 
 Of stinging insects, waiting warily 
 
 To note each flaw, each weakness, would have seized 
 
 The moment, too propitious to be lost, 
 
 To sting away my fair fame, and make black, 
 
 With double meanings and contemptuous ' ifs,' 
 
 My innocence and truth. — I stand alone 
 
 And helpless in your hands, yet tremble not, 
 
 Nor shrink before my doom. My country needs 
 
 One more example, and I offer it 
 
 Myself, with willing heart, and leave to you 
 
 Completion of a sacrifice, for which 
 
 The victim was self-offer'd : — afterwards, 
 
 When calmer days have cooled the people's blood, 
 
 They may turn, and reproach you with my death ; 
 
 A woman's death, whose only crimes were these : 
 
 That having friends whose faithfulness she knew, 
 
 She scorned betrayal ; — and to mighty truth 
 
 Her homage rendered, tho' death was the price ! — 
 
 But souls like mine, who commune with the great 
 
 Of other ages, see beyond their own ; 
 
 And heed not in the bright'ning future's light 
 
 The darkness of the present ; — noble hearts 
 
 Forget themselves, and in the growing might 
 
 Their sacrificial blood gives to the race 
 
 They die for, find their best reward, — and I 
 
 Am ready thus to fall ! Oh may I be 
 
 The last of those who conquer human love, 
 
 And frailty, by the strength of intellect, 
 
 And mount unmoved the scaffold guilt and fear 
 
 Have doomed them to ! 
 
 H 2
 
 ioo A DREAM OF THE G1R0NDE. act v. 
 
 PRESIDENT. 
 
 We still may pardon you, 
 If you declare with accurate and true 
 Description Roland's hiding-place. You know 
 ( How should you not ?) his refuge ; answer then. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 There is no law which forces human hearts 
 To sacrifice the nature in their depths, 
 And tear out all the clinging loveliness 
 Of earth's affections ; — if I know, or not, 
 My husband's refuge, that you well may judge, 
 But never from my lips shall sound proceed 
 Which brings him into danger. — I can die, 
 Despising, scorning death ! yea, limb from limb 
 Can be torn at your pleasure ; but in vain 
 You strive to wring from my resolved mind 
 The utterance of weakness. You but know 
 The anguish of the body, nor can dream 
 What noble souls feel well, that fleshly pain 
 The most intense and vivid you can give, 
 Yea, pressed down till the poor humanity 
 Sinks quailing into nothingness, — is naught 
 Compared with that dread torture of the mind 
 Which feels that it has sinned, and cast away 
 Its heritage for safety. 
 
 PRESIDENT. 
 
 Then, since you, 
 With obdurate proud will, disdain to yield 
 Your country service, by revealing here
 
 scene vin. A DREAM OF HIE GIRONDE. ioi 
 
 The lurking-place of traitors, we must doom 
 You to submit to chastisement of crimes ; 
 E'en death, for treason against Liberty. 
 You, Marie Roland, we condemn to die ! 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 You crown me with your doom ! I joy to hold 
 The hand of fellowship in death with those 
 (The noble hearts, the most undaunted souls) 
 You counted worthy death ; and I shall strive 
 To die like them, unmoved and willingly. — 
 We prove our right to liberty, who dare 
 Courageously meet death. [Curtain faffs. 
 
 Scene VIII. 
 
 The Prison. Madame Roland atone, cafm and 
 resofved. Her voice changes as the changing thoughts 
 sweep across her mind. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 To-morrow then I die ; yet I feel calm, 
 As if the weary days were dragging on 
 Still to an unknown bourne ; as if my mind 
 Saw stretching far in fading distant blue 
 Long years of living, and not one short night. 
 E'en yet I cannot realise how near 
 The great awak'ning is ; and dimly feel 
 A shadow fading into brightening 
 Of soul and mind, half fetterless from flesh ;
 
 102 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act v 
 
 And know, yet cannot grasp, a mighty truth 
 The veil of life (transparent at the end) 
 Still keeps behind its folds, yet half reveals. 
 Farewell sweet life, farewell ! 
 
 However good and fair 
 
 Thou now dost seem to me, 
 
 Yet I must from thee tear 
 
 Myself, not willingly, 
 But of compulsion ; 
 
 And yet I weep not now 
 
 As those who fear to die, 
 
 Ah no ; the fear of death 
 
 Has long ago gone by, 
 
 And I can yield my breath 
 With no impulsion 
 
 To 'scape from these bare walls. — 
 
 The grief that o'er me falls 
 
 Is personal no more, 
 
 But fully abstract now, 
 
 For I have reached the door 
 
 Which opens to death's hand, 
 
 And with no sinking brow 
 
 Can wholly understand 
 
 What I before but dreamed, 
 
 Tho' my dim visions seemed 
 
 An echo from that shore 
 
 I tread now evermore. 
 Thoughts flood my soul, beyond control 
 
 Of language, spring they winged to speech ; 
 Oh give me time, in measured rhyme 
 That I may leave them, I beseech !
 
 SCENE vin. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 103 
 
 Ah ! I have fought with word and thought 
 
 For glorious, sacred Liberty ; 
 And from my youth have sought out truth 
 
 And grasped the noble and the free. 
 My life is sweet ; and tiny feet 
 
 Make music in its quiet halls. 
 My husband's voice bids me rejoice, 
 
 And softer on my spirit falls 
 Than angel's tone ; but now alone 
 
 They lead me forth to die with morn, 
 And he is far who was my star 
 
 And soon will tread this earth forlorn. 
 We had a dream, and like a stream 
 
 Of glory from the sky it fell, 
 To give this earth a second birth, 
 
 And lo ! it proves a funeral knell. 
 And yet I know, tho' now I go 
 
 A martyr for that dream's decline, 
 There shines a morn (yet to be born) 
 
 When my vain dream a truth will shine ! 
 We are not merely shadows in the motion 
 
 Of star that links to star, 
 Incapable of personal emotion — 
 
 Just tossed down from afar ; 
 No ; in each one there lives a will sufficing 
 
 To guide him to his goal, 
 If he but scorn the world's vain voice enticing 
 
 Him to deny his soul. 
 Each in himself contains his own fruition, 
 
 Each to perfection tends, 
 If he but follow Nature's pure tuition, 
 
 Which inspiration lends
 
 104 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act v. 
 
 To each true heart who follows her kind leading ; 
 
 She never can betray, 
 But ever higher mind and spirit feeding 
 
 With thoughts of perfect day, 
 Of perfect knowledge, perfect peace abiding — 
 
 Life's mysteries no more 
 In souls prophetic, agonies providing 
 
 While groping at the door ; 
 The door which death alone can fully open, 
 
 Tho' sometimes from afar 
 A radiance gleameth, very faint and broken 
 
 As from a distant star : 
 It shineth now on me ; and yet one thought 
 Will dim its brightness. Ah ! my fair young child, 
 How will the harsh world treat thee when I'm gone? 
 Will it press down a crown of thorns on thee 
 To crush out thy brow's brightness ? Will it curse 
 The Roman spirit in thy brave young heart 
 (Thy Roman father's gift), and make thee drink 
 The vinegar and gall prepared for those 
 Who dare unveil its falsehoods ? — who can say? — 
 Perchance thy path may be 'mid the deep grass 
 Of life's low pasture lands, o'ershaded e'er 
 By stately trees ; not envying their state, 
 But joying in their shadow ; while the flowers 
 Which gem thy life are simple, yet so sweet 
 They drown all thought of wider, higher blooms : 
 The daisy's golden eye is thy life's star, 
 And homely murmur of the breeze-blown blades 
 Lulls thee to slumber, while unheard above 
 Rolls on the stately music of the spheres, 
 Unknown to thee, and therefore undesired. —
 
 scene viii. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 105 
 
 I cannot wholly wish that thine should be 
 
 A lot like this, and yet — 'tis happiest, 
 
 As common minds count bliss. The poet soul 
 
 Alone can soar, and fully knowing still 
 
 The beauty of the low, and all the bliss 
 
 Found in the shadow, yet dares seek the high, 
 
 All careless of the glare which burns his soul 
 
 Into a keener glory by its pain ; 
 
 And gives him for the earthly laurel wreath 
 
 A crown of suffering : — while life's homely joys, 
 
 The pleasure of the green grass, zephyr-stirred — 
 
 The violet's meek perfume — tender sounds 
 
 Of streamlet rippling, and the low of kine — 
 
 And thousand twinkling joys of wayside life, 
 
 Are his to feel, to glad in, and to sing — 
 
 But never to enjoy ; his poet heart 
 
 Sees but the poetry, and never tastes 
 
 (It cannot, 'tis impossible) the prose : 
 
 Thank heaven it is impossible ! A soul 
 
 Tuned to the stars could never make its home 
 
 Where clasping bind-weed hides the heaven's blue, 
 
 And rises just so high as loving hearts 
 
 Support it, but again falls to the earth, 
 
 And twines itself content round stone, or twig, 
 
 Or common wreck of life ; — wilt thou be thus, 
 
 My daughter? Oh my darling, may thy path, 
 
 Howe'er it be, ne'er leave bright truth's highway ! 
 
 And may'st thou, like thy mother, gladly fall 
 
 For Liberty and right ! May thoughts of death 
 
 Be powerless to turn thy heart away 
 
 From following, honour-led, thy father's aim ! 
 
 Oh God, send down all blessings on my child,
 
 106 A DREAM OF THE CIRONDE. act v. 
 
 My own, own child, my darling ! and make her 
 
 Worthy her name, her country, and her God ! — 
 
 I leave her in Thy hands ; my faith is sure, 
 
 Tho' sav'ring not of dogmas harshly held 
 
 By canting priest and persecuting Church ; 
 
 No ! the eternal spirit, fetterless, 
 
 And boundless in its flight as the wide arch 
 
 Of unimaginable space above, 
 
 Bearing sun, moon, and stars within our ken 
 
 As but an atom in its boundlessness, 
 
 Can never be chained down to one alone 
 
 Of countless lights in this dark world of ours ! 
 
 The Church's kindly beams are shed around, 
 
 And in their little circle make a glow 
 
 To warm tired hearts by, who with youthful haste 
 
 Have torn themselves in struggles with mankind, 
 
 Or bruised their wings with combats in the dark 
 
 Of yet unfledged spirits — childish souls 
 
 Have need of childish nourishment ; — I say 
 
 This not with scorn, or with the pride of one 
 
 Who thinks herself above such comforting, 
 
 But as a truth — slow-dawning— still a truth : — 
 
 For those without the circle of the Church, 
 
 Souls star-aspiring, needing earthly props 
 
 No more to reach the heavens, her little light 
 
 Seems glimmering but to make more visible 
 
 The darkness of her path : — for those, I hold, 
 
 Who bear within their spirits evidence 
 
 Of their high destiny, nor need a man 
 
 Far lesser than themselves (in that his mind 
 
 Feeds on the leavings of past greater souls 
 
 Who long ago saw truth, and left a sign
 
 SCENE vin. A DREAM OF THE GIROXDE. 107 
 
 Of what she said to them ; but not to bind 
 
 The coming hearts, but merely indicate, 
 
 The mind must from itself evolve its gods 
 
 Or follow blindly false ones !) to make clear 
 
 God's will to them (a lesser god than they); 
 
 For these to bow their shoulders to the yoke 
 
 Were merely mockery, and 1 held it so ; 
 
 And struggled free from Church, and creed, and priest, 
 
 But not from God ; no ! My immortal soul 
 
 Knew that its inspiration dwelt not here ; 
 
 And looking round on nature, saw with eyes 
 
 Clear opened to behold, each plant, and bird, 
 
 Or humble creeping life, slow-working still 
 
 On to a definite end with no false aim, 
 
 But merest germ of longing in a shoot 
 
 To twine round something, teaching it to turn 
 
 In subtle revolution, seeking rest, 
 
 Until it finds completion, when again 
 
 Its journey is repeated, on, on, on, 
 
 The ceaseless striving of humanity 
 
 In lower type clear-speaking — so my mind 
 
 Raised step by step, and strengthening as it grew 
 
 Towards the stars, by study of the earth, 
 
 Felt that its yearnings must like nature's throbs 
 
 Speak possibilities of inner life 
 
 Out-blossoming some time ; and cast about 
 
 In twining convolutions (like the shoot) 
 
 To find support for climbing ; and drew forth 
 
 From treasure store of boundless intellect, 
 
 An image (faint and dim, but growing still 
 
 More bright and clear, for gazing of clear eyes) 
 
 Of that eternal, reigning loveliness ;
 
 io8 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act v. 
 
 Truth manifest — yea, God !— such is my faith ; 
 And having this sublime belief, shall I 
 Tremble to die ? a moment's agony, 
 Too great a price to pay for endless bliss ? 
 No ; I feel raised above all human pain, 
 My spirit e'en now soars, and with foretaste 
 Of dreams' fulfilment, scoffs at earthly bands. 
 Would that the hour were come ! I could die now 
 With rapture ! May my soul resigned and calm 
 Thus bear herself to-morrow ! I will rest 
 This weary body, lest its humanness 
 Drag down my spirit at the final hour. 
 Sleep, sweet and gentle, under thy kind wing 
 I shelter me ; be merciful, and swift 
 Waft all my waiting into strengthening. 
 
 [Speaks towards the end slowly and drowsily, then 
 gradually falls back asleep. 
 
 Scene IX. 
 
 Street with guillotine erected. On one side gigantic 
 statue of Liberty. Executioner ; scattered groups of 
 people with sullen brows occasionally muttering dis- 
 contentedly. Tumbril appears in sight, -with 
 Madame Roland and an Old Man. Madame 
 Roland in white as at the Tribunal; Old Man 
 stretching out his hands to the people. 
 
 old man. 
 
 Oh brothers, save me ! I am old, and weak, 
 I cannot injure you, oh let me live !
 
 scene IX. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. 109 
 
 I dare not die, I fear — I cannot die ! 
 Oh brothers, be but merciful this once, 
 And spare my old defenceless, harmless life ! 
 
 1ST CITIZEN. 
 
 Some sport is here — a man afraid to die ; 
 The first one of the batch ! Let's follow him. 
 
 2ND citizen to Old Man. 
 
 A life like yours (so very near its close) 
 Would never pay for saving ; but at least 
 We will see last of you. [To 3RD citizen] Keep close, 
 keep close. 
 
 3RD CITIZEN. 
 
 How the crowd presses ! 'tis the woman there 
 Who draws all eyes upon her. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND (to Old Man). 
 
 Friend, why fear 
 To close your span of life ? one moment more 
 Or less of living cannot conquer death ; 
 In Nature's course you must have perished soon ; 
 Calm yourself then ; 'tis but an instant's pain, 
 With everlasting rest beyond the stroke. 
 I too shall die — my doom is first to fall. 
 Look on me, do I tremble ? be a man ! 
 You must have looked on death with unmoved eye 
 In battle-fields ere now. 
 
 OLD MAN. 
 
 Aye, that I have ! 
 But this slow-growing horror strikes me down,
 
 I IO 
 
 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act v. 
 
 I cannot conquer it.— You die the first, 
 And will not see the anguish of my fall ; 
 But I shall feel the quivering of your heart 
 As the knife falls, and doubly suffer death, 
 In witnessing, ere I can suffer it ! 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 You fear to see my spirit quail at last, 
 
 And nature shrink at the dread agony ? 
 
 Ah friend, my strength is greater ; I can bear 
 
 To see you fall, nor sigh— and then calm mount 
 
 The scaffold and firm die :— your turn shall be 
 
 The first then. Courage ! die for Liberty 
 
 Without a groan ; 'tis but a moment's pang. 
 
 [Old Man falls back with a sob of relief. Tum- 
 bril stops at the foot of the guillotine. Executioner 
 advances to Madame Roland. 
 
 EXECUTIONER. 
 
 Being a woman, 'tis your privilege 
 To suffer death the first. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 But I would choose 
 To waive that privilege, and render up 
 My turn to this poor man : let him die first. 
 
 EXECUTIONER. 
 
 I cannot change my orders for a whim. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 But can you have the heart to take from me
 
 scene ix. A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. in 
 
 My woman's right of choosing? 'tis the last 
 Of my free actions, do not then deny 
 Me the poor granting of a woman's wish. 
 Lead this man tenderly ; so old and weak 
 With fighting battles for his murderers ; 
 And hasten to abridge the agony 
 Weak souls feel in suspense. 
 
 [Executioner half unwillingly turns to Old Man 
 and takes hold of his arm \ Old Man does not 
 move. 
 
 EXECUTIONER. 
 
 Come, waken now ; 
 You soon will sleep enough. 
 {Shakes him roughly.} Why ! what is this? 
 
 He's dead already ; I may spare my toil. 
 {Drops his arm, Old Man falls motionless to the ground. 
 To Madame Roland.) You have your privilege 
 against your will. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 Poor human creature ! he has gone to rest ; 
 
 The fear of death has stifled in his heart 
 
 All power of life. {To Executioner.) I thank you 
 
 for the grace 
 You rendered me, tho' vain. 
 
 [She mounts the sea fold with a firm undaunted step, 
 and turning towards the statue of Liberty, 
 gravely bows. 
 
 MADAME ROLAND {to statue). 
 
 Farewell my goddess ! I shall greet this mom 
 True Liberty unveiled : — her image here,
 
 112 A DREAM OF THE GIRONDE. act v. 
 
 Standing with calm unruffled brow to see 
 The death of all who loved her, is a type 
 Of earthly Liberty, set up to cloke 
 The basest crimes with plausibility ! 
 Yet, Liberty, thou blessest with thy look 
 Of high resolve, and dauntless suffering, 
 My dying hour ; I have lived as thy child, 
 And die now as thy martyr ! Farewell life ! 
 
 [ Curtain falls as she stands with clasped hands, 
 and eyes tipraised to the statue.
 
 POEMS
 
 THE STAR- GOD. 
 
 The moonlight lay calm on the folded mountains, 
 And touched their whiteness with silver shine ; 
 
 The breezes swept o'er the echoing fountains ; 
 Earth's whispered beauty looked half divine : 
 
 And the star-god, gazing while onward singing 
 His chariot rolled thro' the ether's blue, 
 
 Felt a dream-like yearning to hear the ringing 
 Of earth-bells lost from that distant view. 
 
 He knew but the moonlight rapture of beauty, 
 Nor dreamed of the darkness ere the morn ; 
 
 For right is desire, and pleasure is duty, 
 In that fair world to which he was born : 
 
 So leaving the glory, and music blisses 
 
 He ever tasted, so never knew, 
 He slid down the rapturous clinging kisses 
 
 Of breezes moon-driven the blueness thro'. 
 
 A shadow of sorrow, a dim regretting 
 
 (As moment's darkness on moon's fair light) 
 
 Fell over his spirit, as onward setting 
 His will in his wings, he took his flight. 
 
 I 2
 
 Ii6 THE STAR-GOD. 
 
 He passed thro' the dreamy stillness, swift-weaving 
 Such visions of earth-love rapture clear 
 
 As only are known in the world he was leaving, 
 And cannot even be dreamed of here. 
 
 He floated away, while his star grew dimmer, 
 And sighed its chorus with waning voice, 
 
 As the spheres rolled on, and its weeping glimmer, 
 Was lost, since its god had made his choice ; 
 
 And chosen the sad-browed earth for his dwelling, 
 
 Forsaking his glory, love, and star ; 
 The white clouds marvelled, and wept in the telling, 
 
 With rain down-falling on us afar. 
 
 But the star-god recked not the tender weeping 
 Of clouds, his friends in the days gone by ; 
 
 Still onward he slid thro' the moonlight, keeping 
 His watch on the earth, forgetting the sky. 
 
 At last on the mountain's fair silver foldings, 
 That mystic fretwork of light and shade, 
 
 He thought he could trace clear his dim beholdings ; 
 And passion of fragrant wings delayed. 
 
 But as his chilled feet the sharp coldness tasted 
 (Earth's coldness piercing through heaven's dreams) 
 
 Of the snow peaks for whose sake he had hasted 
 From star-world rapture, and angel beams, 
 
 A doubt struck his soul with prophetic warning, 
 That earth might be fair, yet hard and cold ;
 
 THE STAR-GOD. 117 
 
 For moonlight was fading, and cloudy dawning 
 Half froze the fragrance of star-wings' fold. 
 
 • Oh hills, whose wild beauty, my spirit's longings 
 
 For something beyond its tasted bliss, 
 Answered with dreamy yet far wafting songings 
 
 Which spoke to me clear with breeze's kiss ; 
 
 ' Did my soul receive your dim message wrongly? 
 
 Speak to me now, I have come to you ; 
 For my heart is sad, and my pinions strongly 
 
 Flutter to soar the moonlight thro'.' 
 
 The star-god listened for answer, deep-pleading 
 
 With glorious sadness of his eyes, 
 While the silver faded ; and sun rose, leading 
 
 Morn to her place 'mid the darkling skies. 
 
 Then the mountains quivered, and half-revealing 
 
 Beneath the realist sun their brows, 
 With no moonlight glory of poet healing 
 
 To hide the bareness which night allows : 
 
 Said sadly : ' Oh star-god, no word or whisper 
 
 Came from us floating to you afar ; 
 It might be the streamlet, the valley's lisper, 
 
 Whose voice reached thro' space, your distant star : 
 
 ' Seek not in silence of mountains, upraising 
 
 Their heads to listen against the sky, 
 But in prattling plains for ever praising 
 
 Their greenness and beauty, with no sigh
 
 u8 THE STAR-GOD. 
 
 ' For the heights they reach not, nor in their vision 
 Dream of reaching; too lowly their soul; 
 
 It is but a high mind whose prevision 
 Can seek the high in its wishecl-for goal ! 
 
 1 Too great our wild longing, and patient yearning 
 For something we know not, yet can feel 
 
 Is waiting in space for our future learning, 
 But which must be known ere it can heal : 
 
 ' Too mighty our patience for word of wailing, 
 
 Rapture of beauty, or song of love ; 
 Calm, unmoved and sublime, with never-failing 
 
 Expectant peaks we gaze on above. 
 
 •' Seek in the valley the streamlet's low tinkle, 
 Murmuring " follow me " to its shore ; 
 
 Or seek the wide ocean whose brow no wrinkle 
 Bears on its fairness for evermore.' 
 
 The star-god listened, and calm at the ending 
 With wondering brow he gazed below 
 
 To the plain, and with footsteps slow descending 
 And longings cast upward did he go. 
 
 Green lay the valley, with bright sunlight waking 
 Over each dew-laden leaf and bloom ; 
 
 While the birds rejoicing greeted morn breaking, 
 Which spake to them but of conquered gloom ; 
 
 And the star-god knew that their voices gladdened 
 A scene of beauty, and hoped again,
 
 THE STAR-GOD. 119 
 
 With a soul rebounding from words that saddened 
 To find his dream of the mountains vain : 
 
 And he sang with the magic rhythm of glory 
 The stars repeat to each passing cloud : 
 
 ' Ah little birds, tell me the joyous story 
 I heard in my distant world, and loud 
 
 Echoing thro' all the brightness and wonder 
 Of boundless space did its notes resound, 
 
 Till I left my star for the song-world under 
 And on snow mountain my footsteps found ; 
 
 1 But the hills denied what my fervent dreaming 
 Had crowned them with, and bade me seek 
 
 In the valley's streamlet my vision's gleaming, 
 And not on the silent mountain peak : 
 
 ' Tell me, oh gay birds ! your sweet meaning clearly 
 What is the rapture you lured me to ? 
 
 Come to me closely, and whisper me nearly 
 The secret which drew me down to you.' 
 
 But the birds still singing, light answered, straying 
 The while thro' the green leaves fresh with dew ; 
 
 ' Oh star-god, we know not your cause for praying, 
 We never whispered or sang to you : 
 
 ' We twitter with rapture, and sing souls afire 
 At glory of blossom, fruit, and leaf — 
 
 We some of us into the blueness aspire, 
 And some of us weary earth with grief;
 
 120 THE STAR-GOD. 
 
 ' But no voice of ours 'mid the stars on-singing, 
 Could ever be heard thro' distant space : 
 
 Seek farther, oh star-god ! the music ringing 
 In thy dreams of earth has here no place.' 
 
 ' Oh greenness of valleys, flower-besprinkled ! 
 
 Tell me, oh tell me, was yours the tone 
 Which rang thro' the stillness, and silver tinkled 
 
 'Mid rapture-music to me alone ? ' 
 
 Smiling, the sweetness of blossoms repeated, 
 ' Star-god, seek farther, no tone of mine 
 
 Could draw thee away from thy glory, heated 
 By dreams of beauty and love divine.' — 
 
 Then with sorrowful steps, the star-god pondered, 
 ' Where shall I find my dream's clear voice ? ' 
 
 Till he came to a stream, which rippling wandered 
 And chanted away, ' Rejoice, rejoice ! ' 
 
 ' At last then 'tis found,' said the star-god singing ; 
 
 ' Oh brooklet, whisper me, why rejoice ? 
 For your joyous song thro' the ether ringing 
 
 Drowned to my ears every other voice ; 
 
 ' And lured me away to the mystic glowing 
 
 Of beauty I felt behind that tone ; 
 I have sought but vainly for further knowing, 
 
 But now I hear it is yours alone ; 
 
 ' Tell me the meaning, for I am so weary 
 Of asking vainly all this while ;
 
 THE STAR-GOD. 121 
 
 And my soul finds darkness of earth more dreary 
 For memory of a past star-smile.' 
 
 Then the brooklet murmured, ' You question vainly ; 
 
 The meaning I know not nor can tell 
 Of my happy song, it speaks to me plainly 
 
 Of rain-drops which in the night down-fell ; 
 
 ' When the pattering blessings dropping sweetly, 
 
 Have given my happy heart a voice, 
 I sing and flow on to the ocean fleetly 
 
 With joyous refrain, " rejoice ! rejoice ! " 
 
 ' Come, follow me, follow me, till my flowing 
 
 Is lost in the whelming ocean tide ; 
 For the ever- restless may all unknowing 
 
 Have lured thee to her echoing side." 
 
 So the star-god followed the brooklet's leading 
 Till its voice was drowned in mighty roar 
 
 Of the surge resistless, as shoreward speeding 
 It leapt to his feet ; and then once more 
 
 With his voice sad ringing he questioned, craving ; 
 
 ' Oh mighty ocean ! was yours the song 
 Which rang thro' the moonlight and white clouds, 
 waving 
 
 Me from my star-world to earth along ? ' 
 
 ' Seek farther yet, for thy dream's solution, 
 No voice of mine spoke of rapture clear ; 
 
 I know not that song, and stern resolution 
 Is all my mission to teach or hear. —
 
 122 THE STAR-GOD. 
 
 ' When ships down-sinking, and prayers and groaning 
 Ring o'er my waves 'mid die tempest's glare, 
 
 Dost dream I think aught of thy brightness roaming 
 In blueness and glory thro' the air ? 
 
 ' No ; — yet in the silence of moon down-shining, 
 
 When my restless ocean-heart is still, 
 A dawning idea which is half divining — 
 
 A shadow of stars — my waters fill ; 
 
 ' And I murmur, flowing with tender sweetness, 
 " Oh shadows, whose light my spirit knows, 
 
 Will time ever come when with full completeness 
 The sea will rest from its wrecks and woes ? " 
 
 ' But the stars and the moonlight leave me ever 
 Without a word, when the morning beams, 
 
 And a song of rapture has blossomed never 
 From my soul whose torment endless seems. 
 
 ' Seek in the ancient mysterious hushing 
 
 Of forests primeval, wise, and old, 
 The clear voice of rapture and glory rushing 
 
 Till space was flooded, and thy star told.' 
 
 Then the star-god turned from ocean denying 
 The voice whose whisper had drawn him down, 
 
 Till he missed heaven's music for earth's sighing 
 And won but regret for his lost crown ; 
 
 And came to the many- voiced, waving wonder 
 Of greenness twined in weaving fold,
 
 THE STAR-GOD. 123 
 
 And parted the gleaming branches asunder 
 Whose beauty his soul joyed to behold ; 
 
 And he gazed entranced, and half forgetting 
 
 The prayer his voice so often told, 
 While the murmur swept o'er his rapt soul, setting 
 
 Each separate thought in frame of gold ; 
 
 For the yellow sunlight crept thro' the tracing 
 
 Of convolute branch's bloomy spray, 
 Whose scarlet blossoms flame-tipped, up-facing 
 
 The god with their glory, bade him stay. 
 
 ' Forest mysterious, whispering treasure 
 
 Of wisdom my spirit craves to know ; 
 Beseech you, reveal me the secret measure 
 
 Your swinging rhythm wafts to and fro : 
 
 ' I have sought (but vainly) on crowned snow mountain 
 That voice and beauty which filled my dream ; 
 
 Have sought them in valley, and ocean's fountain — 
 In glad bird-songs and murmuring stream : 
 
 ' But alas for my seeking ! it hath met ever 
 
 Denial swift given in refrain ; 
 Tell me, oh forest ! will questioning never 
 
 Give me fruition, or dream, again ? ' 
 
 Then the mystic forest, so gray and hoary, 
 Whose wondrous voices are only known 
 
 To the poet who weaves them in his story 
 And makes their longings and love his own ;
 
 124 THE STAR-GOD. 
 
 Answered the star-god with green light thro' shining 
 Emerald-glory 'tween bough and grass, 
 
 Slow-weaving the song of the leaves entwining 
 In verses where sunlight and shadow pass : 
 
 ' Star- god, we cannot reveal to your pleading 
 Wisdom and beauty you yearn to grasp ; 
 
 For the voice you heard, and the dreams down-leading, 
 Are not for a mortal hand to clasp ; 
 
 • But we are so old that the fading glory 
 Of earth's rare beauty and fervent love 
 
 Seems but a repeating of one sad story 
 
 Now shrieked below, now murmured above : 
 
 ' We see the myriad life 'neath our branches 
 Bud and blossom, or fruit, and then die, 
 
 Just as fate threatens it, or fortune chances, 
 Or storm or sunlight reigns in the sky ; 
 
 ' And we know the striving and helpless longing 
 Of lives with nerve-tension strung so fine 
 
 That it quivers beneath mere human songing, 
 And dreams that earth-beauty is divine ! 
 
 ' Star-god, no voice merely objective singing 
 Could e'er have drawn thee from bliss afar 
 
 'Twas subjective poet-heart in thee ringing, 
 Inspired by the beauty of thy star : 
 
 ' Never on earth will the realisation 
 Of thy fair vision and hope be found,
 
 THE STAR-GOD. 125 
 
 For thou must on-struggle without cessation 
 Thro' thy sharp longings, the earth-life round : 
 
 ' 'Twas the light of thy poet soul uplifting 
 
 Its own rare beauty, and shedding far 
 Its glory across the blueness, and gifting 
 
 Earth with a sweetness beyond thy star. 
 
 ' Oh poet ! sing on when the darkness closes, 
 
 And moon arises with mystic light ; 
 Sing sadly beneath thy crowning earth-roses 
 
 For blisses dreamed of, but lost from sight : 
 
 ' Sing on, oh star-god ! with yearning and wonder 
 
 Of glory and rapture in the blue, 
 When the stars sweep on, and are cast asunder 
 
 But swift to return their mazes thro' : 
 
 ' Sing all the passionate throbbing of sorrow 
 An earth-life, born to the stars must feel ; 
 
 But sing, ah ! sing on of that dawning morrow 
 Which bears in its bosom strength to heal. 
 
 1 Enter the hard world, oh star-god and poet ! 
 
 As it is now, not as in thy dream : 
 Too soon thou wilt learn to dread it, and know it, 
 
 Careless of beauty, or love, or beam — 
 
 ' Ever seeking its weeds of selfish pleasures, 
 
 Passing all flowers of noble deeds ; 
 Counting its mean worthless baubles its treasures, 
 
 And recking not of its high souls' needs :
 
 ia6 THE STAR-GOD. 
 
 ' Crushing the genius with iron fetters 
 Of custom — mode — and striving to burn 
 
 Into his bright soul with blood-red, harsh letters, 
 " No place in our world for souls who yearn 
 
 1 " For aught beyond our most usual living : 
 No ; raise us corn for our bread alone, 
 
 And prate not of rapture which comes in giving, 
 Let each one firm grasp, and keep his own." 
 
 1 Enter this hard world, oh star-poet ! fated 
 To suffer its torments, and make clear 
 
 To weaker souls in its meshes belated, 
 That glory exists beyond the " here " : 
 
 ' Enter, and struggle for earth-food to nourish 
 Star nature touched with the earthly need ; 
 
 Strive where man's industry most high doth flourish, 
 But struggle also his soul to lead 
 
 ' Up wonder to fragrant rapture of beauty 
 Thou knewest once in thy lost star-home, 
 
 And know in fulfilling this oft irksome duty 
 Swifter to glory thy steps will roam ! ' 
 
 Silent the forest grew ; not a leaf trembled, 
 
 Or flower whispered, syllable more, 
 While the fleet shadows dispersed and assembled 
 
 Noiseless, in dances o'er the green floor. 
 
 Slowly the star-god turned sad from the sweetness 
 Of blossoms recalling his lost home,
 
 THE STAR-GOD. 127 
 
 To seek in the strange world sense of completeness 
 He dreamed he had missed in heaven's dome. 
 
 He came to a valley with pines straight growing 
 Stern, stately, and grand to arching skies, 
 
 And felt in his soul that this all unknowing 
 And peaceful spot grew dear in his eyes ; 
 
 So he rested and chose for his daily toil, 
 
 Care and tending of trees and flowers, 
 Soft laying the seed in the fair fruitful soil, 
 
 And watching it bud thro' changing hours ; 
 
 The blossoms springing reminded him faintly 
 Of lost star fragrance, and joyed his heart, 
 
 While the stately trees so calm-browed and saintly 
 Taught him to suffer, meek-eyed, his part : 
 
 And the people wondered at his sweet speaking, 
 
 And fabled his home Arcadian land ; 
 And strove to inspire him with the wealth-seeking 
 
 Hard spirit, they best could understand ; 
 
 But he turned from urging, with eyes uplifting 
 
 Their calmness to blue sky overhead, 
 And murmured denial with sweetness, gifting 
 
 Star-glow to commonest words he said : 
 
 Then they talked to him of their little story, 
 Their wars — and battles — and soldiers' might — 
 
 How the German had won eternal glory, 
 And Frenchman was beaten in the fight :
 
 128 THE STAR-GOD. 
 
 How their social science, and social measures 
 Were leading the earth to perfect bliss ; 
 
 While the sea was dredged for its buried treasures, 
 And time was settled for mystic kiss 
 
 Of darkness and light, as the planets veiling 
 
 In eclipse-shadow, their shining eyes 
 Came forth from the blackness, in beauty sailing 
 
 With clear undimmed lustre thro' the skies : 
 
 They marvelled greatly that after relation 
 
 Of tales of wonder and joy, or grief, 
 His calm brow nor smiled, nor showed elation, 
 
 And always came answer low and brief : 
 
 ' What does it matter?' he murmured slowly, 
 
 Turned to his labour without a sigh 
 For the triumph-glory ; his mind too lowly, 
 
 Recked not, they said, of aught grand or high. 
 
 They tried to excite his feelings, but vainly, 
 With ' how do you like ? ' ' would you prefer 
 
 But always he answered kindly but plainly ; 
 ' The same 'tis to me ; ' nor would defer 
 
 Duty of tendance for pleasure or gaining ; 
 
 His soul rose above, to his lost star, 
 And he gazed in the moonlight to blue dome straining 
 
 Tired eye with watching it beam afar. 
 
 Yet the people loved him, and sought untiring 
 To draw his spirit within their grasp,
 
 THE STAR-GOD. 129 
 
 Not knowing that calm spirit was aspiring 
 To heaven's rapture once his to clasp : 
 
 And they whispered his fairness had the glory 
 Of moonlight blueness on starry night, 
 
 And recalled to their minds some saintly story 
 Of angels descending thro' rays of light : 
 
 And the maidens half fearful, spoke all trembling 
 
 Of glorious eyes (with vague alarm), 
 Which sought not their glances, only resembling 
 
 Lily-kissed lakes in their moveless calm : 
 
 They knew not his brow bore echoes undying, 
 
 Within its whiteness, of his lost star, 
 Which drowned all the voices of earthly sighing 
 
 And drew his spirit into the far. 
 
 At last a youth-crowned and beauteous maiden, 
 
 Cold to all lovers of earthly mould, 
 Wooed warmly but vainly by suitors love-laden, 
 
 Chanced the star-god one day to behold : 
 
 His beauty and sadness pierced thro' the shielding 
 Of loveless heart and high maiden pride, 
 
 And she worshipped him, suddenly up-yielding 
 Spirit and soul to her new love-guide. 
 
 Alas for the maiden ! that she could never 
 
 Let her heart answer a mortal voice ; 
 Seed only of star-love can blossom ever 
 
 In his sad soul who became her choice ! 
 
 K
 
 no 
 
 THE STAR-GOD. 
 
 She marvelled, and wept, that her fairness, striven 
 
 For, as a jewel of untold price, 
 Touched him not at all to whom it was given ; 
 
 He passed her unnoting— cold as ice. 
 
 There came a day once, when she watched him gazing 
 
 Into the blueness, with tragic eyes ; 
 And her passion of words swept forth, upraising 
 
 Pathos of sad love unto the skies : 
 
 ' Oh why, my beloved, with hopeless weeping 
 
 Gazest thou into answerless skies ? 
 Let thy soul rest in the tender love-keeping 
 
 Which speaks to thee clear in these brimming eyes. 
 
 ' Turn not from pleasures most sweet in the tasting 
 When shared with fair love, who blesses all ; 
 
 Ah, my beloved one ! why art thou wasting 
 Life hours but once safe within thy call ? 
 
 ' Look on me, maiden unmaidenly pleading 
 For love treasure precious in my sight ; 
 
 Give not thy spirit to sleep and dream-leading, 
 Turn from the shadow into life's light. 
 
 ' Oh, my beloved one ! have I not wondered, 
 Watching thee ever with longing eyes, 
 
 What fearful doom life and spirit has sundered, 
 Leaving earth empty, and hopeless skies. 
 
 < Canst thou not tell me, and find in the telling 
 Peace for the anguish which saddens thee ?
 
 THE STAR-GOD. 131 
 
 Little thou knowest the deep love up-welling 
 Over my heart, and constraining me 
 
 ' Thus to pour forth on thy cold moveless hearing 
 
 Passion of pity, and yearning too ; 
 What is the fate thou art trembling at nearing ? 
 
 Cannot pure love-light shine a way thro' ? ' 
 
 Softened and tender the star-god's blue eyes grew : 
 Gravely he answered, ' Ah child, in vain 
 
 Sweetest of earth-!oves to who sees the death thro*, 
 Happiness buds not for me again ! 
 
 ' I have known ideal rapture round-clasping 
 Passionate fragrance of wings, and still 
 
 Sighed for a higher, diviner close- grasping 
 Of what eluded my fervent will ; 
 
 ' So all unknowing the bliss I was leaving, 
 
 I floated down from yon distant star, 
 And reaching earth found that I had been grieving 
 
 For shadows, which live not near or far : 
 
 ' The voice which I heard 'mid the stars on-singing 
 
 I vainly sought in all earthly bliss ; 
 It never was aught but my soul out-ringing, 
 
 To greet the distant with poet kiss 
 
 ' Of sweet impossible longing and yearning 
 To grasp the substance, unknowing still 
 
 Even the shadow was but my soul turning 
 Back on itself with wild eager will, 
 
 O 7 
 
 ^5 V 
 K 2
 
 132 THE STAR-GOD. 
 
 1 Constrained by passionate heart of poet, 
 A mystic chrism touching each thing 
 
 With a glory unspeakable, souls who know it 
 Wear their hearts sore with striving to sing 
 
 ' Its all impossible passion of glory ; 
 
 Mortal words sink into soundless sighs, 
 And give no idea of the blissful story 
 
 Poets see clear by their clear souls' eyes. 
 
 ' Love that thou pleadest for, never was given 
 
 Unto the true poet heart to feel ; 
 Too far his spirit from mortal aims riven 
 
 For love to reign there — the man's life seal — 
 
 ' No ; in his singing he sees but the many, 
 Sings of their beauty, dreams of their love — 
 
 But never can choose as the only one, any 
 To wear in his heart, and waft above : 
 
 ' The love of the poet is for his singing j 
 The strife for the shadow holds it all ; 
 
 And voices of sweetness and earth-love ringing 
 Like faintest echoes on his soul fall. 
 
 ' Seek not, fair child, by thy sad tender pleading 
 Sweetness like this which to bitter turns ; 
 
 Pity-feigned love bears but poisonous seeding — 
 Hungry heart ever for fulness yearns, — 
 
 ' And oft forgetting, in pain of that yearning 
 Patience of waiting (the unloved's doom),
 
 THE STAR-GOD. 133 
 
 Crushes the buds of affection, swift spurning 
 Promise of brightness in present gloom : 
 
 ' Love is a star-crowned, steep ladder for climbing ; 
 
 Possible — yes— but a weary toil ! 
 Some creep up half-way ! while others subliming 
 
 Souls to the combat, reck not the soil 
 
 ' Of fair fingers bleeding with holding tightly 
 
 Tremulous bending of earthly wood. 
 But bear heavy burdens with glad faces, lightly 
 
 Suffering anguish for coming good ; 
 
 ' Such souls undaunted find joy at the ending 
 (Love's ladder reaches the highest star) ; 
 
 Yet those whose footsteps below them are wending 
 Envy not glory seen from afar. 
 
 ' Fair child, too tender and sweet for the mounting ! 
 
 Seek not the star, but earth's fragrant flow'rs : 
 Thou shalt find joy in their keeping and counting, 
 
 And rose-crowned sing thro' life's passing hours : 
 
 ' But if unheeding of sorrow, not counting 
 
 Peril of heart, earth's joys cast away, 
 Thy soul firm chooses, and holds by, the mounting, 
 
 Then, oh fair woman, there dawns a day 
 
 ' When all the terror of darkness, and grasping 
 Thorns to white breast with bitterest tears, 
 
 Shall be forgotten, and love crowned, round-clasping 
 Beauty and rapture, be thine thro' all years !
 
 134 THE STAR- GOD. 
 
 ■ Thou wilt swift feel all the fragrance and sweetness 
 Of my lost star-world, and comprehend 
 
 Emptiness of all mere earthly completeness 
 To poet- soul who dreams of the end : 
 
 ' Thy star with mine will be linked so divinely, 
 
 Mortals may wonder if they be two, 
 As in the blueness enraptured, they finely 
 
 Float on in glory the moonlight thro' ! 
 
 ' Plead not then, woman, for earth-love, swift turning 
 
 Away from its object, seeking still 
 Ideal beauty and rapture, and yearning 
 
 For more than mortal hearts can fill : 
 
 ' Being the " distant," and far from thy clasping, 
 
 Love seems eternal, and half divine, 
 But once the bloom near, and within thy grasping, 
 
 Again beyond it new loves will shine : 
 
 ' It is the fate of the artist and poet, 
 And all whose high souls cling to a star, 
 
 Ever to dream of perfection, and know it, 
 But see it beyond them down the far 
 
 ' Of beauty impossible ! while their singing 
 
 Strives to realise their fair dream, 
 But it soars above them with mighty winging, 
 
 And words which describe it, lifeless seem. 
 
 ' If thou would'st reach the fair glory at ending, 
 Gather a wreath of noble deeds ;
 
 THE STAR- GOD. 135 
 
 ' And unmoved, seeking not joy in thy wending, 
 Struggle on, heedless of earthly needs ; 
 
 ' Nor rest that love, seeking still the ideal 
 
 On a poor blossom, or fading leaf ; 
 Bitter the wak'ning to find but the real ! 
 
 Earth-love illusion ever is brief : 
 
 ' Think of the star-worlds, dream but of their beauty ; 
 
 Into their rapture plunge thee deep ; 
 And every step of mere earthly duty 
 
 Will be to their bliss a full soul-leap.' — 
 
 Hushed lay the world while the star-god and poet 
 Spoke from his soul the whole earth's strong need ; 
 
 Then a whisper arose ; ' We all feel it, and know it — 
 And weep it forth, but man will not heed ; 
 
 ' He passes us by with scornful exclaiming ; 
 
 " I alone speak, all the rest are mute ; " 
 And in his haughtiness gives us a naming 
 
 And crushes our beauty with absolute 
 
 ' Hardness of planting, and taming, unknowing 
 The secret law which our being guides ; 
 
 So he turns the stream to the ocean flowing 
 With musical murmuring green sides, 
 
 ' Into a channel smoke-grimed with his shipping ; 
 
 Bearing, instead of its swans and blooms 
 And jewelled butterflies sunnily skipping, 
 
 Poisonous drugs to his cities' glooms.
 
 i 3 6 THE STAR-GOD. 
 
 ' 'Tis but a poet, slow-growing for ages, 
 
 From heaven-rays caught in common mould, 
 
 Who knows us, and rippling thro' his sweet pages 
 Glimpses of beauty shine forth untold ; 
 
 ' He clearly sees (but alas for his vision !) 
 Words fail, and shrink into soundless tone ; 
 
 And the hard world recks not the true prevision 
 Which its poor poet has made his own ; 
 
 ; But calls him " dreamer," and places with scorning 
 
 Pebbles of custom to block his way ; 
 And then, when he stumbles, instead of mourning, 
 
 And helping him softly, what does it say ; 
 
 ' But, " Ah thou prophet ! with all thy fair teachings, 
 Canst thou not tread a path to us clear ? 
 
 What is the good of thy mighty star-reachings 
 If thou must stumble and fall down here?" 
 
 ' So the poor bruised cast-down soul of the poet 
 Comes back to nature, to mourn alone 
 
 Willi the sweetness and beauty, who well know it 
 And comfort it softly with each tone : 
 
 ' And we pour such wonderful dreams of blisses 
 
 (Cerms of possible budding life) 
 Into his mind, with the fragrant kisses 
 
 Borne to his brow by the cool wind's strife ; 
 
 ' That he, all forgetful of former falling, 
 Struggles again thro' his hard life-round,
 
 THE STAR-GOD. 137 
 
 And hears 'mid earth's clanging the angels calling 
 With blissful murmur of waving sound.' — 
 
 Sank into stillness the mystical singing ; 
 
 Faintly the pale stars shone overhead ; 
 Plashing of ocean heard distantly ringing 
 
 Greeted the rising moon, rosy red, 
 
 Drifting the blue thro' ; in eagerness veiling 
 Bright face 'neath snow of breeze-driven cloud, 
 
 But swift in splendour and majesty sailing 
 Thro' the wide arch to her beauty bowed : 
 
 Then a great calmness sank down on the maiden, 
 Law of repression had found her heart, 
 
 Rhythm of beauty, whose form passion-laden 
 Souls cannot grasp ; and she did depart, 
 
 With sad eyes love-yearning, back-turned no longer 
 To him watching calm the distant blue ; 
 
 For her life had grown in that murmur stronger 
 And heaven's beauty had pierced it thro'. 
 
 Never again would the earth-love up-springing 
 
 Turn her soul from the possible star ; 
 No : her soaring spirit thro' rapture winging 
 
 Would rest not until it reached the ' far.' — 
 
 So the years rolled on, and the people striving 
 No more to draw him within their ken, 
 
 The star-god passed calmly his life, deriving 
 All pleasure from nature, far from men :
 
 138 THE STAR-GOD. 
 
 And they called him ' dreamer,' and muttered slowly 
 
 He came of a harmless, helpless race, 
 With no mind, or soul, and with heart too lowly 
 
 To answer the beauty of his face : 
 
 And he poured forth rapturous, deathless singing, 
 
 As inspiration flooded his mind ; 
 But ever the fragrance of angel-winging 
 
 Whispered of glory still left behind : 
 
 While his songs (the true artist's soul out-flowing) 
 
 More suggested than fully exprest ; 
 So that those who read them felt half unknowing 
 
 A dim recalling of what was best 
 
 In all their lives, and a possible glory 
 
 Springing thence into the highest sky, 
 And marvelled heart-pierced on the poet's story, 
 
 And felt his power, and wondered why ; 
 
 For his words sped forth thro' the dark world name- 
 (No name had the one who gave them birth); [less 
 
 His poems struck home, nor were rendered aimless 
 By lack in the man of human worth : 
 
 And the girl who loved him, her love down-casting 
 
 In self-abasement, gathered a crown 
 Of noble, pure actions, more sweet and lasting 
 
 Than passion's rapture, or earth's renown : — 
 
 And she faded gently, and in the gloaming 
 Of one fair and silent summer-day,
 
 THE STAR-GOD. 139 
 
 Her soaring spirit, set free from its roaming 
 On weary earth, took its joyous way, 
 
 And swift thro' the blueness of ether winging 
 
 Pierced the sky-dome, a radiant star 
 Whose voice the poet could hear 'mid the singing 
 
 Of mystic sphere-music, and afar 
 
 Gazing calm-eyed saw it rapturous sailing 
 
 Over his life with a guiding eye ; 
 And he sighed, ' Ah love, thou hast true unveiling, 
 
 And knowest star- beauty in the fair sky ; 
 
 'Now I can love thee, my ideal glory ! 
 
 Star I have lost, but shall find once more ; 
 Bless me, oh dream-love ! and whisper my story 
 
 In thro' the rapture of heaven's door, 
 
 ' That I may be freed from this earth, which drew me 
 By moonlight beauty to her cold breast ; 
 
 And struck back the rapture which rippled thro' me, 
 And fragrance of loving harsh represt ; 
 
 ' That I may once more feel wings strongly flutter 
 
 In passionate, boundless, eager flight, 
 And taste all the blisses words cannot utter, 
 
 Revealed to me in thy tender light ! 
 
 ' Ah, my beloved ! if far-distant gazing 
 Floods my spirit with beauty and love, 
 
 What will the end be when clearly upraising 
 Pinions I float on, a star above ?
 
 140 THE STAR- GOD. 
 
 ' Thine was the voice whose unspeakable sweetness 
 Drew me the blueness and moonlight thro' ; 
 
 Now I see clear, not but dream of completeness ; 
 For, oh beloved, it dwells in you ! 
 
 ' It was the germ of the possible mounting 
 
 Hid in thy soul, whose echo in mine 
 Led me from blisses of rapture, not counting 
 
 Star-glow without thee, beauty 'divine.' — 
 
 He turned, with the calm-eyed patience, which never 
 Left his white brow, to his work and rest, 
 
 But a prayer-longing was wafted ever 
 Across the distance to her star's breast ; 
 
 As each night fell down with its dimness, shading 
 Long- par ted hearts into love once more 
 
 By mystic yearning for oneness unfading, 
 Daylight sees not on its golden floor, 
 
 Nor heeds the trueness, that unity presses 
 
 Unlovely fragments in lovely whole, 
 And all humanity in its recesses 
 
 Bears only the impress of one soul : 
 
 Oh night ! the revealer of hidden feelings, 
 Of choked back terror and deathless love, 
 
 Filling our souls with the gracious healings 
 Heaven holds in mercy clouds above ; 
 
 And pours down softly in sleep to the mourner — 
 Rest and calm to the weariest one —
 
 THE STAR-GOD. 141 
 
 And the higher blessing to souls forlorner 
 Of death-releasing, while sleeps the sun ; 
 
 How oft in thy silence of coldness, breathless 
 With yearning eyes ever upward turned, 
 
 Did the star-god gaze, while with brightness deathless 
 Her star above in the blueness burned : 
 
 Till one night he felt longing, half unknowing 
 
 Floating away into deepest rest, 
 And his spirit knew star-rapture in-flowing 
 
 Thro' all the calmness of his sad breast ; 
 
 And he mused with that love, whose strength divineth 
 Thought of the loved one, without a word ; 
 
 ' My star-love's prayers, as for me she pineth 
 Have floated thro' space, and now are heard ; 
 
 ' And the golden fragrance of doors whose clasping 
 
 Binds the zone of the fair angel band 
 Has opened, and thro' all the darkness gasping 
 
 My soaring brothers have sought this land : 
 
 ' They come, oh the bright ones ! down ether winging, 
 
 To carry me back to my lost star ; 
 The soft moonlight quivers to hear their singing, 
 
 And wooes them to rest in it afar ; 
 
 ' But onward the passionate white wings flutter ; 
 
 Oh rapture of fragrant flight untold ! 
 My soul longs with yearnings I cannot utter 
 
 To feel once more the close snowy fold,
 
 1 42 THE STAR- GOD. 
 
 ' And soar, and soar with the ever unchanging 
 
 Joy of the winging from star to star, 
 With no earth-tiring, no death, and no changing, 
 
 But ever fresh beauty in the far.' 
 
 And the white-winged, star-crowned angel creatures 
 Floated down swiftly, and touched his home 
 
 With their glowing pinions and fire-strong features, 
 Till it gleamed with glory like their own • 
 
 While the pure flame (spurning the earthly veiling 
 Which hid the star-god's beauty divine) 
 
 Rose, round him flowing and o'er him sailing 
 Until he shone with the mystic shine 
 
 Of moonlight glory and rapture's revealing, 
 Sought for in vain, but now in his grasp ; 
 
 For the strength of conquering love bore healing, 
 And might of blessing within its clasp : 
 
 So the star-god, with beauty undimmed by the passing 
 
 A yearning poet-life on earth, 
 And tasting the depths of her sad alas — ing, 
 
 And learning how faint, and little worth 
 
 The answerless nature within our longings 
 Must be to the soul who cannot soar, 
 
 Nor hear above, the tuned answering songings 
 Which the stars chant on for evermore : 
 
 And having with deathless singing, the human 
 Taught to question its guiding soul,
 
 THE STAR-GOD. 143 
 
 And let star-rapture and beauty flow thro' man 
 Whispering dreams of his far-off goal ; 
 
 Rose swift above, thro' the moonlight, aspiring 
 Again to reach his dreamings fulfilled ; 
 
 And his eager pinions, snow-spread untiring, 
 Bore him thro' blueness where he willed : 
 
 So he soared to his star-home, once more glowing 
 
 With joy of realised poet's dream ; 
 And felt in his soul the rapture all-knowing 
 
 Of conquered self, in its silver beam ; 
 
 And the love who waited with prayers falling 
 Like burning tears on the golden gate, 
 
 While her song was ever an upward calling, 
 A passion of music, sad as fate, 
 
 For her star-god left lonely on earth, bearing 
 With calm poet-heart his dream's decline, 
 
 And raising blue eyes to the blueness, caring 
 Alone for the beauty of her shine ; 
 
 Now felt his presence with mighty quivering ; 
 
 And sped cloud-speed to his star's embrace, 
 And he clasped her close — his great delivering 
 
 Shedding new beauty o'er his god-face ; 
 
 And fast united, they sail on for ever, 
 
 Two stars in one with a double light, 
 Whose glory, thro' darkness expiring never 
 
 Whispers of rapture and star-love bright.
 
 144 THE STAR-GOD. 
 
 Next morn when the people arose from sleeping, 
 
 The star-god's dwelling in ruins lay : 
 And they gazed, and wondered, and some half weeping 
 
 Cleared the poor blackened fragments away, 
 
 And sought with tenderness unavailing 
 
 To find the poet, who was not there, 
 But far above their blind labours was sailing 
 
 In rapture of star-bloom thro' the air : 
 
 And they said at last (their voices low-toning), 
 
 ' The fate of dreamers is ever thus ; 
 No shadow of earth care, or human groaning, 
 
 Brought his beauty nigh unto us ; 
 
 ' And now behold ! in the darkness unknowing, 
 
 When slumber soft on our spirits fell, 
 And rest from anguish o'er all men was flowing, 
 
 His soul was taken ; nor left to tell 
 
 ' The tale of his passing one human creature ;. 
 
 Alone did he live, and so did he die : 
 And of his beauty no one earthly feature 
 
 Remains, in peace 'neath the grass to lie.' 
 
 And their men of science, with sharp eyes casting 
 
 Spying glances far into the blue, 
 With. their small minds seeking the everlasting 
 
 Glory of heaven soft peeping thro', 
 
 Found one day at last, with great acclamation, 
 A new and wonderful double star :
 
 THE STAR-GOD. 145 
 
 And proclaimed the marvel with exaltation 
 That science sublime could reach so far ; 
 
 And they gave it an earthly name, and weighed it, 
 
 And sought its radiance to describe 
 By telling of metals which they had made it 
 
 Reveal to them burning, thro' glass bribe ! 
 
 And the people talked of advance, and wonder 
 Of knowledge, their boundless souls could win ; 
 
 How their science tore the heavens asunder, 
 And forced a way for their spirits in, 
 
 Till nothing remained of fear or mystery 
 But their eyes had pierced its hidden fold, 
 
 And written out clear the planet's history — 
 And measured the length of the sun's gold : — 
 
 And they thought no more of the star-god poet 
 Whose song to listening souls spoke clear ; 
 
 They had had revealing, and did not know it : 
 Ah fate of all inspiration here ! 
 
 We nations see but shadow casting 
 
 Its weight on the earth, nor look above 
 
 Where the substance in beauty everlasting 
 Reigns and blossoms and waits for our love ; 
 
 And we pride ourselves on our minds upraising 
 
 Boundless pyramids over the sand 
 Of our life ocean ; and stifle with praising 
 
 The work of a feeble human hand ; 
 
 L
 
 146 THE STAR-GOD. 
 
 Nor heed the truth which to future seeking 
 Will be revealed, that our mighty tombs 
 
 Are merely the emptiness, broadly speaking, 
 Of soul which lost itself in their glooms !
 
 147 
 
 LOST HAPPINESS. 
 
 My darling, oh my darling, now the joyous spring 
 is here, 
 
 Wilt thou come back to me smiling, 
 With thy low sweet voice beguiling 
 All my fear 
 Into depths of merely loving, while I gaze down 
 
 eyes of blue 
 In a tender mist of tear-drops all their beauty shin- 
 ing thro' ? 
 Oh my own, my twilight love-dream, with thy breeze- 
 stirred fragrant hair 
 Floating shadow-like around thee, oh thou sweetest 
 and most fair ! 
 Oh my darling, come anear me, let thy little fingers 
 
 twine 
 
 Into mine, 
 And resting there securely, let me hear thee whisper 
 
 low ; 
 ' I will kiss thee in the twilight, and the daylight 
 
 shall not know.' 
 
 Then, beloved, I will crown thee with the purple 
 
 violet, 
 Pale primroses and narcissus, and the sweetest 
 blooms that yet 
 In the fairness of our mother earth the blessed spring 
 has set — 
 
 L 2
 
 148 LOST HAPPINESS. 
 
 I will fling their sweetness o'er thee, oh my own, 
 
 my little one, 
 And thou shalt backward toss me 
 Only one, 
 Just one lily for an emblem of thy youth and purity, 
 And my heart shall wear that blossom thro' the dim 
 eternity. — 
 
 Oh my darling, now the spring-time with each happy 
 singing-bird 
 
 Has come forth from winter's veiling, 
 And now suns are brightly sailing, 
 
 And are heard 
 All the myriad sounds, so gaily 
 Flooding all the hard world daily 
 Till the poet's soul springs upward, and his brows can 
 
 reach the stars, 
 And his bounding heart re-echoes all the shining dim 
 
 afars, 
 Where the dreams of ancient singers are hid deep be- 
 yond the ken 
 Of the merely earthly-seeking, groping humanness of 
 men. — 
 
 Wilt thou not come to me, sweetest ? 
 
 See ! I open wide my arms, 
 And my heart, with bitter longings 
 
 For the calms 
 Which have fled with footsteps fleetest 
 'Mid alarms 
 That they never will return, and my vain and empty 
 songings
 
 LOST HAPPINESS. 149 
 
 Are but beatings of despair against the iron wall of 
 fate, 
 
 Which is higher than our reaching — 
 And lies far beyond our preaching — 
 And the knowledge of whose mystery will dawn not 
 till too late ! 
 
 Oh my sweetest, let a whisper 
 Fall upon my waiting heart 
 Till it drown the babbling lisper 
 That apart 
 Seeks to strike us with the clangour of her wailing dis- 
 cord notes ; 
 Let the sighing breeze re-echo, as around my brow it 
 floats, 
 The veiled sweetness of thy singing 
 Thro' the stilly twilight ringing, 
 And not merely all the sadness which so agonised and 
 
 low 
 Flies out dimly thro' the darkness, which is all my soul 
 can know 
 
 Of the land where thou art dwelling, 
 Since that time so long ago — 
 
 Since that spring-tide when we parted 
 Broken-hearted 
 In the glow 
 Of the blossomy bright weather, 
 When the breezes swept the heather 
 
 Swift or slow 
 As by sun or cloud on-driven 
 They did go ;
 
 ISO LOST HAPPINESS. 
 
 While the shadows softly lengthened 
 Till the veil of heaven was riven, 
 And forgiven 
 All the earthliness dropt from us, and our souls sprang 
 upward strengthened, 
 
 And we paced the earth together 
 As if God dwelt everywhere ! 
 
 Oh how fair 
 Blooms that evening's wild revealing, 
 And the blissfulness of feeling, 
 As our fingers clung together, and my eyes gazed deep 
 in thine, 
 
 That the love my heart held dearer 
 Than itself, but drew it nearer 
 To the beauty of the universe — the one pervading 
 soul ! 
 
 For all the myriad glories, 
 And the high heroic stories — 
 Music's rapture — art's proud dreaming — 
 Fairness ever brighter gleaming 
 In the eyes of the beloved one, are but fragments of 
 
 the whole — 
 Scattered star-beams of the beauty gath'ring strength 
 
 as onward rolls 
 The unceasing subtle-changing earth, between her 
 guiding poles. — 
 
 Ah my sweetest, all the glory 
 Faded swifter than it came ! 
 
 And it seems some olden story, 
 Or dim legend with no name ;
 
 LOST HAPPINESS. 151 
 
 Yet it woke the soul within me, springing up with 
 sudden flame, 
 
 And I knew I was a poet, 
 And I felt that thou didst know it, 
 And the joy that knowledge gave was far dearer than 
 the fame 
 
 Which the years have showered o'er me, 
 And all men have laid before me, 
 With no blame 
 For the weakness in my singing — 
 For the half-tones ever ringing 
 
 With one name ; 
 And the minor sounding ever 
 'Mid the music's glad acclaim ; 
 For, oh dearest, I can never 
 While life lasts, forget those eyes, 
 And they whisper 'mid life's tumult of the calmness 
 
 in the skies ; 
 And they draw me ever upward to the rapture of 
 
 the stars 
 Till my soul forgets her singing, and but murmurs 
 
 of afars, — 
 And again the heavens open and reveal their bliss 
 
 to me ; 
 Oh my darling, earth is heaven when my spirit 
 reaches thee ! 
 
 But alas ! the vision passes, as reality has passed 
 And my spirit, tasting heaven, to the cold earth back 
 is cast : 
 
 Oh my darling, I am lonely, 
 And this spring-tide whispers only
 
 15= LOST HAPPINESS. 
 
 'Mid its music, and its blossom, and its happy sweet 
 
 bird- songs, 
 Of that other blither spring-tide whose fair glory could 
 
 not last ; 
 And the throngs 
 Of wild thoughts and bitter longings flood my yearning 
 
 soul in vain, 
 For the beauty of that spring-tide can for me ne'er 
 
 bloom again. 
 
 But oh sweetest, thro' the twilight 
 
 Bid the fluttering angel-wings 
 Sweep down softly ere the star-light 
 
 Its wild mystic chant out-rings 
 All the earth to flood with glory, 
 While the mountains bare and hoary 
 Lie reflected in the ocean 
 Surging with a wild emotion 
 And a strife to reach the fairness shadowed in its 
 depths, and sings 
 
 To the shore with fainter plashing 
 Of its waves, for ever clashing 
 Will to will against the power 
 Given the earth to hold her dower 
 Of fair cities and green trees — 
 On my knees 
 I beseech a sign or token 
 That our love-vow is not broken; 
 ( )h my one love, give me answer down the sighing of 
 
 the breeze ; 
 Let thy spirit for one instant swiftly from the heaven fly 
 To thy earthly lover, winging thro' fair blueness of the 
 sky. —
 
 LOST HAPPINESS. 153 
 
 Sweetheart, 'tis the happy spring-time ; 
 
 Crocus flames are springing bright, 
 Golden, purple, snowy chaliced 
 
 In the light 
 Which the waking sun doth quiver 
 
 O'er the throbbing, pulsing earth-veil — 
 Here with snowdrops and narcissus 
 Fair and pale, 
 There with purple glory turning 
 Violets into lips to kiss us, 
 And now burning 
 Into daffodils whose beauty, golden, dewy-eyed and 
 
 tall, 
 Seems like shadows of the star-lights gleaming clear 
 
 thro' heaven's wall ; 
 Ah my sweetest, like a love-crown thy flower-face 
 peeps thro' them all ! 
 
 While the river 
 Flowing with a murm'ring sound, 
 
 And a rime 
 From the dimness of the mountains 
 
 Where its youth first sprang to light, 
 'Mid the snowy air-kissed fountains 
 And the stately rocks high-palaced 
 Of the height — 
 Whispers to my yearning fancy but thy name with 
 
 myriad tone, 
 Echoing my craving sighing for one glimpse of thee, 
 my own ! — 
 
 But the breeze sighs on unheeding 
 With its dreary monotone,
 
 154 LOST HAPPINESS. 
 
 And the passion of my pleading 
 Falls alone 
 Down the silent twilight throbbing 
 With its waking stars to life, 
 While the strife 
 To catch echoes from the regions 
 Which are hidden from our knowing, 
 But felt drearily, 
 And wearily, 
 When dear ones to them going, 
 Flood their dimness with the legions 
 Of their passing spirits, robbing 
 Earth of all its pleasant fairness, and the spring-tide 
 
 of its youth ; 
 For the sweetest is the fleetest to depart, and this sad 
 
 truth 
 Ever rings amid the music of the highest earthly bliss ; 
 ' What is lost is ever dearest,' and no present love's 
 
 warm kiss 
 Can ever fill our spirits like the lost love that we miss !
 
 155 
 
 THISTLE-BL OSSOM. 
 
 No legend this of fabled ancient time, 
 Lost in the mist of proofless ignorance, 
 
 Tho' bearing in its bosom deeds sublime 
 
 The blossoms of world's youth, intolerance — 
 
 Intolerance of meanness — cowardice, 
 
 Fair speech and treach'rous action, which lead still 
 
 To deeper hells than churchmen frame I wis, 
 Or bigots hold with hard relentless will 
 To crush the life of freedom in our souls, and kill 
 
 The possibility so humanly 
 
 Soft springing with world spring, that crocus flame 
 Lights up with splendour glowing all that we 
 
 Find echoing in our souls and speaks the name 
 Of happiness made perfect thro' the strife — 
 
 Of hope-bells ringing paeans for the fight, 
 In snowdrop glimm'ring 'mid its peaceful life, 
 
 Or violet springing purple-crowned to light, 
 
 And all the young earth's beauty breaking on our 
 sight ! 
 
 Her loveliness, o'erpowering our soul 
 
 With mighty rapture 'mid the joyous spring, 
 
 Doth it not murmur of the yearned-for goal 
 With every bloom or flutter of bird-wing ?
 
 156 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 
 
 Doth not the streamlet wand'ring whispering 
 
 ' I, happy, seek full happiness where I 
 Feel dimly my fate lies, and onward sing, 
 
 Clear gazing upward to the gleaming sky ; 
 Thro' flowers I go, thro' wedding-bells that ring, 
 Thro' forests' gloomy darkness, lonely, yet I sing ; ' 
 
 And like that brooklet, half unknowing still 
 The meaning of its song, yet singing clear 
 
 Because its full heart and its chainless rill 
 Make music of the present and the near ; 
 
 So I from throbbing life, in this our time 
 Catch melodies familiar yet more sweet 
 
 Than past romances, and my simple rime 
 
 Flows from my full heart, kindred hearts to greet 
 And guide to higher grander climbing weary feet. 
 
 The poet sees in common daily life, 
 
 In earth's most usual landmarks, loveliness — 
 
 Can trace in bud and flower the endless strife, 
 The quivering upward, and the dreams that press 
 
 The rose's glowing heart to open fair 
 
 Its sweetness to the sun ; while the slight lark, 
 
 Tho' leaving love on earth, still seeks the air 
 With dawn's first blush, and only in life's dark 
 Can quench with human blessings inspiration's 
 spark. 
 
 And as tho' colourless the beam of light 
 May pass the crystal medium on its way, 
 
 Nor think the earthly goblet has the might 
 To change the whiteness of its snowy ray ;
 
 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 157 
 
 Yet look and see in countless glowing tints 
 The ray appears transmuted — move the glass — 
 
 The glory fades, for broken are the hints 
 Which earth may give of heaven, and alas 
 They need the poet's soul all pure thro' which to 
 pass ! 
 
 And is mine so ? I know not, nor can guess, 
 For there are depths unsounded and unknown 
 
 In every human soul, which can express 
 Sweet music or the harshest discord tone : 
 
 Oh life ! oh fate ! be merciful to me, 
 
 Give me the poet's soul, and make me strong ; 
 
 I love the heights, I love the purity 
 Of calm endurance, echoing not wrong, 
 But weaving beauty-dreams, in actions all life 
 long.— 
 
 Oh stars, send down your brightness on my heart, 
 Drop your eternal calmness down on me j 
 
 Let me, oh watchers, link my human part 
 Of helpless longing, to sublimity 
 
 In gazing at your light ! — like Dante, I 
 
 Would wish to end each song with that word 
 'star'— 
 
 The type of highest possibility — 
 A whisper of the lowly to the far — 
 A yearning for the calmness of the ruler Star !
 
 I5S THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 A bare stretch of grey moorland, toned and touched, 
 
 When sunlight glittered, with a gleam of gold 
 
 From yellow waving corn. The tender heart 
 
 Hid in the bareness struggled to express 
 
 Its dreams of beauty in the purple glow 
 
 Of heather bloom, like rosy blush of love 
 
 Struggling thro' calmness of a hard borne life — 
 
 Behind the moorland rose serene dark pines, 
 
 Raising their sombre heads upright and bare — 
 
 No tendril ivy clung, no blossom drooped 
 
 Round the straight stems, and yet the sun had given 
 
 A deeper colour, an intenser glow, 
 
 To those bare stems, than any blossoms frail, 
 
 Which cling in summer, but when dark days dawn 
 
 And winds are howling in their mad career 
 
 Shrink into dust and nothingness, nor leave 
 
 A pledge of loving to the desolate. — 
 
 The deep pines' wavelike murmur dashing on 
 
 (With ceaseless whisper of unuttered dreams), 
 
 The blue air's shimm'ring shore, spoke clear to one 
 
 Who dwelt beneath their shadow ; and his soul, 
 
 To art full-consecrate, took deeper draughts 
 
 Of truth and beauty 'mid the solitude ; 
 
 No loneliness to one who could express 
 
 In colouring of Nature all the thoughts, 
 
 The dreams, the aims, the longings, of the trees, 
 
 And read the voice of waving in the grass, 
 
 Or dewdrop in the bloom, or falling leaf, 
 
 Or humble moss with glowing scarlet seal
 
 THISTLE- BL OSSOM. 1 59 
 
 To guard the treasure of its fairy cup 
 From prying ant, or buzzing summer fly : 
 He knew, perhaps, the treasure out of sight 
 Might well seem precious, and its rarity 
 The tiny moss held sacred, tho' alas, 
 Mere emptiness appeared to common eyes 
 Beneath the mystic chrism of the cup. 
 He painted thus so humanly, each spray, 
 Each leaf, bore its own impress and made clear 
 A character full written, and each bloom 
 Sang its own meaning from the canvas, plain, 
 And spoke to poets — artists — for all time 
 Expressing clear the boundless humanness 
 Seen not alone in man but each still life 
 Same spirit, with but different shades of growth — 
 Beneath the pines he dwelt, and pondered deep 
 On all the systems which humanity 
 Had slow invented, to bind down its soul 
 To usual common living, that its wings 
 Might never soar above the firm hard ground 
 Of • I believe ; ' ' 'tis God's will,' and so forth, 
 The ever uttered answers, given swift 
 With sombre brow, and terror-stricken eye 
 To question of the free. 'Tis not ' I know ; ' 
 But, ' I believe ; ' they dare not seek to know ; 
 Alas that this should be ! alas ! alas ! 
 What hope of happiness when all our life 
 Is founded on a fancy, not a truth ? 
 For truth until discovered to be such, 
 And not alone discovered, but made clear 
 With demonstration far beyond dispute, 
 May well be fable ; and our manliness,
 
 l6o THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 
 
 Our hero-strifes, our dream-thoughts, and our aims 
 Are wrecked alike on this one rock of ' fear ■ — 
 Fear to look into darkness — fear to find 
 We know not what dim horror in the dusk. 
 Not so my artist : the calm standing pines 
 And bracing moorland strengthened his soul, 
 And, eagle-like, he dared to face the sun, 
 Or, fearless, mole-like burrow in the dark 
 Of the world's by-ways, seeking everywhere 
 A truth which he dare hold to light the earth 
 With touch of faith and reason, budding fair, 
 And bearing blossoms of heroic deeds 
 To strew the rugged pathway to the stars. 
 He listened while his kindred the dark pines, 
 With surging motion, murmured doubtfully : 
 
 ' Wilt thou never, never learn it, never learn it, doubt 
 or spurn it ? 
 Is our melancholy sighing all in vain ? 
 All the winds thro' us are rushing, flowers crushing, 
 song-birds hushing, 
 Is there none to hear our crying and our pain ? 
 
 ' Now triumphantly we spurn them, fling them from us, 
 backward turn them, 
 And our voices sink a moment into rest ; 
 But these winds are so persisting, there is no hope of 
 resisting, 
 For they fly to us from north, south, east and west ! 
 
 ' We have dim mysterious feelings of some future 
 gracious healings 
 Which will come some day if only we are heard ;
 
 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 161 
 
 But mankind pass on unheeding of our rapture or 
 our needing, 
 And alas 1 in vain each sigh or wailing word. 
 
 ' Oh true artist, swiftly listen, rise and hear while dew- 
 drops glisten ; 
 Watch the dawning and the waning of each star ; 
 Ope thy fair soul's golden portal, let her hear the 
 song immortal, 
 Send thy fearless spirit seeking down the far. 
 
 'Know the deep sky's gleaming blueness, and the 
 magic air-wave's thro'ness 
 Are but shadows of the possible in life ; 
 While a flash of inspiration, bearing godlike wise 
 elation, 
 Speak the constant stars on-shining o'er the strife ; 
 
 'While the highest dream of any, ever hidden from the 
 many, 
 All the human on earth seeking highest flight, 
 That most glorious dream of one god, springs itself 
 from the low world-sod, 
 Tis humanity grown perfect in the light ! ' 
 
 So did my artist open all his soul 
 To the low sighing of the universe ; 
 His longings and his searchings did outflow 
 In torrent of full song which thus expressed 
 Itself in music, to the monotone 
 Of swinging pine-boughs, and of heather stirred 
 By wayward breeze which swept down from the 
 hiUs :— 
 
 M
 
 162 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 
 
 ' Thy sun upon me, 
 
 Thy winds around, 
 No creeds shall bind me 
 
 Till thou art found ! 
 Thy dewdrops glisten, 
 Thy flowers smile ; 
 My soul must listen 
 
 Yet for awhile ; 
 Sweet Nature's voices 
 Speak to me clear, 
 Each thing rejoices, 
 
 Why should I fear? 
 Thou art my father, 
 
 I am thine own, 
 Would I then rather 
 
 Be left alone ? 
 No ; for the beauty 
 None can express 
 Of thy smile on me 
 Sweet to excess — 
 Of thy voice to me 
 'Mid starry night, 
 In the winds round me 
 
 Murmuring light ; 
 Tho' the full union 
 
 Here has no place, 
 Spiritual communion 
 
 Shadows thy grace : 
 All things of beauty 
 
 Typify thee, 
 Making hard duty 
 Love-service free !
 
 THIS TLE-BL OSSOM. 1 63 
 
 O'er the snow-mountain 
 
 My soul doth climb, 
 By scented fountain, 
 
 'Neath fragrant lime, 
 'Mid forests ancient — 
 
 In every place 
 My spirit patient 
 
 Sees clear thy face. 
 Ah god ! love ! brother ! 
 
 Come to me now ! 
 Where is another 
 
 Lovely as thou ? 
 I cannot tell them 
 
 How I know thee ; 
 I cannot make them 
 
 Happy and free ; 
 They will not know thee, 
 
 Or comprehend 
 What thou art to me ; 
 
 Nearer than friend — 
 Closer than brother — 
 
 Dearer than all — 
 I need no other, 
 
 Thou art them all ! 
 So, they reproach me, 
 
 Make my soul grieve ; 
 But god, thou know'st me, 
 
 That I believe ; 
 Help me, oh fair lord, 
 
 And my soul save 
 When it sinks toward 
 
 Despair's deep wave ; 
 
 M 2
 
 1 64 THISTLE-BLOSSOM, 
 
 Send then thy love-smile 
 
 Straight to my heart, 
 Keep me thine own, while 
 
 We are apart : 
 Here in the dim light 
 
 Of our dark star, 
 Glimpses of thy light 
 
 Gleam from afar : 
 'Mid tinsel glories 
 
 Of passing creeds, 
 In the old stories 
 
 Of noble deeds ; 
 'Mid the grief-languish 
 
 Of the death room, 
 Softening its anguish 
 
 Lightening its gloom ; 
 Thro' all a sunbeam, 
 
 From thee doth fall, 
 As the fair gold-gleam 
 
 Sanctifies all 
 Trouble and danger, 
 
 Anguish and toil — 
 Life with the stranger 
 
 On foreign soil — 
 Have no more power 
 
 O'er the man's soul 
 Now his sought dower 
 
 Gleams from the goal : 
 So in my seeking, 
 
 Falsehood and crime 
 Melted, repeating 
 
 Lies to all time ;
 
 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 165 
 
 But still I found thee 
 
 Shining thro' all, 
 Like a fair jewel 
 
 Hid 'neath a pall. 
 Custom's chains bound me 
 
 Far from the light ; 
 Error's waves drowned me 
 
 In deepest night ; 
 Then in my sorrow 
 
 I turned to thee ; 
 Scon dawned the morrow 
 
 joyous and free : 
 Shadows have left me, 
 
 Doubts are no more, 
 Truth's unveiled radiance 
 
 Dawns from the shore ; 
 Ghosts of creeds vanished 
 
 Melt in the light 
 Of true life, banished 
 
 From my rapt sight ; 
 For now morn breaketh 
 
 O'er death's dark night, 
 My soul awaketh, 
 
 And it is light ! ' 
 
 So sang he, and in singing swept away 
 
 The mist of ignorance which ever clings 
 
 Unto the soul of weak humanity, 
 
 Until the unveiled art reveals herself 
 
 To chosen hearts, and touches them with fire, 
 
 And they see clearly ; tho' their words express 
 
 Not half the meaning and the rarity
 
 1 66 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 
 
 Of beauty that they know — his artist mind, 
 Swept like a harp by Nature's witching hand, 
 Gave forth a sweetness inexpressible, 
 And sent the true tone from its inmost depths 
 Which we call inspiration ; — so he knew 
 The meaning of the pine-song, that the sky 
 With broad blue arch o'ersheltering our life, 
 And bearing calmness of eternal stars, 
 Was but the height of possibility 
 Within our human reach, with piercing flash 
 Of inspiration lighting up its depths 
 To softer radiance and intenser might, 
 And showing far beneath the frippery 
 Of tinsel creeds and dogmas harsh down-pressed 
 On weary brows to crush them, and cast down 
 In dust of earth the yearning for the stars, 
 A statue calm, sublime — the human god — 
 The god of humanness — the highest form — 
 The type of human possibility ! — 
 Who can imagine that which lies beyond 
 His nature and his mind ? Impossible 
 The strife to grasp a phantom which eludes 
 With Proteus change our seeking ; if indeed 
 The God we hear of is beyond our ken, 
 Why seek to comprehend the mystery, 
 The hopelessness, of faith in what dwells far 
 Beyond the grasp of longest human arms — 
 Above the height of highest human souls — 
 Below the depth of broadest human hearts — 
 Tis vanity and sloth which urge men still 
 To bow their reason to the priestly thrall 
 Which speaks of comprehension as a sin,
 
 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 167 
 
 And seeking, as a crime most worthy hell ; 
 
 And lulls men to dull slumber on the earth 
 
 With dreams of God, far over human power 
 
 To reach or equal — leave him, brothers, there ; 
 
 A solitary form — an emptiness — 
 
 A mere negation, feelingless and cold — 
 
 A rock where warm hearts beat themselves in vain 
 
 To deeper deaths — but brothers, hear the truth 
 
 My artist found, and finding, laid his life 
 
 Before the treasure as an offering, 
 
 A lamp to shine for ever, and guide men 
 
 Far from the phantoms to reality — 
 
 Deep thought he 'mid the silence of the wood ; 
 
 No rest or sleep his seeking spirit knew ; 
 
 He watched the rising of th' eternal stars — 
 
 He marked their waning when the sun arose — 
 
 He listened to the breathing loveliness 
 
 Of moss and fern — to rapture of green leaves — 
 
 To tender longings of the budding flowers — 
 
 To every twitter of the singing birds — 
 
 To all sound and all silence : — when night fell 
 
 And breezes whispered thro' the swinging bough 
 
 His soul sought in rapt music mysteries 
 
 Which even Nature knows not, and he played 
 
 With merest shadow of caressing sound 
 
 That wondrous moonlight poem — how it flowed — 
 
 A dream of harmony ; a chime of stars ; 
 
 A vision of the wild moon-driven clouds : — 
 
 First slowly dropping weary solemn tones 
 
 A soul in shadow of earth's littleness, 
 
 With gleams of heaven's beauty streaming thro,' 
 
 A whisper from the god humanity
 
 i6S THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 
 
 Fast prisoned in its depths : — low, dim at first 
 
 The whisper comes, as overarching trees 
 
 Catch the fair moonbeams from the poet's brow 
 
 Sad waiting for their crown, but gath'ring bright 
 
 With every gliding note, until at last 
 
 The forest passes, and full moonlight glow 
 
 Rises in glory, and the blue above 
 
 Intenser burns, and earth is out of sight, 
 
 But snowy angels fill the distant air 
 
 And drop the gladness of their melodies 
 
 Into the waiting lonely poet-heart, 
 
 And so the songs we marvel at have birth : — 
 
 The rapture passes as the strife had passed, 
 
 And now the wonders of the night lie bare ; 
 
 The white wild clouds fly raving thro' the sky ; 
 
 The stars are hidden ; the moon veils her face ; 
 
 And swift alternate lights and shades flit by ; 
 
 The blueness rocks — the angel bands sweep on ; 
 
 A murmur greeting rises from the earth 
 
 (Still out of sight to the rapt poet's mind), 
 
 And mingles with the star-song, till at last 
 
 United is humanity with God ! 
 
 Nay, rather God has crowned humanity 
 
 With precious jewel of its own great heart ! — 
 
 Thus did that music poem clear express 
 
 Its meaning to the poet ; when I say 
 
 An artist, poet, or musician, 
 
 I mean one bearing on his fair life-shield 
 
 A shadow of true art, not separate : 
 
 (Tis but our littleness which cuts away 
 
 A portion from its home, and with false pride, 
 
 That child of ignorance, and loud high voice
 
 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 169 
 
 Declares it whole — ) all art is one alone, 
 
 Seen but from different views, at diff' rent times, 
 
 And speaking myriad-voiced to gazing souls. 
 
 One even as his fingers kissed the keys, 
 
 And wooed their sweetness in low undertone 
 
 To sing to him of angels with the grail, 
 
 And white clouds floating thro' the bare blue heav'n, 
 
 And Lohengrin in quest of holiness — 
 
 (It was a blissful dream half-realised 
 
 Of his own search for pure humanity ; 
 
 And struck straight from the poet heart who sang 
 
 Into his own with mighty echoing) ; 
 
 He turned his rapt face to the loveliness 
 
 Of harmony without, beneath the moon, 
 
 And knew a thrill swift quivering adown 
 
 His spirit to its depths — a ripple sweep 
 
 Of passionate delight which seemed to breathe, 
 
 And yet half trembled in its blissfulness ; 
 
 For lo ! the Nature had sprung into life 
 
 With highest glory ! and stood typified 
 
 In a fair maiden, standing goddess-wise 
 
 With stedfast eyes upturned, hair backward thrown, 
 
 And white hands clasped in an ecstasy: 
 
 Was it the magic of the holy grail ? 
 
 Had Elsa come to life ? or had his dreams 
 
 Thus shaped their own fair fruition at last ? 
 
 Well might he wonder, for a sweeter dream 
 
 Sure never gladdened a true artist soul. — 
 
 Serene she stood ; the patient stars had given 
 
 A crown of calmness to the broad white brow, 
 
 And azure blueness with wind-driven sighs 
 
 Of floating cloud-dreams whispered in her eyes ;
 
 1 70 THISTLE-BL OSSOM. 
 
 Her dark hair threaded with a gleam of gold 
 
 Fell rippling down the night, and made it glow 
 
 With subtle perfume of the nature pure 
 
 Deep dwelling in her soul. His fingers strayed 
 
 Unknowing o'er the keys, and warbled forth 
 
 The passionate full rapture Lohengrin 
 
 Found in his bridal song, and then slow drew 
 
 The wailing, melting excess of sad love 
 
 Which follows rapture in that master-mind 
 
 Who sweeps the whole chord of humanity, 
 
 And speaks in tones so true, that half the world 
 
 Feign him a madman — inspiration's fate 
 
 In this earth ever is to be called mad ! 
 
 Mad as the angels ! Christ would be called mad 
 
 Now, as of old ; let one but try His words 
 
 Writ into actions, all the world lifts eyes 
 
 Of scornful pity on the blasphemer 
 
 Of long-established custom, and stones him 
 
 With social pebbles of sharp stinging slights, 
 
 And poison-drop in sweet of his life's cup ; 
 
 In hope, perchance, he dash the goblet down, 
 
 And die despairing ! — As the last notes passed, 
 
 And silence like a presence downward fell, 
 
 He dared to near the vision, to make clear 
 
 His dazzled eyes that she indeed stood there, 
 
 A portion of the sleeping loveliness, 
 
 The pine-wood's tender soul. The moonlight caught 
 
 With soft caress her downward streaming hair, 
 
 As half surprised, half rapturous, she turned 
 
 To wonder why the sweetness of the tone 
 
 Had died away, and left — my artist there ! 
 
 They stood with eyes straight gazing each at each,
 
 THISTLE- BL OSSOM. 1 7 I. 
 
 A rapture and a passion in each soul 
 Ne'er felt before, and inexpressible, 
 But deathless in its might. Oh glowing souls, 
 Why must the torture of a hopeless love 
 Blaze in your depths ? a glory, yet a curse ! 
 Why must a passion reaching unto heav'n 
 In its wide grasping boundlessness, shrink back 
 To a mere fading earthly dream ? Oh love ! 
 Oh piercing sweetness, passing bitterly 
 To dust and ashes ! Oh the serpent trail 
 Amidst the flowers, crushing out their life, 
 Stifling their fragrance, making pale their hues 
 In yearning for the inexpressible, 
 Impossible of love ! Immortal love, 
 The deathless passion of exalted souls, 
 How can the dull earth satisfy thy needs ? 
 We think (poor fools) with a most childish wish, 
 Of each new treasure our hearts hunger for, 
 ' Oh if it were but mine, my life would be 
 A Paradise ! ' No longing dwells beyond 
 (So in our blindness dream we) the dear ' now 
 Of coveted possession ; but alas 
 The jewel ours, how different its ray ! 
 How faded, dim, and earthly doth it shine 
 Upon our earthly finger, tho' it gleamed 
 Star-like while out of reach! Tis ever so — 
 Love, fame, and glory blossom valueless 
 When woven in our crown ; 'tis when above 
 Our feeble grasp they hang, we hold them dear, 
 And strive to pluck, and die ; or living, find 
 Attainment vain, content an empty dream. — 
 He strove to speak, and holding forth his hand,
 
 172 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 
 
 Hers, like a white dove, fluttered to his clasp 
 
 With utter trustfulness of innocence ; 
 
 And so these children of humanity, 
 
 Each with a gospel budding silently 
 
 In fragrant youthful heart, stood drinking deep 
 
 The poison rapture of a deathless love. — 
 
 ' Whence come you ? from the clouds or music-land ? ' 
 
 At last he uttered ; and the speaking dream 
 
 Made answer, rippling with a sweet low laugh, 
 
 ' No ; the enchanted forest drew me forth 
 
 With mystic singing of the moonlight boughs ; 
 
 My home (a cold one) lies beyond the bound 
 
 Of its fair leafage, over the wide heath, 
 
 Upon the distant blue of yonder hill ; 
 
 And you, 5 — she paused, as memory's swift flash 
 
 Recalled the blissful tones of Lohengrin, 
 
 And marvelled if a question broke the dream, 
 
 And cast him into shadow-land again : 
 
 ' I dwell beneath the pine-boughs,' answered he, 
 
 ' And paint fair Nature as she speaks to me ; 
 
 Calmly I live, no earthly ties have I ; 
 
 My art alone, and my philosophy 
 
 Dwell in my soul ; she dreams as yet, but soon 
 
 Will break the golden fetters of her sleep, 
 
 And try her pinions 'mid humanity.' — 
 
 He paused, and she, her sweet voice quivering, 
 
 Told him her story ; how in Italy 
 
 The fragile blossom of her mother's life 
 
 Had faded into death ; her father's heart 
 
 Drew him with force resistless after her, 
 
 And she, their love-crown, was brought home across 
 
 The wailing sea to her dead mother's land,
 
 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 173 
 
 An orphan and a stranger : — wealth she had, 
 
 And friends as the world counts them ; but they 
 
 sought 
 To form her, as they called it, for the life 
 Of fashion, and unheard, to drown in her 
 All those pure yearnings for sublimity, 
 And action in the struggle, which she felt 
 Ripple the calmness of her virgin mind ; 
 A strife to reach the higher peaks of life, 
 Not simply vegetate in the low vale. — 
 He listened ; and then questioned eagerly, 
 With heart aflame, on which the falling tones 
 Of her low voice dropped incense-like to depths 
 Unfelt before, and raised a glory mist 
 Of rapturous new feelings ; — so they stood 
 Forgetful of all else ; the moonlight fair 
 Gleamed on their upturned faces silently ; 
 They talked ; not merely babbled, letting swim 
 A bubble weather-wisdom down the tide 
 (In subtle evolution) of their speech, 
 And hiding 'neath the courtesy of tone, 
 And slow correctness of a lazy drawl, 
 Their emptiness of feeling, and of aim : — 
 Far different their words ; from heart to heart 
 The wing of speech flew swift, and answer found 
 Ere resting-place was reached : two souls had met 
 This moonlight eve, 'mid dreams of holy grail, 
 And angels sweeping thro' the gleaming blue, 
 Whose clasping fingers typified the bond 
 Of love which clasped their hearts — for evermore. — 
 She was no fragile blossom, floating down 
 The lilied stream of life ; a beauteous gem
 
 174 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 
 
 Fit only for man's royal diadem, 
 
 To dazzle and no more ; beauty she had, 
 
 A glorious richness of full loveliness 
 
 To light up death with, and to gladden life — 
 
 The wayside life of mortals, not of kings. 
 
 She was a flower whose rich colour-crown 
 
 Flashed on the portals of each passing heart 
 
 And filled them with rare music, echoing 
 
 The chorus of the stars ; but far beyond 
 
 The beauty of her face, and melody 
 
 Of her most rhythmic form, lay richer gifts 
 
 But shadowed forth in these — a soul so pure, 
 
 And so intensely loving, that it twined 
 
 Round merest life-wreck, with ideal grace 
 
 Transfiguring the bareness : — and for him, 
 
 We know the poetry of thought and deed 
 
 Which clasped hands in his heart ; and so the two 
 
 Flashed into friendship, with a gleam of stars, 
 
 A radiance of moonlight, and a breeze 
 
 Of music whisp'ring from the swinging pines. — 
 
 Each day which chased its brother down the gold 
 
 Of the world's life thread held a pearl for them 
 
 To count the time by : so the summer passed ; 
 
 And his heart numbered in its precious shrine 
 
 The hours marked by her presence : ' such a one 
 
 She musing stood, while I played Lohengrin ; ' 
 
 ' Ah ! then we wandered hand in hand among 
 
 The waving fern blades underneath the pines ; ' 
 
 Or, ' the day passed without her, but at eve, 
 
 As wailing music stole from my sad soul, 
 
 Her presence blessed me with its blissfulness ; ' 
 
 And so with everyone until the end. —
 
 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 175 
 
 But summer blooms not always, and at last 
 
 The gorgeous wreaths of autumn passed away 
 
 With fruition's swift pace, and left the ground 
 
 Weeping and sad for beauty desolate ; 
 
 And winter dawned with sad prefigurement 
 
 Of parting and of sorrow — still she came ; 
 
 And still their souls grew closer for the fear 
 
 Which lurked in each, a changing doubt in his — 
 
 A certainty in hers — that they must part, 
 
 Or that sublime endeavour for mankind 
 
 Would ne'er outblossom from their happy hearts. — 
 
 One evening when they met, he said no word 
 
 Of usual greeting, but his fingers strayed 
 
 Among the tangled sweetness of the notes 
 
 And drew forth a love-song — a curtain hung 
 
 Before them on the wall ; the silken hue 
 
 Of cloudless heav'n bore ' Hope ' in silver thread 
 
 Upon its azure — but he spoke not yet 
 
 And sang on with a passionate deep voice : — 
 
 ' My heart has blossomed ; behold the love flow'r, 
 
 I offer it unto thee ; 
 May its fragrance sweeten the passing hour 
 
 And dwell in thy memory ! 
 
 ' By it may my soul to thine own speak clear, 
 
 Or sweet, oh crown of the strife ! 
 Wilt thou wear my blossom each passing year, 
 
 And bless with thy love my life ? 
 
 ' Oh lily-fair heart ! oh divine rapt eyes ! 
 Oh beauty beyond compare !
 
 1 76 THIS TLE-BL OSSOM. 
 
 Oh rapture of loving that slumb'ring lies 
 Caught in mesh of golden hair ! 
 
 ' Be mine, be mine own : and I dare to win 
 
 A laurel wreath for thy brow ; 
 I will storm fame's height, I will enter in, 
 
 And my name, unknown till now, 
 
 ' Shall ring thro' the earth with a mighty sound, 
 
 And all men triumphantly 
 Shall greet the fair treasure my life has found : 
 
 Oh love, give thyself to me ! ' 
 
 Then sinking into minor, that gay song 
 Fell dropping with a tender monotone 
 Of rippling treble, like a human sigh 
 Too deeply felt for speaking. So it ran : — 
 
 ' Oh love me, my beloved, 
 
 Love but me, 
 
 But me alone ! 
 
 For I love thee 
 
 With every tone 
 My life can quiver from its soul's deep chords. 
 Oh love me, my beloved, 
 
 Love but me ! 
 
 ' Oh lily of the pine wood, on my brow 
 Pour gently down, 
 My sweetest now, 
 Thy fair love-crown ;
 
 THISri.E-BL OSSOM. 1 7 1 
 
 And coolness of thy kisses ; that they drown 
 
 All other sound 
 
 Amid their blisses. 
 
 With a bound 
 My soul springs up to greet thee ; 
 Oh beloved, love me, 
 
 Love but me, 
 
 But me alone ! 
 Oh love me, my beloved, 
 
 Love but me ! ' 
 
 In faintest murmurs died the song away, 
 And answerless it swept adown the air; 
 Then turned he and straight gazed into her eyes, 
 And drew the silken curtain from the wall, 
 The cloud which hid the blossom ; — there it hung, 
 His deep soul speaking out of his art's might ; 
 A revelation of love's pow'r in him, 
 A pleading strong — half-irresistible. — 
 'Twas cloudy moonlight, breaking into gleams 
 Of silver whiteness thro' black shadowing, 
 Within the picture ; and a mountain stood 
 Clear in the light, snow-topped with rugged sides, 
 And jagged cliffs, whose darkness seemed a fear, 
 A shudder, and a warning ; no path led, 
 At the first gazing, up the precipice, 
 While far below a swirling torrent rushed 
 In utter wild abandonment, and bore 
 Amid its foam torn blossoms down the stream ; 
 And hurled high trees from forests in its flow 
 Mad surging on resistless ; — but the eye 
 Grown soon familiar with the gloominess, 
 
 N
 
 I ; S THIS TLE-BL OSSOJf. 
 
 And darkness of the scene, began to trace 
 The merest shadow of steps, ruggedly 
 Up -creeping thro' the snow ; so faint they were, 
 So slipp'ry gleaming in the changing light, 
 It seemed impossible a human foot 
 Could mount their dizziness, yet on the track 
 A pilgrim stood, with frail staff firmly grasped 
 In guiding hand, and deep and tender eyes 
 Raising their mute pathetic hopefulness 
 To cloud-capped summit with its crown of stars : 
 And as the gaze (grown clearer) followed his 
 In its dumb rapture of expectancy, 
 The clouds rolled into order, and disclosed 
 (As 'neath a veil) a lonely woman's form, 
 Tall, beautiful, and calm, with hair back flung 
 Upon the pinions of the waiting breeze, 
 And eyes down-drooping to the wanderer ; 
 A crown of laurel in her outstretched hand 
 She held towards him, with the tender smile 
 Of waiting rapture knowing well the end. — 
 ' Oh love,' he said, 'a cloud is o'er thy face ; 
 I cannot see those eyes bent down on me 
 For drooping lids ; oh lift the veil away 
 And shine forth, in my heart full-blossoming ! ' 
 He turned, and lo ! a mistiness of tears 
 Drowned the blue sweetness of the deepest eyes 
 Which ever mirrowed heav'n to lover's sight : 
 A passion swept his spirit, like a breath 
 Of the night breezes rushing thro' the pines, 
 And standing straight with rapturous unrest 
 He seized her quiv'ring to his throbbing heart, 
 And with the might of kisses calmed away
 
 THISTLE- BL OSSOM. 1 79 
 
 The glist'ning rain-veil of her loveliness, 
 
 And pressed his warm lips on her rose-like mouth 
 
 As if to stifle aught but answ'ring kiss : — 
 
 Yet pale she grew, as for a moment clung 
 
 Her lips to his in love's forgetfulness : 
 
 Then gently slipping from his arms' fond clasp 
 
 She stood a marble type of innocence, 
 
 And answered with a sob which caught her voice 
 
 And crushed its sweetness to monotony : 
 
 ' Not so, oh love ; it is not happiness 
 
 Which gains life's highest crown ; it is not love. 
 
 But suffering alone which raises us 
 
 Unto the brightness of the mountain peak, 
 
 And fair glow of the stars — ah not in vain 
 
 The lessons of thy grand philosophy, 
 
 And most sublime art-teaching ! Do we not 
 
 Both hold the faith, of possibility 
 
 For highest climbing in the lowest worm, 
 
 Tho' waiting springtide of development 
 
 In slumbering heart ? Oh love, and can we not 
 
 Make our strong faith stand forth in stronger deeds, 
 
 And lead the march of triumph on its way ? 
 
 I dare not think, oh love — I dare not pause — 
 
 Too weak my heart, too wholly thine ! I know 
 
 The right stands clear before me, dare I choose 
 
 The pleasant and the happy, here with thee ? 
 
 What peace can dwell with shadow of a grave 
 
 O'ercasting it for ever ? — Oh my love, 
 
 Would not our noblest feelings lie entombed ? 
 
 Our highest, purest aims be buried deep 
 
 Beneath the grave of earthly happiness ? 
 
 The acted lie is ever more accursed 
 
 N 2
 
 x8o THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 
 
 Than the outspoken one, for that can be 
 
 With truth confronted till it fall to dust, 
 
 And all lies die, swift pierced by heaven's light ; 
 
 But oh, beloved, would the acted lie 
 
 Of stifling in our souls the solemn truth 
 
 The stedfast stars, the everlasting hills, 
 
 The blueness silver-flecked of moonlight eve, 
 
 And rapture of the sun-dawn gave to us — 
 
 "Would that die soon unnoticed, echoless ? 
 
 No ; rather would it drag the coming souls, 
 
 Who felt like us the possibility 
 
 Of higher climbing, down to common earth, 
 
 If we, apostles of the dawning truth, 
 
 Cast down our inspiration, and our crown 
 
 For a mere wreath of fading earthly blooms. 
 
 Oh love, my soul is stedfast, but my heart 
 
 Holds thee alone, and will not let thee go ! 
 
 My love ! my love ! so brave, so fetterless— 
 
 So gentle yet so strong— oh pity me ! 
 
 I cannot reach thy stature, but I feel 
 
 Its might and majesty of godliness — 
 
 I know the glorious fate which hangs for thee 
 
 "Unknown in some fair star ; go forth, oh love, 
 
 Go forth and struggle for the nobleness 
 
 Thou feelest in thy soul, and know'st thereby 
 
 Humanity bears veiled and slumbering 
 
 Until the word is spoken, and it burst 
 
 In mighty purple bloom ; the thistle crown— 
 
 The passionate rich heart behind the pricks. 
 
 I dare not drag thee down, oh love ! oh love ! 
 
 And yet I never knew what bitterness 
 
 Lay hidden in this hour !— -Farewell my love !
 
 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. i8r 
 
 I cannot say more now — my heart will break ; 
 But when full seven days have chased away 
 This weakness, I will come, and meet thee here, 
 And then no more, oh never any more, 
 Thro' all the long days of eternity ! ' 
 A sob drowned her sweet voice, and turning swift 
 She fled adown the pine trees' shadowing 
 Like hope before despair, and he, alone, 
 Let fall the curtain o'er his bloom of art 
 And dimly groped in his soul's bitterness 
 For star to pierce the darkness, and none came. 
 Without her what was life ? an empty void — 
 Philosophy a dream — and art a curse, 
 Since with its beauty it still back recalled 
 The vanished hopeless beauty of his love. — 
 Deep night fell o'er his spirit, and he felt 
 The direful tempting every soul must know 
 Who lives beyond the usual, and can taste 
 The rapture and the thirst undying, fierce, 
 For the eternity which dwells beyond 
 Our seeking, yet puts forth a thrill of pain 
 In every passion which can rise above 
 The commonplace, and lose sight of itself 
 In reckless torment of that shadow grasp. 
 Death stood beside him, still and beautiful, 
 A mystic weaving shade of loveliness — 
 A flicker of white moonlight hid the eyes 
 So cold and pitiless, and made them gleam 
 Like dewy blossoms on a rippling stream ; 
 She laid her cool white hand on his hot brow, 
 And whispered with the rhythmic hopelessness 
 Of her low voice, to weary souls so sweet :
 
 THISTLE-BL OSSOM. 
 
 ' Linger not — tarry not — 
 
 Come to me swift ; 
 Life holds no joy for thee 
 Sweet as my gift ; 
 Peace — sorrow, out of sight — 
 Rest — after life's hard fight. 
 
 ' Whisper low, ere I go, 
 Thy heart shall steep 
 In all the blissfulness 
 Of slumber deep : 
 Tired soul, come to me ; 
 Toss not on life's rough sea. 
 
 : All thy high dreams must die, 
 
 Why not then thou ? 
 Life wears no happiness 
 To crown thy brow 
 Like that sweet rest of mine — 
 Mortal, become divine ! 
 
 ' Doth not every whisper of the pine-boughs — 
 
 Doth not every sighing of the leaves — 
 Every murmur as the wailing wind soughs 
 
 Thro' the fragile blossoms which it grieves — 
 Every ray of moonlight falling faintly — 
 
 Every bird with weary song to morn — 
 Every human brow, tho' high and saintly, 
 
 Curse the wretched hour when it was born ? 
 
 ' Mortal, let thy spirit sink to slumber, 
 Let my cooling hand upon thy brow
 
 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 183 
 
 Give thee calm and blisses without number ; 
 
 Lean thy aching heart upon me now. 
 Life is but a weariness ; and living 
 
 Beareth ever a sharp stinging pain ; 
 Peace can never blossom but in giving 
 
 Soul and form to nothingness again ! ' 
 
 So Death low-murmured, letting fall a sound 
 
 Cool as the night wind on his aching brow ; 
 
 Then silently she waited that her words 
 
 Might bud, and grow to their own fruition. — 
 
 Oh Death, so witching fair to the sad soul 
 
 With wooing sweet white arms and peace-crowned 
 
 brow, 
 Thou would'st have conquered in that hour of woe, 
 Of hopes downcast, and fair dreams ruthlessly 
 Torn up by their strong roots and cast adown 
 The precipice of fate — but heedlessly 
 And half despairing in the conflict, he 
 Struck forth his hands, and striking touched the keys 
 Whose music ever vanquished his heart plague — 
 A note flashed forth, a tone of Lohengrin, 
 Where snowy angels float down the far blue 
 In mystic bearing of the holy grail ; 
 A mist fell from his spirit, and he knew 
 The horror of the Death so near his heart 
 With icy fingers clutching at his brow, 
 And shook her from him, and rose strengthened; 
 Then passed into the night and wandered on 
 Beneath the moaning pine-boughs where the stars 
 Were blotted out by umbrage of thick leaves : 
 No sound struck on the stillness save the sigh
 
 1 84 THIS TLE-BI OSSOM. 
 
 Of these same breeze-blown branches, whispering 
 
 A faintest requiem for his loneliness : — 
 
 He sought in Nature gracious comforting, 
 
 Nor sought in vain ; the poet ever finds 
 
 A healing blessing in her silences — 
 
 A throbbing rapture in her breathlessness, 
 
 Which raises him beyond the present ill 
 
 To distant future brightness. Ah that gift, 
 
 That blessed gift, of art ! that nature throb — 
 
 That solace of all sorrow, that pure joy ; 
 
 That revelation of all mysteries 
 
 In human darkened life — to those who bear 
 
 This blessing in their souls the deepest woes 
 
 Fall powerless to crucify; they feel, 
 
 Even in sharpest anguish, a faint glimpse 
 
 Of ever-brightening glory, which can still 
 
 The thrilling of humanity to rest ! — 
 
 The seven dragging days passed by at last, 
 
 And left their crust of healing on his mind ; 
 
 Time's gentle fingers never pass in vain 
 
 Their soft caressing touch on weary brows, 
 
 But leave them cooler for their sympathy, 
 
 Unheard, but felt thro' every quivering nerve : 
 
 Ah would that human sympathy were deep 
 
 And voiceless as the years' ! true sympathy 
 
 Can never speak its sorrow, but in deeds 
 
 Lets fall the dew of healing on the bloom 
 
 Of life down-crushed by anguish — when our souls 
 
 Half maddened by the conflict tired sink 
 
 To rest awhile in sadness, and lay down 
 
 The growing burden which our spirits bear, 
 
 A look may comfort, a caressing touch,
 
 THIS TLE-EL OSSOM. 1 85 
 
 But words — ah words are poisoned burning 
 
 draughts, 
 And fire sparks dropped into the open wound, 
 A torture, and a tempting to cast down 
 Life's self upon its burden ! Careless words 
 Falling across our life at every step, 
 How wondrous is their power ! like butterflies 
 They glad youth's summer day and float above 
 The perfumed flow'rs in beauty and in love, 
 Making the earth a very paradise 
 While our hearts echo ; but alas how soon 
 Like poisoned wasps they sting our spirits bare ! 
 The butterflies have fled, the buzzing swarm 
 Of word tormentors wear the night away. — 
 Again 'twas eventide, the seventh eve 
 (From that one branded on my artist's soul 
 With scorching letters) gloomed at last in tears, 
 As if to sympathise with her sad heart : 
 She came between the dark boughs silently; 
 A mistiness of raindrops, and a wave 
 Of rushing sadness from the surging pines, 
 These were her welcome ; to the happy heart 
 A low pathetic poem ; but her soul, 
 Torn with the struggle, anguished with regret, 
 Felt but the moaning of its hopelessness ; 
 The tragedy of living pierced her thro' ; 
 The bearing of life's burden pressed her down 
 To merest helplessness of wondering 
 When would the end come ? but the woman soul 
 Is ever instinct with the bearing grief, 
 Not casting it impatient down the far 
 Of death-illusion — is it weakness this?
 
 1 86 THISTLE- BL OSSOM. 
 
 I know not ; but the man's thought ever is 
 
 To toss life down ; the woman's, to endure — 
 
 Perhaps 'tis cowardice, a fear to strike ; 
 
 Perchance 'tis nobleness, a feeling strong, 
 
 Deep-rooted in some minds, that holiness 
 
 Is born in suffering, and rendered pure 
 
 By patiently worn sorrow ; and now ' Dream ' 
 
 (So had my artist named her) came adown 
 
 The dripping forest with a will resolved 
 
 To bear his sorrow (harder than her own), 
 
 Yet to be stedfast for the sacrifice. — 
 
 He saw her coming, and sprang forth to greet 
 
 With clasping hand the coldness of her own, 
 
 Which met his for the parting : so they stood, 
 
 Their faces passion pale ! no moonlight gleam 
 
 Of glory on the fairness of their brows ; 
 
 No calmness of the stars in their wild eyes : 
 
 And neither spoke : too great the agony 
 
 For mortal words to speak it ; hand clasped hand 
 
 As if the holding of the fingers twined 
 
 Could distance parting, and ward off despair : — 
 
 Sky's falling tears mixed with the human ones 
 
 Which drifted down her cheeks ; the moaning winds 
 
 Rushed wailing thro' the wood ; no other sound 
 
 Disturbed the silence ; but the surging clouds 
 
 Tossed rudderless and aimless thro' the air : 
 
 Both at the same quick time-flash wandered back 
 
 To that first eve of meeting, and their hands 
 
 Unknowing grasped more close ; a whisper might 
 
 Of bygone rapture flooded all his soul, 
 
 And loosed his tongue, and he burst suddenly 
 
 Into a chainless tide of burning speech :
 
 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 187 
 
 1 Oh my beloved, speak ! Dost thou not know 
 
 I cannot let thee go ? 
 I cannot, 'tis impossible ! Oh see, 
 
 What now remains for me 
 If thou, my love, dost leave me ! all in vain, 
 
 And breathing but of pain, 
 My art, my life, my grand philosophy — 
 
 I give them up for thee ! 
 Oh whisper not of parting, my heart's star ! 
 
 Gleam down the distant far 
 Of my life's blackness, making it to glow 
 
 With love our sad hearts know. 
 Shine not alone, my darling, stay with me ! 
 
 What am I without thee? 
 A cloud wind-driven — a strong tree uptorn ; 
 
 Ah better never born, 
 Than cast adrift when most I feel the pain 
 
 Of life so cold and vain : 
 My soul's one love, I will not let thee go ; 
 
 Thou shalt not leave me so ! 
 Ah my art's dream of beauty, tinging all 
 
 On which thy look did fall 
 With that sweet soul outshining thro' those eyes ! 
 
 Gaze not in sad surprise 
 At my wild passion springing into speech ; 
 
 I fall down, and beseech, 
 In merest whisper, that thou leave not me, 
 
 I have no world but thee ; 
 No life, no hope, no aim ; mere helplessness 
 
 (Unless thy lips will press 
 My cold ones into being) weighs me down ; 
 
 Life holds for me no crown
 
 iSS THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 
 
 Unless thy love can reach it from the height 
 
 Beyond my blinded sight, 
 Unless thy beauty be my ladder fine, 
 
 And lighted lamp to shine 
 Thro' blackness of the air, and give it me. 
 
 Oh love, I kneel to thee ; 
 Oh leave me not in darkness ; nay, I swear 
 
 Thou shalt not leave me there ! 
 Thou shalt be mine, I swear it ; and thy heart 
 
 Bears in its inmost part 
 A blessing on my daring ; for I know 
 
 The love within says, " No ; " 
 Tis but the will to bear and sacrifice, 
 
 (No matter at what price) 
 Thy happiness for duty, which impels 
 
 What thy sweet face out-tells 
 Is anguish to thy spirit : oh my love, 
 
 Raise thy fair height above 
 This madness of denial ; as we two stand 
 
 Hand locked in clasping hand, 
 So let us pass thro' life, and let our dreams 
 
 Like two uniting streams 
 Whose waters joined, flow on with stronger sound, 
 
 And more resistless bound, 
 And brave the heat of scorching summer-glow 
 
 To stop their gentle flow, 
 Because they rush together to the sea ; 
 
 Thus through eternity 
 Let our lives flow together ; oh my sweet, 
 
 My feeble words repeat, 
 And still repeat, this burden, " leave not me ; " 
 
 I perish without thee !
 
 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 189 
 
 I struggle for expression to make clear 
 
 The beauty of the near, 
 Of love, of happiness ; oh sweet ! the " far," 
 
 Be it a distant star, 
 Or merely earthly wreck, cannot compare 
 
 With joy of present fair ; 
 I strive to speak it, but how small a part 
 
 Up-surging in each heart 
 Can find expression in mere earthly speech : 
 
 My wailing looks beseech 
 What dwells beyond my asking ; — I have done : 
 
 Love, have I lost, or won ? ' 
 She raised her sad eyes to his glowing face 
 With mute denial, half drowned in tenderness : 
 ' It is because I love thee, I say " lost " ' 
 (Fell from her pale lips down the sighing wind) ; 
 ' It is because I would not have thee lose, 
 For sweetness of the present, future bliss, 
 Which comes in climbing up the heights of life 
 And proving humanness can raise itself 
 To the fair stars : it is for this, oh love, 
 That rny voice murmurs brokenly, but firm, 
 " Lost ! lost for ever : " thy philosophy 
 Has entered in my soul, and dwelleth there, 
 Transmuting littleness and ignorance 
 To high endeavour and clear-sightedness. — 
 Scorn not the earth ; despise not daily joys : 
 No ladder that, to reach the distant sky ; 
 Heav'n will be realised, and truly known, 
 When earth is understood— not trodden down, 
 But raised, and purified, and blossoming ! — 
 When human souls have learned the nobleness
 
 1 90 THISTLE-BL OSSOM. 
 
 Which makes a crime impossible, disease 
 
 And misery unknown ; 'tis our false thoughts, 
 
 Our base desires, our meanness and our sin, 
 
 Which hinder human blooming into god, 
 
 And earth becoming heaven : the hour dawns 
 
 When human souls will shudder, looking back 
 
 To this same present we so haughtily 
 
 Hold crowned and conquering, and call the time 
 
 A hideous dream of darkness ; when the child 
 
 Shall no more drink with unpolluted breath 
 
 The fcetid air of soul-destroying creeds, 
 
 And baseless superstitions making life 
 
 A mere graveyard for stumbling ; then indeed, 
 
 When sovereign mind shall choose its own pure food 
 
 Adulterate no more, but nourishing 
 
 To highest peaks of knowledge undismayed 
 
 By spectres of dead giants, life will be 
 
 A gift worth holding, a fair thistle-bloom 
 
 To crown our human brows ! How few there are 
 
 Who feel this boundless possibility 
 
 In commonplace of life : but we, oh love, 
 
 We know it, and must bear it different ways, 
 
 Unheeding that our life paths separate 
 
 And join not until death. Oh love ! oh love ! 
 
 Farewell, farewell ! yea farewell evermore ! 
 
 My passing spirit will unite with thine 
 
 And draw thee to me when death reaches us.' — 
 
 Her low tones dropped to silence, and far off 
 
 Seen dimly thro' the rain-flecked looming sky 
 
 A faintest glimmer of the wannest gold 
 
 Stole, half afraid to greet the coming morn, 
 
 And pierced the weeping clouds, and down the east
 
 THIS TI.E-BL OSSOM. 1 9 1 
 
 Rose like the promise of eternity 
 
 Beyond the mist of death — a great calm fell 
 
 Across the wailing branches, and they paused 
 
 To marvel where the torturing wind had flown 
 
 Which lashed them into madness through the night . 
 
 And a mere shadow of half-veiled sound 
 
 Came from the drowsy birds still slumbering 
 
 Yet singing 'mid their dreams. All agony 
 
 Must sink at last to silence, and a time 
 
 Comes in all sorrow when the sharpest pang 
 
 Fails to disturb the calmness. Hopelessly, 
 
 But dumbly, did he loose her clasped hand 
 
 And let it flutter from his clinging grasp 
 
 To wander o'er the earth, or find its rest 
 
 Beneath the canopy of heaven's stars. — 
 
 And so they parted, with no farewell kiss 
 
 Of passionate mute love to gleam adown 
 
 The darkness of their path, a flash of light 
 
 In which the bare bleak years stood glimmering : 
 
 And she alone passed from beneath the pines 
 
 Which silent stood, and musical no more 
 
 Sang neither song of woe or joyfulness : 
 
 Her light feet trod the heather brown and sere 
 
 And glided o'er the grass blades up the hill 
 
 Into the silence of her dwelling place ; 
 
 He watched her slipping from his yearning sight, 
 
 And saw the dull days rise and wane, and still 
 
 His life stretched boundless, on a level plain, 
 
 No glints of sunlight on its hopelessness ; 
 
 His spirit bowed beneath the agony, 
 
 And turning, as the tired soul ever will 
 
 Unto the deepest passion which it knows,
 
 1 92 THIS TLE-BL OSSOM. 
 
 His fingers sought the keys which sang to him 
 
 In happy days of grand ideal art, 
 
 Of love, philosophy, and all that we 
 
 Bear highest in our minds. Is there aught here 
 
 Which music cannot soothe ? her wordless tone 
 
 Of sympathy falls sweeter on our ears, 
 
 And opens our heart portals silently 
 
 With precious healing overflowing all 
 
 The wreck-strewn shore of life — than any word 
 
 The dearest and the truest of our kind 
 
 Can ever speak, with wet eyes and soft hand 
 
 Seeking to soothe what is unsoothable 
 
 Except by time, and music ; for the mind, 
 
 Borne high above the common tide of life 
 
 By wave of anguish, raises up unknown 
 
 Its stature to the universal height 
 
 Of the great world-soul, ' possibility,' 
 
 And only in the union with pure truth 
 
 Can find surcease for sorrow of the ' now.' — 
 
 When the wan dawn had brightened into day 
 
 He left his stedfast pine-wood, and sped on 
 
 Across the bare brown heather, and the grass, 
 
 Whose dewdrops fastened on his eager feet 
 
 As if to drag them backward, but in vain : 
 
 He passed the hill, his beacon point till now, 
 
 With stern denial of gazing, for she dwelt 
 
 Upon its summit, and he dare not see 
 
 Her eyes again, or they would chain him there. 
 
 And so he left behind him his fair youth, 
 
 And art-dreams for reality ; and strode 
 
 Down to the world from great heights of his love. 
 
 And there we leave him, but shall catch again
 
 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 193 
 
 The gold thread of his life, unravelling 
 
 His sorrows, and his aim to light mankind 
 
 To the fair distance of true holiness 
 
 And mountain peak of stars, and gleaming blue 
 
 Of over-arching sky above their brows. 
 
 And her strife in the petty narrowness 
 
 The usual woman life must circle thro', 
 
 And count it blessing that the storms of fate 
 
 Or glory rapture crowning manly brows 
 
 Are shielded from her weakness ; count it bliss 
 
 If one of these same crowned ones offer her 
 
 The blessed title to make glad his life, 
 
 And rule his house, and decorate his feasts, 
 
 And bear his humours patiently, and serve 
 
 Her lord and master, until the death hour 
 
 Shall sound releasing from the torturer ! 
 
 Their life threads yet may cross in distant time, 
 
 Each seeking to express the soul's deep thoughts 
 
 In deeper deeds of loving sufferance ; 
 
 And striving with the leaven of their minds 
 
 To fuse the whole dull lump of humanness 
 
 To living genius — borne above the clay 
 
 Of their base natures trailing thro' earth- dust. 
 
 o
 
 i 9 4 ' THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 The years toiled on with aged, halting feet, 
 
 Up the steep gorge of dusk eternity, 
 
 And left their footsteps carved in the stone, 
 
 Some firm and lasting, others dim and pale, 
 
 And half effaced by following rough years 
 
 Who trod them down with scoffing out of sight : 
 
 And these years caught my artist and left him, 
 
 As one by one they passed, more desolate ; 
 
 With less of hope, but more of firm resolve 
 
 Graved on his brow, and lighting up his eyes. 
 
 He roamed across the world, and ever strove 
 
 To make men listen to the singing stars, 
 
 And live, not vegetate, and call it life ! 
 
 He learned their hand-crafts, and their brain-crafts 
 
 too, 
 And sought the usual and the commonplace, 
 The hills and vales of life ; but ever found 
 Himself mocked as a dreamer, and his creed 
 The scoffing butt of fools : he sang to them ; 
 He borrowed music's pleading, stronger far 
 Than any human word ; they listened calm 
 And praised the artist, but ignored the man ; 
 Or shrugging scornful shoulders muttered low : 
 ' A genius' skull is ever full of dust 
 To fly in reason's eyes, and blind the sight 
 For daily human life ; mark not his words, 
 But hear his gift of music readily.' 
 And so the blind world heard him willingly,
 
 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 195 
 
 When music pleaded at their deafened hearts, 
 But understood not what the music meant, 
 Or why its might so pierced them that they came 
 Again, and yet again to hear the voice 
 Which, singing, swayed their souls, but speaking truth, 
 The music's utterance, in human speech, 
 Fell echoless adown their barren lives. — 
 One man there was in all the multitude 
 Who listened when he spoke with longing eyes 
 Half grasping with their yearning at his words 
 The sweetness of the truth beyond the rind : 
 And one day as he stood with distant gaze, 
 Oblivious of all save the far blue 
 Of skyward dreaming where his spirit roamed, 
 My artist drew towards him, and with tone 
 Of softest sympathy held out his hand ; 
 A yearning for the fellowship of man 
 Came with resistless surging o'er his soul 
 So high and desolate among mankind ; 
 He felt this heart bore kindred with his own, 
 A germ of brighter possibility 
 Lay hid in those deep eyes : ' Oh friend,' he said, 
 ' I know that nobleness abides in you, 
 I feel its echo striking from your soul, 
 Straight to the depths of mine ; oh dream no more, 
 Speak to me clear ; I know the aim is high 
 Beneath that thoughtful brow : have you found truth 3 
 Oh hold her light across me, that her rays 
 Fall on the darkness, ever unexplored 
 Of humanness beneath my spoken word ; 
 If I can teach you, see how willingly 
 
 o 2
 
 1 96 THISTLE-BL OSSOM. 
 
 My thoughts are yours, my hopes, my aims, my voice- 
 Speak then, oh brother ! take my hand in thine, 
 The grasp of fellowship gives mighty pow'r 
 To every human soul to bear and do ! ' 
 The deep eyes turned the pathos of their look 
 Straight on my artist, and with monotone 
 Of wearied sadness, answered his appeal : 
 
 ' At dawn of life, I might have raised 
 A name the wise had loved to bless, 
 
 My truth-filled poems had been praised, 
 My wisdom lauded to excess ; 
 
 ' I felt the fiery touch had given 
 
 Unto my brow a crown of rays, 
 Which, if to burnish I had striven, 
 
 Had lit up all the after days : 
 
 ' My thoughts sprang forth half wing'd to heav'n ; 
 
 Had I sustained their early flight, 
 They soon had lost the dull earth's leav'n, 
 
 And soared above in perfect light. 
 
 ' Alas ! alas ! I might have sung 
 The martyr's hope, the hero's fame ; 
 
 My sounding verses might have rung 
 For ever with fair freedom's name : 
 
 ' All this (nay more) I might have done, 
 My soul had pow'r to strive and gain, 
 
 But never was aught precious won 
 By counting cost, or heeding pain ;
 
 TUTS TLE-BL OSSOM. \ 97 
 
 ' For while I waited, watching flow 
 
 The strong waves of life's swift river, 
 My hour had time to come, and go 
 
 Again to the mighty giver ; 
 
 ' And still tho' indolent and slow, 
 
 I might have caught its burning pow'r, 
 
 But that another magic glow 
 
 Swept o'er my spirit at that hour : 
 
 ' Love flew in with wings outspread ; 
 Love the fair, 
 The sweetly smiling ; 
 With radiant hair, 
 And soft low voice my sense beguiling : 
 
 ' Alas ! how often had I heard and read 
 
 Of just such coming, yet it seemed to me 
 
 A grand new dream, wonder and mystery ! 
 
 And ever as a wave draws to the shore, 
 
 And melts away all landmarks ; more and more 
 
 My soul drank that sweet poison, and lost count 
 
 Of all the many steps it had to mount 
 
 Before the god-like heights of fame were reached. 
 
 ' Love with a halo round her head, 
 
 A purple mist 
 
 Like amethyst, 
 Flew, steeped in perfume o'er my waning sense ; 
 
 How could I wait ? 
 
 I felt my fate 
 And kneeling low resigned all vain defence :
 
 19S THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 
 
 Then light beamed round 
 
 O'er all the ground, 
 And filled the earth with beauty, me with bliss : 
 
 My soul woke blind, 
 
 How could I find 
 The heights of glory bartered for a kiss ? 
 
 The kiss was sweet : 
 
 J t is but meet, 
 Since love has blessed me, I should give her praise ; 
 
 The vow she took 
 
 With her fair look 
 Has ne'er been broken thro' the passing days : 
 
 Yet still I long 
 
 For that wild song 
 My soul could hear in youth's days long ago ; 
 
 It is not best 
 
 Just to find rest, 
 And inspiration cometh but from woe ! 
 
 'Tis when the soul 
 
 Beyond control 
 Has lost itself in sea of agony, 
 
 That, maimed and worn, 
 
 Its flight is borne 
 By angels, thro' time to eternity ; 
 
 So journeying 
 
 On spirit's wing 
 Can hear, and drink, the music of the spheres ; 
 
 And then can sing 
 
 To us within 
 The prison-house below — the vale of tears : 
 
 And ring thro' time 
 
 With mystic rime, 
 Leading men on to glory, or the grave,
 
 THIS TLE- BL OSSOM. 1 99 
 
 And sounding clear, 
 
 That all may hear 
 Who dare the witching looks of love to brave ; 
 
 And cast away 
 
 Her magic sway 
 To choose a nobler lot : — no light or glow, 
 
 No thrilling kiss 
 
 Of love, nor bliss 
 Of rapture, which she lends to all below, 
 
 Can e'er compare 
 
 (For those who dare 
 To gaze but on the stars, nor heed her song) 
 
 With that soul- voice ! 
 
 Oh had my choice 
 But kept to that, for which I ever long '. 
 
 Love's rosy crown 
 
 I would cast down, 
 And be alone, my visions only near, 
 
 Could I but now 
 
 Feel on my brow 
 The crown of inspiration ; could I hear 
 
 That mystic rime 
 
 In youth's fair time 
 So near me : falling on my spirit free 
 
 As summer rain ; 
 
 But ne'er again 
 Will God be near me as he used to be. 
 
 Repentance late, 
 
 And moans at fate, 
 May make life bitter, but can ne'er repair 
 
 The ruin wrought 
 
 By want of thought 
 And passion's voices followed without care.
 
 203 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 
 
 Yet it may be 
 
 I still shall see 
 In some more blessed life that hour again, 
 
 And then shall know 
 
 Before it go 
 Soul pleasures only bring no yearning pain ! ' 
 4 Oh brother,' said my artist, ' is not love 
 The highest inspiration ? I had lost 
 All other hope, how willingly for her ! 
 Tho' swift denial met all my pleading heart 
 And crushed it into silence, yet my creed 
 Was ever, that love purifies the soul 
 And raises it beyond the present gift 
 Of dear possession to th' eternal stars.' 
 ' Nay, rather does it chain to this dull earth 
 The soaring soul if ever realised ; ' 
 Made answer wearily the saddened voice : 
 ' It is but while a dream, unknown, untouched — 
 And bearing still the magic rarity 
 Of growing beyond reach — that it can raise 
 To its own height of blooming ; and that height 
 Is not reality, but semblance fair 
 We ever feign to gift our ideal ; 
 Once let us reach it, wear it as our own, 
 Alas, from a bright star which led us on 
 Across the swamps of life to the far hill 
 Of nobleness and glory, it will shrink 
 Into a sharp and stinging fetter point 
 Struck thro' our souls to pin them to the earth. 
 Speak no more to me ; offer me no more 
 The hand of fellowship ; my home is here ; 
 But yours is far beyond ; eternity
 
 thistle-blossom: 201 
 
 Lies waiting for your presence ; never more 
 
 Will I hear your tone's magic, which recalls 
 
 The beauty of the past — in hopelessness ! ' — 
 
 And turning with no parting farewell word 
 
 He passed into the darkness ; and unknown, 
 
 Unseen again, sped down the distant night 
 
 Of human life's forgetfulness ; and he 
 
 Who would have sought a brother, heard instead 
 
 An echo of his Dream's words bitterly 
 
 Float over from the past : — so he toiled on 
 
 To other lands, and other humanness, 
 
 And myriad development of life 
 
 With the same spirit hid beneath the veil ; 
 
 The same hard scoff at holiness and truth, 
 
 The same contemptuous sentence ; ' he is mad ' ! 
 
 On all his fervent words, and deeds, and thoughts — 
 
 Yet he still struggled with a deathless love — 
 
 A stern repression of earth's weaknesses ; 
 
 And strove (nor vainly) on his human brows 
 
 To wear the calmness of the stedfast stars, 
 
 And hold the deepness of infinity 
 
 Within his patient eyes ; — and she his Dream 
 
 Reigned always in his heart, and reigned alone ; 
 
 A sweet pathetic memory of bliss 
 
 Felt clearly in all beauty ; greeting him 
 
 At midnight 'neath the glory of the moon, 
 
 And rapture of the stars, and floating clouds, 
 
 By soft breeze whisper, and hushed brooklet's sound, 
 
 And perfumed pray'r of blossom, and each tone 
 
 Revealing Nature to her worshipper : — 
 
 His thoughts sprang into music sad and low, 
 
 Its sweetness melting into silences
 
 202 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 
 
 With feeling rhythm quivering all thro ' : 
 (Our words flash forth in poems, constantly 
 When a great passion sways us ; be it joy, 
 Or anguish, 'tis the same ; the breath divine 
 Which raises us beyond the commonplace, 
 And makes us one with Nature, gifts our voice 
 With music like her own, to shadow forth 
 The human and the god in unison !) 
 
 ' Tho' thy presence is to me 
 But a sad sweet memory, 
 Yet more high and holily 
 
 Fair my love, I love thee. 
 
 ' When the night breeze sweeps adown 
 From the hill-top's snowy crown, 
 And across the heather brown, 
 
 Fair my love, I love thee. 
 
 ' When the calmness of the stars 
 Shines thro' my life's prison bars, 
 Gleaming from the dim " afars " 
 
 Fair my love, I love thee. 
 
 4 When my soul, half in despair, 
 Doubts if glory heights compare 
 With the vales so cool and fair ; 
 
 Sweet my love, I love thee. 
 
 ' When on wings of music borne, 
 My weak spirit sad and worn 
 Dreams it is not left forlorn : 
 
 Sweet my love, I love thee.
 
 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 203 
 
 ' When I see the blossoms round 
 Spread their beauty o'er hard ground, 
 Seeking soul, and having found : 
 
 Sweet my love, I love thee. 
 
 ' Oh my love, the mystery 
 Which the green leaves sing to me 
 Is but shadowing of thee ! 
 
 Pure my love, I love thee. 
 
 ' 'Mid the mystic silentness 
 Of the earth's vast wilderness, 
 Where no mouth my lips dare press, 
 Pure my love, I love thee. 
 
 1 Never love-clasp glads my own, 
 And no other's look or tone 
 Have I sought, save thine alone ! 
 Pure my love, I love thee. 
 
 ' Tho' I know my eye in thine 
 Ne'er may see the answ'ring shine 
 Of true love which is divine, 
 
 Yet, my love, I love thee. 
 
 ' When pale death with noiseless feet 
 Shall our hearts with coldness greet, 
 Then, and then alone, oh sweet, 
 
 I dare prove I love thee ! 
 
 ' Then my life, its struggle past, 
 Peaceful lies, but holds thee fast ; 
 Oh my love ! my own at last, 
 
 I dare prove I love thee !
 
 20 1 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 
 
 ' Then that kiss we never knew 
 Pierces the last anguish thro' ; 
 Death is rapture borne with you ! 
 I dare prove I love thee.' 
 
 So he sang on, but sudden sprang upright, 
 For borne upon the night breeze faint and low 
 A kiss flashed on his lips : and murmur wan 
 Came floating down the stillness of the wood, 
 The merest whisper, of a woman's sigh 
 Heard far off in the blueness of the hills : 
 He knew it for the summons she had pledged : 
 ' Farewell ! farewell ! yea, farewell evermore ! 
 My passing spirit will unite with thine, 
 And draw thee to me, when death reaches us : ' 
 So had she spoken ; and the time had come, 
 The blossom of the thistle to his soul ; 
 And he sped onward, counting each time-flash 
 A jewel lost, which parted him from her. — 
 At last he reached the pinewood, and again 
 Passed swift beneath its branches, the same man 
 To outward seeming who had dwelt there once ; 
 But oh how different ! Then, art was life, 
 And dreams a glory, and the life, a crown ; 
 Pure happiness a possibility — 
 Earth, heaven's germ, and humanness, a star 
 Of nobleness and fame ; while now, alas ! 
 Naught of these jewels bound his weary brows 
 Save life alone, a woven wreath of thorns ! 
 The swinging pine boughs murmured constantly 
 Their old refrain, but hopelessly and sad, 
 And answerless for ever, to his soul.
 
 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 205 
 
 But he passed on unheeding, and came out 
 
 Upon the moorland, where the heather bloom 
 
 Had faded into blackness ; and the grass 
 
 Hung, waving tattered banners of defeat : 
 
 He crushed them without thinking, and sped on 
 
 Up the far hill, on which his Dream had dwelt, 
 
 And waited for his step with craving eyes 
 
 Whose death-like calmness melted into mist 
 
 Of sobbing tear-clouds when they met his gaze. 
 
 Serene she lay, and patient ; a soft couch 
 
 Of purple, wheeled into the window-space 
 
 Which opened to the ground, and let the gleam 
 
 Of tender moonlight flood the flowers pale 
 
 Of ling'ring monthly roses round its frame — 
 
 Was all the space her eager rhythmic form 
 
 Xow circled on — so passionate before 
 
 In its lithe rapture of swift quivering 
 
 Adown the nills, and thro' the forest wide, 
 
 And o'er the springing heather's rosy bloom. — 
 
 They met, as they had parted, hand to hand 
 
 Close-clasping with a passionate hard grasp ; 
 
 And anguished eyes of his in calm of hers 
 
 De p-gazing silently — with not a word 
 
 Of greeting on their lips ; then he dropped down 
 
 Beside her on the ground, and whispered low, 
 
 ' Is it so near, oh love ? so very near ? 
 
 Wilt thou indeed be but a memory 
 
 Thro' all the coming years? Art thou still free ? 
 
 Oh love, oh darling, let me kiss thy lips, 
 
 Then thou indeed art mine ! ' With warning hand 
 
 She prayed for silence, and then with a voice 
 
 Of tender sighing answered his pray'r :
 
 2o5 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 
 
 ' I am all thine, my love ; yea, thine and death's, 
 
 If thou care for my kisses ; but before 
 
 My mouth feels sweetness of thy answ'ring mouth 
 
 It must unveil its secrets. — Since that hour 
 
 When we two parted in the years gone by, 
 
 I never felt love-flash ; I heard indeed 
 
 Fair words of love, but ever answered them, 
 
 " Give me the hand of fellowship, oh man, 
 
 And not the kiss of love ! " And strove to live 
 
 Up to the highest possibility 
 
 Thy art had taught me ; with philosophy 
 
 To crown my struggles, and make clear to all 
 
 The deep right lying hidden in our strifes, 
 
 Behind the present passion and the need : 
 
 I strove indeed to raise the woman-mind 
 
 Up to the heights, where men so calmly claim 
 
 The privilege of reigning ; while to us 
 
 They leave the low spots with o'ershadowing 
 
 From their most royal brows ; I strove indeed 
 
 For equal rights ; and freedom to evolve 
 
 His higher nature, for the labourer — 
 
 For light and air to all men's darkened souls — 
 
 But far beyond all this, and lying deep, 
 
 Almost too deep for grasping, did I strive 
 
 For that eternal abstract principle 
 
 Of justice in our souls, beyond the needs 
 
 Of present remedies for tyrannies : — 
 
 Till that be understood — till each one feels 
 
 The standard for true judgment does not lie 
 
 In what he thinks, in what his brother needs — 
 
 In what is best for nations, or for one — 
 
 But in what is above the present ill,
 
 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 207 
 
 Above the daily thoughts, above our life — 
 
 Beyond all personal aims or ideas — 
 
 Almost above our holding ; but in truth 
 
 Not beyond reach of striving earnestness 
 
 To grasp and judge by, thro' eternity. 
 
 I thought to leaven with a spark of soul 
 
 One merely earthly nature, and to build 
 
 On this frail corner-stone my pyramid 
 
 Of glory for the race : — The man loved me 
 
 As best he could (or thought so) for the time ; 
 
 He was most plastic clay in my weak hands, 
 
 And I, poor fool, had visions of the crown 
 
 Of joy on human brows, which might outshine 
 
 The gleaming of the stars ; and gave myself 
 
 To bring life to the marble ; but alas, 
 
 The statue was but clay and rottenness ! — 
 
 Ah poor hearts, poor hearts ! How I long to bless 
 
 With a woman's kiss of love, 
 And a tender meaning of thoughts that press 
 
 .From the pitying sky above ! 
 Poor souls toiling on, how I yearn to part 
 
 Your sorrows between us here ! 
 Oh brothers, your griefs I feel in my heart, 
 
 Your wailing voices I hear ! 
 Oh love, down-pressed by the thorns of life — 
 
 Oh sore and wearying feet — 
 Can I never aid you amid the strife 
 And make word and action meet ? 
 This pleading ever-echoed in my soul, 
 Until I paused not to take count and see 
 If marble could be modelled from the clay 
 To strength and beauty by the godlike force
 
 2o8 THISTLE BL OSSOM. 
 
 Of our philosophy, and art divine ; 
 But gave myself to purchase, as I thought, 
 His struggle with me for humanity ! 
 Alas ! such ideals ever break beneath 
 The weight down-cast upon them — the time fled, 
 And his love fled before it down the days 
 Of our life-stream, grown flowerless and chill : — 
 He was a good man, as the world counts good — 
 He was a wise man, as the world holds wise — 
 And ever sought to love me, as he could, 
 And shield me from rough weather and life-storms ; 
 But when he found my spirit firmly set 
 Not with a child's heart but a woman's soul 
 On our grand life-aims, he would answer me 
 With a'half-scornful wonder and a smile 
 Which stirred me into anger swift and hard 
 (Was I so weak that he should pity me?) 
 And yet his words fell soft and music-like. 
 One even when the moon did climb 
 
 The arch of heav'n so calm and blue, 
 My spirit tasting the sublime 
 
 Did gaze the passing ages through ; 
 And noted on the toilsome track 
 Of life, the spirits pressing on ; 
 While some gazed forward, some looked back, 
 
 And some mused o'er their treasures won : 
 But each whene'er he looked above, 
 
 A shining statue, perfect, whole, 
 And lovely, saw with looks of love 
 Awaiting him at life's last goal : 
 This statue was his perfect life 
 As he might make it, and a sigh
 
 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 209 
 
 Stole from his lips, " Ah me, the strife 
 
 Will mar its beauty ere I die ! " 
 Yet still a thrill of rapture glowed, 
 
 And lit up each pale bowed down face, 
 As they gazed on where downward flowed 
 
 The sight of that exceeding grace. 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 But while I gazed at each wan form 
 
 (Seen clearly by my spirit clear), 
 With all its sorrows 'mid life's storm 
 
 Thus toiling on from year to year, 
 With all its hopes unguessed, unknown 
 
 By the surrounding world ; its dreams 
 So scorned, and ever sentence thrown 
 
 Not on what " is" but on what " seems " ; 
 A cloud passed o'er the scene, and I 
 
 Had sudden reached the statue-land ; 
 It stood close to the far blue sky 
 
 And stars gleamed thro' on either hand : 
 I looked ; and lo each toiler knelt 
 
 Before the statue of his life, 
 Its image now, and yet there dwelt 
 
 On each the tokens of the strife ; 
 The radiant beauty passing song 
 
 Was marred and wrinkled, and the grace 
 Which to the statue did belong 
 
 Had flown from the worn spirit's face ; 
 And one had lost the strong right hand ; 
 
 And one was blind, and tears did fill 
 His sightless eyes ; and one did stand 
 
 With pain comparing thought and will.
 
 210 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 
 
 My heart was sad, for if there be 
 
 No grief so sharp as in despair 
 To see in thought the joys that we 
 
 Have known long since so sweet and fair ; 
 Yet still to feel the struggle o'er, 
 
 No chance again to fight or gain 
 A vict'ry, and that hope no more 
 
 May draw bright presages from pain ; 
 To know the time for struggle past, 
 
 And late repentance worse than vain ; 
 And feel the chains which fate has cast 
 
 Resistless as her iron reign : 
 This surely is enough to daunt 
 
 The boldest from the strife, and give 
 Some foothold for the scoffing taunt ; 
 
 " Is God a fiend who bids us live ? 
 Who bids us struggle for a dream ? — 
 
 A shadow we can never reach — 
 While we bow to His will supreme, 
 
 And strive our aching souls to teach 
 That all we have, or hope, or gain, 
 
 Is but His love ? — a God's to slaves ! 
 Who godlike can rejoice in pain, 
 
 And with crushed hearts his sanctu'ry paves ? 
 My brothers, let us strive no more, 
 
 Heav'n has no bliss which can repay 
 The daily torment o'er and o'er 
 
 Returning with each dawning day, 
 But seize and taste the present bliss, 
 
 If bliss there be, and have no care 
 For future years ; love's offered kiss 
 
 Will make e'en anguish calm and fair !
 
 THIS TLE-BL OSSOM. 2 1 1 
 
 We all must die, what matter how, 
 
 Or where ? for dreaded, hoped, or wooed, 
 The moment comes ; the awful ' now ' — 
 
 Which we must meet ; and, or subdued, 
 Or joyful, 'tis for all the same : 
 
 Some tears — a grave — perchance some love 
 More lasting may recall our name 
 
 To memory, when our tomb above 
 She passes ; but the praise, or blame, 
 Will little move the senseless dust ! 
 A nation's tears — eternal fame — 
 
 What are they when grim death says ' must ? ' 
 Then strive not man to please, or God ; 
 
 Please but thyself, and take surcease 
 With pleasures gathered from the sod, 
 
 For strife which soon will end in peace ! " 
 My being rose in mutiny, and I 
 Hurled back his promises before the day 
 Of sacrifice (I called it) for a dream — 
 And he spoke calmly, almost wearily : 
 " You are a child, and know not what you need. 
 A woman's duty rarely lies beyond 
 Her own life circle, and her children's eyes ; 
 Those are her stars, and they should guide her way, 
 With no vain outward dreams. Humanity 
 Can well support itself, and yields no grace 
 To those wild spirits who would spoil its peace ! " 
 Then turned and left me ; and I fell upon 
 The earth's cold bosom with most bitter tears ! 
 My heart broke in that moment, for my dream 
 Alone had held me living without thee ; — 
 My love ! my love ! my godlike, noble love ! —
 
 212 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 
 
 I faded as the summer bore away 
 
 Her perfumed jewels, and my husband said 
 
 The distant Italy would call again 
 
 Spring roses to my cheeks, and so we went ; 
 
 Yet gathered no bright blooms in that fair land, 
 
 But only pale death-flowers ! — He was brave, 
 
 And reckless like his nation ; and one day 
 
 While a storm threatened, showed his fearlessness 
 
 And utter scorn of peril, and embarked 
 
 In a frail boat upon the surging sea, 
 
 Laughing and gay, and boasting he would bear 
 
 His vessel back to harbour in the calm : 
 
 He came indeed — the blue waves bore him back 
 
 Long ere the calm had settled over them, 
 
 With all his gaiety drowned out of him, 
 
 And death's calm on his brow : — I laid him down 
 
 Beneath the fragrant waving orange trees, 
 
 With requiem of blue sky and sighing air ; 
 
 And then I sought the pinewood, and the hill, 
 
 Where we two met, and parted, years ago. 
 
 I waited patiently until I knew 
 
 My weary life grew very near its end, 
 
 And then my passing spirit summoned thine, 
 
 Oh true love, and thou heardest, and art here ! — 
 
 Now kiss me ; lay thy fresh cool lips on mine 
 
 And let me so pass to eternity ! ' 
 
 Her tender voice sank mournfully to rest, 
 
 And he pressed all the passion of his soul 
 
 In that first love-kiss. As rose-petals pale 
 
 Take a rich glow from sunlight wooing them, 
 
 So all the wanness of her quiv'ring mouth 
 
 Flashed into ruby brightness at his touch ;
 
 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 213 
 
 She clung to him, the whole unlovely past 
 
 Since they two parted faded into dust ; 
 
 Again she felt young, happy, beautiful ; 
 
 And sprang up lightly with a passing strength : 
 
 1 Oh love,' she said, ' let me hear Lohengrin 
 
 Once more, but this once more ; my spirit sees 
 
 The gleaming angels floating down the blue, 
 
 With perfumed presence of the holy grail ; 
 
 And yearns to join the song — oh sweetheart, play 
 
 That glorious dream again ! ' Half-wild he stood 
 
 With anguish of the parting ; but he touched 
 
 With master-hand the keys, and shadowed forth 
 
 That wondrous revelation : — not a sound 
 
 Fluttered the stillness, till half unaware 
 
 The sweetness melted in the triumph-song 
 
 And rose sublime and strong — then a wild cry 
 
 Broke from her pallid lips : ' Oh love, my love, 
 
 Where art thou ? speak ; this blackness frightens me ! 
 
 My hands grope blindly forth to find thy hands, 
 
 And miss them in the dark — where art thou, love ? 
 
 Oh leave me not alone ! alone ! alone ! ' 
 
 Her voice pierced into shrillness at the end, 
 
 Then fell down into sudden silentness. 
 
 He sprang up madly, all his spirit's fear 
 
 Bursting in cry of anguish from his lips, 
 
 Now pale as hers, who lay so lifeless there. 
 
 He pressed her dead heart to his beating one ; 
 
 He held her cold mouth to his own warm lips, 
 
 And conjured her in wildest words of love 
 
 To open those sweet eyes, and look at him 
 
 Once more, but once ! — Her dead heart gave no sign, 
 
 Her wan lips answered not his passionate
 
 214 THISTLE-BLOSSOM. 
 
 Wild raving of despair — in vain, in vain 
 
 The human seeks to dash itself against 
 
 The marble veil of death, and pierce beyond 
 
 (With the dear passing one) its mystery ! — 
 
 His anguish sank to silence presently, 
 
 As passion ever must tho' true and real : 
 
 And he sought calmness in the wooing keys, 
 
 His only joy, his ruling love in death ; — 
 
 For death could not divide them ; when morn broke 
 
 They found the master cold, with fingers still 
 
 Upon the whiteness, breathing his swan-song. — 
 
 They bore the lovers to one resting place 
 
 Across the heather, to the stately pines 
 
 Whose swinging branches murmur constantly 
 
 Above their peaceful grave, and thistle-bloom 
 
 Springs from their loving hearts, a purple crown 
 
 Of deeper fuller blossom for their brows 
 
 Than any flower with mere sweetness fair, 
 
 Crushed into nothingness by careless hand, 
 
 And bearing 'neath its beauty no stern thorn 
 
 To beat the scoffer at its holiness 
 
 Back from its bosom, and develope thence 
 
 Beyond its bareness a triumphant crown ! 
 
 And like the thistle our humanity 
 
 Bears hid within its soul the purple glow 
 
 Of fair development ; and each true heart 
 
 May hold the blossom of its nobleness 
 
 Before the eyes of men, until their minds 
 
 Spring by the gazing into fruition, 
 
 And heav'n is reached, for earth is understood !
 
 215 
 
 DULCAMARA. 
 
 'Twas long ago, as men count time, 
 
 By days, and months, and years — 
 Yet not so long but that my rime 
 Can up the steep of mem'ry climb, 
 And catch the dropping tears ; 
 
 And hold them with unanguished brow, 
 
 Tho' sighing softly still ; 
 They bear no stinging sorrow now, 
 Tho' looking back I wonder how 
 
 Such torture could not kill. — 
 
 Ah well ! time passes steadily 
 And hardens as he goes ; 
 And tho' sometimes we readily 
 Could wish our bodies dead, that we 
 Might sink in death's repose ; 
 
 Yet ere a year, or may-be two, 
 
 Have slid into the past, 
 We catch a glimpse of heaven's blue, 
 Soft peeping all the darkness thro', 
 
 E'en sorrow cannot last :
 
 216 DULCAMARA. 
 
 And Nature's blessed voices fall, 
 
 On tired hearts dropping down ; 
 The calm stars shine thro' heaven's wall, 
 And breathe their glow, and lighten all, 
 And wan brows feel their crown ; 
 
 And every tiny bloom that springs — 
 
 Or dew-drop on the grass ; 
 And every flutter of bird wings — 
 And every note that music sings — 
 Wake echoes as they pass, 
 
 And bury with caressing tone 
 Our sorrow out of sight ; 
 While every sigh, and every moan 
 Are whispering that not alone 
 Nor outcast from the light, 
 
 We suffer, 'mid our pilgrimage 
 
 In darkness drearily ; 
 There dwelleth One who can assuage 
 The tempest, tho' its wildness rage 
 
 O'er our souls wearily ; 
 
 Else why instinctive do we cry, 
 And lift our eyes above, 
 
 Nor turn below — but seek the high? 
 
 Ah scoffers, tell the reason why, 
 If not, that God is love ! 
 
 And teaches us like creeping things, 
 And twining fragile life,
 
 DULCAMARA. 217 
 
 To seek in climbing, budding wings 
 And grasp, and strike the angels' strings 
 Clear harping thro' the strife. 
 
 They say, who deeply have down-gazed 
 
 Thro' Nature's mysteries, 
 That every groping may be raised 
 To heights unknown, but not unpraised 
 
 In poets' histories ; 
 
 And that the need bespeaks the power 
 
 In plant, or tree, or man : 
 It may not be that one life-dower 
 Shall see the end, or fading flower 
 
 Amid its blooming's span ; 
 
 But yet the race is strong to win, 
 
 And triumphs at the last ; 
 For tho' in storms the springs begin 
 To let their freshness blossom in 
 
 While skies are overcast ; 
 
 Yet soon the sunshine's golden hue 
 
 Conquers the tempest's might, 
 And beam-like kisses down the blue 
 Slide sweetly to the rain-drop's dew 
 
 And glorify their light ! 
 
 And so from storm of unbelief, 
 
 And tearing at the chain, 
 Whose end we miss when utter grief 
 Has darkened all hope of relief, 
 
 And made our faith seem vain ;
 
 2iS DULCAMARA. 
 
 And searchings into secrets hid 
 
 For ever out of sight, 
 Translations of earth's pyramid, 
 And strife to raise the coffin lid, 
 
 And pierce the distant night 
 
 Which closes life, but leaves behind 
 
 A rope to reach the skies, 
 Tho' trembling fingers cannot find 
 The strands, and often we are blind 
 To aught but the dead eyes, 
 
 And twine our minds in bondage strong 
 
 With chain of golden hair ; 
 Forgetting, as we gaze along 
 The weary coming years, the wrong 
 Will fade to silence there. 
 
 Ah merciful strong years ! how brave 
 
 We learn to be from you ! 
 How soon forgotten is the grave 
 O'er which the clinging grasses wave 
 And mosses struggle thro' ! 
 
 How small a wreath does memory weave 
 
 Of all our anguish blooms ; 
 How calmly does our spirit leave 
 The thought behind, and rarely grieve 
 O'er vanished sorrow's glooms ! 
 
 Half bitterly my soul looks back 
 To those same dropping tears,
 
 DULCAMARA. 219 
 
 Which left on my life's arid track 
 A little spot — the merest wrack 
 On-dwelling thro' past years ; 
 
 But when they fell ; ah me, how deep 
 
 The anguish they exprest ; 
 My heart sank down — I could but weep 
 And wish my sobs could ever steep 
 
 My dead one's place of rest : 
 
 And yet my sorrow faded swift. 
 
 What now remains to tell 
 The story of my life's one gift — 
 The star whose glow could well-nigh lift 
 
 A lost soul out of hell — 
 
 The jewel which my mortal brow 
 
 Let fall unwillingly 
 And never found again, yet how 
 It gleamed before, forgotten now, 
 
 Or called back chillingly? 
 
 A lock of hair whose golden hue 
 
 Shines yet undimmed and bright, 
 
 As if the sunlight glinted thro' 
 
 And kissed it now, as I used to, 
 And gloried in its light ; 
 
 A few old letters breathing still 
 
 In fading dusty ink 
 The love which chained my ardent will, 
 And challenged death itself to kill, 
 
 Or break the clasping link —
 
 220 DULCAMARA. 
 
 And yet 'tis broken ; or, could I, 
 
 Tho' sobbingly and low, 
 Speak of him here beneath the sky, 
 Or dream of grave where he doth lie, 
 And yet faint anguish know ? 
 
 Sometimes I wondered in my pain 
 
 (Amid the dropping tears) 
 If peace indeed could bloom again — 
 If God were not a phantom vain, 
 And tragedies the years, 
 
 Whose heavy brows would never bow 
 
 On me their cooling breath ; 
 Alas, I know the presage now 
 Was but an empty doubt and vow 
 The coolness is of death. 
 
 I'd rather have my memories 
 
 Clear-cut against the black 
 Of daily life, than in strange eyes 
 See smiling love with mystic ties 
 
 Whose chains my hours lack !— 
 
 Let me recall the day gone by 
 (How little time it seems) 
 When first beneath the summer sky 
 I saw his face, nor marvelled why 
 He stepped from out my dreams 
 
 Can my words paint him as he stood, 
 With sunlight falling fair
 
 DULCAMARA. 221' 
 
 Around him, while from out the wood 
 Of pines, a whisper, understood 
 Like music everywhere, 
 
 Came floating down the perfumed breeze, 
 
 And tossing here and there 
 The waving rhythm of the trees 
 Till pale rose-petals on their knees 
 
 Fell with a fragrant prayer ; 
 
 And he with calm eyes, saw not me 
 
 At first, but gazed unmoved, 
 And knew a quiver, even he 
 Had marked not, till the hour when we 
 
 Met 3 and in meeting — loved. 
 
 I loved him with the untried might 
 
 Of passion in my soul ; 
 I loved him as I loved the light 
 Returning to my craving sight 
 
 As night away did roll : 
 
 All beauty, music, nobleness, 
 
 I loved, as I loved him : 
 His lightest word could firm impress 
 The calmness of his stedfastness 
 
 Upon my passing whim. 
 
 He cared not for the world's gay jest 
 
 And rarely entered in, 
 But loved divinest music best, 
 And in her sweet tones found a rest 
 
 Which light laugh could not win ;
 
 222 DULCAMARA. 
 
 And I loved best what he could choose, 
 
 And music spoke to me 
 As none could speak ; nor did I lose 
 A shadow joy, and could refuse 
 Content, all gaiety. 
 
 Ah love, it seems like yesterday 
 That sunny time in June ! 
 How swift the sunlight passed away, 
 And left a shadow where it lay, 
 Like echo of love's tune. — 
 
 Alas, I wander, but recall 
 
 My eyes, with tear-drops dim • 
 I stood behind the garden wall, 
 Whose shadow o'er the road did fall 
 Dreaming ; and so, saw him. 
 
 Men told me I was fair, and I 
 Had (smiling half in scorn) 
 
 Oft in my child's heart wondered why ; 
 
 And gazed down blueness of the sky, 
 And dreamed I was not born, 
 
 And marvelled if my fairness then 
 
 Had shone out in a star ; 
 To blossom far beyond their ken, 
 Yet win like praises from these men, 
 While I looked on afar \ 
 
 I knew, with that instinctive thrill 
 Which moves a maiden's heart,
 
 DULCAMARA. 223 
 
 That they who wooed me could not fill 
 The depths of loving and of will, 
 So held myself apart 
 
 From all their smiles, and tender eyes, 
 
 And clasping fingers' touch ; 
 Love whispered of all mysteries, 
 Of rapture boundless as the skies, 
 
 And here I found not such, 
 
 Until that sunny day behind 
 
 The garden wall I stood, 
 Whose shadow stood out cool defined, 
 And thro' the white clouds golden-lined 
 
 A breeze stole down the wood ; 
 
 And he passed by ; and all the air 
 
 Fell chiming, wave on wave ; 
 I knew my fate, I felt it fair, 
 My dream's fulfilment met me there ! 
 
 Aye scoffers, you may rave, 
 
 First- sighted love may call a jest, 
 
 Or out of fashion quite ; 
 But ah the souls who love the best 
 Wait not till wisdom crowns the rest 
 
 Ere bathing in love's light ! 
 
 My weak words hover (like a bird 
 
 At drowsy close of day, 
 When scarce a passing leaf is stirred, 
 And thro' the sweetness dimly heard 
 
 Her ' good-night ' floats away)
 
 224 DULCAMARA. 
 
 Around him ; and half fear to paint 
 
 (For longing after sight) 
 My one lost love. No crowned saint, 
 With prayer and fasting waxing faint 
 
 In dawning heaven's light, 
 
 Was he ; but just a man, and brave, 
 And strong, and true, and free ; 
 
 Whose broad white brow a something grave, 
 
 The shadow of a bygone wave, 
 Bore on its majesty ; 
 
 The sweetest eyes mine ever knew, 
 With sunbeams prisoned there, 
 Dark grey, while ever peeping thro' 
 You caught a dash of heaven's blue 
 In which star-raptures were ; 
 
 A mouth which smiled to meet the eyes, 
 
 Yet closed firm in repose ; 
 Whose clear-cut lips would know not sighs 
 At any fate ; while calm and wise 
 
 He stedfast plucked the rose 
 
 Although the thorns were piercing deep 
 
 The human finger-tips, 
 Yet unmoved that the bloom would steep 
 Him sorrow full, he firm would keep 
 
 That calm smile on his lips, 
 
 And know the gift God offered him, 
 Tho' turning swift to woe,
 
 DULCAMARA. 225 
 
 A blessing bore beneath the rim 
 Of golden chalice, tho' so dim 
 The light of love below, 
 
 That who sees not, will not believe 
 The rich wine brimming there ; 
 And rather would men sigh and grieve 
 For that they have not, and bereave 
 Their souls of faith so fair. 
 
 Oh mole-like in your platitudes, 
 
 Ye little race of men, 
 Ye burrow 'mid your latitudes, 
 And know not any gratitudes 
 
 For aught beyond your ken ! 
 
 The boundless over-arching blue 
 
 Of God's love o'er you cast — 
 The rapture star-lights shining thro' — 
 The glories hid in dropping dew — 
 
 In present, and in past — 
 
 Would the poor mole who seeks the light 
 
 And finds it darker still 
 Than burrowing below in night, 
 Which seems clear to his blinded sight 
 
 And natural to his will, 
 
 Would he believe ? No ; he would scorn, 
 
 And call you dreamer then, 
 If you but hinted at the mora ; 
 And rather would he dwell forlorn, 
 
 Than list your tale, oh men ! 
 Q
 
 22(, DULCAMARA. 
 
 And mole-like are ye, oh most wise ! 
 
 God speaks so clear to you, 
 And still ye wall not lift your eyes 
 To find revealings in the skies, 
 
 So broad, and high, and blue. 
 
 Not such my love ; his soul drank deep 
 
 In wisdom readily ; 
 Philosophy for him did steep 
 Her highest glory in calm sleep, 
 
 But he gazed steadily 
 
 Beyond her slumbers to the end, 
 And found in his own soul 
 
 A revelation, and a friend 
 
 Who half could the thick veiling rend 
 Hiding the final goal. 
 
 He quaffed the poet's nectar cup 
 
 At inspiration's spring, 
 And music bore his spirit up 
 Till his soul dare with angels sup, 
 
 Borne on melodious wing. 
 
 And all men loved him, women too, 
 
 And children most of all ; 
 They felt the glory shining thro' 
 The sweetness of his deep eyes' blue 
 Where'er their glance did fall. 
 
 And I, his chosen, what felt I ? 
 Alas ! how can I tell ?
 
 DULCAMARA. 22-j 
 
 How in hard words can make reply, 
 Or speak, or think, or reason why ? 
 Oh love, I loved thee well ! 
 
 And yet not well enough, or thou 
 
 Hadst rested here with me : 
 Oh love ! my love ! tho' tears drop now, 
 And furrowed is my once smooth brow 
 
 With craving sore for thee — 
 
 Yet, had I loved thee, oh mine own, 
 
 Could I live patiently 
 Without thee in the world alone, 
 With but a smothered sigh and moan 
 
 To speak my agony ? 
 
 Ah well ! souls are so many-faced, 
 And hold such different creeds ; 
 
 And yet I say there is no waste 
 
 Of sweetness, and to every taste 
 Is portioned what it needs. 
 
 A little of life's precious wine 
 
 My youth drank from God's cup, 
 And held the chalice all divine 
 Round which love's roses thick did twine. 
 And blooming, bore it up : 
 
 But when they faded, and a thorn 
 
 Pressed in my heart abode, 
 To call to memory how forlorn 
 An even springs from fairest morn 
 
 "When sunshine only glowed ; 
 
 Q2
 
 228 DULCAMARA. 
 
 Then, I could feel a Father's hand 
 
 (And not an iron fate) 
 Was leading me through sorrow's land 
 To join my love amid the band 
 
 Passing down heaven's gate. — 
 
 Our love grew with the summer hours, 
 
 And 'mid the autumn's gold ; 
 The time passed like a dream of flow'rs, 
 And I thought happiness like ours 
 Had never bloomed of old : 
 
 And one day as a silence fell 
 
 From utter blissfulness 
 Upon my happy heart (how well 
 Do I remember) he did tell 
 
 Me of his first love's miss. 
 
 He was a boy, scarce twenty years 
 Had crisped his golden hair ; 
 And she an orphan girl whose tears 
 He wiped away, and calmed her fears, 
 And knew that she was fair ; 
 
 And gave the treasure of his love 
 
 Into her trembling hand ; 
 Timid she was, a tender dove, 
 Whom angels called to bloom above, 
 And leave her lover's land : 
 
 And so he lost her — ah how sweet 
 His eyes looked into mine,
 
 DULCAMARA. 229 
 
 To kiss away a shade, or greet 
 The sunshine surging his to meet 
 Behind the tear-drop's shine : 
 
 I felt no jealousy; ah no ! 
 
 My love pierced far too deep ; 
 And in the strength such passions know 
 I grudged her not that bitter woe 
 
 Which once had made him weep ; 
 
 And but drew closer to his side ; 
 
 That he knew suffering, 
 And in grief's furnace had been tried, 
 And chosen once another bride, 
 
 Bruised not my love's light wing. — 
 
 At last the ling'ring autumn swept 
 
 Her glory far away, 
 And winter to her place swift stept, 
 While snow and ice the flowers kept 
 
 Safe, till the spring woke gay ; 
 
 And when again the rose-leaves fell 
 
 Adown the summer breeze, 
 And nightingales strove sweet to tell 
 The rapture which they knew so well, 
 
 Amid the whisp'ring trees ; 
 
 And moon-fair breezes fluttered down 
 
 The silver stars' deep light, 
 Whose beauty is the heaven's crown, 
 And bears the magic power to drown, 
 
 By gazing with rapt sight,
 
 230 DULCAMARA. 
 
 All mortal anguish terror-strung 
 
 On feeble human heart ; 
 My love said joy-bells should be rung 
 And clust'ring lily-garlands hung, 
 
 And we no more should part. 
 
 Alas, for poor humanity 
 
 So weak beneath the sun ! 
 How swift the visions fair that we 
 Build up with dreams infinity 
 To chaos only run ! 
 
 Again the roses bloomed ; again 
 
 The lilies budded fair ; 
 Again the earth with many a chain 
 Of woven blossoms, hill and plain 
 
 Held fettered everywhere ; 
 
 Again the holy nightingale 
 
 Beneath the mystic stars 
 Poured out her rapture down the vale, 
 And breathed again her last year's tale, 
 And whispered of afars ; 
 
 But all the sweetness spoke to me, 
 Who bore a lonely heart, 
 
 Of my past vanished ecstasy ; 
 
 For he, my love, was o'er the sea 
 And we were still apart. 
 
 With the fair waking spring's first breath 
 Of perfumed purple bloom
 
 DULCAMARA. 231 
 
 My love was called to meet stern death 
 Where war's fierce wave deep whispereth 
 The highway to the tomb. 
 
 His country lay from mine apart 
 
 A space of ocean tears, 
 But ' fatherland ' dwelt in his heart 
 And bid him from my love depart — 
 
 Ah bitter passing years, 
 
 Swift back ye roll ! Again I see 
 
 His blue eyes as he pressed 
 One kiss upon my mouth, while he 
 Strove hard to murmur hopefully, 
 
 And give my anguish rest : 
 
 ' Sweetheart, beloved, I back return ; 
 
 The laurel on my brow 
 Will with intenser glory burn 
 For every sigh thro' which I yearn 
 
 In sorrow of the " now " ; 
 
 ' Yet if, oh love, the winging death 
 
 Shall strike me bitterly, 
 I'll bless thee with each passing breath, 
 And every tone that whispereth, 
 
 And die in loving thee ! ' 
 
 We clung together ; hand in hand 
 
 Close-grasping, till the pain 
 Which wrung our hearts could understand 
 The type of clasping fingers' band, 
 
 And strike it back again :
 
 23 2 DULCAMARA. 
 
 Our lips met in a long embrace, 
 
 Yet parted in despair, 
 While passion-pale shone out his face, 
 Grief's shadow blotting its fair grace 
 
 Beneath his golden hair. — 
 
 My love ! My star ! the heightener 
 
 Of wan life into bliss, 
 Whose kindling eye I would prefer 
 To even Christ the lightener 
 
 (May God forgive me this !) 
 
 So left me in the summer-time, 
 The happy time of flow'rs, 
 Whose fragrant bells a funeral chime 
 Seemed ringing with a mystic rime 
 All thro' the dragging hours ; 
 
 And envious death, who marked afar 
 
 My life-crown on my brow, 
 Strode cloud-enwrapped to dim my star, 
 And show what shadows mortals are 
 Before whose pomp we bow ! 
 
 What ! Do my tears drop down again 
 So that I cannot speak ? 
 
 Has time then never healed the pain ? 
 
 I little thought in my disdain 
 That I was half so weak ; 
 
 But speaking of the parting, brings 
 My darling back to me ;
 
 DULCAMARA. 
 
 And every chord of mem'ry springs 
 Swift to its place, and wildly rings 
 The bygone agony. — 
 
 Well ; let it pass — I cannot tell 
 
 How many years have flown, 
 Since he my love, who loved me well 
 Was killed : nor how the deed befell, 
 For that was never known : 
 
 They found him when the fight was o'er 
 Dead — dead — beneath the sky ; 
 
 Ah God ! (my heart is still so sore) 
 
 Is there no pity evermore ? 
 Is there no reason why ? 
 
 No cause, that we a moment press 
 
 With rapturous dim bliss 
 A glowing love with joy's excess, 
 And earth's vain dream of blessedness 
 
 Held perfect in a kiss ? 
 
 No cause, why we, to our wild heart 
 
 A glory- image hold, 
 And holding, swift are struck apart, 
 Yet know not whence the stinging dart 
 
 Came winging, hard and cold ? 
 
 There is no answer — save a sigh 
 
 From every human soul ; 
 We feel our destiny is high — 
 We feel we have a helper nigh — 
 
 We strive to grasp a whole, 
 
 R 
 
 'jj
 
 234 DULCAMARA. 
 
 And find a fragment in our hand, 
 
 A fragile silver thread, 
 Whose end we cannot understand — 
 A fragile thread — a broken strand — 
 
 And all we know — is said. — 
 
 Oh love ! my love ! thy calm dead eyes 
 Bore no reproach, or tear ; 
 
 But mutely gazed to the blue skies ; 
 
 And still that smile so sweet and wise 
 Thy lips held firm and clear : 
 
 So much they told me ; oh my love, 
 That face still haunts my sight ! 
 I gaze on earth, I gaze above, 
 And know nor faith, nor hope, nor love, 
 Nor glow, nor joy, nor light, 
 
 Save in those eyes, which shadow me 
 
 In blissful heaven-calm. 
 When shall I feel the ecstasy 
 Of clasping hands again with thee 
 With no death to alarm ? 
 
 'Twas long ago, as men count time 
 
 By days, and months, and years 
 But still my mind serene can climb 
 Life's ladder to the rhythmic chime 
 Of stars — thro' falling tears. 
 
 i> 
 
 tistvoode &> Co., Printers, New-street Square, Lor.don.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
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 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 AA 000 371 927 5 
 
 FR 
 5193 
 
 P98d
 
 till 
 
 mm 
 
 mm