'^^mm^i^m'^^
 
 VANE'S STORY.
 
 BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON
 
 VANE'S STORY, 
 
 WEDDAH AND OM-EL-BONAIN, 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 JAMES THOMSON, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "the city OF DREADFUL NIGHT.' 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 REEVES AND TURNER, 196 STRAND. 
 
 1881.

 
 INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 POET OF POETS AND PUREST OF MEN 
 
 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 
 
 WITH THE 
 
 GRATITUDE AND LOVE AND REVERENCE 
 OF THE AUTHOR
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Vane's Story i 
 
 Weddah and Om-El-Bonain 59 
 
 Two Lovers 113 
 
 Bertram to the Most Noble Lady Geraldine . 120 
 
 ■The Fadeless Bower 134 
 
 Garibaldi Revisiting England 145 
 
 Europe's Rouge et Noir 14S 
 
 The Jolly Veterans 149 
 
 A Capstan Chorus 151 
 
 polycrates on waterloo bridge . . . -153 
 
 Shameless . • .156 
 
 The Fire that Filled my Heart of Old . . .158 
 
 Withered Leaves 160 
 
 The Cypress and the Roses 162 
 
 Meeting Again 163 
 
 Two Sonnets 165 
 
 A Song of Sighing 167
 
 viu Contents. 
 
 " Allace ! THAT Samyn SwEiT Face ! " . . .169 
 
 Day 171 
 
 Night 172 
 
 Mater Tenebrarum 174 
 
 A Requiem 177 
 
 Prometheus 178 
 
 From THE " West-*6stlicher Divan " .... 181 
 
 Childhood 183
 
 VANE'S STORY. 
 1864. 
 
 Prologue. 
 
 This is the story 
 (To God be the glory !) 
 Which Vane, found in bed 
 When a splash of fierce red 
 From the sunset made strange 
 The street's opposite range, 
 Told me ; who, astonished, 
 Had firstly admonished, 
 Then asked him outright, 
 " On the spree all last night ? " 
 Pale looked he, and queer ; 
 But his speech calm and clear, 
 And his voice sweet and strong, 
 So swayed me ere long. 
 That I almost or quite 
 Believed him that night.
 
 Vane^s Story. 
 
 He named not the hall 
 Where he went to the ball ; 
 Of his friends I could trace 
 None who knew of the case, 
 Nor the Jones, nor the Brown- 
 There are myriads in town ! 
 The landlord avows 
 He went out with his spouse 
 After tea ; slept at Bow, 
 At her sister's. 
 
 And so, 
 Shall we trust Vane ? or deem 
 Him the dupe of a dream ? 
 Let who wall decide. 
 The next week he died, 
 And thus ended his story. 
 (To God be the glory !) 
 
 The Story. 
 
 One flamelet flickered to and fro 
 Above the clear vermilion glow ; 
 The house was silent, and the street 
 Deserted by all echoing feet ;
 
 Vane's Story. 
 
 And that small restless tongue of light 
 Possest my ear and mocked my sight, 
 While drowsy, happy, warm, I lay 
 * Upon the couch at close of day. 
 And drowsy, dreamy, more and more, 
 I floated from the twilight shore 
 Over the vague vast sea of sleep, 
 Just conscious of the rest so deep ; 
 Not sinking to the under caves. 
 But rocking on the surface waves. 
 When fitfully some muffled sound 
 Came from the crowded streets around. 
 It brought no thought of restless life 
 With wakeful care and passionate strife ; 
 But seemed the booming of a bell 
 Sweetly ringing tumult's knell, 
 Slowly chiming far away 
 The euthanasia of the day. 
 And then unsummoned by my will 
 Came floating through this mood so still 
 The scenes of all my life's past range, 
 In perfect pictures, fair and strange, 
 As flowers limned in purest light 
 Upon a background such as might 
 
 * Here for decorum be it said, 
 This couch was sofa and not bed.
 
 Vane's Story. 
 
 Expand beneath some forest-screen 
 
 After the sunset, goldbrowngreen. 
 
 And then I heard on every side 
 
 The shadowy rusthng slow and wide 
 
 Of night's dim curtains softly drawn 
 
 To hush the world asleep till dawn. 
 
 I heard the rustling, and my eyes 
 
 Were curtained with the curtained skies ; 
 
 And I lay wrapt as in a fleece 
 
 Of warmth and purity and peace ; 
 
 While consciousness wdthin the stream 
 
 Of rippling thought and shadowy dream 
 
 Sank slowly to the deepest deep, 
 
 Lured by the murmuring Siren, sleep ; 
 
 When suddenly a little thrill 
 
 Of splendour pricked both mind and will, 
 
 And brought me tidings grand and strange ; 
 
 I did not stir with outward change, 
 
 But felt with inward royal mirth, 
 
 On all this dusk of heaven and earth 
 
 The moon may rise or not to-night ; 
 
 But in my soul she I'iscs bright ! 
 
 The globe of glory swelHng rose 
 In mighty pulses, solemn throes ;
 
 Vane's Story. 
 
 And filled and overfilled me soon 
 
 With light and music, with the swoon 
 
 Of too much rapture and amaze, 
 
 A murmurous hush, a luminous haze. 
 
 How long in this sweet swoon I lay, 
 
 What hours or years, I cannot say ; 
 
 Vast arcs of the celestial sphere 
 
 Subtend such little angles here. 
 
 But after the ineffable, 
 
 This first I can remember well : 
 
 A Rose of Heaven, so dewy- sweet 
 
 Its fragrance was a soul complete, 
 
 Came, touched my brow, caressed my lips. 
 
 And then my eyes in their eclipse ; 
 
 And still I stirred not, though there came 
 
 A wine of fire through all my frame, 
 
 An ecstasy of joy and love, 
 
 A vision of the throne above, 
 
 A myriad-voiced triumphant psalm 
 
 Upswelling through a splendour calm ; 
 
 Then suddenly, as if a door 
 
 Were shut, veiled silence as before. 
 
 The sweetest voice said, " True it is 
 He does not waken at my kiss ! "
 
 Vanes Story. 
 
 I smiled : " Your kisses three and four 
 Just gave me Heaven, no less, no more ; 
 I held me still, eyes shut, lest bliss 
 Should overflow and waste a kiss." 
 
 Then dreamily my lids I raised, 
 And with grand joy, small wonder, gazed , 
 Although the miracle I saw 
 Might well have made me wan with awe. 
 '• Why have you left your golden hair, 
 These gorgeous dusky braids to wear ? 
 Why have you left your azure eyes, 
 To gaze through deep dark mysteries ? 
 Why have you left your robe of white. 
 And come in cloudy lace bedight ? 
 Or did you think that I could fail 
 To know you through whatever veil ? 
 As bird or beast, as fish or worm, 
 In fiendish or angelic form. 
 As flower or tree, as wave or stone, 
 Be sure I recognise My Own ! " 
 
 The sweet sad voice was sad no more. 
 But sweeter, tenderer, than before ; 
 " Oh, ask no questions yet," said she, 
 " But answer me, but answer me.
 
 Vanes Stonj. 
 
 " I now have listened very long 
 To catch some notes of that great song 
 Your youth began to sing so well ; 
 Oh, why have none yet reached me ? tell ! " 
 "And why is any lamp not bright, 
 With no more oil to feed its light ? 
 Why does a robe moth-eaten fade 
 When she is gone whom it arrayed ? 
 Great songs must pulse with Ufeful breath. 
 No hymns mark time for timeless death ; 
 One long keen wail above the bier, 
 Then smothered moans, then stillness drear," 
 
 " I long have listened, all aflame, 
 For some full echoes of the fame 
 Youth pledged ripe manhood to achieve : 
 Why must I, hearing none, still grieve?" 
 " And why should he who cannot spend 
 Not make of gold his life's chief end ? 
 O Love, the jewels of renown. 
 So priceless in a monarch's crown, 
 What are they when his realm is lost, 
 And he must wander like a ghost 
 Alone through wilds of rocky dearth, 
 But pretty pebbles nothing worth ?
 
 8 Vanes Story. 
 
 And would you have our love's proclaim 
 In shouts and trumpet-peals of fame ; 
 Or whispered, as I whisper here, 
 Into this little pink-shell ear 
 Still full of echoes from the sea 
 Of fathomless Eternity ? " 
 
 " I do not seek thy fame because 
 Enamoured of the world's applause, 
 Though even its most reckless shout 
 Involves some true love-praise no doubt : 
 But, Dearest, when fame's trumpets blare 
 Great hearts are battling with despair : 
 Better the tumult of the strife 
 Than stillness of lone-wasting life. 
 If you were working out God's will, 
 Could all the air around be still ? " 
 
 " But I am working out God's will 
 Alike when active and when still ; 
 And work we good or work we ill. 
 We never work against His will. . •. 
 All work, work, work ! Why must we toil 
 For ever in the hot turmoil ?
 
 Vane's Story. 
 
 God wrought six days, and formed the world ; 
 Then on the seventh His power refurled, 
 And felt so happy that He blest 
 That Sabbath day above the rest ; 
 And afterwards, we read, He cursed 
 The work He thought so good at first ; 
 And surely Earth and Heaven evince 
 That He has done but little since. 
 
 * " Well, I, who am a puny man, 
 And not a God who all things can. 
 Have also worked : not six short days 
 Of work refulgent with self-praise, 
 Of work ' all-good ' whose end was blest 
 With infinite eternal rest : 
 No, I have worked life after life 
 Of sorrow, sufferance and strife. 
 So many ages, that I ask 
 To rest one lifetime from the task. 
 To spend these years (forlorn of thee) 
 Sequestered in passivity ; 
 Observing all things God hath made. 
 And of no ugliest truth afraid, 
 
 * The last chapter of George Sand's Lelia may seem to be the 
 source of the following section : in fact, however, I chanced to read 
 that work just after, and not before, this section was written.
 
 lo Vanes Story. 
 
 But having leisure time enough 
 To look at both sides of the stuff. . . . 
 With Shelley to his ocean-doom, 
 With Dante to his alien tomb ; 
 With Wallace, Raleigh, Sidney, Vane, 
 All to the axe's bloody stain ; 
 With Socrat^ until the cup 
 Of hemlock lifted calmly up. 
 With Jesus to the fatal tree 
 After the garden's agony, 
 With Mohammed in flight and fight. 
 With Burns in all his fate's deep night, 
 With Joan to the fiery screen, 
 With Charlotte to the guillotine, 
 With Campanella all the while 
 And Tasso in their dungeons vile, 
 With Swift slow-dying from the top. 
 With Rabelais to the curtain's drop, 
 Cervantes prisoner and slave, 
 Columbus on the unknown wave, 
 And Luther through his lifelong war ; 
 With these, and with how many more, 
 Since poor Eve fell, and as she fell 
 Of course pulled Adam down as well, — 
 In these, and in how many more. 
 Have I outbattled life's stern war.
 
 Vanes Story. 1 1 
 
 Endured all hardships, toiled and fought, 
 
 Oppressed, sore-wounded, and distraught, 
 
 While inwardly consumed with thought ; 
 
 How long ! how long ! — Mankind no whit 
 
 The better for the whole of it ! 
 
 And /, look at me, do I need 
 
 The little rest I claim, indeed, 
 
 With body dwindled, brain outworn, 
 
 Soul's pith dried up, and heart forlorn ? . . 
 
 And so I rest me, half-content 
 
 That all my active power is spent : 
 
 No new campaign till after cure ! 
 
 Meanwhile I passively endure 
 
 The wounds bequeathed by so much strife, 
 
 The hopelessness of present life : 
 
 And this is much ; what further can 
 
 Be looked for from a wreck of man ? 
 
 I bear in silence and alone 
 
 What maddened me at first, I own." 
 
 " T/ie wounds bequeathed by so nmch strife, 
 The hopelessness of present life." 
 She dwelt upon these words again 
 With such a look of wistful pain 
 As made my heart all creep and stir 
 With pity, not for self, for her.
 
 12 Fanes Story. 
 
 " O my true Love ! " she said (the while 
 Her poor lips sought and failed to smile), 
 " O Love ! your laugh is like a knell ; 
 Your phantasy is horrible, 
 Thus calmly plunged a glittering knife 
 Into the core of your own life ! " 
 And there she broke down ; all the grief, 
 Love, pity powerless for relief, 
 Yearning to suffer in my stead, 
 Revulsion against fatal dread. 
 Long swelling mighty in her soul 
 O'erflooded now beyond control. 
 She gave a little laughing cry, 
 Choked sharply off; then heavily 
 Flung herself down upon my breast 
 With passionate weeping unreprest ; 
 A night-dark cloud upon some bleak 
 And thunder-furrowed mountain peak 
 Pouring itself in rain and fire ; 
 For now through all the black attire 
 Heaving about her heaving frame 
 Fermented flashes of swift flame ; 
 Not tempest-lightnings, but indeed 
 Auroral splendours such as speed 
 Battling with gloom before the day, 
 And herald its triumphant sway.
 
 Vane's Siory. 13 
 
 Her instincts in that mighty hour 
 Of insurrection grasped at power ; 
 And her true self arrayed in liglit, 
 Azure and golden, dazzling-briglit, 
 Was struggling through the mask of night. 
 
 The mask remained, — for some good cause 
 Well emphasised by Heavenly laws ; 
 She sobbed herself to self-control, 
 Represt the heavings of her soul ; 
 Then stood up, pallid, faint, distraught. 
 Facing some phantom of dread thought. 
 
 "Another spasm like this," I said, 
 " Will kill me ! When we both are dead 
 I'll use my very first new breath 
 To thank you for the blissful death. 
 The torture-rapture utterless, 
 You dear life-giving murderess ! " 
 I laughed ; and yet the while I gazed 
 Upon her standing wan and dazed : 
 Would I had bitten out my tongue 
 Ere any word of mine had stung
 
 34 Vane's Story. 
 
 With such an unforeboded smart 
 That purest and most loving heart ! 
 
 " And do you never kneel and pray 
 For comfort on your lonely way ? 
 And have you no firm trust in God 
 To lighten your so-heavy load ? " 
 The voice how strange and sad ! the mien 
 How troubled from its pure serene ! 
 " You good Child ! I beseech no more 
 That one and one may make up four, 
 When one and one are my assets 
 And four the total of my debts : 
 Nor do I now with fervour pray 
 To cast no shadow in broad day : 
 Nor even ask (as I asked once) 
 That laws sustaining worlds and suns 
 In their eternal path should be 
 Suspended, that to pleasure me 
 Some flower I love, — now drooping dead, 
 May be empowered to lift its head." 
 
 " Ah, good pure souls have told me how 
 You laughed at prayer as you laugh now, 
 And turned all holy things to mirth, 
 And made a mock of heaven and earth ;
 
 Vane's Stonj. 15 
 
 And sometimes seemed to have no faith 
 In God, in true hfe after death." 
 " But God exists, or not, indeed, 
 Quite irrespective of our creed ; 
 We Hve, or live not, after death. 
 Alike whatever be our faith ; 
 And not a single truth, in brief. 
 Is modified by our belief. 
 And if God does subsist and act. 
 Though some men cannot learn the fact, 
 Who but Himself has made mankind. 
 Alike the seers and the blind ? 
 It may be that for some good cause 
 He loves to rest deep-veiled in laws ; 
 And better likes us who don't ask 
 Or seek to get behind the mask, 
 Than those our fellow-insect fry 
 Who creep and hop and itch and pry. 
 The Godhead's lice, the swarming fleas 
 In Jove's great bed of slumbrous ease ? " 
 
 " They said you scorned all wise restraints, 
 And loved the sinners, not the saints ; 
 And mocking these, still dwelt with those 
 The friends who are the worst of foes."
 
 1 6 Vanes Story. 
 
 " They told you something hke the truth, 
 These dear tale-bearers full of ruth. 
 How proffer mere coarse human love 
 To hearts sole-set on things above ? 
 And furthermore, although of old 
 Wolves ravaged dreadfully the fold, 
 Yet now Christ's tender lambs indeed 
 Securely frisk, unstinted feed. 
 To us poor goats they freely give 
 The dreariest tracts, but they — they live 
 In pastures green, by rivers clear. 
 Quite sleek and happy even here : 
 And when these lambs that frisk and leap 
 Are all staid, stout, and well-clothed sheep, 
 The shepherd, having taken stock. 
 Will lead away the whole white flock 
 To bleat and batten in galore 
 Of Heavenly clover evermore ! 
 The dear saints want no earthly friend, 
 Having their Jesus : but, perpend ; 
 What of the wild goats ? what of us, 
 A hundred times more numerous, 
 Poor devils, starving wretched here 
 On barren tracts and wild rocks drear. 
 And in the next Hfe (as they tell) 
 Roasted eternally in Hell ? "
 
 Vane^s Story. 17 
 
 " But when you join the multitude 
 
 Of sinners, is it for their good ; 
 
 To hale them from the slough of sin, 
 
 Or but to plunge your own soul in ? " 
 
 " And what they are, must I not be ? 
 
 The dear Lord made them Who made me ? 
 
 If God did make us, this is sure, 
 
 We all are brothers, vile and pure. 
 
 I've known some brilliant saints who spent 
 
 Their lives absorbed in one intent, 
 
 Salvation each of his own soul ; 
 
 The race they ran had just one goal, 
 
 And just one modest little prize ; 
 
 A wicket-gate in Paradise, 
 
 A sneaking-in there through the wall 
 
 To bliss eternal ; that was all. 
 
 Some of them thought this bliss would too 
 
 Be spiced by the contrasting view 
 
 Of Hell beneath them surging crammed 
 
 With all the tortures of the damned. 
 
 Their alms were loans to poor God lent. 
 
 Interest infinity-per-cent., 
 
 (And God must be hard-up indeed 
 
 If of such loans He stands in need) ; 
 
 Their earnest prayers were coward cries. 
 
 Their holy doctrines blasphemies ; 
 
 B
 
 1 8 Vanes Story. 
 
 Their faith, hope, love, no more, no less. 
 Than subhmated selfishness. 
 
 " Now my gross, earthly, human heart 
 With man and not with God takes part ; 
 With men, however vile, and not 
 With Seraphim I cast my lot : 
 With those poor ruffian thieves, too strong 
 To starve amidst our social wrong. 
 And yet too weak to wait and earn 
 Dry bread by honest labour stern ; 
 With those poor harlots steeping sin 
 And shame and woe in vitriol-gin : 
 Shall these, so hardly dealt with here. 
 Be worse off in a future sphere ; 
 And I, a well-fed lounger, seek 
 To ' cut ' them dead, to cringe and sneak 
 Into that bland beau monde the sky. 
 Whose upper circles are so high ? . . . 
 If any human soul at all 
 Must die the second death, must fall 
 Into that gulph of quenchless flame 
 Which keeps its victims still the same, 
 Unpurified as unconsumed, 
 To everlasting torments doomed ;
 
 Vanes Story. 19 
 
 Then I give God my scorn and hate, 
 And turning back from Heaven's gate 
 (Suppose me got there !) bow, Adieu ! 
 Ahnighty Devil, damn me too ! " * 
 
 As lightnings from dusk summer skies, 
 Mirth dazzled from her brow and eyes ; 
 A charming chiming silvery laughter 
 Accompanied my speech, and after 
 Still tinkled when the speech was done 
 Its symphony of faery fun : 
 And then her lips superbly smiled. 
 " You are the child, the naughty child, 
 Screaming and kicking on its back. 
 And choking with convulsions black. 
 At these old-bogey tales of Hell 
 Its hard-pressed priestly nurses tell ! " 
 And gaylier, sweetlier yet she laughed, 
 Till I was drunken, dizzy, daft. 
 
 * This was written before Mr. J. S. Mill published a similar 
 declaration. It will be noticed, however, that while the philosopher 
 treated the matter with his habitual lofty earnestness, the flippant 
 rhymester but makes it a subject for mockery and laughter.
 
 20 Vane's Story. 
 
 " You wicked holy one ! " I cried, 
 
 " You changeling seraph ! you black-eyed 
 
 Black-hearted scoffer ! Heaven itself 
 
 Has only made you worse, mad elf, 
 * * * * 
 
 Well, I confess that I deserve 
 
 Your arrowy laugh, your lip's grand curve, 
 
 For foaming out in such a rage 
 
 Of boyish nonsense at my age, 
 
 Anent this stupid Hell and Heaven 
 
 Some half-believe one day in seven. 
 
 Let all who stickle for a Hell 
 
 Have it ; they deserve it well. . . 
 
 Not often in these latter years 
 
 Am I, my darling, moved to tears 
 
 Or joyous laughter or hot scorn. 
 
 While plodding to the quiet bourne ; 
 
 'Tis you have brought me back a part 
 
 Of my old youthful passionate heart." 
 
 " And do you feel no bitter grief 
 Of penitence for unbelief?
 
 Vane's Story. 2f 
 
 No stings of venomous remorse 
 In tracing backward to its source 
 This wicked godless lifetime's course ? 
 
 " I half remember, years ago, 
 Fits of despair that maddened woe, 
 Frantic remorse, intense self-scorn, 
 And yearnings harder to be borne 
 Of utter loneliness forlorn ; 
 What passionate secret prayers I prayed ! 
 What futile firm resolves I made ! 
 As well a thorn might pray to be 
 Transformed into an olive-tree ; 
 As well a weevil might determine 
 To grow a farmer hating vermin ; 
 The / am that I am of God 
 Defines no less a worm or clod. 
 My penitence was honest guile ; 
 My inmost being all the while 
 Was laughing in a patient mood 
 At this externe solicitude. 
 Was waiting laughing till once more 
 I should be sane as heretofore ; 
 And in the pauses of the fits 
 That rent my heart and scared my wits,
 
 22 Vayie's Story. 
 
 Its pleasant mocker}' whispered through, 
 Oh, what can Saadi have to do 
 With penitence ? a?td what can you ? 
 Are Shiraz roses W7-eathed with rue ? 
 
 " Now tell me, ere once more we turn 
 To things which us alone concern, 
 Of all the prosperous saints you see 
 Has none a kindly word for me ? " 
 " First Shelley, parting for above, 
 Left you a greeting full of love." 
 
 " The burning Seraph of the Throne ! 
 Not for my worship deep and lone 
 Of him, but for my love of you, 
 He loves and greets me ; in his view 
 I stand all great and glorified, 
 The bridegroom worthy of the bride 
 For whom the purest soul in Heaven 
 Might wait and serve long lifetimes seven, 
 And other seven when these were past, 
 Nor deem the service long at last, 
 Though after all he failed for ever 
 In his magnificent endeavour."
 
 Vanes Story. 23 
 
 " Then that dear Friend of yours, who came 
 Uncouthly shrinking, full of shame, 
 Hopeless and desolate, at first, 
 Dismayed that he was not accurst ; 
 But when his essence shone out clear 
 Was found the noblest of our sphere ; 
 Beautiful, faithful, valiant, wise, 
 With tenderest love that may suffice 
 When once wuth equal power unfurled 
 To sway and bless a whole bad world : 
 Is it for my own sake that he 
 Bows down, Sir, half-adoring me ? " 
 
 " The great deep heart of purest gold, 
 Ever o'erflowing as of old 
 From the eternal source divine 
 With Heaven's most rich and cordial wine ! 
 Enough : the loneliest on earth. 
 Famishing in affection's dearth, 
 Who found but two such friends above 
 Would banquet evermore on love." 
 
 " Now ask me what you wish to ask ; 
 Your slave is eager for her task." 
 " Then, firstly, I who never mix 
 With our vile nether politics
 
 24 Vanes Story. 
 
 Have also ceased for many years 
 
 To study those of your high spheres. 
 
 Who now is, under God and Fate, 
 
 The Steward of the world-estate, 
 
 The Grand Vizier, Prime Minister, 
 
 Or (if you will) sole Manager 
 
 Of this bewildering Pantomime 
 
 Whose scenes and acts fill Space and Time ? " 
 
 " I have heard many and many a name ; 
 The laws seem evermore the same, 
 The operation of the laws 
 Reveals no variance in the cause." 
 
 " A learned politician, you ! 
 Well, any name perchance will do ; 
 And we will take an old one, say 
 That t)emiurgos still bears sway. 
 I want a prayer to reach his throne, 
 And you can bear it, you alone ; 
 For neither God nor fiend nor man 
 (Nay, scarcely any woman) can 
 Resist that voice of tenderest pleading, 
 Or turn away from it unheeding.
 
 Vanes Story. 25 
 
 Not in this mystic mask of night, 
 
 But in your dazzling noonday light ; 
 
 Not with this silent storm of hair, 
 
 But crowned with sunbeams you shall fare ; 
 
 Not with these darkest Delphian eyes, 
 
 But with your luminous azure skies ; 
 
 For powers of solemn awe and gloom 
 
 Love loveliness and joy and bloom. 
 
 Only your voice you must not change ; 
 
 It is not, where all else is, strange ; 
 
 The sweetest voice in all the world, 
 
 The soul of cosmic music furled 
 
 In such a little slender sound, 
 
 Delighting in its golden bound ; 
 
 The evening star of melody. 
 
 The morning star of harmony ; 
 
 When I can catch its faintest tone 
 
 In sighing breeze, in dim wave's moan, 
 
 I feel you near, my Love, my Own." 
 
 "And who shall guide me to the throne 
 Whose place is unto all unknown ? " 
 " By one at least the path is known : 
 * To Demogorgon's awful throne, 
 
 * Prometlieus Unbound, act ii. , scene 3, ct seq.
 
 26 Vanes Stonj. 
 
 Down, down, through all the mysteries 
 
 He led the Oceanides : 
 
 Where Demogorgon dwelleth deep 
 
 There Demiurgos watch doth keep, 
 
 Though Vesta sleeps geonian sleep : 
 
 Shelley himself shall be your guide, 
 
 Since I must still on earth abide : 
 
 Down, down, into the deepest deep ; 
 
 Down, down, and through the shade of sleep ; 
 
 Down, down, beyond the cloudy strife 
 
 Of interwoven death and life ; 
 
 Down, down, unto the central gloom 
 
 Whose darkness radiates through the tomb 
 
 And fills the universal womb. 
 
 "Then he shall leave thee lonely there, 
 And thou shalt kneel and make thy prayer, 
 A childish prayer for simple boon : 
 That soon and soon and very soon 
 Our Lady of Oblivious Death 
 May come and hush my painful breath. 
 And bear me thorough Lethe-stream, 
 Sleeping sweet sleep without a dream ; 
 And bring you also from that sphere 
 Where you grow sad without me. Dear ;
 
 Vanes Story. 37 
 
 And bear us to her deepest cave 
 Under the Sea without a wave, 
 Where the eternal shadows brood 
 In the Eternal Solitude, 
 Stirring never, breathing never, 
 Silent for ever and for ever ; 
 And side by side and face to face. 
 And linked as in a death-embrace. 
 Leave us absorbing thus the balm 
 Of most divinely perfect calm, 
 Till ten full years have overflowed 
 For each wherein we bore the load 
 Of heavy hfe upon this earth 
 From birth to death from death to birth 
 That when this cycle shall be past 
 We may wake young and pure at last, 
 And both together recommence 
 The life of passion, thought and sense. 
 Of fear and hope, of woe and bliss ; — 
 But in another world than this. 
 
 "For I am infinitely tired 
 With this old sphere we once admired, 
 With this old earth we loved too well ; 
 Disgusted more than words can tell. 
 And would not mind a change of Hell.
 
 38 Vane's Story. 
 
 The same old stolid hills and leas, 
 
 The same old stupid patient trees, 
 
 The same old ocean blue and green, 
 
 The same sky cloudy or serene ; 
 
 The old two-dozen hours to run 
 
 Between the settings of the sun, 
 
 The old three hundred sixty-five 
 
 Dull days to every year alive ; 
 
 Old stingy measure, weight and rule. 
 
 No margin left to play the fool ; 
 
 The same old way of getting born 
 
 Into it naked and forlorn, 
 
 The same old way of creeping out 
 
 Through death's low door for lean and stout ; 
 
 Same men with the old hungry needs. 
 
 Puffed up with the old windy creeds ; 
 
 Old toil, old care, old worthless treasures. 
 
 Old gnawing sorrows, swindling pleasures : 
 
 The cards are shuffled to and fro, 
 
 The hands may vary somewhat so. 
 
 The dirty pack 's the same we know 
 
 Played with long thousand years ago ; 
 
 Played with and lost with still by Man, — - 
 
 Fate marked them ere the game began ; 
 
 I think the only thing that 's strange 
 
 Is our illusion as to change.
 
 Vane's Story. 29 
 
 " This is the favour I would ask : 
 Can you submit to such a task ? " 
 
 "All you have told me I will do, 
 Rejoicing to give joy to you : 
 Oh, I will plead, will win the boon, 
 That we may be united soon. . . 
 But sameness palls upon you so, 
 That to relieve you I will go." 
 
 "By no means ! wait a little, Dear ! 
 The change is in your being here. 
 Besides, I have not finished yet — 
 How stupid of me to forget ! 
 Sh ! I shall think of it just now. . . 
 Your kiss, my Angel, on my brow ! 
 Your kiss that through the dullest pain 
 Flashed inspiration on my brain ! " 
 
 Her face was fulgent with clear bliss ; 
 She bent down o'er me with the kiss 
 As bends a dawn of golden light 
 To kiss away the earth's long night. 
 The splendour of her beauty made 
 Me blind, and in the rapturous shade
 
 30 Vanes Story. 
 
 From head to foot my being thrilled 
 As if with mighty music filled, 
 To feel that kiss come leaning down 
 Upon me like a radiant crown. 
 Her royal kiss was on my brow 
 A burning ruby, burning now 
 As then, and burning evermore ; 
 A Star of Love above the roar 
 And fever of this life's long war : 
 And suddenly my brain was bright 
 With glowing fire and dancing light, 
 A rich intoxicating shine 
 Like wave on wave of noble wine, 
 The Alcahest of joy supreme 
 Dissolving all things into dream. 
 
 So when at length I found a tongue 
 Bell-clear and bold my voice outrung : 
 " Dearest, all thanks were out of place 
 For this thine overwhelming grace. 
 The kiss of tenderness, the kiss 
 Of truth, you gave me erst ; but this 
 Is consecration ; to the man 
 Who wears this burning talisman 
 The veil of Isis melts away 
 To woven air, the night is day.
 
 Vanes Story. 3 1 
 
 That he alone in all the shrine 
 
 May see the lineaments divine : 
 
 And Fate the marble Sphinx, dumb, stern. 
 
 Terror of Beauty cold, shall yearn 
 
 And melt to flesh, and blood shall thrill 
 
 The stony heart, and Hfe shall fill 
 
 The statue ; it shall follow him 
 
 Submissive to his every whim, 
 
 Ev'n as the lion of the wild 
 
 Followed pure Una, meek and mild. 
 
 t 
 
 "Now, I can tell you what we two 
 Before we part this night will do. 
 There is a dance — I wish it were 
 Some brilliant night-fete rich and rare, 
 With gold-and-scarlet uniforms 
 F'ar-flasbing through the music-storms ; 
 Some Carnival's last Masquerade, 
 Wherein our parts were fitly played. 
 This is another sort of thing, 
 The mere tame weekly gathering 
 Of humble tradesmen, lively clerks. 
 And fair ones who befit such sparks : 
 Few merry meetings could look duller ; 
 No wealth, no grandeur, no rich colour.
 
 32 Fane's Story, 
 
 Yet they enjoy it : give a girl 
 
 Some fiddle-screech to time her twirl, 
 
 And give a youth the limpest waist 
 
 That wears a gown to hold embraced ; 
 
 Then dance, dance, dance ! both girl and boy 
 
 Are overbrimmed and drunk with joy ; 
 
 Because young hearts to love's own chime 
 
 Beat passionate rhythms all the time. 
 
 " This is the night, and we will go, 
 For many of the Class I know ; 
 Young friendly fellows, rather rough. 
 But frank and kind and good enough 
 For this bad world : how all will stare 
 To see me with a dark Queen there ! 
 I went last winter twice or thrice, 
 As dull as lead, as cold as ice, 
 Amidst the flushed and vivid crowd 
 Of youths and maidens laughing loud ; 
 For thought retraced the long sad years 
 Of palUd smiles and frozen tears 
 Back to a certain festal night, 
 A whirl and blaze of swift delight. 
 When we together danced, we two ! 
 I live it all again ! ... Do you
 
 Vanes Stonj. '^'^ 
 
 Remember how I broke down quite 
 
 In the mere polka? . . . Dressed in white, 
 
 A loose pink sash around your waist, 
 
 Low shoes across the instep laced, 
 
 Your moonwhite shoulders glancing through 
 
 Long yellow ringlets dancing too, 
 
 You were an Angel then ; as clean 
 
 From earthly dust-speck, as serene 
 
 And lovely and beyond my love, 
 
 As now in your far world above. 
 
 " You shall this night a few more hours 
 Be absent from your heavenly bowers ; 
 With leave or not, 'tis all the same, 
 I keep you here and bear the blame. 
 Your Star this night must take its chance 
 Without you in the spheral dance. 
 For you shall waltz and whirl with me 
 Amidst a staider companie ; 
 The Cherubim and Seraphim 
 And Saintly Hosts may drown their hymn 
 With tenfold noise of harp and lyre ; 
 The sweetest voice of all the quire 
 Shall sing to me, shall make my room, 
 This little nutshellful of gloom,
 
 34 Vane's Story. 
 
 A Heaven of Heavens, the best of all, 
 While I am dressing for the Ball ! . . . 
 
 " What book is this I held before, 
 The gloaming glooming more and more, 
 Eyes dreamed and hand drooped on the floor ? 
 The Lieder — Heine's — what we want ! 
 A lay of Heine's you shall chant ; 
 Our poor Saint Heinrich ! for he was 
 A saint here of the loftiest class, 
 By martyrdom more dreadly solemn 
 Than that of Simeon on the column. 
 God put him to the torture ; seven 
 Long years beneath unpitying heaven, 
 The body dead, the man at strife 
 With all the common cares of life : 
 A living Voice intense and brave 
 Issuing from a Mattress-grave. 
 At length the cruel agony wrung 
 Cofifessions from that haughty tongue ; 
 Confessions of the strangest, more 
 Than ever God had bargained for ; 
 With prayers and penitential psalms 
 That gave the angels grinning qualms, 
 With jests when sharp pangs cut too deep 
 That made the very devils weep.
 
 Vane's Story. 35 
 
 E?iough of this ! the Monarch cried ; 
 Fear gave what Mercy still denied ; 
 Torture committed suicide 
 To quench that voice ; the victim died 
 Victorious over Heaven and Doom ; 
 The Mattress-grave became a tomb 
 Deep in our Mother's kindly womb, 
 Oblivion tranced the painful breath, 
 The Death-in-Life grew perfect Death." 
 
 "Is it the mere quaint German type. 
 Or is it from some blackened pipe ? 
 The volume seems without a joke 
 A volume of tobacco-smoke ! " 
 
 " The choice is difficult in sooth ; 
 But sing that song of love and ruth 
 The Princess Use sang his youth. 
 And sing it very softly sweet, 
 As not to ravish all the street ; 
 And sing it to what air you will, 
 Your voice in any tune must thrill. . , . 
 Yet stay, there was a certain hymn 
 Which used at Sunday School to brim 
 Our hearts with holy love and zeal, 
 Our eyes with tears they yearned to feel :
 
 3^ Vane's Story. 
 
 Mild Bishop Heber shall embrace 
 Wild Heine by sweet music's grace, 
 The while you sing the verses fair 
 To G/rcnla/id's icy vioiintains' air ; 
 A freezing name ! but icy mountains 
 Were linked with Afric's sunny fountains." 
 
 Ich bin die Prinscssiii Use, 
 Und ivoline im llsenstein ; 
 Komni mit nach meinem Schlosse, 
 Wir wollen se'ig scin. 
 " Dear Princess, I will come with thee 
 Into thy cavern's mystery. 
 And both of us shall happy be." 
 
 /;/ meirien weissen Armen, 
 An viciner weissen Bnist, 
 Da sollst du licgen und trdunien 
 Von alter Aliirchenlicst. 
 " In your white arms, on your white breast, 
 I'll lie and dream in perfect rest. 
 With more than faery blessings blest." 
 
 Es bieiben iodt die 2'odien, 
 Und nur dcr Lebendige lebt ; 
 Und ich bin schon tnid bliihend, 
 Mein iacliendes Herze bebt.
 
 Fane's Stoj-j/. 37 
 
 "Yes, dead the dead for ever lie; 
 But you my Love and your Love I 
 Are of the souls that cannot die." 
 
 Dodi dich soil viem Arm umscJiVuigeii^ 
 Wie er Kaiser Heinrich twischlang ; — 
 Ich hielt ihm zic die Ohren, 
 Wenn die Trompet erklang. 
 " Roll drum, plead lute, blare trumpet-call ; 
 Our ears shall be fast closed to all. 
 Beneath divine Oblivion's pall." 
 
 Oh what a quaintly coupled pair 
 The poem and the music were ! 
 The Sunday School's old simple air, 
 The heathen verses rich and rare ! 
 
 • • • * • 
 
 AVan ghosts have risen from the grave 
 To flit across the midnight wave ; 
 Pale phantoms started from the tomb 
 To hurry through the wildwood gloom ; 
 Cold corpses left their wormy bed 
 To mingle in high feasts, 'tis said ; 
 But never since old Noah's flood 
 Turned Eden into sand and mud.
 
 ■38 Vane's Storij. 
 
 (Relieving thus the Heavenly guard 
 From its long spell of duty hard ?) * 
 Has any Angel left the sphere 
 Of Heaven to dance with mortals here : 
 Though earthly angels crowd each ball, 
 Since women are such angels all. 
 
 My partner was no icy corse, 
 No phantom of a wild remorse, 
 No Lamia of delirious dream, 
 No nymph of forest, sea, or stream : 
 A soul of fire, a lovely form 
 Lithe to the dance and breathing warm ; 
 A face that flushed with cordial pleasure. 
 Dove-feet that flew in perfect measure ; 
 A little hand so soft and fine, 
 Whose touch electric thrilled through mine ; 
 
 * The Holy Bible unfortunately tells us nothing of this. Readers 
 may, however, refer to our auxiliary Bible, "Paradise Lost," Book xi., 
 Michael's prophecy of the Flood. But Milton was really too careless 
 about the fate of the guard. Was it recalled in time, or did it perish at 
 its post? Did the deluge sweep over that gate, "With dreadful faces 
 thronged, and fiery arms " ? Let us hope not. It would be sad to think 
 that the "flaming sword" was extinguished with a hiss ; and that the 
 "Cherubim" were drowned like the other animals, without even the 
 salvation of a single live specimen in the Ark. Probably, however, 
 being abundantly and superabundantly furnished with wings, they all 
 flew away to Heaven when the waters began sweeping the Mount of 
 Paradise " Down the great river to the opening gulf."
 
 Vane's Story. 39 
 
 A heart that beat against my breast 
 
 Full pulses of triumphant zest ; 
 
 Deep eyes, pure eyes, as dark as night, 
 
 Yet full of liquid love and light 
 
 When their moon-soul came floating through 
 
 The clouds of mystery into view. 
 
 And myriad star-rays glittering keen 
 
 Were tempered in its mystic sheen ; 
 
 Soft lips full curved in ruddy glow, 
 
 And swift as young Apollo's bow, — 
 
 What arrowy laughters flashing free 
 
 With barbs of pleasant mockery 
 
 Pierced through and through the whirling rout, 
 
 And let thought in where life flew out. 
 
 And made the world a happy dream 
 
 " Where nothing is, but all things seem " ! 
 
 The splendid beauty of her face, 
 Her dancing's proud and passionate grace. 
 Her soul's eternal life intense 
 Lavishly poured through every sense, 
 Intoxicated all the air, 
 Inspiring every dancer there : 
 Never again shall that old Hall 
 Spin round with such another Ball ;
 
 40 Vane's Story. 
 
 The human whirlwind might have whirled 
 It through the heights of air and hurled 
 It down at last into the sea, 
 Nor yet disturbed the revelry. 
 The violin and the violoncello, 
 The flute that withered little fellow, 
 The red-faced cornet always mellow, 
 Our noble Orchestra of four, 
 Played as they never played of yore. 
 Played as they will play nevermore, 
 As if the rushing air were cloven 
 By all the legions of Beethoven. 
 
 In one of the eternal trances 
 (Five minutes long) between two dances. 
 The Brown whom one meets everywhere 
 Came smug and grinning to me there. 
 And " May I have the pleasure, — honour ? " 
 A glance (encouraging) upon her. 
 
 " My dear good Brown, you understand 
 This lady's from a foreign land. 
 And does not comprehend a word 
 You speak so well : nay, I have heard 
 That one may search all England through, 
 And not find twenty scholars who
 
 Vane's Story. 41 
 
 Can speak or write her language clearly, 
 
 Though once our great men loved it dearly. 
 
 The little of it I know still 
 
 (Read well, write badly, speak so ill !) 
 
 I first learnt many years ago 
 
 From her, and one you do not know, 
 
 A restless wanderer, one of these 
 
 You call damned doubtful refugees, 
 
 Enthusiasts, whom while harboured here • 
 
 All proper folk dislike and fear." 
 
 Brown muttered, " I've a little knowledge 
 Of French, — the Working Man's New College."' 
 
 " Ah, yes ; your French is doubtless good, 
 And French we know is understood 
 By polished people everywhere ; 
 But then her land though rich and fair 
 Lies far beyond the continents 
 Of civilised accomplishments ; 
 And she could sooner learn to speak 
 Persian or Sanskrit, Norse or Greek, 
 Than this delightful brilliant witty 
 Tongue of delightful Paris city.
 
 42 Vane's Story. 
 
 *(' The devils^ paradise, the hell 
 Of angels — Heine knew it well !). 
 And finally, my dearest Brown, 
 The customs of her folk would frown 
 
 * "Michruft der Tod . . . 
 
 Glaub mir, mein Kind, mein Weib, Mathilde, 
 Nicht so gefiihrlich ist das wilde 
 Erzlirnte Meer und der trotzige Wald, 
 Als unser jetzige Aufenthalt ! 
 Wie schrecklich auch der Wolf und der Geier, 
 Haifische und sonstige Meerungeheuer : 
 Viel grimmere, schlimmere Bestien enthalt 
 Paris, die leuchtende Hauptstadt der Welt, 
 Das singeude, springende, schone Paris, 
 
 Die Holle der Eiigel, der Teiifcl Paradies 
 
 Das ich dich hier verlassen soil, 
 
 Das macht mir verriickt, das niacht mir toll ! " 
 
 Letzte Gedichte : Babylonlsche Sorgcii. 
 
 The title suggests, and may have been specially suggested by, that 
 great verse of Jeremiah li. 7 : "Babylon hath been a golden cup in 
 the Lord's hand, that made all the earth drunken : the nations have 
 drunken of her wine ; therefore the nations are mad." 
 So B6ranger, in his Jean de Paris : 
 
 " Quel amour incroyable, 
 Maintenant et ja'dis, 
 Pour ces murs dont le diable 
 A fait son paradis ! '' 
 
 And he who knew his Paris best, Balzac the Terrible : " Cette succur- 
 sale de I'enfer." — Melmoth Rcconcilii. 
 
 Again, " Paris a ete nommeun enfer. Tenez ce mot pour vrai." — La 
 Fille aux Yeux d'or. {Histoire des Treize.) 
 
 And yet again, "Ce Paris qualifie d'antichambre de I'enfer." — Balzac, 
 to the Abbi EglL
 
 Vane's Story. 43 
 
 Austere rebukes on her if she 
 Dared dance with any one but me ! " 
 
 Brown went and whispered strange remarks 
 To eager girls and staring clerks. . . . 
 We are caught up and swept away 
 In the cyclone-gallop's swaj', 
 And round and round and round and round 
 Go whirling in a storm of sound. 
 
 But in the next brief perfect trance 
 That followed the impassioned dance, 
 The Jones whom one too rarely sees 
 Came rushing on me like a breeze ; 
 " What miracle ! what magic might ! — 
 But have you seen yourself to-night ? " 
 
 " Oh yes ! twin-mirrored in the skies 
 Of these my Lady's glorious eyes ! 
 In our rude days of kingly fear, 
 If any monarch drawing near 
 The palace saw so bright and clear 
 His picture in the windows shine, 
 He well might say, Ajispicious sign 
 That still this noble home is mine ! "
 
 44 Vane's Story. 
 
 " But you are half as tall again, 
 And stately as a King of Men ; 
 And in the prime of health and youth, 
 Younger by twenty years, in sooth; 
 Your face, the pale and sallow, glows 
 As fresh as any morning rose ; 
 Your voice rings richly as a bell, 
 Resonant as a trumpet-swell ; 
 Your dull and mournful dreamy eyes 
 Now dazzle, burn, and mesmerise : 
 Thus gazed, thus spoke, thus smiled, thus trod, 
 Apollo the immortal God ! " 
 
 "Dear Jones, as usual, you are right; 
 I stand revealed Myself to-night. 
 The God of Poesy, Lord of Light. . . . 
 But you would learn now whence the change : 
 Listen ; it is and is not strange. 
 
 " There was a Fountain long ago, 
 A fountain of perpetual flow. 
 Whose purest springlets had their birth 
 Deep in the bosom of the earth. 
 Its joyous wavering silvery shaft 
 To all the beams of morning laughed.
 
 Vane's Story. 45 
 
 Its steadfast murmurous crystal column 
 
 Was loved by all the moonbeams solemn ; 
 
 From morn to eve it fell again 
 
 A singing many-jewelled rain, 
 
 From eve to morn it charmed the hours 
 
 With whispering dew and diamond showers ; 
 
 Crowned many a day with sunbows bright, 
 
 With moonbows halo'd many a night ; 
 
 And so kept full its marble urn, 
 
 All fringed with fronds of greenest fern, 
 
 O'er which with timeless love intent 
 
 A pure white marble Goddess leant : 
 
 And overflowing aye the urn 
 
 In rillets that became a burn. 
 
 It danced adoun the verdant slope 
 
 As light as youth, as gay as hope, 
 
 And ' wandered at its own sweet will ; ' 
 
 And here it was a lakelet still, 
 
 And there it was a flashing stream ; 
 
 And all about it was a dream 
 
 Of beauty, such a Paradise 
 
 As rarely blooms beneath our skies ; 
 
 The loveliest flowers, the grandest trees, 
 
 The broadest glades, the fairest leas ; 
 
 And double music tranced the hours, — • 
 
 The countless perfumes of the flowers.
 
 4^ Vane's Story. 
 
 The countless songs of swift delight 
 That birds were singing day and night. 
 
 " But suddenly there fell a change ; 
 So suddenly, so sad, so strange ! 
 The fountain ceased to wave its lance 
 Of silver to the spheral dance ; 
 The runnels were no longer fed, 
 And each one withered from its bed ; 
 The stream fell stagnant, and was soon 
 A bloated marsh, a pest-lagoon ; 
 The sweet flowers died, the noble trees 
 Turned black and gaunt anatomies ; 
 The birds all left the saddened air 
 To seek some other home as fair ; 
 The pure white Goddess and her urn 
 Were covered with the withered fern, — 
 The red and yellow fans outworn, 
 And red and yellow leaves forlorn, 
 Slow drifting round into a heap 
 Till the fair shapes were buried deep : 
 The happy Eden rich and fair 
 Became a savage waste, a lair 
 Where Silence with broad wings of gloom 
 Brooded above a nameless tomb. . . .
 
 Vane's Story. 47 
 
 And thus it was for years and years ; 
 And only there were bitter tears 
 Beneath those dark wings shed alway 
 Instead of the bright fountain's play, 
 And in the stead of sweet bird-tones 
 Low unheard solitary moans. . 
 
 *' Ah, sudden was that ruin sad ; 
 As sudden, resurrection glad ! 
 Unheralded one quiet night 
 There came an Angel darkly bright. 
 An Angel from the Heavenly Throne, 
 Or else that Goddess carved in stone 
 Enraptured into life by power 
 Of her most marvellous beauty's dower : 
 And from her long robe's sweeping pride 
 The dead leaves all were scattered wide ; 
 And from a touch of her soft hand, 
 Without one gesture of command, 
 All suddenly was rolled away 
 A mighty stone, whose broad mass lay 
 Upon the urn, as on a tomb 
 There lies a stone to seal its gloom : 
 And straightway sprang into the night 
 That joyous Fountain's shaft of light,
 
 48 Vane's Story. 
 
 Singing its old unwearied tune 
 
 Of rapture to the quiet moon, 
 
 As strong and swift and pure and high 
 
 As ere it ever seemed run dry : 
 
 For never since that Long-ago 
 
 Had its deep springlets ceased to flow ; 
 
 But shut down from the Hght of day 
 
 Their waters sadly oozed away 
 
 Through pores of the dim underearth, 
 
 Bereft of splendour, speed, and mirth ; 
 
 Yet ever ready now as then 
 
 To leap into the air again." 
 
 "Ah yes," said Jones, "I understand." 
 Then with his smile of sadness bland, 
 " My fountain never got a chance ' 
 To spring into the sunlight's glance, 
 And wave its mystic silver lance 
 In time with all the starry dance ; 
 Yet I believe 'tis ever there 
 Heart-pulsing in its secret lair, 
 Until the Goddess some fine day 
 Shall come and roll the stone away. . . v 
 Nor have you startled me ; I knew 
 Quite well it was a Goddess too."
 
 Vane's Story. 49 
 
 " Because so well you know and speak 
 Her esoteric Persian-Greek." 
 
 " Or shall we say (a truth of wine, 
 If falsehood in the nectar-shine), 
 Because a beauty so divine 
 Has stirred no envy, grudge, or pine 
 In any girl's or woman's breast, 
 But only love and joyous zest ? — 
 For if the beauty dazzling thus 
 Were nubile and not nebulous ? " 
 
 " This beauty is more real far 
 Than all the other beauties are ; 
 And such a beauty's bridal kiss 
 Transcends all other bridal bliss ; 
 And such a marriage-love will last 
 When all the other loves are past. 
 You know this well, dear friend of mine. 
 When drinking nectar and not wine." 
 
 " I know it, — know it not : we rhyme 
 The petals of the Flower of Time ; 
 And rhyming strip them off, perplext 
 For every leaflet by the next 
 Is contradicted in its turn ; 
 
 D
 
 5© Vane's Story. 
 
 And thus we yearning ever yearn, 
 
 And ever learning never learn ; 
 
 For while we pluck, from hour to hour 
 
 New petals spring to clothe the flower, 
 
 And till we strip the final one 
 
 Can final answer fall to none. . . . 
 
 To strip and strip the living bloom, 
 
 Nor learn the oracle of Doom 
 
 Until the fulgent Flower o' the Day 
 
 Is altogether stripped away ; 
 
 Then with the dead stem leave the light. 
 
 And moulder in eternal night ! " 
 
 " The sad old truth of earthly wine ; 
 The joyous fable in the shine 
 Of nectar at the feast divine ! . . . 
 Love a ?iear maid, love afar maid, 
 But let Hebe he your barmaid ; 
 When she proffers you the cup, 
 Never fear to drink it up ; 
 Though you see her crush her wine 
 From a belladonna vine. 
 Drink it, pouring on the clods 
 Frelibation to the gods. 
 Reck this rede unto the end : 
 It is my good night, good friend."
 
 Vane's Story. 
 
 51 
 
 The music 'gan again arise ; 
 A music of delicious sighs, 
 A music plaintive with a grief 
 More exquisite than all relief; 
 Music impassioned, but subdued 
 To a sweet sad dreamy mood. . . 
 And now a swift and sudden stream 
 Of melody breaks through the dream : 
 The still air trembles, and the whole 
 Night-darkness fills with life and soul, 
 And keen stars listen throbbing pale 
 The drama of the nightingale. . . . 
 The nightingale is now a thrush. . . 
 And now a soaring skylark. . . . Hush I 
 Never a song in all the world I 
 But low clouds floating soft and furled, 
 And rivers winding far away, 
 And ripples weaving faery spray, 
 And mists far-curving swelling round 
 Dim twilight hills that soon are drowned, 
 And breezes stirring solemn woods. 
 And seas embracing solitudes ; 
 Interminable intervolving. 
 Weaving webs for redissolving ; 
 The intertwining, interblending 
 Of spirals evermore ascending ;
 
 5a Vane's Story. 
 
 The floating hither, wheeHng thither, 
 Without a whence, without a whither ; 
 And still we whirl and wheel and float, 
 But how the dancers are remote ! 
 
 " Is that the wonderful waltz-tune, 
 Or is it the full-shining moon ? 
 And are those notes, so far and far ? 
 Each seems to me a brilliant star ! 
 Can we be dancing in the ball, 
 And yet not see the earth at all ? . . . 
 The starry notes are round us whirling, 
 Beneath the great moon-waltz is twirling ; 
 And thus without our own endeavour 
 May we float and float for ever ? " 
 
 " When six long days of toil are past. 
 The holy Sabbath comes at last." 
 
 Oh better than a battle won, 
 And better than a great deed done, 
 And better than a martyr's crown. 
 And better than a king's renown. 
 And better than a long calm life 
 With lovely bairns and loving wife, 
 And better than the sweetest thought 
 That tearful Memory ever brought
 
 Vane's Story. ^'^ 
 
 From searching with her rapturous woe 
 Within the moonUt Long-ago, 
 And better than the stillest sleep 
 To him who wakes to moan and weep, 
 And better than the trance of death 
 To him who yearning suffereth ; 
 Better than this, than these, than all 
 That mortals joys and triumphs call, 
 Was last night's Meeting, last night's Ball ! 
 
 • • • ■ • 
 
 The tongue of flame had ceased to play, 
 The steadfast glow long died away ; 
 The house was grave-still, and the street 
 Re-echoed to no wandering feet ; 
 And still and chill as any stone 
 * I lay upon the couch alone, 
 Drest to the white kid-gloves in all 
 The dress I put on for the Ball : 
 And there, that glorious flower you see. 
 She fixed it in my breast for me ; 
 Could such a flower of flowers have birth 
 Upon our worn-out frigid earth ? 
 That golden-hearted amethyst 
 Her own hand held, her own mouth kissed. 
 
 * (It may not be amiss to vouch 
 The previous note anent this couch. )
 
 54 Vane^s Story. 
 
 The clocks struck one and two and three, 
 And each stroke fell as aimed at me ; 
 For none should muse or read or write 
 So late into the awful night, 
 None dare awake the deep affright 
 That pulseth in the heart of night, 
 None venture save sleep-shrouded quite 
 Into the solemn dead of night, 
 None wander save in dreams of light 
 Through the vast desert of black night ; 
 And none at three be dressed at all. 
 Unless mere night-clothes dress you call 
 Or underlinen of a pall ; 
 Therefore, my friend, in bidding you 
 And all the rest a long adieu, 
 For I am weary, AUeleu ! — 
 Yourself and all I re-advise, 
 Early to bed and early to rise, 
 Is the ivay to be healthy, wealthy, and 7vise ! 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 (Crossness here indeed is regnant, 
 But it is the grossness pregnant ; 
 Heine growled it, ending thus 
 His wild Book of Lazarus ;
 
 Fane's Story. ^^ 
 
 INIodern swansong's final note, 
 Hoarse death-rattle in the throat. 
 Swan was white or black ? — Our candour ! 
 Black or white no swan's a gander.) 
 
 " Glory warms us in the grave ! 
 Stupid words, that sound so brave ! 
 Better warmth would give to us 
 Molly Seagrim amorous. 
 Slobbering kisses lips and tongue. 
 And yet reeking from the dung.* 
 Better warmth would likewise dart 
 Through the cockles of one's heart, 
 Drinking mulled wine, punch, or grog, 
 Until helpless as a log, 
 In the lowest den whose crowd is 
 Thieves and drabs and ragged rowdies, 
 Mortgaged to the gallows- rope, 
 But who meanwhile breathe and hope, 
 And more enviable far 
 Than the son of Thetis are. 
 Yes, Pelides was a judge ; — 
 Better live the poorest drudge 
 
 * Eine Kuh-magd, any farm-wench ; but Heine, who knew Fielding, 
 probably had Molly Seagrim in his mind.
 
 5^ Vane's Story. 
 
 In the upper world, than loom 
 On the Stygian shore of gloom 
 Phantom-Leader, bodiless roamer, 
 Though besung by mighty Homer."
 
 Note. — I found this Story, and that of the short piece following, 
 which merit far better English versions than I have been able to 
 accomplish, in the De l" Amour of De Stendhal (Henri Beyle, chap. 
 53), where they are given among " Fragments Extracted and Trans- 
 lated from an Arabic Collection, entitled The Divan of Love, com- 
 piled by Ebn-Abi-Hadglat." From another of these fragments I 
 quote a few lines by way of introduction : " Tiie Benou-Azra are 
 a tribe famous for love among all the tribes of Arabia. So that the 
 manner in which they love has passed into a proverb, and God has 
 not made any other creatures so tender in loving as are they. Sahid, 
 son of Agba, one day asked an Arab, Of what people art thou ? I 
 am of the people who die when they love, answered the Arab. Thou 
 art then of the tribe of Azra ? said Sahid. Yes, by the master of 
 the Caaba ! replied the Arab. Whence comes it, then, that you 
 thus love ? asked Sahid. Our women are beautiful and our young 
 men are chaste, answered the Arab." 
 
 On this theme Heine has a poem of four unrhymed quatrains, 
 Der Azra, of which the sense without the melody may be given in 
 
 English : — 
 
 Daily went the wondrous-lovely 
 Sultan's daughter to and fro there 
 In the evening by the fountain, 
 Where the waters white were plashing. 
 
 Daily stood the youthful captive " 
 In the evening by the fountain, 
 Where the waters white were plashing ; 
 Daily grew he pale and paler. 
 
 And one evening the princess 
 Stepped to him with sudden question : 
 " I would know your name, young captive, 
 And your country and your kindred." 
 
 Then the slave replied : " My name is 
 Mohammed, I cume from Yemen, 
 And my kindred are the Azra, 
 They who perish when they love."
 
 ( 59 ) 
 
 WEDDAH AND OM- EL- 
 BO NAIN, 
 
 PART I. 
 
 0- 
 
 I. 
 
 Weddah and Om-el-Bonain, scarcely grown 
 To boy and girlhood from their swaddling bands, 
 Were known where'er the Azra tribe was known, 
 Through Araby and all the neighbouring lands ; 
 Were chanted in the songs of sweetest tone 
 Which sprang like fountains 'mid the desert sands : 
 They were so beautiful that none who saw 
 But felt a rapture trembling into awe. 
 
 Once on a dewy evetide when the balm 
 
 Of herb and flower made all the air rich wine, 
 
 And still the sunless shadow of the palm
 
 6o Weddah and Om-El-Bona'm. 
 
 Sought out the birthplace of the day divine, 
 These two were playing in the happy calm. 
 A young chief said : In these be sure a sign 
 Great God vouchsafes ; a living talisman 
 Of glory and rich weal to bless our clan. 
 
 III. 
 
 Proud hearts applauded ; but a senior chief 
 Said : Perfect beauty is its own sole end ; 
 It is ripe flower and fruit, not bud and leaf ; 
 The promise and the blessing meet and blend. 
 Fulfilled at once : then malice, wrath, and grief, 
 Lust of the foe and passion of the friend. 
 Assail the marvel ; for all Hell is moved 
 Against the work of Allah most approved. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thus beauty is that pearl a poor man found ; 
 Which could not be surrendered, changed, or sold, 
 Which he might never bury in the ground, 
 Or hide away within his girdle-fold ; 
 But had to wear upon his brow urjcrowned, 
 A star of storm and terrors ; for, behold, 
 The richest kings raged jealous for its light. 
 And just men's hearts turned robbers at the sight.
 
 IVeddah and Om-El-Bonuin. 6i 
 
 V. 
 
 But if the soul be royal as the gem, 
 That star of danger may flash victory too, 
 The younger urged, and bring the diadem 
 To set itself in. And the other : True ; 
 If all Life's golden apples crown one stem, 
 Fate touches none ; but single they are few : 
 And whether to defeat or triumph, this 
 One star lights war and woe, not peaceful bliss. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But nothing recked the children in that hour. 
 And little recked through fifteen happy years, 
 Of any doom in their surpassing dower : 
 Rich with the present, free from hopes and fears, 
 They dwelt in time as in a heavenly bower : 
 Their life was strange to laughter as to tears, 
 Serenely glad ; their partings were too brief 
 For pain ; and side by side, what thing was grief? 
 
 VII. 
 
 Amidst their clan they dwelt in solitude, 
 Not haughtily but by instinctive love ;
 
 62 IVeddah and Om-El-Bonain. 
 
 As lion mates with lion in the wood, 
 And eagle pairs with eagle not with dove ; ' 
 The lowlier creatures finding their own good 
 In their own race, nor seeking it above : 
 These dreamt as little of divided life 
 As that first pair created man and wife. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The calm years flowed thus till the youth and maid 
 Were almost man and woman, and the spell 
 Of passion wrought, and each was self-dismayed ; 
 The hearts their simple childhood knew so well 
 Were now such riddles to them, in the shade 
 And trouble of the mists that seethe and swell 
 
 When the large dawn is kindling, which shall grow 
 Through crimson fires to steadfast azure glow. 
 
 IX. 
 
 That year a tribe-feud, which some years had slept 
 Through faintness, woke up stronger than before ; 
 And with its stir young hearts on all sides leapt 
 For battle, swoln with peace and plenteous store ; 
 Swift couriers to and fro the loud land swept 
 Weaving thin spites to one vast woof of war : 
 
 And Weddah sallied forth elate, ranked man, 
 
 A warrior of the warriors of his clan.
 
 Weddah and Om-El-Donain. 63 
 
 X. 
 
 Ere long flushed foes turned haggard at his name ; 
 
 The beautiful, the terrible : for fire 
 
 Burns most intensely in the clearest flame ; 
 
 The comeliest steed is ever last to tire 
 
 And swiftest footed ; and in war's fierce game 
 
 The noblest sword is deadliest in its gyre : 
 
 His gentle gravity grew keen and gay 
 
 In hottest fight as for a festal day. 
 
 XI. 
 And while he fought far distant with his band, 
 Walid the Syrian, Abd-el-Malek's son ; 
 Renowned already for a scheme long planned 
 With silent patience, and a sharp deed done 
 When its ripe fruit leaned ready for his hand, 
 And liberal sharing of the fruit well won ; 
 Came south to greet the tribe, and knit anew 
 Old bonds of friendship and alliance true. 
 
 XII. 
 
 He had full often from the poets heard 
 Of these two children the divinely fair ; 
 But was not one to kindle at a word, 
 And languish on faint echoes of an air ;
 
 64. Weddah and Om-El-Bonain. 
 
 By what he saw and touched his heart was stirred, 
 Nor knew sick longings and the vague despair 
 Of those who turn from every nearest boon 
 To catch like infants at the reachless moon. 
 
 XIIL 
 
 But when one sunset flaming crimson-barred 
 
 He saw a damsel like a shape of sleep, 
 
 Who moved as moves in indolence the pard ; 
 
 Above whose veil burned large eyes black and deep, 
 
 The lairs of an intense and slow regard 
 
 Which made all splendours of the broad world cheap, 
 And death and life thin dreams ; fate smitten there 
 He rested shuddering past the hour of prayer. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Be heaven all stars, we feel the one moon's rise : 
 Who else could move with that imperial grace ? 
 Who else could bear about those fateful eyes. 
 Too overwhelming for a mortal face ? 
 Beyond all heed of questions and surprise 
 He stood a termless hour in that same place, 
 
 Convulsed in silent wrestling with his doom ; 
 
 Haggard as one brought living from the tomb.
 
 IVcddah and Om-El-Bonain. 65 
 
 XV. 
 
 And she had shuddered also passing by, 
 
 A moment ; for her spirit though intent 
 
 Was chilled as conscious of an evil eye ; 
 
 But forthwith turned and o'er its one dream bent ; 
 
 A woman lilting as she came anigh : 
 
 But to destroy on earth was Weddah sent ; 
 
 There where he is brave warriors fall before him, 
 Where he is not pine damsels who adore him. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And thus with purpose like a trenchant blade 
 Forged in that fierce hour's fire, the Syrian chief 
 Began new life. When next the Council weighed 
 The heavy future charged with wrath and grief, 
 He spoke his will : I asked to wed the maid. 
 The child of Abd-el-Aziz : and, in brief, 
 I bring for dowry all our wealth and might, 
 Unto our last heart's blood, to fight your fight. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 All mute with marvelling sat. Her sire then said : 
 From infancy unto my brother's son 
 She has been held betrothed : our Lord can wed 
 Full many a lovelier, many a richer one.
 
 66 Weddah and Om-El-Bojiain. 
 
 But quite in vain they reasoned, flattered, pled ; 
 This was his proffer, other he had none : 
 
 A boy and girl outweighed the Azra tribe ? 
 
 'Twas strange ! His vow was fixed to that sole bribe. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 And as their couriers came in day by day 
 Pregnant with portents of yet blacker ill ; 
 And all their urgence broke in fuming spray 
 Against the rock of his firm-planted will ; 
 The baffled current took a tortuous way, 
 And drowned a happy garden green and still, 
 O'erwhelming Abd-el-Aziz with that gibe, 
 A boy and girl outvalue all our tribe ? 
 
 XIX. 
 
 He loved his daughter, and he loved yet more 
 His brother's son ; and now the whole tribe prest 
 The scale against them : there was raging war, 
 Too sure of hapless issue, in his breast ; 
 Sea-tossed where rocks on all sides fanged the shore. 
 She heard him moaning : Would I were at rest, 
 
 Ere this should come upon me, in the grave ! 
 
 Her poor heart bled to hear him weep and rave.
 
 JVeddnh and Om-El-Bonain. 67 
 
 XX. 
 
 She flung herself all yearning at his feet ; 
 
 The long white malehair dashed her brow with tears ; 
 
 But her tears scalded him ; her kisses sweet 
 
 Were crueller than iron barbs of spears ; 
 
 He had no eyes her tender eyes to meet ; 
 
 Her soft caressing words scarce touched his ears 
 But they were fire and madness in his brain : 
 Yet while she clasped he mutely clasped again. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 At length he answered her : A heavy doom 
 
 Is laid upon me ; now, when I am old, 
 
 And weak, and bending toward the quiet tomb . . . 
 
 Can it then be, as we are sometimes told, 
 
 That women, nay, that young girls in their bloom, 
 
 Lovely, beloved, and loving, have been bold 
 
 To give their lives, when blenched the bravest man, 
 
 For safety of their city or their clan ? 
 
 XXII. 
 
 She trembled in cold shadow of a rock 
 Leaning to crush her where she knelt fast bound ; 
 She grew all ear to catch the coming shock, 
 And felt already quakings of the ground ;
 
 68 IVeddah and Om-El-Bonain. 
 
 Yet firmly said : Your anguish would not mock 
 Your daughter, O my Father : pray expound 
 The woeful riddle ; and whate'er my part, 
 It is your very blood which feeds this heart. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 He told her all : the perils great and near ; 
 The might of Walid ; and the friendship long 
 Which bound them to his house, and year by year 
 With mutual kindnesses had grown more strong ; 
 His offer, his demand, which would not hear 
 A word in mitigation right or wrong. 
 
 Her young blood curdled : Bring him to our tent. 
 That I may plead ; perchance he will relent. . 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 He came ; and found her sitting double-veiled. 
 For grief was round her like a funeral stole. 
 She pleaded, she o'erwhelmed him, and she failed ; 
 For still the more her passion moved his soul, 
 The more he loved her ; when his heart most quailed, 
 His purpose stretched most eager for the goal : 
 I stake myself, house, friends, all, for the tribe 
 Which gives me you ; but for no meaner bribe.
 
 JVeddah and Om-El-Bofiain. 69 
 
 XXV. 
 
 So her face set into a stony mask, 
 And heavy silence crushed them for an hour 
 Ere she could learn the words to say her task : 
 Let only mutes appeal to Fate's deaf power ! 
 Behold I pledge myself to what you ask, 
 My sire here sells me for the settled dower : 
 The sheikhs can know we are at one ; I pray 
 That none else know it ere the wedding-day. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Which shall be when next moon is on the wane 
 As this to-night : my heart is now the bier 
 Of that which we have sacrificed and slain ; 
 My own poor Past, still beautiful and dear, 
 Cut off from life, wants burial ; and though vain 
 Is woman's weeping, I must weep I fear 
 A little on the well-beloved's tomb 
 Ere marriage smiles and blushes can outbloom. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 He left them, sire and daughter, to their woe ; 
 Himself then sick at heart as they could be : 
 But set to work at once, and spurred the slow 
 Sad hours till they were fiery-swift as he :
 
 70 Weddah. and 07n-El-Bonain. 
 
 With messengers on all sides to and fro, 
 
 With ravelled webs of subtle policy, 
 
 He gave the sheikhs good earnest of what aid 
 They had so cheaply bought with one fair maid. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Thus he took Araby's one peerless prize, 
 And homeward went ungrudging all the cost ; 
 Though she was marble ; with blank arid eyes, 
 Weary and hopeless as the waste they crossed 
 When neither moon nor star is in the skies, 
 And water faileth, and the track is lost. 
 He took such statue triumphing for wife, 
 Assured his love would kindle it to life. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 She had indeed wept, wept and wailed that moon, 
 But had not buried yet her shrouded Past ; 
 Which ever lay in a most deathlike swoon, 
 Pallid and pulseless, motionless and ghast. 
 While Fate withheld from it death's perfect boon : 
 She kept this doleful mystery locked up fast ; 
 Her form was as its sepulchre of stone. 
 Her heart its purple couch and hidden throne.
 
 IVeddah and Om-El-Bona'ni. 71 
 
 XXX. 
 
 She went ; and sweeter voiced than cooing dove 
 Hassan the bard his farewell ode must render : 
 We had a Night, the dream of heaven above, 
 Wherein one moon and countless stars of splendour ; 
 We had a Moon, the face of perfect love, 
 Wherein two nights with stars more pure and tender : 
 
 Our Night with its one moon we still have here ; 
 
 Where is our Moon with its twin nights more dear ?
 
 ( 72 ) 
 
 PART II. 
 
 I. 
 
 As Weddah and his troop were coming back 
 From their first foray, which success made brief, 
 Scouts met him and in sharp haste turned his track 
 On special mission to a powerful chief, 
 Who wavered still between the white and black, 
 And lurked for mere self-profit Hke a thief 
 This errand well fulfilled, at last he came 
 To flush her tear-pearls with the ruby fame. 
 
 II. 
 
 Into the camp full joyously he rode. 
 Leading his weary escort ; as for him, 
 The love and trust that in his bosom glowed 
 Had laughed away all weariness of limb. 
 The sheikhs, his full report heard, all bestowed 
 Well-measured praises, brief and somewhat grim ; 
 As veterans scanning the enormous night 
 In which this one star shone so bravely bright.
 
 IVeddah and Om-El-Bonain. 73 
 
 III. 
 
 Then Abd-el-Aziz rose and left the tent, 
 And he accompanied with eager pace ; 
 And marked not how his frank smiles as he went 
 Were unreflected in each well-known face ; 
 How joyous greetings he on all sides sent 
 Brought hollow echoes as from caverned space : 
 His heart drank sweet wine 'mid the roses singing, 
 And thought the whole world with like revels ringing. 
 
 IV. 
 
 He entered with his uncle, and his glance 
 Sank disappointed. But the old man wept 
 With passion o'er him, eyeing him askance ; 
 And made him eat and drink ; and ever kept 
 Questioning, questioning, as to every chance 
 Throughout his absence ; keen to intercept 
 The fatal, But my cousin ? ready strung 
 Upon the tense lips by the eager tongue. 
 
 V. 
 
 At length it flew, the lover's winged dart ; 
 He sped it wreathed with flowers of hope and joy. 
 It pierced with iron point the old man's heart, 
 Who quivering cried : You are, then, still a boy !
 
 74 Weddah and Om-El-Bonain. 
 
 Love, love, the sweet to meet, the smart to part. 
 Make all your world of pleasure and annoy ! 
 
 Is this a time for dalliance in rose bowers ? 
 
 The vultures gather ; do they scent sweet flowers ? 
 
 VI. 
 
 It is a time of woe and shame, of strife 
 Whose victory must be dolorous as defeat : 
 The sons of Ishmael clutch the stranger's knife 
 To stab each other ; every corpse you meet 
 Has held a Moslem soul, an Arab life : 
 The town-serfs prisoned in stark fort and street 
 Exult while countless tents that freely roam 
 Perish like proud ships clashing in the foam. . 
 
 VII. 
 
 We might learn wisdom from our foes and thralls ! 
 The mongrels of a hundred barbarous races, 
 Who know not their own sires, appease their brawls, 
 Leave night and sunward set their impure faces, 
 To bay in concert round old Syrian walls, 
 And thrust their three gods on our holy places : 
 We have one Sire, one Prophet, and one Lord, 
 And yet against each other turn the sword.
 
 IVeddah and Om-El-Bonain. 75 
 
 VIII. 
 Thus long he groaned with fevered bitterness, 
 Till, Say at least my Father she is well ! 
 Stung prudence out of patience : Surely yes ! 
 The children of the faith whom Azrael 
 Hath gathered, do they suffer our distress ? — 
 But smitten by that word the lover fell. 
 As if at such rash mention of his name 
 That bird of God with wings of midnight came. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Deep in the shadow of those awful plumes 
 A night and day and night he senseless lay ; 
 And Abd-el-Aziz cowered 'mid deeper glooms, 
 Silent in vast despair, both night and day : 
 It seemed two forms belonging to the tombs 
 Had been abandoned in that tent ; for they 
 Were stark and still and mute alike, although 
 The one was conscious of their double woe. 
 
 X. 
 
 At last death left the balance, and the scale 
 Of wretched life jarred earth : and in the morn 
 The lover woke, confused as if a veil 
 Of heavy dreams involved him ; weak and worn
 
 75 IVeddah and Om-El-Boncdn . 
 
 And cold at heart, and wondering what bale 
 Had wounded him and left him thus forlorn : 
 So still half-stunned with anguish he lay long, 
 Fretful to rend the shroud that wrapt his wrong. 
 
 XL 
 
 He turned ; and on the pillow, near his head, 
 
 He saw a toy, a trifle, that gave tongue 
 
 To mute disaster : forthwith on his bed 
 
 The coiled-snake Memory hissed and sprang and stung : 
 
 Then all the fury of the storm was shed 
 
 From the black swollen clouds that overhung ; 
 
 The hot rain poured, the fierce gusts shook his soul, 
 Wild flashes lit waste gloom from pole to pole. 
 
 xn. 
 
 He hardly dared to touch the petty thing. 
 
 The talisman of this tremendous spell : 
 
 A purse of dark blue silk ; a golden ring, 
 
 A letter in the hand he knew so well. 
 
 Still as he sought to read new gusts would fling 
 
 Wet blindness in his vision, and a knell 
 
 Of rushing thunder trample through his brain 
 And tread him down into the swoon again.
 
 Weddah and Om-El-Bojiain. 77 
 
 XIII. 
 
 He read : Farewell ! In one sad word I weave 
 More thoughts than pen could write or tongue declare. 
 No other word can Om-el-Bonain leave 
 To Weddah, save her blessing ; and her prayer. 
 That he will quail not, though his heart must grieve, 
 That all his strength and valour, skill and care, 
 Shall be devoted loyally to serve 
 The sacred Tribe, and never self-ward swerve. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 For verily the Tribe is all, and we 
 Are nothing singly save as parts of it : 
 The one great Nile flows ever to the sea, 
 The waterdrops for ever change and flit ; 
 And some the first ooze snares, and some may be 
 The King's sweet draught, proud Carlo's mirror ; fit 
 For all each service of the stream whose fame 
 They share, by which alone they have a name. 
 
 XV. 
 
 And since I know that you cannot forget. 
 And am too sure your love will never change, 
 I leave my image to your soul : but yet 
 Keep it as shrined and shrouded till the strange
 
 78 IVeddah and Om- El-Bona'in. 
 
 Sad dream of life, illusion and regret, 
 
 Is ended ; short must be its longest range. 
 
 Farewell. Hope gleams the wan lamp in a tomb 
 Above a corpse that waits the final doom. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 This writing was a dear but cruel friend 
 That dragged him from the deep, and held him fast 
 Upon life's shore, who would have found an end, 
 Peace and oblivion. Turn from such a past 
 To such a future, and unquailing wend 
 Its infinite hopeless hours ! he shrank aghast : 
 Yet in this utmost weakness swore to make 
 The dreadful sacrifice for her dear sake. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 But when he stood as one about to fall. 
 And would go weep upon her tomb alone, 
 And Abd-el-Aziz had to tell him all. 
 The cry of anguish took a harsher tone : 
 Rich harem coverlets for funeral pall. 
 For grave a Syrian marriage couch and throne ! 
 A human rival, breathing mortal breath, 
 And not the star-cold sanctity of Death !
 
 JVeddah and Om-El-Bonain. 79 
 
 XVIII. 
 This truth was as a potent poison-draught, 
 Fire in the entrails, wild fire in the brain, 
 Which kindled savage strength in him who quaffed 
 And did not die of its first maddening pain. 
 It struck him like the mere malignant shaft 
 Which stings a warrior into sense again, 
 
 Who lay benumbed with wounds, and would have died 
 Unroused : the fresh wound makes him crawl and hide. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 A month he wandered in wild solitude ; 
 And in that month grew old, and yet grew strong : 
 Now lying prone and still as death would brood 
 The whole long day through and the whole night long ; 
 Now demon-driven day and night pursued 
 Stark weariness amidst the clamorous throng 
 Of thoughts that raged with memory and desire, 
 And parched, his bruised feet burning, could not tire. 
 
 XX. 
 
 When he came back, o'ermastered by his vow 
 To serve the Tribe through which he was unblest, 
 None gazed without remorse upon his brow, 
 None felt his glance without an aching breast :
 
 8o Weddah and Om-El-Bonain. 
 
 Magnificent in beauty even now, 
 
 Ravaged by grief and fury and unrest, 
 
 He moved among them swift and stern of deed, 
 And always silent save in action's need. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 And thus went forth, and unrejoicingly 
 Drank deep of war's hot wine : as one who drinks 
 And only grows more sullen, while yet he 
 Never the challenge of the full cup shrinks ; 
 And rises pale with horror when the glee 
 Of careless revellers into slumber sinks, 
 Because the feast which could not give him joy 
 At least kept phantoms from their worst annoy. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 The Lion of the Azra is come back 
 A meagre wolf ! foes mocked, who mocked no more 
 When midnight scared them with his fresh attack 
 After the long day's fighting, and the war, 
 Found him for ever wolf-like, on their track 
 As if consumed with slakeless thirst of gore : 
 Since he was cursed from slumber and repose. 
 He wreaked his restlessness on friends and foes.
 
 Weddah and Om-El-Bonain. 8i 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 The lightnings of his keen sword ever flashed 
 Without a ray of lightning in his glance ; 
 His blade where blades were thickest clove or clashed 
 Without a war-cry : ever in advance 
 He sought out death ; but death as if abashed 
 Adopted for its own his sword and lance, 
 And rode his steed, and swayed aside or blunted 
 The eager hostile weapons he affronted. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Once in the thick of battle as he raged 
 Thus cold and dumb amidst the furious cries, 
 Hassan the bard was near to him engaged, 
 And read a weird in those forlorn fixed eyes ; 
 And singing of that combat they had waged 
 Gave voice to what surpassed his own surmise : 
 For our young Lion of the mateless doom 
 Shall never go a cold corpse to the tomb I 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Awe silenced him who sang, and deep awe fell 
 On those who heard it round the campfire's blaze 
 But when they questioned he had naught to tell ; 
 The vision had departed from his gaze.
 
 82 IVeddah and Om-El-Bona'm. 
 
 The verse took wing and was a mighty spell ; 
 
 Upon the foe new terror and amaze, 
 
 To friends redoubled force ; to one alone, 
 The hero's self, it long remained unknown. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 While Weddah in the South with fiery will 
 Bore conquest wheresoe'er his banner flew, 
 Walid with royal heart and patient skill 
 Upon the Syrian confines triumphed too. 
 They never met : each felt a savage thrill 
 Which jarred his inmost being through and through 
 As still fresh fame the other's fame enlarged : 
 Each wished his rival in the ranks he charged. 
 
 XXVI I. 
 
 And when the foemen sued at length for peace 
 To victors surfeited with war's alarms, 
 Save him who knew all rest in rest must cease, 
 They said : O warriors, not by your own arms, 
 Though they are mighty ; may their might increase ! 
 But more by Om-el-Bonain's fatal charms. 
 Possessing both who lost her and who won. 
 Have we been baffled, vanquished, and undone.
 
 TVeddah and Om-El-Bona'm. 83 
 
 XXVII I. 
 
 Whence Hassan sang his sudden daring ode 
 Of Beauty revelling in the storm of fight : 
 For if the warriors into battle rode, 
 Their hearts were kindled by her living light ; 
 Either as sun that in pure azure glowed, 
 Or baleful star in deep despair's black night : 
 And whether by despair or joy she lit 
 Intenser fires perplexed the poet's wit' 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 And would you know why empires break asunder, 
 
 Why peoples perish and proud cities fall ; 
 
 Seek not the captains where the steedclouds thunder, 
 
 Seek not the elders in the council hall ; 
 
 But seek the chamber where some shining wonder 
 
 Of delicate beauty nestles, far from all 
 
 The turmoil, toying with adornments queenly, 
 And murmuring songs of tender love serenely. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 The clashing cymbals and the trumpets' clangour 
 Are peacefuUer than her soft trembling lute ; 
 The armies raging with hot fire of anger 
 Are gentler than her gentle glances mute ;
 
 84 IVedda/i mjd Om-El-Bofiain. 
 
 Ttie restless rushings of her dainty languor 
 Outveer the wind, outspeed the barb's pursuit : 
 
 Well Hassan knows ; who sings high laud and blessing 
 To this dear fatal riddle past all guessing.
 
 ( 85 ) 
 
 PART III. 
 
 I. 
 
 The war was over for the time ; and men 
 Returned to heal its wounds, repair its waste, 
 And thus grow strong and rich to fight again. 
 And Weddah, cold in victory's sun, embraced 
 The uncle whom his glory warmed ; and then, 
 Gathering his spoil of gems and gold in haste, 
 
 Rode forth : the clansmen wondered much to find 
 His famous favourite steed was left behind. 
 
 II. 
 
 He set out in the night : none knew his goal, 
 Though some might fix it in their secret thought. 
 He could no longer stifle or control. 
 In calm by battle's fever undistraught. 
 The piteous yearning of his famished soul 
 Which unappeasably its food besought ; 
 Fretting his life out like an infant's cry, 
 Let us but see her once before we die !
 
 86 Weddah and Om-El-Bonain. 
 
 III. 
 
 When he returned not, soon the rumour spread, 
 That he had vanished now his work was done ; 
 The prophecy had been fulfilled ; not dead, 
 But in the body borne beyond the sun, 
 He lived eternal life. He heard this said 
 Himself in Walid's city, where as one 
 
 Who sojourns but for traffic's sake he dwelt ; 
 
 And hearing it, more surely shrouded felt, 
 
 IV. 
 
 Courteous and humble as beseemeth trade, 
 
 While ever on the watch, some gems he sold : 
 
 Men said. This young man is discreet and staid. 
 
 Yet fair in dealing, nor too fond of gold. 
 
 He smiled to hear his virtues thus arrayed, 
 
 A smile that gloomed to frowning ; but controlled 
 
 The haughty spirit surging in his breast ; 
 
 The end in view, what mattered all the rest ? 
 
 V. 
 
 The end in reach : for now the favourite slave 
 Of Om-el-Bonain, as he knew full well ; 
 A frank-eyed girl, whose bosom was a wave 
 Whereon love's lotus lightly rose and fell ;
 
 JVeddah and Om-El-Bonain. 87 
 
 Drew near to him, attracted by his grave 
 
 Unsceptred majesty, and by the spell 
 Of his intense and fathomless regard. 
 Splendid in gloom as midnight myriad-starred. 
 
 VI. 
 
 She haggled for a trinket with her tongue 
 To veil the eager commerce of her eyes ; 
 Those daring smugglers when the heart is young, 
 For contraband of passion. His disguise 
 In talk with her but loosely round him hung ; 
 She glimpsed a secret and an enterprise ; 
 
 Love's flower, unsunned by hope, soon fades ; she 
 grieves, 
 
 Yet still returns to scent the rich dead leaves. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Till sick at heart and desperate with delay 
 He ventured all, abruptly flinging down 
 The weary mask : if death must end the play. 
 Better at once : I learn that in your town 
 Dwells Om-el-Bonain, whom you know men say. 
 Upon her eyeflash dropped a decent frown : 
 She is my mistress, and great Walid's wife — 
 The word his heart sought, stabbed in with a knife.
 
 88 JVeddah and Om-El-Bonain. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Your mistress is my cousin ; and will be 
 The friend of who shall tell her I am here. 
 But if I may not trust your secrecy, 
 Tell Walid, tell not her : and have no fear 
 That I will harm you for harm done to me, 
 Unaimed at her. The life I hold not dear 
 
 Might dower you well. But with a passionate oath 
 
 The eager girl swore loyalty to both. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Then hurried from him to her lady sweet, 
 And thrilled her frozen heart with burning pang : 
 For life resigned and torpid in defeat 
 To new contention with its fate upsprang. 
 This sword of hope found lying at her feet 
 While love's impetuous clarion summons rang : 
 
 Weddah alive ! alive and here ! Beware ! 
 
 If you now mock, Hell mock your dying prayer ! 
 
 X. 
 
 I saw a merchant : never chief or king 
 Of form so noble visited our land; 
 He wore a little ring, a lady's ring. 
 On the last finger of a feared right hand ;
 
 Weddah and Oyn-El-Bonain. 89 
 
 Some woe enormous overshadowing 
 Made beauty terrible that had been bland ; 
 
 He was convulsed when he would speak your name, 
 From such abysses of his heart it came. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Now whether this be Weddah's self or not, 
 
 My Lady in her wisdom must decide. 
 
 The lady's questions ploughed the self-same spot 
 
 Over and over lest some grains should hide 
 
 Of this vast treasure fallen to her lot : 
 
 Swear by the Prophet's tomb I may confide 
 
 In you as in myself until the end ; 
 
 And Om-el-Bonain lives and dies your friend. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Brave Amine swore, and bravely held the vow. 
 Her mistress kept her babbling all that eve, 
 A pleasant rill. And on the morrow : Now 
 Go bid him tell all friends that he must leave 
 In seven days ; so much we must allow, 
 So many starving hours of bliss bereave ! 
 
 His travels urge him in his own despite ; 
 
 He gives a farewell feast on such a night :
 
 90 JVeddah and Om-El-Bonaln. 
 
 XIIL 
 
 And in the meanwhile he shall fully learn 
 What is to follow. When this message came, 
 The thick dark in him 'gan to seethe and burn 
 Till soul and body fused in one clear flame. 
 His guests all blinked with wonder to discern 
 This glowing heart of joy ; and flushed with shame 
 Unmerited for having thought him cold, 
 Who made their old feel young, their young feel old. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The long week passed ; the morning came to crown 
 Or kill the lovers' hope. It was a day 
 Well chosen, for some guests of high renown 
 Left Walid, who would speed them on their way ; 
 And festal tumult filled the sunny town. 
 The merchant in departure strolled astray 
 Amongst the groups about the palace heaving 
 To glimpse the rich procession form for leaving. 
 
 XV. 
 
 And when it left, absorbing every eye ; 
 A stream of splendours rolling with the din 
 Of horn and tabor under that blue sky ; 
 Came Amine carelessly and led him in,
 
 Weddah and Om-El-Bonain. gi 
 
 With chat of certain anklets she would buy ; 
 
 And led him lounging onwards till they win 
 A storeroom where her mistress daily spent 
 Some matin hours on household cares intent. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Large chests were ranged around it, one of which 
 They had made ready with most loving care ; 
 Lurked apertures among the carvings rich, 
 Above its deep soft couch, for light and air : 
 Behold your prison cell, your palace niche. 
 The jewel casket of my Lady fair ! 
 
 I lock you in ; from her must come your key : 
 Love's captives pay sweet ransom to get free ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 She found her mistress fever-flushed, and told 
 Their full success : Our prisoner is secure ; 
 A lion meek as lambkin of the fold. 
 Prepared your harshest torments to endure ! 
 But, dearest Lady, as you have been bold, 
 Be prudent, prudent, prudent, and assure 
 Long life to bliss. Now with your leave I go 
 To be well seen of all the house below. .
 
 92 Weddah and Om-El-Bonaln. 
 
 XVIII. 
 She took another stairway for descent, 
 And sauntered round to the front courtyard gate ; 
 Chatting and laughing lightly as she went 
 With various groups, all busy in debate 
 On those departed guests : and some were shent 
 For meanness maugre retinue and state, 
 
 And some extolled for bounteous disposition, 
 And all summed up with judgment-day precision. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Of all her fellow-slaves it seemed but one, 
 
 Whose breast was tinder for love's flame would she 
 
 Vouchsafe a spark, had spied the venture run : 
 
 Soho, my flirting madam, where is he 
 
 You brought in here an hour since with j'our fun ? 
 
 A happy rogue, whoever he may be ! 
 
 Have you already tired of this new dandy, 
 Or hid him somewhere to be always handy ? 
 
 XX. 
 
 The stupid jealous creature that you are ! 
 Where were your eyes, then, not to know his face ? 
 For weeks back he has dealt in our bazaar. 
 And now is on the road to some new place.
 
 Weddah and Om-El-Bonai??. 93 
 
 He had an emerald and diamond star 
 
 I thought might win my poor dear Lady's grace ; 
 
 She would not even look at it, alack ! 
 
 I packed him off for ever with his pack. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Thus these long-hapless lovers for awhile, 
 Enringed with dreadful fire, safe ambush found, 
 Screened by its very glare ; a magic isle 
 By roaring billows guarded well till drowned ; 
 A refuge spot of green and liquid smile 
 Whose rampart was the simoom gathering round : 
 If darkness hid them, it was thunder gloom 
 Whose light must come in lightnings to consume. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 And even as Iskander's self, for whom 
 The whole broad earth sufficed not, found at last 
 Full scope vouchsafed him in the narrow tomb ; 
 So he long pining in the desert vast 
 As in a dungeon, found now ample room, 
 Found perfect freedom and content, shut fast 
 Alive within that coffer-coffin lonely. 
 Which gave him issue to that chamber only.
 
 94 JVeddah and Om-El-Bonain. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 They knew what peril compassed them about, 
 
 But could not feel the dread it would inspire ; 
 
 Imperious love shut other passions out, 
 
 Or made them fuel for his altar fire. 
 
 At first one sole thought harassed them with doubt ; 
 
 To kill her lord and flee ? Then tribe and sire 
 
 Would justly curse them ; for in every act 
 
 He had been loyal to the evil pact. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 He had indeed wronged them ; for well he knew 
 Their love from infancy, their plighted troth. 
 When merciless in mastery he drew 
 From her repugna'nt lips the fatal oath : 
 That love avenged the wrong of love was due ; 
 But still his blood was sacred to them both ; 
 The tender husband and the proved ally 
 They dare not harm ; must death come, they could 
 die. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Die ! Often he would dream for hours supine 
 Upon his lidded couch, Life's dream is over ; 
 I wait the resurrection in this shrine : 
 Anon an antrel cometh to uncover
 
 Weddah and Om-El-Bonain. 95 
 
 The inmost glories of the realm divine, 
 Because though dead I still am faithful lover ; 
 My spirit drinks its fill of bliss, and then 
 Sinks back into this twilight trance again. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Like bird above its young one in the nest 
 Which cannot fly, he often heard her singing ; 
 The thrill and swell of rapture from her breast 
 In fountains of delightful music springing : 
 It seemed he had been borne among the blest, 
 Whose quires around his darksome couch were ringing ; 
 Long after that celestial voice sank mute 
 His heartstrings kept sweet tremble like a lute. 
 
 • 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 She heard his breathing like a muffled chime, 
 
 She heard his tranquil heart-beats through the flow 
 
 Of busy menials in the morning time ; 
 
 Far- couched at night she felt a sudden glow. 
 
 And straight her breathing answered rhyme for rhyme 
 
 His softest furtive footsteps to and fro : 
 
 And none else heard? She marvelled how the 
 sense 
 
 Of living souls could be so dull and dense.
 
 g6 JVeddah and Oyn-El-Bona'm. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 Once early, early, ere the dawn grew loud, 
 She stole to watch his slumber by its gleam ; 
 And blushing with a soft laugh-gurgle bowed 
 And sank as in the bosom of a stream, 
 An ardent angel in a rosy cloud 
 Resolving the enchantment of his dream : 
 
 Where there is room for thee, is room for us ; 
 
 So may I share thy death-sarcophagus ! 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 She grew so lovely, ravishing, and sweet, 
 Her brow so radiant and her lips so warm ; 
 Such rich heart-music stirred her buoyant feet, 
 And swayed the gestures of her lithe young form. 
 And revelled in her voice to bliss complete ; 
 That Walid whirled with his great passion's storm. 
 Befooled with joy, went doting down his hell : 
 Oh, tame and meek, my skittish wild gazelle ! 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Thus these, sings Hassan, of their love's full measure 
 Drank swiftly in that circle of swift fire ; 
 A veil of light and ardour to their pleasure 
 Till it revealed their ashes on one pyre :
 
 WcddaJi and Om-El-Bonahi. 
 
 97 
 
 Some never win, some spend in youth this treasure, 
 And crawl down sad age starvehngs of desire : 
 These lavished royal wealth in one brief season, 
 But Death found both so rich he gave them reason. 
 
 G
 
 ( 98 ) 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 I. 
 
 The tender almond-blossom flushed and white 
 Sank floating in warm flakes through lucid air ; 
 The rose flung forth into the sea of light 
 Her heart of fire and incense burning bare ; 
 The nightingale thrilled all the breathless night 
 With passion so intense it seemed despair : 
 And still these lovers drank love's perfect wine 
 From that gold urn of secrecy divine. 
 
 II. 
 
 Then Fate prepared the end. A grey old man, 
 Bowed down with grief who had not bent with time, 
 Made way to Walid in the full divan : 
 His son, great-hearted and in youth's hot prime, 
 Was now a fugitive and under ban 
 For an indignant deed of sinless crime ; 
 A noble heirloom pearl the suppliant brought 
 To clear the clouded face ere he besought.
 
 JVeddah and Om-El-Bonain. 99 
 
 III. 
 
 This pearl in Walid's mood of golden joy 
 Shone fair as morning star in rosy dawn ; 
 He called his minion, Motar : Take this toy 
 Unto your Lady where she sits withdrawn, 
 With my love-greeting, and this message, boy : 
 Were this a string of such, a monarch's pawn, 
 A pearl for every note, it would not pay 
 That song I heard you singing yesterday. 
 
 IV. 
 
 They had been leaning for an hour perchance, 
 Motionless, gazing in each other's eyes ; 
 Floating in deep pure joy, whose still expanse 
 Rippled but rarely with long satiate sighs ; 
 Their souls so intermingled in the trance. 
 So far away dissolved through fervent skies, 
 That it was marvel how each fair mute form 
 Without its pulse and breath remained Hfe-warm. 
 
 V. 
 
 When rapid footsteps almost at the door 
 Stung her to vigilance, and her fierce start 
 Shook Weddah, and that lion of proud war 
 Must flee to covert like a timid hart :
 
 loo VVeddah and Om-El-Bonain. 
 
 But drunken with the message he now bore 
 The saucy youth flew in, Fate's servile dart, 
 Without announcement ; and espied, what he, 
 Still subtle though amazed, feigned not to see. 
 
 " VI. 
 
 The message with the goodly pearl he gave : 
 She could for wrath have ground it into dust 
 Between her richer teeth, and stabbed the slave 
 Who brought it ; but most bitterly she must 
 Put on sweet smiles of pleasure, and the knave 
 With tender answer full of thanks entrust. 
 He lingered : Our kind lady will bestow 
 Some little mark of bounty ere I go ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 Her anger cried : Only the message dear 
 
 Has saved the messenger from punishment ; 
 
 If evermore as now you enter here 
 
 You shall be scourged and starved and prison-pent. 
 
 He cowered away from her in sullen fear, 
 
 And darted from the room ; and as he went 
 
 The sting of her rebuke was curdUng all 
 
 His blood of vanity to poison gall.
 
 JVeddah and Om-El-Bona'm. loi 
 
 VIII. 
 
 He hissed in Walid's ear the seething spite : 
 
 My Lord's pearl by my Lady's was surpassed ; 
 
 In that rich cedar coffer to the right 
 
 I saw the treasure being hidden fast ; 
 
 A gallant, young and beautiful and bright. 
 
 Unmothered slave, be that foul lie your last ! 
 And clove the scandal with his instant sword 
 Strong Walid : Motar had his full reward. 
 
 IX. 
 
 When Weddah, plunged from glory into gloom, 
 Heard that last speech of Om-el-Bonain there, 
 A sudden ominous sense of icy doom 
 Assailed his glowing heart with bleak despair. 
 The moment that false slave had left the room 
 She sprang to seize her lover in his lair : 
 
 She bowed all quivering like a storm-swept palm ; 
 
 He rose to meet her solemn, pale and calm. 
 
 X. 
 
 He clasped her with strong passion to his breast, 
 He kissed her with a very tender kiss : 
 Soul of my soul ! what lives men call most blest 
 Can be compared to our brief lives in bliss ?
 
 102 IVeddah and Om-El-Bonnin. 
 
 But one wild year of anguish and unrest ; 
 
 Three moons of perfect secret love ! Were this 
 My dying hour, I thankfully attest 
 Of all earth's dooms I have enjoyed the best. 
 
 XL 
 
 What, weeping, thou, such kiss-unworthy tears ! 
 The glory of the Azra must not weep. 
 Whom mighty Weddah worships, for cold fears ; 
 But only for strong love, in stillness deep, 
 Secluded from all alien eyes and ears. 
 And now to vigil, and perchance to sleep, 
 
 Enshrined once more : be proud and calm and 
 strong ; 
 
 Your second visitor will come ere long. 
 
 XII. 
 
 And scarcely was all said when Walid came, 
 Full gently stealing for a tiger-spring ; 
 His love and fury, hope and fear and shame. 
 All mad with venom from that serpent's sting, 
 Like wild beasts huddled in a den of flame 
 Within the cool white palace of a king : 
 
 She rose to greet ; he deigned no glance of quest. 
 But went and lolled upon that cedar chest.
 
 JVeddah and Om-El-Bonain. T03 
 
 XIII. 
 
 I come like any haggler of the mart, 
 Who having sent a bauble seeks its price : 
 Will you forgive the meanness of my part, 
 And one of these fair coffers sacrifice ? 
 A clutch of iron fingers gript her heart 
 Till it seemed bursting in the cruel vice : 
 
 And yet she quivered not, nor breathed a moan 
 Are not myself and all things here your own ? 
 
 XIV. 
 
 I thank you for the bountiful award ; 
 And choose, say this whereon I now sit here ? 
 Take any, take them all ; but that, my Lord, 
 Is full of household stuff and woman's gear. 
 I want the coffer, not what it may hoard, 
 However rich and beautiful and dear. 
 
 And it is thine, she said ; and this the key : 
 Her royal hand outheld it steadfastly. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Swift as a double flash from thunder-skies 
 The angel and the devil of his doubt 
 Flamed from the sombre windows of his eyes : 
 He went and took the key she thus held out,
 
 I04 Weddah and Om-El-Bonain. 
 
 And turned as if he would unlock his prize. 
 She breathed not ; all the air ran blood about 
 
 A swirl of terrors and wild hopes of guilt ; 
 
 Calm Weddah seized, then loosed, his dagger-hilt. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 But Walid had restrained himself, and thought : 
 
 Shall I unlock the secret of my soul. 
 
 The mystery of my Fate, that has been brought 
 
 So perfectly within my own control ? 
 
 That were indeed a work by folly wrought : 
 
 For Time, in this my vassal, must unrol 
 
 To me, and none but me, what I would learn 
 I hold the vantage, undiscerned discern. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 He summoned certain slaves, and bade them bear 
 The coffer he had sealed with his own seal 
 Into a room below with strictest care ; 
 And followed thoughtful at the last one's heel. 
 At noontide Amine found her mistress there, 
 Benumbed with horror, deaf to her appeal ; 
 The sightless eyes fixed glaring on that door 
 By which her soul had vanished evermore.
 
 IVeddah and Om-El-Bonain. 105 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Beneath the cedar whose noonshadow large, 
 Level from massive trunk, outspread halfway 
 Adown a swardslope to the river marge. 
 Where rosebowers shone between the willows grey, 
 The wondering bearers bore their heavy charge ; 
 And where the central shadow thickest lay 
 He bade them delve a pit, and delve it deep 
 Till watersprings against their strokes should leap. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Then waved them to a distance, while he bowed 
 Upon the coffer, hearkening for a space : 
 If truth bought that poor wretch his bloody shroud, 
 I bury thus her guilt and my disgrace ; 
 And you, as by the whole earth disavowed, 
 Sink into nothingness and leave no trace : 
 If not, it is a harmless whim enough 
 To sepulchre a chest of household stuff. 
 
 XX. 
 
 With face encircled by his hands, which leaned 
 Upon the wood, he challenged clear and slow : 
 The hollow sound, his full hot breath thus screened 
 Suffused his visage with a tingling glow ;
 
 To5 JVeddah and Om-EI-Bonaln. 
 
 His pulse, his vesture's rustling intervened 
 And marred the silence : he drew back, and so 
 Knelt listening yet awhile with bated breath : 
 The secret lay as mute and still as death. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Above there in her chamber Weddah might 
 
 Have leapt forth suddenly their foe to kill. 
 
 Ev'n here with hazard of swift fight and flight 
 
 Escaped or perished as a warrior still ; 
 
 But thus through him her name had suffered blight : 
 
 He locked his breath and nerves with rigid will. 
 
 So Walid first let sink his key unused, 
 
 Then signed the slaves back : they utought on, he 
 mused. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Against the dark bulk swelled the waters thin ; 
 The stones and earth were trampled to a mound. 
 He then broke silence, stern and sad : Within 
 That coffer ye have buried, sealed and bound 
 Lies one of the most potent evil djinn. 
 Whose hate on me and mine hath darkly frowned ; 
 He sought to kill your mistress : Hell and Doom 
 And Allah's curse all guard this dungeon-tomb !
 
 IVcddah and Om-El-Bo7iain. 107 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 And Walid never spoke of this again ; 
 And none dared ask him ; for his brow grew black, 
 His eye flamed evil and appalling when 
 Some careless word but strayed upon a track 
 That might from far lead to it : therefore men 
 Spoke only of the thing behind his back. 
 The cedar shadow centred by that mound 
 Was sacredly eschewed as haunted ground. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 But one pale phantom, noon and night and mom, 
 Was ever seen there ; quiet as a stone, 
 Huddled and shapeless, weeping tears forlorn 
 As silent as the dews ; her heart alone 
 And not her lips, whose seal was never torn. 
 Upbraiding sluggish death with constant moan. 
 
 Hushed whispers circled, piteous eyes were wet ; 
 
 The captive djinnee holds her captive yet. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Thus Walid learned too well the bitter truth, 
 His home dissolved, its marvellous joy a cheat ; 
 Yet gave no sign to her : for there was ruth 
 Of memories gall itself left subtly sweet ;
 
 io8 IVeddah and Om-El-Bonain. 
 
 And consciousness of wrong against her youth, 
 And surfeit of a vengeance so complete : 
 
 He could not stab her bleeding heart ; her name 
 With his own honour he kept pure from shame. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 She thought Death dead, or prisoned in deep Hell 
 
 As sole assuager of the human lot : 
 
 But when the evening of the seventh day fell 
 
 Walid alone dared tread the fatal spot : 
 
 She crouched as who would plunge into a well, 
 
 Livid and writhed into a desperate knot ; 
 
 Her fingers clutched like talons in the mould : 
 Thus the last time his arms about her fold. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 As if to glut the demon with her doom, 
 
 And break the spell, there where her corse was found 
 
 He had it buried ; and a simple tomb 
 
 Of black-domed marble sealed the dolorous mound ; 
 
 And there was set to guard the cedar gloom 
 
 A triple cirque of cypress-trees around : 
 
 Thus Love wrought Destiny to join his slaves 
 Weddah and Om-el-Bonain in their graves.
 
 Weddah and Om-El-Bona'w. T09 
 
 XXVIII. 
 True Amine, freed and richly dowered, no less 
 Had served until the end her lady dear; 
 And shrouded for the grave that loveliness 
 Whose noon-eclipse left life without its peer : 
 Then sought the Azra in her lone distress. 
 And tended Abd-el-Aziz through the sere 
 Forlorn last days ; and married in the clan, 
 And bore brave children to a valiant man. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Great Walid lived long years beyond this woe, 
 And still increased in wealth and power and glory ; 
 A loyal friend, a formidable foe ; 
 Each Azra was his mother's child saith story ; 
 And he saw goodly children round him grow 
 To keep his name green when Death took him hoary : 
 So prosperous, was he happy too ? the sage 
 Cites this one counsel of his reverend age : 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Have brood-mares in your stables, my young friend, 
 And women in your harem, but no wife : 
 A common daggerblade may pierce or rend, 
 A month bring healing ; this, the choicest kniie
 
 Tio IVeddah cmcl Om-El-Bonaln. 
 
 In Fate's whole armoury, wounds beyond amend, 
 And with a scratch can poison all your life ; 
 And it lies naked in your naked breast 
 When you are drunk with joy and sleep's rich rest. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 As surely as a very precious stone 
 
 Finds out that jeweller who doth excel, 
 
 So surely to the bard becometh known 
 
 The tale which only he can fitly tell : 
 
 A few years thence, and Walid's heart alone 
 
 Had thrilled not to a talisman's great spell. 
 
 His deathstone set in Hassan's golden verse; 
 
 Here poorly copied in cheap bronze or worse. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 He ends : We know not which to most admire ; 
 The lover who went silent to his doom ; 
 The spouse obedient to her lord's just ire, 
 The mistress faithful to her lover's tomb ; 
 The husband calm in jealousy's fierce fire, 
 Who strode unswerving through the doubtful gloom 
 To vengeance instant, secret and complete, 
 And did not strike one blow more than was meet.
 
 JVeddah and Om-Ei-Bonuhi. ill 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 With stringent cords of circumstance dark Fate 
 Doth certain Hves here so entoil and mesh 
 That some or all must strangle if they wait, 
 And knife to cut the knots must cut quick flesh : 
 The first strong arm free severs ere too late ; 
 Fresh writhings would but tangle it afresh : 
 To die with valiant fortitude, to kill 
 As priest not butcher ; so much scope has will. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 These perished, and he slew them, in such wise 
 That all may meet as friends and free from shame, 
 Whether they meet in Hell or Paradise. 
 If he has won long life and power and fame, 
 Our darlings too have won their own set prize. 
 Conjoined for evermore in true love's name : 
 The Azra die when they do love, of old 
 Was graven with the iron pen, on gold. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 May Allah grant eternal joy and youth 
 
 In fateless Heaven to one and all of these. 
 
 And for himself a little grain of ruth 
 
 The bard will beg, this once, while on his knees ;
 
 113 IVeddah ayul Om-TLl-Bonain. 
 
 Who cannot always see the very truth, 
 And does not always sing the truth he sees, 
 But something pleasanter to foolish ears 
 That should be tickled not with straws but spears.
 
 ( 113 ) 
 
 TWO LOVERS. 
 
 1867. 
 
 Their eyes met ; flashed an instant like swift swords 
 That leapt unparrying to each other's heart, 
 
 Jarring convulsion through the inmost chords ; 
 Then fell, for they had fully done their part. 
 
 She, in the manner of her folk unveiled, 
 
 Might have been veiled for all he saw of her : 
 
 Those sudden eyes, from which he reeled and quailed ; 
 The old life dead, no new life yet astir. 
 
 His good steed bore him onward slow and proud : 
 
 And through the open lattice still she leant ; 
 
 Pale, still, though whirled in a black rushing cloud, 
 
 As if on her fair flowers and dreams intent 
 
 II
 
 14 Two Lovers. 
 
 Days passed, and he passed timid, furtive, slow : 
 Nights came, and he came motionless and mute ; 
 
 A steadfast sentinel till morning-glow, 
 
 Though blank her window, dumb her voice and lute. 
 
 She loved : the Cross stretched rigid arms to scare 
 Her soul from the perdition of that love ; 
 
 She saw Christ's wounds bleed when she knelt in prayer,, 
 And frown abhorrent all the saints above. 
 
 He loved : the Crescent hung with sharp cold gleam, 
 A scimitar to cleave such love in twain ; 
 
 The Prophet menaced in his waking dream, 
 
 Livid and swoln with wrath that great brow-vein. 
 
 Each sternly true to the immortal soul, 
 
 Crushed down the passion of the mortal heart ; 
 
 Which bled away beneath the iron control. 
 But inwardly : they die ; none sees the smart. 
 
 Thus long months went, until his time came round 
 
 To leave that city terrible and dear ; 
 To go afar on soulless business bound. 
 
 Perchance for absence of a whole dead year.
 
 Two Lovers. 115 
 
 No word : but as she knelt to pray one night, 
 
 What was that silk thing pendant from the Cross ? 
 
 Half of a talisman of chrysolite : 
 Fareivell ! Full triumph stunned like fatal loss. 
 
 A sacred jewel-charm of sovereign power 
 
 'Gainst demons haunting soul and sense and brain, 
 
 'Gainst madness : had it not until that hour 
 Despite love's impious frenzy kept him sane ? 
 
 Now let her look forth boldly day by day ; 
 
 He will not come to wound her with his eyes ; 
 Now at the open lattice darkling stay. 
 
 Only the stars are watching from the skies ; 
 
 Now with clear spirit let her sing and pray ; 
 
 No human presence clouds her Lord's full light : 
 Now let her weep and moan and waste away, 
 
 With broken heart a-bleeding day and night. 
 
 Thin as a spectre, haggard, taciturn. 
 
 He reached his native city ; there did all 
 
 He had to do : indifferent yet stern, 
 
 As one whose task must end ere evening-fall.
 
 ii5 Two Lovers. 
 
 Then sank, and knew that Azrael was near : 
 
 The hard dull rage of impotent remorse 
 Burned into passion that consumed old fear : 
 
 He loathed his unlived life, his unspent force. 
 
 " Must we be sundered, then, beyond the grave, 
 By that which here has sundered us ? Not so ! 
 
 I can be lost with her I cannot save, 
 
 And with these Christian dogs to deep Hell go." 
 
 A priest baptized the sinking renegade, 
 
 A priest assured him of the Heaven he spurned ; 
 
 His wealth for many a mass thereafter paid ; 
 And many a Moslem his example turned. 
 
 A friend had sworn to do his last behest ; 
 
 To be his swift and faithful messenger : 
 His own half talisman from his true breast 
 
 Would seal the truth of all things told to her. 
 
 The funeral over, while the stars yet shone 
 
 Though pale in the new dawn, this friend forth- 
 spurred ; 
 
 Brief rests, long stages, hurried fiercely on ; 
 Hating the errand, loyal to his word.
 
 Two Lovers. J 17 
 
 Twenty days' travel done in thrice three days, 
 He reached her city, found her mansion there"; 
 
 A crowd before it busy with amaze, 
 
 Cries from within it wounding the sweet air. 
 
 She was no more since that day's sun had set ; 
 
 But wonder outran grief; for ere she died 
 Infinite yearning, fathomless regret. 
 
 Flooded her soul and drowned its faith and pride. 
 
 " Shall I be happy with the saints above. 
 While he is burning in the paynim Hell ? 
 
 Here I have cheated him of all my love, 
 But there with him I can for ever dwell." 
 
 So she renounced the Cross and threefold God, 
 And died in Islam ; whence the bruit was great. 
 
 Silent the friend his backward journey trod, 
 Silent, and shrouded with the sense of Fate. 
 
 Thus in the very hour supreme of death 
 
 These two great hearts first dared live perfect life ; 
 
 Drew inspiration with their failing breath, 
 
 Snatched victory as they sank down slain in strife.
 
 ii8 Two Lovers. 
 
 And thus faith mocked them, who when life was sweet 
 Had kept apart, both famished to the core ; 
 
 Let them draw near and in the death-point meet, 
 But to diverge for ever, evermore. 
 
 Yet both died happy in self-sacrifice ; 
 
 A dolorous happiness, yet true and deep : 
 And Gods and Fate and Hell and Paradise 
 
 Perchance are one to their eternal sleep. 
 
 Poor human hearts, that yearn beyond the tomb, 
 Wherein you all must moulder into dust ! 
 
 "What has the blank immitigable gloom 
 Of light or fervour to reward your trust ? 
 
 Live out your whole free life while yet on earth ; 
 
 Seize the quick Present, prize your one sure boon ; 
 Though brief, each day a golden sun has birth ; 
 
 Though dim, the night is gemmed with stars and 
 moon. 
 
 Love out your cordial love, hate out your hate ; 
 
 Be strong to grasp a foe, to clasp a friend : 
 Your wants true laws are ; thirst and hunger sate : 
 
 Feel you have been yourselves when comes the end.
 
 Two Lovers. 119 
 
 Let the great gods, if they indeed exist, 
 
 Fight out their fight themselves ; for they are strong 
 How can we puny mortals e'er assist ? 
 
 How judge the supra-mortal right and wrong ? 
 
 But if we made these gods, with all their strife, 
 And not they us : what frenzy equals this ; 
 
 To starve, maim, poison, strangle our poor life. 
 For empty shadows of death's dark abyss ? 
 
 This man and maiden claim a brother's tear. 
 Martyrs of sweet love, killed by bitter faith ; 
 
 Defrauded by the Gods of glad life here, 
 
 And mocked by Doom in their heroic death.
 
 ( I20 ) 
 
 BERTRAM TO THE MOST NOBLE AND 
 BEAUTIFUL LADY, GERALDINE. 
 
 January iS^y. 
 
 Lady ! this night for the first time my eyes, 
 My bodily eyes, drank in with sateless thirst 
 
 Thy noblest beauty ; as when desert skies 
 By the full moon late-risen are immerst 
 
 In pure and solemn splendour. Not surprise 
 But breathless awe filled all my soul when first 
 
 You floated vision-strange before its sight ; 
 
 O long-lost Star ! O well-known unknown Light ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Amid the murmurous hum and dusty glare, 
 
 With which those restless throngs confused the room, 
 
 I moved and gazed, with little thought or care, 
 
 So that the hours slipt smoothly through Life's loom,
 
 Bertram to the Ladij Geraldine. 1 2 1 
 
 Weaving gay vesture for an old despair ; 
 
 When the unearthly sense of some great doom 
 Approaching near possessed me, and I thrilled 
 With tremors too mysterious to be stilled. 
 
 III. 
 
 Rapt by that revelation from the crowd, 
 My eyes were lifted, — to behold your face ! 
 
 While, like a silver-burning summer-cloud, 
 
 Slow-soothed by dreamful airs through azure space, 
 
 You floated past me, glorious, tranquil, proud ; 
 Borne gliding on with such serenest grace 
 
 By slow sweet music, that it seemed to be 
 
 Voicing thine own soul's inward harmonv. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Forthwith I knew Thee, whom I had not sought 
 Since Youth high-hoping found no outward need, 
 
 And, ignorant that high hope its own bliss wrought, 
 Left Faith to die, and nursed the bitter weed 
 
 Which blooms in poisonous gauds of heartless thought. 
 O sole fulfilment of my heart's great need ! 
 
 Vision revealing how and whence it pined ! 
 
 Blessed redeemer of my sinking mind !
 
 122 Bertram to the Lady Geraldine. 
 
 V. 
 
 Thy Presence was its own most adequate 
 Proclaimer, fuU-credentialled, to my soul : 
 
 An instant, and I recognised my Fate, 
 Yielding with solemn joy to its control. 
 
 I have been wandering in this intricate 
 And gloomy maze of Life, without a goal, 
 
 Baffled and hopeless ; but my future way 
 
 Lies straight and clear through life and death for aye. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And more : — as moonlight up some sombre stream 
 
 May flow in silence, a refulgent river, 
 Enchanting the dull line with gracious beam 
 
 Till far back toward its fount outleaps the quiver 
 Of free waves joyous, living in the gleam; 
 
 Even so your Apparition did deliver 
 My long-dead years from blank Lethean night, 
 And all lived forth in your celestial light. 
 
 vir. 
 
 All glorious dreams that beautified and blest 
 My fervent youth were realised in Thee ; 
 
 Young longings, nobler far in their unrest 
 Than later moods of scornful stagnancy,
 
 Bertram to the Lady Geraldine. 123 
 
 Again could heave and agitate my breast ; 
 
 ]\Iy mind, long world-filled, was empowered to see 
 That Life has sacred mysteries unrevealed, 
 And grander trusts than Earth and Time can yield. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And all this Past was thus redeemed from death, 
 Through its pure prescience of Thyself alone ; 
 
 Shining in splendours of unclouded faith. 
 
 Breathing in pants of love. Yes, I had known' 
 
 Thee well in hours long faded ; when your breath 
 Thrilled all my frame, and when your dark eyes shone 
 
 With holy passion and exalted bliss, 
 
 Throughout my spirit tranced in ecstasies. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Yet it was not the eyes, large, solemn, deep — 
 The several features of the noble face ; 
 
 Nor wealth of hair, flung down in long-curved sweep. 
 Flashing like ripphng sunbeams, whose embrace 
 
 Doth in so warm a glow of beauty steep 
 That harmony severe of stately grace 
 
 Which moulds thy form ; nor was it that full form 
 
 In its serene perfection breathing warm : —
 
 1 24 Bertram to the Lady Geraidine. 
 
 X. 
 
 Not in all these can I find all the spell 
 
 Which thrilled such instant recognition, wild, 
 
 Yet doubtless as an holy oracle, 
 
 Throughout my being torpid and defiled. 
 
 Why should I fear this joyous truth to tell, 
 
 Which Love has murmured to his last-born child ? — 
 
 Unaided by the mean of bodily sense, 
 
 Souls can reciprocate deep influence. 
 
 XI. 
 
 music, flow for ever soft and sweet 
 Through subtler mazes, that in timeless dream 
 
 1 may for ever watch her dove-quick feet 
 
 Circling in light adown thy shadowy stream, 
 And calm-robed form float, swaying to the beat 
 
 Of the long languid pulses ; while outgleam 
 Her face and round arms radiant through the whirls, 
 Grand neck, white shoulders, queenly golden curls. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Desire, by its own wild intensity. 
 
 Was baffled, — I stood trembling, panting, pale ; 
 And every eager step approaching Thee 
 
 Sank back : how spirits nearing Heaven must quail
 
 Bertram to the Lady Geraldine. 125 
 
 Till some strong inspiration carried me, 
 
 Half-dumb, to gasp my pleading, — and prevail ; 
 To sue, and stand dance-ready at thy side, 
 Intoxicate with love and bliss and pride. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Oh, glory of the dance sublimed to this ! 
 
 Oh pure white arm electric that embraced 
 Ethereal-lightly my unbounded bliss ! 
 
 Oh, let me die on but another taste 
 Of that warm breath ambrosial, and the kiss 
 
 Of those whirl-wanton ringlets ; interlaced. 
 Quick frame with frame borne on ; my lips the while 
 Within a neck-bend of that heavenly smile ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Did music measure that delirious dancing ? 
 
 I heard it not ; I know not what strange sway 
 Kept us among those spectral figures, glancing 
 
 As its poor harmonies might rule their way. 
 I was o'erfilled with music more entrancing, 
 
 But wild, how wild ! I could have fled astray. 
 Footing the buoyant aether's moonlight sea. 
 For ever and for ever linked with Thee.
 
 125 Bertram to the Lady Geraldliie. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Most pure and beautiful ! what stayed my lips, 
 When parched with thirsting near such aenomel, 
 
 From clinging unto thine for bee-like sips ? 
 
 From pasturing o'er thy brow's white asphodel ? 
 
 Sealing thine eyes in passion's dear eclipse, 
 With pressure on the full blue-veined swell, 
 
 And thrillings o'er the silken lashes fine, 
 
 'Mid interdraughts of their deep violet wine ? 
 
 XVI, 
 
 Yet, O Beloved, though thus love-distraught, 
 Blame not my spirit ; for I felt You there 
 
 So holy-pure, that self-condemning thought 
 Blighted my passionate worship with despair : 
 
 Half shrank I from each touch, although it brought 
 Such rapture with it as I scarce could bear. 
 
 As if from harp strings ready tuned above, 
 
 To vibrate forth seraphic bliss and love. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 I felt You as a flower, my hand I knew 
 
 With touch the lightest-tender still must harm ; 
 
 Or gem so lucenter than morning dew, 
 
 That my least breath must sully its pure charm :
 
 Bertram to the Lady Gcraldine. 12; 
 
 The cold white moon cresting night's cloudless blue 
 
 Above dark moorland, far from town and farm, 
 Or few wan stars dim-steadfast in dim skies. 
 Are not so dowered with awe-fraught sanctities. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Ay, while I thought : Could I seize one caress. 
 But one grand grape from this full-fruited vine ; 
 
 Grasp the rich ripeness, press and press and press. 
 Till drunk with its last drain of glorious wine ; ' 
 
 Staking the Future's infinite barrenness 
 
 'Gainst one transcendent moment's bUss divine !- 
 
 Even then, my wildered spirit knelt subdued 
 
 Beneath thy pure calm noble maidenhood. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Subdued by Thee, — and yet exalted more ! 
 
 Calmed by perfection of resolve and pride I 
 The future was drear-barren as a shore 
 
 Wave-wasted by an ever wintry tide : 
 But 7tow / — Shall he, whose sanest hopes may soar 
 
 To win the empire's Empress for his bride, 
 Purloin a jewel from her crowned brow ? 
 Be kingly, heart ! the throne awaits us now.
 
 128 Bertram, to the Ladij Geraldine. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Thou wert the farther from me, as so near ; 
 
 Veiled awful, at a distance dim and great, 
 In that supernal spiritual sphere 
 
 To which Love lifts, that he may isolate 
 The truest lovers from their union here : 
 
 Hence their eternal Bridal, consecrate 
 By perfect reverence ; for the Loved must be 
 An ever-new Delight and Mystery. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Did aught of these tempestuous agitations 
 
 In irrepressible gust or Hghtning-burst 
 Perturb thy heaven of starry contemplations 
 
 In depths of moonlit quietude immerst ? 
 I long for answer ; but no meditations 
 
 Can realise those memories, all disperst 
 In such wild seething mists of joy, hope, fear : — 
 Oh, that the question now could reach thine ear ! 
 
 XXII. 
 
 But when I saw the end must come indeed, 
 
 When laggard pairs were failing from the dance, 
 
 Surely my curbless thoughts found words to plead : — 
 " Forsive, sweet Maiden ! — Time and Circumstance
 
 Bertram to the Lady Geraldine. 129 
 
 Are lightning-swift, and I must match their speed. 
 
 Believe me, that I speak in heavenly trance 
 Diviner truth than souls can reach or prove 
 When uninspired by seraph -sighted Love. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 " The Vision sways me ; I must speak or die : 
 Life of my life ! I see, I know, I feel ; 
 
 The inspiration cannot err or lie ; 
 
 Passion doth its own truth with pure fire seal ;- 
 
 God from the depths of all Eternity 
 Created us One Soul, in woe or weal. 
 
 In life and death, in union or apart : 
 
 Whisper but ' Yea/ assuring my sure heart ! 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " You tremble palUd, with the same new birth 
 Of Love, the pure eternal Seraph-child ! 
 
 Flooding with fulness all our deadly dearth, 
 Is it not strange and fierce and rapture-wild ? 
 
 I have dim memory that in yon poor earth 
 Where late I grovelled hopeless and defiled 
 
 A mortal thing called Love with doubt and pain 
 
 Is reared : scarce one his sole true Bride can cain.
 
 130 Bertram to the Lady Geraldine. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 "But time is very brief: — Shall we away 
 Into the great calm Night besprinkled o'er 
 
 With silver throbbing stars ? My Dearest, say ! 
 And yet, so rich in years is Evermore 
 
 That hurry were mean thrift : we well can say, 
 
 Who long have stayed, some few brief time-lives more; 
 
 Being so certain from this hour sublime 
 
 Of coming Union, perfect, beyond Time." 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Were such words borne exultant on my breath ? 
 
 Memory, which cannot oversoar the deep 
 That yawns between two lives in sombre death, 
 
 Nor even that 'twixt wakefulness and sleep. 
 Brings no sure tidings : yet, unmoved in faith, 
 
 Though sick with failing from that glorious steep 
 Whence all the Promised Land was seen so clear, 
 I plod Time's desert with more hope than fear. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Yes, though I now feel faint and spiritless, — 
 For when such fire of rapture burns down low 
 
 We shivering cower, unmanned by chill distress, 
 Over the embers while the bleak winds blow ;
 
 Bertram to the Lady Gcraldine. 131 
 
 With dismal dread that such rich blessedness 
 
 Will never more within our cold hearts glow ; 
 Till in the bitter dark we almost deem 
 That vanished glory a delusive dream ; — 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Yet have I even now deep confidence 
 
 In those great oracles of solemn bliss 
 Uttered so clearly to my spirit's sense 
 
 By heavenly Love who pure and perfect is ; 
 Yet must I cherish them with reverence 
 
 Though scornful voices from our world-abyss 
 Proclaim the manness of both Him and them : 
 This staff sustains, — may fruit yet crown its stem ! 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Perchance we never more till death shall meet : 
 You dwell on far high places of the earth, 
 
 'Midst well-befitting pomp ; beneath your feet 
 I labour humbly, not assured from dearth, — 
 
 The hard-won bread itself most bitter-sweet. 
 Were I your peer in wealth and worldly birth 
 
 You still might justly scorn my love and me ; 
 
 Yet none the less must I live loving Thee.
 
 133 Bertram to the Lady Geraldine. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 It is my fate ; your soul hath conquered mine ; 
 
 And I must be your slave and glory in 
 The bondage whether cruel or benign. 
 
 Still let me cherish hopes even here to win 
 By strenuous toil the far-off Prize divine ; 
 
 And feed on visions, not so shadowy-thin, 
 Of gaining You beneath a nobler sun 
 Should I in this life's battle be undone. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 And with my passionate love for evermore 
 
 Is blended pure and reverent gratitude ; 
 Nor can I this full sacrifice deplore 
 
 Though You should scorn me whom You have subdued, 
 Or know not what devotion I outpour. 
 
 Ah, from this timeless night what boundless good 
 Your Presence hath bestowed on me ! — no less 
 That I am stung with my unworthiness. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Dark winter ruled a desert of drear frost ; 
 
 Spring's breath stole softly o'er its ice and snow ; 
 All life revives which had so long been lost. 
 
 Trees green, flowers bloom, birds sing, and fountains flow;
 
 Bertram to the Lady Gerald'ine. 133 
 
 The realm is laughing wide from coast. 
 
 Dear May of its redemption ! while we know 
 It seemed unworthy of thy Spring-love tender, 
 That love yet fits it for full Summer splendour. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Henceforth my life shall not unearnest prove : 
 It hath an ardent aim, a glorious goal : 
 
 Numb Faith re-lives ; You from your sphere above 
 Have planted and must nourish in my soul 
 
 That priceless blessing, pure and fervent love, 
 O'er which no thought of self can have control. 
 
 If with these boons come ever-longing pain, 
 
 It shall be welcomed for the infinite gain. 
 
 xxxiv. 
 
 Be pain unnoticed in a doom like this ! 
 
 I see eyes gazing on my weary night 
 Like cold strange stars from out the world-abyss ; 
 
 They gaze with scorn or pity : but their sight 
 Is banished from my inward golden bliss, 
 
 Floating divinely in the noonday light 
 Of Thee round whom I circle — O far Sun, 
 Through mirk and shine alike the earth's true course is 
 run !
 
 ( 134 ) 
 
 THE FADELESS BOWER. 
 
 1S5S. 
 
 Athwart the gloom of haunted years, 
 Whose phantoms mock my lonely woe, 
 
 I gaze, and see through glimmering tears 
 A Vision of the Long-ago : 
 
 From out the waste verge dim and far 
 
 How purely gleams that single star ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Shine forth, sole star ! — The dear old bower, 
 
 And I therein alone with Her, 
 In that rich summer's crowning hour, 
 
 Whose quiet breathings scarcely stir 
 The woof of leaves and tendrils thin 
 Through which faint moonlight ripples in.
 
 The Fadeless Bower. 135 
 
 III, 
 
 I have this moment told my love ; 
 
 Kneeling, I clasp her hands in mine : 
 She does not speak, she does not move ; 
 
 The silent answer is divine. 
 The flood of rapture swells till breath 
 Is almost tranced in deathless death. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Had He whom, 'midst the whirlwind's roar, 
 
 That fiery chariot's living light 
 Far through the Heaven of Heavens upbore, 
 
 Consuming space with meteor-flight, 
 God's glory dazzling on his gaze, — 
 Had he then breath for prayer or praise ? 
 
 V. 
 
 The bower is very dim and still ; 
 
 But clustering in the copses near 
 Sweet nightingales impassioned thrill 
 
 The night with utterance full and clear 
 Of love and love's harmonious jars, 
 As glorious as the shining stars.
 
 1 3*5 The Fadeless Bower. 
 
 VI. 
 
 My lips still lie upon her hand, 
 
 Quivering and faint beyond the kiss ; 
 
 The heavens before my soul expand 
 Athrob with dazzling light and bliss ; 
 
 He in his fiery car sublime 
 
 Soared not more swiftly out of Time. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Behold her as she standeth there, 
 
 Breathless, with fixed awe-shadowed eyes 
 
 Beneath her moon-touched golden hair ! 
 Her spirit's pure humilities 
 
 Are trembling, half would disavow 
 
 The crown I bring to crown her brow. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Unworthy crown ; and yet her life 
 
 Was set on gaining it alone : 
 And now in triumph without strife 
 
 Led upward to the queenly throne. 
 She falters from the sceptre's weight, 
 While flushed with high-wrought pride elate.
 
 The Fadeless Bower. 137 
 
 IX. 
 
 The simple folds of white invest 
 
 Her noble form, as purest snow 
 Some far and lovely mountain-crest 
 
 Faint-flushed with all the dawn's first glow ; 
 Alone, resplendent, lifted high 
 Into the clear vast breathless sky. 
 
 The bower is hushed and still as death ; 
 
 The moonlight melting through its gloom 
 Is mingled with the languid breath 
 
 Of roses steeped in liquid bloom, 
 That bare their inmost hearts this night 
 To drink in deep the dew and light. 
 
 XL 
 
 So Thou, my Rose, my perfect Queen 
 Of Beauty, float and breathe, nor move, 
 
 In this enchanted air serene, 
 Unfolding all thy heart to love ; 
 
 Drink in this dew of heavenly wine, 
 
 This light which is a soul divine.
 
 T38 The Fadeless Bower. 
 
 XII. 
 
 The Vision fades ... ah, woe, woe, woe ! — 
 While dreamed that summer's sun-tranced hours 
 
 The ghastly Hand was creeping slow 
 
 Through all their maze of leaves and flowers, 
 
 And tore my Rose off when her breath 
 
 Was sweetest : O remorseless Death ! — 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Could that one hour have been drawn out 
 Until the end of Time's whole range ! 
 
 We rapt away, so sphered about, 
 
 And made eternal, free from change ; 
 
 In heart and mind, in soul and frame 
 
 Preserved for evermore the same ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The life of that great town afar 
 
 Would breathe its murmur vast and dim, 
 With all the multitudinous jar 
 
 Sublimed into a solemn hymn, 
 Mysterious, soothing, evermore. 
 As heaven may here our harsh Life-roar :
 
 The Fadeless Bower. 139 
 
 XV. 
 
 The overtrailing passion-flower 
 
 Gaze ever on the starry sky 
 With all its constellated bower 
 
 Of large and starlike blooms, which lie 
 Amidst their golden fruit beset 
 With leaves and tendrils dark-dew-wet : 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And I for ever kneel there still, 
 With lifted eyes whose yearning sight 
 
 Could never drink its perfect fill 
 
 From those dear eyes of love and light, 
 
 In which to me thy thoughts shine clear 
 
 As yon high stars in yon blue sphere : 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Entranced above the worded Yes, 
 
 All flushed and pale with rapturous shame, 
 In that dim moonlit quietness 
 
 You stand for evermore the same, 
 Fairer than heaven, the Queen who now 
 Is trembling as I crown her brow.
 
 HO The Fadeless Bower. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Some ardent Seraph from above, 
 Some Angel ever growing young, 
 
 Would find this Eden of our love, 
 Sequestered all the worlds among ; 
 
 With silent pinions gliding bright 
 
 Into our calm enchanted night. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 And, ushered by the chant divine 
 Of yonder deathless nightingales, 
 
 Through all the tree-shades reach our shrine ; 
 And softly drawing back the veils 
 
 Of foliage let some fuller stream 
 
 Of moonlight bathe thy beauty's dream. 
 
 XX. 
 
 And gazing long, until his form 
 
 Might seem as fixed in trance as we, 
 
 Serenely perfect breathing warm. 
 Would sigh a sigh of mystery. 
 
 Half vague regrets, half longings sweet ; 
 
 Then slow with lingering plumes retreat
 
 The Fadeless Bower. 141 
 
 XXL 
 
 Murmuring, " It is a goddess born, 
 But left with mortals from her birth, 
 
 None knew that she was thus forlorn ; 
 
 Till this one youth of all the earth, 
 
 Inspired to see her as divine, 
 
 Knelt down in reverence at her shrine. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 " Her native instincts roused to life 
 Leap up to claim the worship due, 
 
 Are breaking with imperial strife 
 
 The bonds of earthly custom through ; 
 
 Yet still remains some sweet half-fear 
 
 At entrance to the unknown sphere. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 " But, oh, what glory, triumph, bliss, 
 The sudden revelation wrought ! 
 
 What power had that young mortal's kiss 
 To thrill her thus beyond all thought ? 
 
 She shares with him the Heavenly throne 
 
 Which he hath made indeed her own.
 
 r42 The Fadeless Bower. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " And hence while every other earth 
 Rolls circling through the vast abyss 
 
 With interchange of death and birth, 
 And night and day, and woe and bliss, 
 
 One sphere is kept for these alway 
 
 Above all growth and all decay. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 *' And here she blooms, a budded rose, 
 Whose crimson fire of life new-lit 
 
 Is ever fervent to unclose 
 
 The many-petalled wealth of it. 
 
 Embalmed from reaching to that prime 
 
 Which fades so soon in sultry Time. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 " New dawn, fair fairer than the noon ; 
 
 Hope, kinglier than thy crowning day ; 
 Young spring's green promise fresh and boon. 
 
 No wealthiest summer's fruit can pay; 
 Dreamland, so rich beyond Hfe's bounds ; 
 Silence, more sweet than all sweet sounds !
 
 The Fadeless Bower. 143 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " While he who once was mean and poor 
 Is climbing strenuous toward the throne, 
 
 He breathes a loftier joy be sure 
 
 Than when the prize is made his own, 
 
 When reft of hope and valiant strife 
 
 He paces lordly-level life. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 " O happy bud, for ever young, 
 
 For ever just about to blow ! 
 O happy love, upon whose tongue 
 
 The Yes doth ever trembling grow ! 
 O happiest Twain, whose deathless bower 
 Embalms you in life's crowning hour ! " . . 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 The Seraph-murmurs die out low, 
 As fades the Vision, fades the Bower. 
 
 The bower has faded long ago ; 
 The roses and the passion-flower 
 
 Have rotted in the sodden mould ; 
 
 The new place quite forgets the old.
 
 144 The Fadeless Bower 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Ah, Alice, if I dream and dream, 
 What else is left me in this life ? 
 
 New faces all about me teem, 
 
 New hopes and woes and loves are rife 
 
 I overlived my own self, Dear, 
 
 In lingering when you left me here. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 And so my heart must soar away 
 To where alone its treasure is : 
 
 Despite my dream that we should stay 
 Entranced in unfulfilling bless, 
 
 What fiery longings burn my breast 
 
 To reach, to gain, to be possessed ! 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Then fade, dim dream ! and Sorrow, cease ! 
 
 While I can trust, where'er you be. 
 That you are waiting my release 
 
 To live out to its depth with me. 
 In bowers or dens through noble spheres 
 The love suspended all these years.
 
 ( H5 ) 
 
 GARIBALDI REVISITING 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 1S64. 
 
 I. 
 
 This day all the eyes of our millions 
 
 Are fixed on the south, where the light 
 Of the waves of the Channel laughs fearless 
 
 Round the thunder-clouds stored with our might ; 
 This day the great heart of the people 
 
 Is throbbing expectant, upstirred 
 By a pride and a joy and a sorrow 
 
 The voice of those thunders shoijld word. 
 
 II. 
 
 For what is this mighty heart glowing ? 
 
 For what do these earnest eyes scan ? 
 It glows for a hero and martyr, 
 
 They look for a patriot, a Man ; 
 
 K
 
 14-6 Garibaldi Revisiting England. 
 
 For a hero supreme in the battle, 
 A martyr no griefs could subdue, 
 
 A patriot the soul of his country, 
 A man to the people all-true : 
 
 III. 
 
 For him who as grandly defended 
 
 As grandly Mazzini ruled Rome ; 
 For him who gave Sicily, Naples, 
 
 To those who had bartered his home ; 
 For him who on sad Aspromonte 
 
 Was pierced by a countryman's ball, — 
 Tu Brute ! this Caesar worst-wounded 
 
 In soul yet forgiveth it all. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh, let us, we people of England, 
 
 We millions the worst and the best. 
 Give welcome true, solemn, and thoughtful, 
 
 Befitting the worth of our guest. 
 All titles and wealth which the monarch 
 
 Could proffer this man is above ; 
 The people alone can reward him 
 
 In his own golden coin, loyal love.
 
 Garibaldi Revisiti7?g England. 147 
 
 Nor let us forget in the shoutings 
 
 And feasts of the triumph they plan, 
 That he comes not alone in his glory ; 
 
 The Nation is here in the Man : 
 Enceladus Italy, risen 
 
 With earthquake, but pausing distrest ; 
 The left arm still brutally fettered. 
 
 And Peter's rock crushing the breast. 
 
 Evviva a te, magnanimo 
 Ribelle ! A la tua fronte 
 
 PiCl sacri lauri crebbero 
 Le selve d' Aspromonte. 
 
 Chi vinse te ? Deh, cessino 
 
 I vanti disonesti : 
 Te vinse amor di patria, 
 
 E nel cader vincesti. 
 
 Ewiva a te, magnanimo 
 Ribelle e precursore ! 
 
 II culto a te de' posteri, 
 Con te d' Italia h il cuore ! 
 
 lo bevo a '1 di che fausto 
 L' eterna Roma schiuda 
 
 Non a' Seidni ignobili 
 A i Tigellini a i Giuda,
 
 148 Europe's Rouge et Noir. 
 
 Si a liberty che vindice 
 
 Deir umano pensiero 
 Spezzi la falsa cattedra 
 
 Del successor di Piero. 
 
 Sii maledetto : — e d' odio 
 
 Con inesauste brame 
 I fratricidi il premano 
 
 Onde Aspromonte h infame. 
 
 Odio di dei Prometeo, 
 
 Arridi a' figli tuoi : 
 Solcati anche dal fulmine, 
 
 Pur r avvenir slam noi. 
 
 GiosuE Carducci : DoJ>o Aspromonte. 
 
 EUROPE'S ROUGE ET NOIR. 
 
 {After Menta7ia.) 
 
 There has been a slight run on the black, we know ; 
 
 But those who have thereby won, 
 Lost very much more not long ago, 
 And, their desperate martingales clearly show, 
 
 Will lose all before they've done.
 
 ( 149 ) 
 
 THE JOLLY VETERANS. 
 
 J857. 
 
 I. 
 
 Come rest, come rest, my leal old friends, 
 Loll at ease round the old round table ; 
 
 Now the sun descends and our duty ends, 
 We'll have mirth as long as we're able. 
 
 Chorus. 
 Then for all the rich blood we have ever outpoured 
 
 Let us pour in the red wine fairly ; 
 Though our hands have warred till weak for the sword, 
 
 They can wield round the wine-cup rarely. 
 
 II. 
 
 We have marched, we have fought, in the sweltry sun 
 
 All the day since reveille's blaring ; 
 Now the march is done and the field is won 
 
 We've a right to rest and good faring. 
 
 Then for all, &c.
 
 150 The Jolly Veterans. 
 
 III. 
 See a rich warm light in the west still glows 
 
 Though the sun has sunk before us, 
 Though the grey shades close on the earth's repose, 
 And the black night gathers o'er us. 
 
 Then for all, &c. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Though our voices break as our songs we troll, 
 Though our eyes and our limbs fail weary, 
 
 Let each trusty soul have his pipe and his bowl, 
 And the last few hours shall be cheery. 
 
 Then for all, &c. 
 
 V. 
 
 Till the thick night wraps both the vale and the steep 
 Where through bad luck and good we fought fair, boys ; 
 
 Till we sink in the deep, in the long still sleep. 
 Which shall drown all troubles and care, boys. 
 
 Then for all, &c. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And what reck we, when that sleep is out, 
 
 What may come with the dawn of the morrow ? 
 
 We shall rise fresh and stout, with the old hearts, no doubt. 
 To confront toil and danger and sorrow. 
 
 Then for all, &c.
 
 ( 151 ) 
 
 A CAPSTAN CHORUS. 
 
 1857- 
 
 I. 
 
 Rolling along, bowling along, 
 
 Over the seas we go ; 
 And we heave up our anchor singing our song, 
 
 With a Yeo, cheery men, yeo ! 
 
 Yeo, cheery men, yeo ! 
 
 II. 
 
 The winds and the waves they will beat us about, 
 
 And the rocks lie a-waiting below ; 
 But our yards they are trim and our timbers are stout ; 
 
 Sing a Yeo, cheery men, yeo ! 
 
 Yeo, cheery men, yeo ! 
 
 in. 
 
 Monstrous and terrible growls the old sea 
 When storms make his white rage grow ; 
 
 Grim death lurks then in his heart for we ; 
 But Yeo, cheery men, yeo ! 
 
 Yeo, cheery men, yeo !
 
 153 A Capstan Chorus. 
 
 IV. 
 
 For well are we nursed on his broad boon breast 
 
 When his rage shall overblow, 
 Fed full of the free bold life which is best ; 
 
 Sing a Yeo, cheery men, yeo ! 
 
 Yeo, cheery men, yeo ! 
 
 V. 
 
 How he swings him along 'neath his ocean of air 
 
 In his great heart's careless flow ! 
 How we win his love when his wrath we dare ! 
 
 Sing a Yeo, cheery men, yeo ! 
 
 Yeo, cheery men, yeo ! 
 
 VI, 
 
 Rolling along, bowling along, 
 
 Over the seas we go j 
 And we heave up our anchor singing our song, 
 
 With a Yeo, cheery men, yeo ! 
 
 Yeo, cheer)' men, yeo !
 
 ( 153 ) 
 
 POLYCRATES ON WATERLOO 
 BRIDGE. 
 
 i86s. 
 
 Let no mortals dare to be 
 Happier in their lives than we : 
 Thus the jealous gods decree. 
 
 This decree was never heard, 
 Never by their lips averred, 
 Yet on high stands registered. 
 
 I have read it, and I fear 
 All the gods above, my Dear, 
 All must envy us two here. 
 
 Let us, then, propitiate 
 
 These proud satraps of sole Fate ; 
 
 Our hearts' wealth is all too great.
 
 154 Poly crates on IVaterloo Bridge. 
 
 Say, what rich and cherished thing 
 Can I to the river fling 
 As a solemn offering ? 
 
 O beloved Meerschaum Pipe, 
 
 Whose pink bloom would soon be ripe. 
 
 Must thou be the chosen type ? 
 
 Cloud-compeller ! Foam o' the Sea, 
 Whence rose Venus fair and free 
 On some poet's reverie ! 
 
 In the sumptuous silken-lined 
 Case where thou hast lain enshrined 
 Thou must now a coffin find ! 
 
 And, to drag thee surely down, 
 
 Lo ! I tie my last half-crown : 
 
 We shall have to walk through town. 
 
 Penny toll is paid, and thus 
 All the bridge is free to us ; 
 But no cab, nor even a 'bus !
 
 Polycratcs on Waterloo Bridge. 155 
 
 Far I fling thee through the gloom ; 
 Sink into thy watery tomb, 
 O thou consecrate to Doom ! 
 
 May no sharp police, while they track 
 Spoils thrown after some great "crack," 
 Ever, ever bring thee back ! 
 
 No mudlarkers, who explore 
 
 Every ebb the filthy floor, 
 
 Bring thee to the day once more ! 
 
 No sleek cook — I spare the wish ; 
 Dead dogs, cats, and suchlike fish, 
 Surely are not yet a dish ? . . . 
 
 Gods ! the dearest, as I wis. 
 Of my treasures offered is ; 
 Pardon us our heavenly bliss ! 
 
 What Voice murmurs full of spleen ? 
 
 Not that Pipe^ hut Ssss ! how mean 
 
 All the gods have ever been !
 
 ( 15^ ) 
 
 SHAMELESS. 
 
 Kew Gardens. 
 1865. 
 
 That irreverent scoundrel grinned as he passed \ 
 
 And perhaps we did look silly ! 
 As I on you those sheep's-eyes cast, 
 
 Which you cast back willy-nilly : 
 
 While both my hands patted your dear little hand, 
 
 As if in a fit of abstraction ; 
 And you let it lie at their command, 
 
 Quite unaware of the action ! 
 
 A deaf mute, say, for the first time sees 
 
 A youth and a damsel dancing, 
 With their bows, twirls, shuffles, and one-two-threes, 
 
 Retreating and advancing.
 
 Shameless. 157 
 
 He hears not the music, he finds no cause 
 
 For such bewildering antic ; 
 He thinks the poor creatures obey no laws, 
 
 But are certainly daft or frantic. 
 
 So one who has felt not the love which rules 
 
 And stirs, the harmonious passion, 
 Must deem us lovers demented fools 
 
 To act in so queer a fashion. 
 
 I have heard that this theme in the assonant rhyme 
 Has been sung with a beauty entrancing : 
 
 The Spaniards have ever been sublime 
 In passionate love and dancing.
 
 ( ^58 ) 
 
 THE FIRE THAT FILLED 
 MY HEART OF OLD. 
 
 1864. 
 
 I. 
 
 The fire that filled my heart of old 
 
 Gave lustre while it burned ; 
 Now only ashes grey and cold 
 
 Are in its silence urned. 
 Ah ! better was the furious flame, 
 
 The splendour with the smart : 
 I never cared for the singer's fame, 
 
 But, oh ! for the singer's heart 
 Once more — 
 
 The burning fulgent heart ! 
 
 II. 
 
 No love, no hate, no hope, no fear, 
 No anguish and no mirth ; 
 
 Thus life extends from year to year, 
 A flat of sullen dearth.
 
 The Fire that Filled my Heart of Old. 159 
 
 Ah ! life's blood creepeth cold and tame, 
 
 Life's thought plays no new part : 
 I never cared for the singer's fame, 
 
 But, oh ! for the singer's heart 
 Once more — 
 
 The bleeding passionate heart !
 
 ( i6o ) 
 
 WITHERED LEAVES. 
 
 I. 
 
 Let the roses lie, dear, 
 
 Let them lie ; 
 They are all thrown by, dear. 
 All thrown by : 
 What should they do now but quickly die ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Yester morn they flourished 
 
 Fresh and fair ; 
 Dew and sunlight nourished, 
 
 Bloomed they there. 
 Blushing as their sweetness felt the air. 
 
 III. 
 
 Yester eve he tore them 
 
 From the tree ; 
 Stars that ghmmered o'er them. 
 Two or three, 
 Set not ere they perished, woe is me !
 
 Withered Leaves. i6i 
 
 IV. 
 
 Scarcely seem they dead yet — 
 
 Death is new ; 
 See the petals red yet, 
 Scent and dew, 
 All as when in life they blushing grew. 
 
 V. 
 
 Touch them yet I dare not 
 
 While they show 
 As if dead they were not ; 
 Ah ! I know 
 Dreams of life in death but madden woe. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Let them lie and wither, 
 
 As is right ; 
 I may then steal hither 
 
 In the night ; 
 Find them wan and shrivelled in death's blight ; 
 
 VII. 
 
 Gather each leaf slowly 
 
 From its nook ; 
 Hoard them up as holy 
 In the Book 
 Wherein Memory now for Hope must look. 
 
 L
 
 ( 1^2 ) 
 
 THE CYPRESS AND THE ROSES. 
 
 185S. 
 
 Roses and roses year by year 
 Do I plant and cherish here, 
 With many a wistful sigh and tear, 
 Cradling new in the self-same bier 
 
 Where the dead be. 
 Hope and care and love betrayed ! 
 Blighted buds, they all, all fade 
 In the constant deadly shade 
 
 Of this cypress tree. 
 
 One black cypress shade will blight 
 Myriads of roses of delight ; 
 One stern cypress will outlast 
 Ages of roses withering fast. 
 
 Too well I see. 
 What is left me now to do ? 
 What, but sink at the dark root too ; 
 Let the baleful gloom and rue 
 
 Kill also me.
 
 ( i63 ) 
 
 MEETING AGAIN. 
 
 i860. 
 
 I. 
 Your eyes were burning with wild love and woe ; 
 
 They seared my inmost heart : 
 We knew, we knew too well that I must go, 
 
 Yet could not bear to part 
 
 11. 
 
 We did not blame each other ; that worst gall 
 
 Of common sin was spared ; 
 Nor vindicate ourselves : confessing all, 
 
 In silence each despaired. 
 
 III. 
 One yearning overwhelmed all strength and hope,- 
 
 That then and there we might 
 Sink down, embracing, under heaven's cope, 
 
 Engulfed in death's deep night. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And now again, after long bitter years, 
 We are allowed to meet,
 
 1 54 Meeting Again. 
 
 And mingle henceforth all our sighs and tears 
 While these two hearts shall beat : 
 
 V. 
 
 I from that fearful world where I was cast 
 
 Among the multitude, 
 To expiate the inexpiable Past 
 
 By constant doing good : 
 
 VI. 
 
 You from the sterner solitary life, 
 
 By woe and sin possessed, 
 And waging with them constant deadly strife 
 
 Within thine own poor breast. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Ah ! can you really love me, whom you know 
 
 So weak and foul of yore ? 
 Dear heart ! / feel that evil long-ago 
 
 But makes me love you more. 
 
 VIII, 
 
 Yet still that longing almost swayeth me, — 
 That we should sink down deep, 
 
 And side by side, from life's sore burthen free, 
 Sleep death's eternal sleep.
 
 ( i65 ) 
 
 TWO SONNETS. 
 
 i860. 
 
 I. 
 
 " Why are your songs all wild and bitter-sad 
 
 As funeral dirges with the orphans' cries ? 
 Each night since first the world was made hath had 
 
 A sequent day to laugh it down the skies. 
 Chant us a glee to make our hearts rejoice, 
 
 Or seal in silence this unmanly moan." 
 My friend, I have no power to rule my voice : 
 
 A spirit lifts me where I lie alone, 
 And thrills me into song by its own laws ; 
 
 That which I feel, but seldom know, indeed 
 Tempering the melody it could not cause. 
 
 The bleeding heart cannot for ever bleed 
 Inwardly solely : on the wan lips too 
 
 Dark blood will bubble ghastly into view.
 
 1 66 Two Sonnets. 
 
 II. 
 
 Striving to sing glad songs, I but attain 
 
 Wild discords sadder than Grief's saddest tune ; 
 
 As if an owl with his harsh screech should strain 
 To over-gratulate a thrush of June. 
 
 The nightingale upon its thorny spray- 
 Finds inspiration in the sullen dark ; 
 
 The kindling dawn, the world-wide joyous day 
 Are inspiration to the soaring lark ; 
 
 The seas are silent in the sunny calm. 
 
 Their anthem-surges in the tempest boom ; 
 
 The skies outroll no solemn thunder-psalm 
 
 Till they have clothed themselves with clouds of 
 gloom. 
 
 My mirth can laugh and talk, but cannot sing ; 
 
 My grief finds harmonies in everything.
 
 ( ^67 ) 
 
 A SONG OF SIGHING. 
 
 j868. 
 
 Would some little joy to-day 
 
 Visit us, heart ! 
 Could it but a moment stay, 
 
 Then depart. 
 With the flutter of its wings 
 Stirring sense of brighter things. 
 
 II. 
 
 Like a butterfly astray 
 
 In a dark room ; 
 Telling :— Outside there is day, 
 
 Sweet flowers bloom, 
 Birds are singing, trees are green. 
 Runnels ripple silver sheen.
 
 1 68 A Song of Sighing. 
 
 III. 
 
 Heart ! we now have been so long 
 
 Sad without change, 
 Shut in deep from shine and song, 
 
 Nor can range ; 
 It would do us good to know 
 That the world is not all woe. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Would some little joy to-day 
 
 Visit us, heart ! 
 Could it but a moment stay, 
 
 Then depart, 
 With the lustre of its wings 
 Lighting dreams of happy things. 
 
 Oh sad my heart !
 
 ( 1^9 ) 
 
 "ALLACE! THAT SAMYN SWEIT 
 
 FACE ! " -" 
 
 iS6s. 
 
 I. 
 
 " Allace ! that samyn svveit face ! " 
 
 Bitter tears have drowned the shine 
 
 Wont to laugh in azure eyne ; 
 
 Fear hath blanched the laughing lips, 
 And they tremble trying to speak ; 
 
 Pain hath cast a wan ecHpse 
 On the round and rosy cheek ; 
 
 Grief hath greyed the locks ; and how 
 
 Care hath wrinkled that smooth brow ! 
 " Allace ! that samyn sweit face ! " 
 
 Sweet then, yet sweeter now ! 
 
 * " In 1549 was printed at St. Andrew's a curious work entitled 
 ' Vedderburn's Complainte of Scotlande,' in which are preserved the 
 titles of no less than thirty-seven songs." — The Book of Scottish Song, by 
 Alex. Whitelaw : Preface, p. v. Among the thirty-seven titles is this 
 most pathetic one, "Allace ! that samyn sweit face."
 
 170 '^ ^llace I that Samyn Siveit Face!" 
 
 II. 
 
 " AUace ! that samyn sweit face ! " 
 
 Eyes have lost the light of youth, 
 
 But have kept their loving truth ; 
 
 Lips that tremble while they speak 
 Speak the words that ravish me ; 
 
 And the forpined hollow cheek, 
 Oh, it breaks my heart to see ! 
 
 Hair yet witnesseth a vow ; 
 
 Loyalty is on the brow : 
 " Allace ! that samyn sweit face ! " 
 
 Sweet then, yet sweetest now ! 
 
 III. 
 
 " Allace ! that samyn sweit face ! " 
 
 Could one kindle up those eyes, 
 
 Think you, with a love-surprise ? 
 
 Could a rain of kisses turn 
 
 Those poor lips to bloom once more ? 
 
 Would those wan cheeks swell and burn, 
 Fed with joys of heretofore ? 
 
 Would caressing hands allow 
 
 Not a furrow on that brow ? 
 " Allace ! that samyn sweit face ! " 
 
 Dear then, yet dearest now !
 
 ( 171 ) 
 
 DAY. 
 
 1866. 
 
 Waking one morning 
 In a pleasant land, 
 By a river flowing 
 Over golden sand : — 
 
 Whence flow ye, waters, 
 O'er your golden sand ? 
 We come flowing 
 From the Silent Land. 
 
 Whither flow ye, waters, 
 O'er your golden sand ? 
 We go flowing 
 To the Silent Land. 
 
 And what is this fair realm ? 
 A grain of golden sand 
 In the great darkness 
 Of the Silent Land.
 
 ( ^72 ) 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 1864. 
 
 He cried out through the night 
 "Where is the light? 
 Shall nevermore 
 Open Heaven's door? 
 Oh, I am left 
 Lonely, bereft ! " 
 
 He cried out through the night : 
 It spread vaguely white, 
 With its ghost of a moon 
 Above the dark swoon 
 Of the earth lying chill. 
 Breathless, grave-still. 
 
 He cried out through the night : 
 His voice in its might
 
 Night. 173 
 
 Rang forth far and far, 
 And then like a star 
 Dwindled from sense 
 In the Immense. 
 
 He cried out through the night 
 No answering light, 
 No syllabled sound ; 
 Beneath and around 
 A long shuddering thrill, 
 Then all again still.
 
 C "74 ) 
 
 MATER TENEBRARUM. 
 
 i8s9- 
 
 I. 
 
 In the endless nights, from my bed, where sleepless in 
 
 anguish I lie, 
 I startle the stillness and gloom with a bitter and strong 
 
 cry: 
 O Love ! O Beloved long lost ! come down from thy 
 
 Heaven above, 
 For my heart is wasting and dying in uttermost famine 
 
 for love ! 
 Come down for a moment ! oh, come ! Come serious and 
 
 mild 
 And pale, as thou wert on this earth, thou adorable 
 
 Child ! 
 Or come as thou art, with thy sanctitude, triumph and 
 
 bliss.
 
 Mater Tenelrarum. 175 
 
 For a garment of glory about thee ; and give me one 
 
 kiss, 
 One tender and pitying look of thy tenderest eyes, 
 One word of solemn assurance and truth that the soul 
 
 with its love never dies ! 
 
 II. 
 
 In the endless nights, from my bed, where sleepless in 
 
 frenzy I lie, 
 I cleave through the crushing gloom with a bitter and 
 
 deadly cry : 
 Oh ! where have they taken my Love from our Eden of 
 
 bliss on this earth, 
 Which now is a frozen waste of sepulchral and horrible 
 
 dearth ? 
 Have they killed her indeed ? is her soul as her body, 
 
 which long 
 Has mouldered away in the dust where the foul worms 
 
 throng ? 
 O'er what abhorrent Lethes, to what remotest star, 
 Is she rapt away from my pursuit through cycles and 
 
 systems far? 
 She is dead, she is utterly dead ; for her life would hear 
 
 and speed 
 To the wild imploring cry of my heart that cries in its 
 
 dreadful need.
 
 1^6 Mater Tenelraritm. 
 
 III. 
 
 In the endless nights, on my bed, where sleeplessly 
 
 brooding I lie, 
 I burden the heavy gloom with a bitter and weary sigh : 
 No hope in this worn-out world, no hope beyond the 
 
 tomb ; 
 No living and loving God, but blind and stony Doom. 
 Anguish and grief and sin, terror, disease and despair : 
 Why throw not off this life, this garment of torture I 
 
 wear, 
 And go down to sleep in the grave in everlasting rest ? 
 What keeps me yet in this life, what spark in my frozen 
 
 breast ? 
 A fire of dread, a light of hope, kindled, O Love, by thee ; 
 For thy pure and gentle and beautiful soul, it must 
 
 immortal be.
 
 ( ^77 ) 
 
 A REQUIEM. 
 
 Thou hast lived in pain and woe, 
 Thou hast lived in grief and fear ; 
 Now thine heart can dread no blow, 
 Now thine eyes can shed no tear : 
 
 Storms round us shall beat and rave ; 
 
 Thou art sheltered in the grave. 
 
 Thou for long, long years hast borne, 
 Bleeding through Life's wilderness, 
 Heavy loss and wounding scorn ; 
 Now thine heart is burdenless : 
 
 Vainly rest for ours we crave ; 
 
 Thine is quiet in the grave. 
 
 We must toil with pain and care, 
 We must front tremendous Fate, 
 We must fight with dark Despair : 
 Thou dost dwell in solemn state, 
 
 Couched triumphant, calm and brave. 
 
 In the ever-holy grave. 
 
 M
 
 ( J78 ) 
 
 PROMETHEUS. 
 
 {After Goethe.') 
 
 Overcast thy heaven, Zeus, 
 
 With thunder-clouds ; 
 
 And practise, like a boy 
 
 Beheading thistles, 
 
 On broad oaks and mountain-tops ; 
 
 You must yet leave me 
 
 My solid earth, 
 
 And my hut, which you built not, 
 
 And my hearth, whose glow 
 
 You envy me. 
 
 I know nothing poorer 
 
 Under the sun than you gods ! 
 
 Miserably feeds 
 
 On tribute of sacrifice 
 
 And breath of prayer,
 
 Prometheus. 179 
 
 Your Majesty ; 
 And would starve were not 
 Children and beggars 
 The fools of hope. 
 
 When I was a child, 
 
 And knew not how to help myself, 
 
 I raised to the sun my erring glance, 
 
 As if on high had been 
 
 An ear to hear my plaint, 
 
 A heart, like my own, 
 
 To compassionate the distressed. 
 
 Who helped me 
 
 Against the Titanic insolence ? 
 
 Who delivered me from death ? 
 
 From slavery? 
 
 Hast thou not all thyself accomplished, 
 
 Inviolate glowing heart ? 
 
 And didst glow, young and good, and duped, 
 
 Grateful for deliverance 
 
 To the Sleeper above there ? 
 
 I honour thee ? Wherefore ? 
 Hast thou ever soothed the pangs 
 Of the oppressed ?
 
 1 80 Prometheus. 
 
 Hast thou ever dried the tears 
 
 Of the afflicted ? 
 
 Have I not been forged to manhood '' 
 
 By Time the omnipotent 
 
 And eternal Destiny, 
 
 My Lords and thine ? 
 
 Didst thou really think 
 
 I should hate life, 
 
 And flee to the deserts, 
 
 Because not all 
 
 My dream-blossoms ripened ? 
 
 Here sit I, form men 
 
 After my image, 
 
 A race resembling me. 
 
 To suffer, to weep, 
 
 To enjoy and rejoice. 
 
 Careless of you. 
 
 As I myself ! 
 
 * Forged, in the ongma\. geschmiedet , smitk-ed , wrought with fire and 
 hard hammering ; a term magnificently correct.
 
 ( i8i ) 
 
 FROM THE '-WEST-OSTLICHER DIVANS 
 
 Lady, say what mean those whispers ? 
 What so softly moves your lips ? 
 Whispering to your own self there, 
 Sweeter than the sweet wine sips ! 
 Think you to your mouth's twin sisters 
 Thus to draw another pair ! 
 
 I will kiss ! will kiss ! I murmured. 
 
 Look ! how in the doubtful darkness 
 All in bloom the branches glow ; 
 Downward glitters star on star ; 
 Greening through the leafage low 
 Rubies by the thousand sparkle : 
 Yet from all thy soul is far. 
 
 I will kiss ! will kiss ! I murmured.
 
 l82 
 
 From the " West-Ostlicher Divan." 
 
 Even thus, afar, thy lover 
 Proveth now the bitter-sweet, 
 Feeleth an unbUssful bhss. 
 Solemnly you vowed to greet 
 At the full moon, greet each other ; 
 Now the very moment is. 
 
 I will kiss ! will kiss ! I murmur.
 
 ( ^83 ) 
 
 [After Heine.] 
 
 CHILDHOOD 
 
 ( To his Sister.) 
 
 My child, we both were children, 
 
 And merry days we saw, 
 We used to creep into the fowl-house 
 
 And hide there under the straw. 
 
 And then we set up a crowing ; 
 
 The people who passed on the road 
 Cock-a-doodle-doo ! — they thought it 
 
 Was really a cock that crowed. 
 
 The cases that lay in our courtyard, 
 We fitted them up with care ; 
 
 And made a magnificent mansion, 
 And lived together there.
 
 184 Childhood. 
 
 And the cat of our next-door neighbour 
 
 Came to visit us too ; 
 We gave our best bows and courtseys, 
 
 With compUments fine and new. 
 
 As to her health we asked her, 
 With friendly and earnest air ; 
 
 Many old cats have we since asked 
 The like with the like deep care. 
 
 And often we sat discussing, 
 
 As if we were old and grey ; 
 Bemoaning how things were better, 
 
 Better indeed, in our day. 
 
 How Love, Truth, Faith had vanished, 
 
 And left the world all bad ; 
 How the price of coffee was shameful, 
 
 And money was not to be had ! . . . 
 
 Past, past, are the sports of our childhood, 
 
 And all rolls past in sooth, — 
 The World, and Time, and Money, 
 
 And Faith, and Love, and Truth. 
 
 PRINTED BY BALLANTYNK, HANSON AND CO. 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON
 
 232 tf)C same ^ut|)or. 
 
 THE CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT, 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 London : REEVES & TURNER, 196 Strand. 
 Price 5 J. ; large paper copies, los. 
 
 OPINIONS OP THE PRESS. 
 
 "It is at least ten years since a real unmistakable poet has revealed 
 himself in England. Mr. Swinburne's ' Atalanta ' was published in 
 1865, Mr. Morris's 'Jason ' in 1868, Mr. Rossetti's poems were pub- 
 lished for the world in 1870, and even then the most precious of 
 them were not exactly new. A year ago one might have said, with- 
 out any disrespect to many accomplished writers whose work is 
 often praiseworthy and sometimes enjoyable, that one lost little 
 or nothing in neglecting any living English poet except the three 
 already named and Mr. Tennyson and Mr. Browning, whose fame 
 has been safe and sealed these twenty years. 
 
 "A pessimist might think it of evil omen that we should have had 
 to wait so long for a new poet ; of worse omen that he should be a 
 pessimist himself, who dedicates his work ' to Giacomo Leopardi, 
 the younger brother of Dante ; ' of worse omen still that he should 
 be a relapsed pessimist who has struggled into daylight and gone 
 back into the darkness. . . . Even Lamartine hardly imagined that 
 he was ' Raphael,' and Mr. Thomson, a manlier and simpler writer, 
 knows that he never reigned in the ' Castle of Indolence ' ; but after 
 all, nothing tells us so much of the young Lamartine as ' Raphael,' 
 and we pity the denizen of the ' City of Dreadful Night ' more 
 when we recognise the gracious traits of what he must have been 
 ' nt'lla stca vita nuova'' in the 'Lord of the Castle of Indolence,' 
 written in 1859. . . . Entire originality of invention is not exactly 
 Mr. Thomson's forte. But this does not matter much ; the splendid 
 symbolism with which he invests what he borrows is all his own. 
 
 " One can trace the influence of what is sweetest and simplest in 
 Browning, of what is richest in ' Maud,' as well as the influence of
 
 Heine, in two very fresh idyls of Cockaigne called ' Sunday at 
 Hampstead ' and ' Sunday up the River.' They date from 1863 to 
 1865, and open the series of the author's brightest, sanest, and most 
 varied work. What strikes one first, perhaps, is the writer's 
 absolute and courageous content witli circumstances which have a 
 sordid side to them. . . . There is the same touch of cynicism in 
 some distichs on Art, written in 1865. . . . The quatrains under 
 the same heading which come before on the thesis that passion 
 leaves no room for prettiness or skill, have more of Heine's charm 
 and subtlety than most translations of Heine, including Mr. Thom- 
 son's. . . . ' The City of Dreadful Night ' is not a poem, nor a 
 series of poems ; it seems as if the writer had intended at one time 
 to compose a continuous poem in stanzas of seven lines, like those 
 of ' Our Ladies of Death ' (except that the fifth and sixth lines are 
 always written upon double rhymes, managed with rare and 
 admirable ease), and at another had contemplated a series of poems 
 on his own experience and observations there, in which the narrative 
 should be written in stanzas of six lines, a quatrain followed by a 
 distich, while the words of other speakers are thrown into simpler 
 and more emphatic metres. The fragments of each scheme are 
 exquisitely finished ; there is no redundancy or weakness in any 
 single poem ; but the attempt to fuse two incomplete schemes is not 
 a complete success. . . .''^ — FortnigJitly RevictV. 
 
 "There can, we think, be no doubt that ' The City of Dreadful 
 Night ' contains many passages of great beauty. The impress of 
 real genius is upon it, but genius which is only likely to be appre- 
 ciated by a few. . . . He is both a scholar and a thinker. In 
 short, he writes above the heads of the multitude. In these days, 
 in proportion to the depth of his thoughts is a poet unpopular. The 
 most popular poet of the day is Longfellow. He numbers probably 
 thousands of readers, where a man like Matthew Arnold has only 
 one ; but that one, let us remember, is worth all the thousands. 
 Mr. Thomson must console himself with some such reflection. He 
 must also remember that the poet who looks on the dark side of life 
 is hardly likely to find so many readers as he who prophesies soft 
 things. . . . The public, on the other hand, like to be told that 
 nothing is more certain than their oracle, and any one who doubts 
 a single word of it is at once denounced as an Atheist. One of the 
 finest of Mr. Thomson's poems after 'The City,' is an allegory of 
 ' The Naked Goddess.' The poem is not merely marked by great 
 beauty both of thought and felicity of language, but by a quaint, 
 subtle humour, which is a characteristic of many of Mr. Thomson's 
 pieces. The most beautiful part, however, of the allegory, is the 
 incident of two little children, a boy and a girl, who come to the 
 goddess, and beg to live with her in the wood. . . . 
 
 "Another equally beautiful allegory is 'Hebe.' It tells how nature 
 offers to us all a cup of nectar to drink, but how we all of us adulterate
 
 it with poison, and are never content to drink it pure. Amongst 
 the satirical poems, let us call especial attention to ' Virtue and 
 Vice.' It might have taken for its motto Thackeray's saying, ' The 
 bad do much harm, but no one knows how much evil the good do.' 
 Lastly, the volume closes with some admirable translations of Heine, 
 with whose genius Mr. Thomson has so much in common. Let us 
 strongly recommend ' The City ' to all who are interested in the 
 great problems of existence. Our quotations will show how much 
 beauty it contains, Mr. Thomson, however, cannot well be judged 
 by quotations. His muse takes a very wide and bold sweep." — 
 Wesiminster Review. 
 
 " It is worth while, I think, to chronicle the appearance of a new 
 poet. Such I have little hesitation in pronouncing Mr. James 
 Thomson, the author of ' The City of Dreadful Night, and Other 
 Poems.' In the case of the new singer, the world has been in no 
 hurry to listen, and the works now reprinted, or, for the first time 
 given to the world, bear dates between i860 and 1875. That Mr. 
 Thomson has not the lyrical grace and tenderness of the Laureate, 
 the fervour and splendour of Mr. Swinburne, or the fine chaste 
 workmanship of Mr. Matthew Arnold, I concede. None the less 
 he is a genuine singer, and has that remarkable gift to which Rivarol 
 refers, the 'heureux pouvoir des mots qui (sillonnent) si profonde- 
 ment I'attention des hommes et ebranlent leur imagination.' The 
 famous arraignment of the powers in ' Atalanta in Calydon,' or the 
 wail in ' Felise ' is not more 
 
 ' Hopeless of the best 
 And its nugatory quest,' 
 
 than are the lines of ' Our Ladies of Death,' the poem which gives 
 its name to the volume, and many others of Mr. Thomson's com- 
 positions. I wonder if the new-comer claims kinship with his great 
 predecessor and namesake. (He died a bachelor ?) At any rate, 
 the similarity of name seems to have led the latter poet to supply 
 in the ' Lord of the Castle of Indolence,' a species of continuation 
 of the most inspired work of the earlier. Whether Mr. Thomson 
 will ever show himself an absolute high-priest of song I wait to see. 
 He has, at any rate, won admission into the temple." — Sylvanus 
 Urban in " Gentleman^ s Magazine." 
 
 Mr. W. M. Rossetti in the Life of Blake prefixed to the Aldine 
 edition of Blake's Poems, after quoting some passages from an Essay 
 on Blake, written by Mr. Thomson, says :—" This is the same 
 writer who has produced in 1874 ... an extremely remarkable 
 poem, of philosophical meaning and symbolic or visionary form, 
 named ' The City of Dreadful Night.' It was preceded three or 
 four years ago by another poem, fully as noticeable but practically 
 unknown, entitled ' Weddah and Om el Bonain,' an Oriental story 
 of passion and adverse fate."
 
 " The admirers of Leopardi, of Shelley, of Richter's ' Dream,' of 
 picturesque melancholy, sonorous despair, and the sombre philosophy 
 which finds moral consolation in Atheism — may be interested to 
 know of a really remarkable poem lately published. . . . The spirit 
 of the work is akin to that of Leopardi, but the writer (who uses the 
 signature B. V.) has thought out his philosophy of the universe in 
 more detail, and presents it by the help of wider range of illustration 
 and imagery. The versification in places recalls Shelley more 
 nearly than any other well-known author, but it is only a passing 
 resemblance of the sweet flowing cadence ; and in the greater part 
 of the poem (about 1 500 lines) the originality of the writer is as 
 unquestionable as his power. The work is called ' The City of 
 Dreadful Night,' and is simply a series of visions representing the 
 despair of minds doomed by their own constitution to revolve, 
 through a dark dream-like life, round the ruined shrines of ' dead 
 Faith, dead Love, dead Hope.' But the poetical merits of the 
 whole are quite out of proportion to the truth or morality of the 
 principal thesis." — Academy, June 6, 1874. 
 
 "The appearance of a verse-writer of real power who belongs to 
 no school, and can hardly be called a debtor to any living poet, is 
 a thing to be welcomed with something more than the attention 
 commonly given to a new volume in metre. Many of us are apt to 
 think that there is too much rhyming in the world already, and a 
 good deal of what is published is of such a kind as to confirm this 
 feeling. But any one who on the strength of this presumption 
 neglects Mr. Thomson's poems will assuredly be a loser. That his 
 book is a small and compact one, pleasant to the hand and eye, is 
 the least of its merits. We are speaking of Mr. Thomson as of a 
 new poet ; the truth is that most of the pieces in this volume are 
 dated from ten to fifteen years ago, some further back still, and 
 some few have already been published. But the scattered and 
 casual publicity of magazines is not enough for solid reputation. 
 To many lovers of poetry Mr. Thomson's work will doubtless be 
 as new as, we confess, it is to ourselves. It is well, however, to 
 bear the facts in mind. Good poetry is in itself neither the worse 
 nor the better for some years' keeping, though perhaps delay may 
 bring fitter audience. But evidence of the poet's independence 
 should not be lost. In this case it is right to note that some 
 passages, which a hasty reader might set down as typical of the 
 prevailing ' modern ' tone, were written when the public was just 
 beginning to discover Mr. Browning, and when Mr. William 
 Morris, Mr. Rossetti, and Mr. Swinburne were almost or alto- 
 gether unknown. . . . Mr. Thomson dedicates his book to the 
 memory of Leopardi, and he has certainly drunk deep of Leopardi's 
 intense pessimism. . . . The strength of the poem lies, however, 
 not in particular descriptions or episodes, nor yet in the construction 
 of the whole — unless indeed a certain want of coherence and articu-
 
 lation which we find in this be itself a designed touch of art for 
 deepening the effect of heavy gloom — but in the sustained accumu- 
 lation of thoughts and images reinforcing the dominant monotone. 
 , . . Whether this bitterly despairing mood is really the one 
 most congenial to the poet, is a matter on which we have no 
 title to be curious, nor would the inquiry be relevant to the artistic 
 merit of his work. In any case, it is not the only mood he 
 is capable of. In 'Sunday at Hampstead' and 'Sunday up the 
 River,' Mr, Thomson gives us two idyllic scenes full of brilliant 
 verse and fancy. From ' Sunday up the River ' we quote some 
 lines on a sunrise of early summer ; which, be it observed, are not 
 mere ornamental description, but have, as all true poetic descrip- 
 tion should have, their definite function in expounding the poet's 
 mind. . . . There is a power in these lines which reminds one of 
 Shelley, though there is no question of imitation. But to set them 
 off, as is their due, the lighter verse that follows ought also to be 
 quoted. Indeed, frequent transitions of tone and metre are a 
 marked feature of the poem, which is not so much a single idyll 
 as a Liederkrcis. ' The naked Goddess ' is a legend or allegory for 
 every reader to interpret as he will. To many it will seem strange, 
 to some foolish ; those who know Blake will breathe in it a familiar 
 air. Either Mr. Thomson has caught inspirations from Blake for 
 this poem (and caught them very well), or it is a singular coinci- 
 dence of poetical temper. Another piece to be specially mentioned, 
 as showing at its best Mr. Thomson's command of verse and dic- 
 tion, is 'The Lord of the Castle of Indolence.' It is dated 1859, 
 and it is strange to learn now that twenty-one years ago there was 
 among us unknown a writer who could produce such lines as 
 these. . . . We have shown as much of Mr, Thomson's poetic 
 style as can fairly be shown in the space of a review. It has the 
 first and best mark of genuine poetry, the directness and large sim- 
 plicity which seem to make discussion impossible. The words are 
 not built or driven together, but come in their places as if it were 
 the most natural thing for them to do, and they could not help it. 
 This quality of Mr. Thomson's work reminds us now and then of 
 Wordsworth, we mean in his happier vein, when he is naturally 
 and truly simple, not in the pieces where he affects a forced and 
 bald rusticity. Mr. Thomson includes in his volume some modestly 
 entitled ' Attempts at Translation from Heine.' They are very 
 good, but their interest is rather dimmed by the company in which 
 they appear. Plenty of people are always ready to translate Heine 
 more or less tolerably — and well enough, perhaps, for those who 
 cannot read the original. But such verse as that of ' The Lord of 
 the Castle of Indolence ' is not to be had to order, or to be met 
 with every day. We hope that we may one day expect from Mr. 
 Thomson, not more finished work, for that we could hardly desire, 
 but something framed on a scale and with a continuity of design 
 which shall give his powers ampler scope. " — Fall Mall Gazette.
 
 'The author has high gifts. . . . These are mainly a directness, 
 brilliance and vigour, such as we see in Ebenezer Elliott, without 
 his ill temper, and with a native melody, and a sense of beauty, 
 such as the Corn-Law Rhymer never showed. . . . This makes us 
 look forward with no small interest to Mr. Thomson's next volume." 
 — Athenaum. 
 
 "The present volume of verse is an unusually interesting one, 
 testifying, indeed, to a certain lack of range in the author's thought, 
 and to a concentration of his ideas upon certain riddles which the 
 wise indifference of the wise is apt to leave unattempted, but singu- 
 larly melodious in expression, dignified and full of meaning, and 
 bearing witness to reading as well as to meditation, . . . The 
 [leading] poem ends with two descriptively allegorical passages of 
 extreme beauty. The one is a vision of a sphinx and an angel, who 
 face each other, undergoing metamorphoses as the spectator gazes, 
 so that the angel, at first armed and winged, loses his wings, then 
 his sword, and then falls prostrate at the feet of the unchanging 
 sphinx. The other is a description of the 'Melencolia' not unworthy 
 to be inscribed as a legend under the print itself. But it is exceed- 
 ingly rare to find a volume, in which so large a number of the pieces 
 contained have a distinct and individual poetic attractiveness. . . . 
 That he has what somebody once called a fine gloomy imagination is 
 not contestable, and, fortunately, he is not always given uplo it. His 
 book, if it were ever possible to induce Englishmen to buy poetry 
 except as they buy wine— not because of its goodness, but because 
 of the name of the seller— ought to be widely read. ... On the 
 whole, the interest and attraction of the volume are of the most 
 considerable, though we cannot help wishing that Mr. Thomson 
 had read Shakespeare more, and Leopardi less." — Academy. 
 
 " ' In the Room,' a dialogue between the articles of furniture in 
 a darkened and unopened room, leading at last to the disclosure that 
 the occupant is lying dead upon the bed, having died by his own 
 hand, has a fine gradual horror, which is masterly in its way ; while 
 tlie poems entitled ' Sunday at Hampstead,' and ' Sunday up the 
 River ' strike us as being as fresh and original as anything we have 
 read for a considerable time. . . . Such songs as ' Drink ! Drink ! 
 Open your Mouth,' and ' As we Rush, as we Rush in the Train,' have 
 the best singing quality, and do no small credit to their author." — 
 Notes and Queries. 
 
 ''It is a certainty that Mr, Thomson is a poet. He is not a 
 writer of verses merely. Whoever has read this strangely powerful 
 volume must feel that it is not to be dealt with with that ever-rising 
 flood of recent verse. He is no imitator, no writer of polished lines 
 inspired by Wordsworth, or Mr. Tennyson, or Mr. Swinburne, who 
 has so much sham poetry to answer for. Here we have the note of
 
 genuine poetic feeling, and the medium of communication in the 
 most exquisitely skilful and vigorous verse. Not since the days 
 when Mr. Swinburne and Mr. Morris startled the reading world has 
 any volume called forth more decided and sterling praise than this 
 one before us. Each piece in it is dated, and it is curious to observe 
 that many of the finest poems were written before the Mr. Swinburne 
 and Mr. Morris aforesaid were known. . . . Mr. Thomson is a poet 
 of despair, a pessimist of the most determined character ; and he 
 has appropriately dedicated his volume to the Italian Leopardi (B. 
 V.'s translations of Leopardi's fine prose were a striking feature in 
 the democratic journal above mentioned), who somewhere says that 
 'all is a mystery except our grief.' The longest piece in the book, 
 'The City of Dreadful Night,' is nothing but an allegorical repre- 
 sentation of the misery and hopelessness of human life. It is frag- 
 mentary, and far from perfect as a whole ; but its constituent parts 
 are of singular beauty, and some passages need fear no comparison. 
 We only wish we could quote some of it, but it is impossible in the 
 space at our disposal to show our readers as much as shall not do 
 injustice. . . . ' The Naked Goddess ' is a fine allegory, showing 
 how they drive off the Goddess of Nature who seek to clothe her in 
 the garments of our city life. . . . One of the most beautiful for 
 wealth of imagery and symbolism, and ease of construction, is 'The 
 Lord of the Castle of Indolence.' . . . The two idylls, ' Sunday up 
 the River' and ' Sunday at Hampstead,' are grotesque and inten- 
 tionally vulgar, and at times abounding in passages of great beauty. 
 . . . Mr. Thomson is a thorough democrat and proud of his class, 
 yet his true sphere is a high one, and he returns naturally to a lofty 
 tone of keen poetic insight. The two idylls contain some of the 
 finest pieces in the volume. He has also a touching, tender little 
 poem to Mrs, Browning, which is matchless. . . . He appends to 
 his own verse what he modestly calls ' Attempts at Translation from 
 Heine.' Certainly no poem is translatable exactly from one language 
 into another ; but we think Mr. Thomson has succeeded extraor- 
 dinarily well. Those who cannot read German will never get a better 
 notion of one of Heine's little gems than from this translation. , . . 
 It is impossible to lose less of the magic of Heine's verse than 
 Mr. Thomson has. But we must now leave him. It is long since 
 we have met with such a poetic talent as his. Our only regret is 
 that it should be married to what we cannot help considering an 
 erroneous view of life. But it is ungrateful to quarrel with a writer 
 who has provided us with such an artistic treat as is afforded to us 
 by this splendid volume." — Lloyd's Weekly Times. 
 
 " Occasionally, as in 'Virtue and Vice,' Mr. Thomson is bitterly 
 defiant of conventional piety and conventional propriety ; and in 
 this mood his verse is always vigorous, though perhaps unnecessarily 
 morbid. The two finest poems in the volume — equal throughout in 
 the perfection of their workmanship and structure, and noble in the
 
 8 
 
 ideas they embody — are the ' Naked Goddess,' a splendid allegory, 
 and ' L'Ancien Regime,' which is a scathing denunciation of the 
 old Continental Monarchical system." — Scotsman, 
 
 " Some years ago extracts appeared in various newspapers from 
 a poem entitled 'The City of Dreadful Night,' which had been 
 published under the signature of 'B. V.' in a periodical devoted 
 to ' advanced ' opinions of various kinds. . . , ' The City of Dread- 
 ful Night ' contains passages which for command of imagery and 
 language few living poets need refuse to sign. The ' everlasting no ' 
 has not often been pictured in words of more skilfully arranged hues 
 and style, and the only thing perhaps that the poem lacks is a cer- 
 tain simplicity and spontaneity which are too often absent in con- 
 temporary verse, as well as the directness and breadth of theme 
 which are also among the crying wants of modern poetry. At the 
 same time no critic can afford to slight such evidence of power over 
 words and thought as the closing stanzas of ' The City of Dreadful 
 Night ' afford in the allegorical pictures of the sphinx and the angel, 
 who face each other till the latter is transformed and passes away 
 wholly, and in the transcript into words of ' the melencholia that 
 transcends all wit.' The latter in especial is a ioiir deforce of word- 
 ing which in verse will fairly support comparison with Mr. Pater's 
 handling of the same subject in prose." — Manchester Guardian. 
 
 "James Thomson has put forth a volume of verse of unusual 
 merit and originality, under the title 'The City of Dreadful Night,' 
 which is the subject of the principal poem in the collection. The 
 author shows a peculiar genius for allegory and symbolism." — The 
 Union, New York. 
 
 " Some little time ago a volume of poems was published with 
 the curious title of 'The City of Dreadful Night.' It was well 
 received at the time, but it has been steadily growing into favour 
 ever since, and just now it is very much talked about. Several 
 eminent literary men, under whose notice the volume has been 
 brought, have been much impressed by it, and its author, Mr. James 
 Thomson, is getting a marked reputation for poetic power. . . . 
 In ' Sunday at Hampstead ' and ' Sunday up the River,' the author 
 draws a picture of humble life with its enjoyments and its vague 
 poetry, which is quite fresh in literature and very delightful after 
 the terrible affectations through which poetry has been passing for 
 so many years. ... Of all this sort of nonsense there is nothing 
 in Mr. Thomson's poetry, which is fresh, and follows no school. 
 The influence of Heine may be here and there detected, as in the 
 following poem on 'Art,' with its graceful thoughts. . . . There 
 is a thoughtful and imaginative quality in this, which has been long 
 wanting to our minor poetry." — East Anglian Daily Times.
 
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