UMNs 
 
 to 
 
^ 
 
TIRESIAS 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
T I R E S I A S 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 ALFRED 
 LORD TENNYSON 
 
 D.C.L. P.L. 
 
 iLontoon 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 1885 
 
Printed by R. & R. Clark, Edinburgh. 
 
TO MY GOOD FRIEND 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING, 
 
 WHOSE GENIUS AND GENIALITY 
 
 WILL BEST APPRECIATE WHAT MAY BE BEST, 
 
 AND MAKE MOST ALLOWANCE FOR WHAT MAY BE WORST, 
 
 THIS VOLUME 
 
 IS 
 
 AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED. 
 
 M 9526 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 To E. Fitzgerald i 
 
 Tiresias 5 
 
 The Wreck 19 
 
 Despair 37 
 
 The Ancient Sage 53 
 
 The Flight 72 
 
 Tomorrow 88 
 
 The Spinster's Sweet- Arts . . . .101 
 
 Balin and Balan 117 
 
 Prologue 155 
 
 The Charge of the Heavy Brigade at Balaclava 158 
 
 Epilogue 164 
 
 To Virgil 170 
 
vill CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Dead Prophet 174 
 
 Early Spring ". 181 
 
 Prefatory Poem to my Brother's Sonnets . 185 
 
 * Frater Ave atque Vale ' . . . . 188 
 
 Helen's Tower 190 
 
 Epitaph on Lord Stratford de Redcliffe . 191 
 Epitaph on General Gordon . . . .192 
 
 Epitaph on Caxton 193 
 
 To the Duke of Argyll 194 
 
 Hands all round 195 
 
 Freedom 198 
 
 To H.R.H. Princess Beatrice .... 202 
 
 ' Old Poets foster'd under friendlier skies ' . 204 
 
TO E. FITZGERALD. 
 
 Old Fitz, who from your suburb grange, 
 
 Where once I tarried for a while, 
 Glance at the wheeling Orb of change, 
 
 And greet it with a kindly smile ; 
 Whom yet I see as there you sit 
 
 Beneath your sheltering garden-tree, 
 And watch your doves about you flit, 
 
 And plant on shoulder, hand and knee, 
 Or on your head their rosy feet, 
 
 As if they knew your diet spares 
 Whatever moved in that full sheet 
 
 Let down to Peter at his prayers ; 
 
 B 
 
TO E. FITZGERALD. 
 
 Who live on milk an4 meal and grass \ 
 
 And once tor ten'long weeks I tried 
 Your table of Pythagoras, 
 
 And seem'd at first * a thing enskied ' 
 (As Shakespeare has it) airy-light 
 
 To float above the ways of men, 
 Then fell from that half-spiritual height 
 
 Chill'd, till I tasted flesh again 
 One night when earth was winter-black, 
 
 And all the heavens flash'd in frost; 
 And on me, half-asleep, came back 
 
 That wholesome heat the blood had lost, 
 And set me climbing icy capes 
 
 And glaciers, over which there roll'd 
 To meet me long-arm'd vines with grapes 
 
 Of Eshcol hugeness ; for the cold 
 Without, and warmth within me, wrought 
 
TO E. FITZGERALD. 
 
 To mould the dream ; but none can say 
 That Lenten fare makes Lenten thought, 
 
 Who reads your golden Eastern lay, 
 Than which I know no version done 
 
 In English more divinely well ; 
 A planet equal to the sun 
 
 Which cast it, that large infidel 
 Your Omar j and your Omar drew 
 
 Full-handed plaudits from our best 
 In modern letters, and from two, 
 
 Old friends outvaluing all the rest, 
 Two voices heard on earth no more ; 
 
 But we old friends are still alive, 
 And I am nearing seventy-four, 
 
 While you have touch'd at seventy-five, 
 And so I send a birthday line 
 
 Of greeting \ and my son, who dipt 
 
4 TO E. FITZGERALD. 
 
 In some forgotten book of mine 
 
 With sallow scraps of manuscript, 
 And dating many a year ago, 
 
 Has hit on this, which you will take 
 My Fitz, and welcome, as I know 
 
 Less for its own than for the sake 
 Of one recalling gracious times, 
 
 When, in our younger London days, 
 You found some merit in my rhymes, 
 
 And I more pleasure in your praise. 
 
TIRESIAS. 
 
 I wish I were as in the years of old, 
 While yet the blessed daylight made itself 
 Ruddy thro' both the roofs of sight, and woke 
 These eyes, now dull, but then so keen to seek 
 The meanings ambush'd under all they saw, 
 The flight of birds, the flame of sacrifice, 
 What omens may foreshadow fate to man 
 And woman, and the secret of the Gods. 
 
 My son, the Gods, despite of human prayer, 
 Are slower to forgive than human kings. 
 The great God, Ares, burns in anger still 
 Against the guiltless heirs of him from Tyre, 
 
6 TIRESIAS. 
 
 Our Cadmus, out of whom thou art, who found 
 Beside the springs of Dirce, smote, and still'd 
 Thro' all its folds the multitudinous beast, 
 The dragon, which our trembling fathers call'd 
 The God's own son. 
 
 A tale, that told to me, 
 When but thine age, by age as winter-white 
 As mine is now, amazed, but made me yearn 
 For larger glimpses of that more than man 
 Which rolls the heavens, and lifts, and lays the deep, 
 Yet loves and hates with mortal hates and loves, 
 And moves unseen among the ways of men. 
 
 Then, in my wanderings all the lands that lie 
 Subjected to the Heliconian ridge 
 Have heard this footstep fall, altho' my wont 
 Was more to scale the highest of the heights 
 With some strange hope to see the nearer God. 
 
TIRESIAS. 7 
 
 One naked peak — the sister of the sun 
 Would climb from out the dark, and linger there 
 To silver all the valleys with her shafts — 
 There once, but long ago, five-fold thy term 
 Of years, I lay ; the winds were dead for heat ; 
 The noonday crag made the hand burn \ and sick 
 For shadow — not one bush was near — I rose 
 Following a torrent till its myriad falls 
 Found silence in the hollows underneath. 
 
 There in a secret olive-glade I saw 
 Pallas Athene climbing from the bath 
 In anger \ yet one glittering foot disturb'd 
 The lucid well ; one snowy knee was prest 
 Against the margin flowers ; a dreadful light 
 Came from her golden hair, her golden helm 
 And all her golden armour on the grass, 
 And from her virgin breast, and virgin eyes 
 
8 TIRESIAS. 
 
 Remaining fixt on mine, till mine grew dark 
 For ever, and I heard a voice that said 
 ' Henceforth be blind, for thou hast seen too much, 
 And speak the truth that no man may believe.' 
 Son, in the hidden world of sight, that lives 
 Behind this darkness, I behold her still, 
 Beyond all work of those who carve the stone, 
 Beyond all dreams of Godlike womanhood, 
 Ineffable beauty, out of whom, at a glance, 
 And as it were, perforce, upon me flash'd 
 The power of prophesying — but to me 
 No power — so chain'd and coupled with the curse 
 Of blindness and their unbelief, who heard 
 And heard not, when I spake of famine, plague, 
 Shrine-shattering earthquake, fire, flood, thunder- 
 bolt, 
 And angers of the Gods for evil done 
 
TIRESIAS. 9 
 
 And expiation lack'd — no power on Fate, 
 
 Theirs, or mine own ! for when the crowd would roar 
 
 For blood, for war, whose issue was their doom, 
 
 To cast wise words among the multitude 
 
 Was flinging fruit to lions ; nor, in hours 
 
 Of civil outbreak, when I knew the twain 
 
 Would each waste each, and bring on both the yoke 
 
 Of stronger states, was mine the voice to curb 
 
 The madness of our cities and their kings. 
 
 Who ever turn'd upon his heel to hear 
 My warning that the tyranny of one 
 Was prelude to the tyranny of all ? 
 My counsel that the tyranny of all 
 Led backward to the tyranny of one ? 
 
 This power hath work'd no good to aught that 
 lives, 
 And these blind hands were useless in their wars. 
 
io TIRESIAS. 
 
 therefore that the unfulfill'd desire, 
 The grief for ever born from griefs to be, 
 The boundless yearning of the Prophet's heart — 
 Could that stand forth, and like a statue, rear'd 
 To some great citizen, win all praise from all 
 Who past it, saying, * That was he ! ' 
 
 In vain ! 
 Virtue must shape itself in deed, and those 
 Whom weakness or necessity have cramp'd 
 Within themselves, immerging, each, his urn 
 In his own well, draw solace as he may. 
 
 Menaceus, thou hast eyes, and I can hear 
 Too plainly what full tides of onset sap 
 Our seven high gates, and what a weight of war 
 Rides on those ringing axles ! jingle of bits, 
 Shouts, arrows, tramp of the hornfooted horse 
 That grind the glebe to powder ! Stony showers 
 
TIRES I AS. ii 
 
 Of that ear-stunning hail of Ares crash 
 Along the sounding walls. Above, below, 
 Shock after shock, the song-built towers and gates 
 Reel, bruised and butted with the shuddering 
 War-thunder of iron rams ; and from within 
 The city comes a murmur void of joy, 
 Lest she be taken captive — maidens, wives, 
 And mothers with their babblers of the dawn, 
 And oldest age in shadow from the night, 
 Falling about their shrines before their Gods, 
 And wailing ' Save us.' 
 
 And they wail to thee ! 
 These eyeless eyes, that cannot see thine own, 
 See this, that only in thy virtue lies 
 The saving of our Thebes ; for, yesternight, 
 To me, the great God Ares, whose one bliss 
 Is war, and human sacrifice — himself 
 
12 TIRES I AS. 
 
 Blood-red from battle, spear and helmet tipt 
 With stormy light as on a mast at sea, 
 Stood out before a darkness, crying ' Thebes, 
 Thy Thebes shall fall and perish, for I loathe 
 The seed of Cadmus — yet if one of these 
 
 By his own hand — if one of these ' 
 
 My son, 
 No sound is breathed so potent to coerce, 
 And to conciliate, as their names who dare 
 For that sweet mother land which gave them birth 
 Nobly to do, nobly to die. Their names, 
 Graven on memorial columns, are a song 
 Heard in the future \ few, but more than wall 
 And rampart, their examples reach a hand 
 Far thro' all years, and everywhere they meet 
 And kindle generous purpose, and the strength 
 To mould it into action pure as theirs. 
 
TIRES I AS. 13 
 
 Fairer thy fate than mine, if life's best end 
 Be to end well ! and thou refusing this, 
 Unvenerable will thy memory be 
 While men shall move the lips : but if thou dare — 
 Thou, one of these, the race of Cadmus — then 
 No stone is fitted in yon marble girth 
 Whose echo shall not tongue thy glorious doom, 
 Nor in this pavement but shall ring thy name 
 To every hoof that clangs it, and the springs 
 Of Dirce laving yonder battle-plain, 
 Heard from the roofs by night, will murmur thee 
 To thine own Thebes, while Thebes thro' thee 
 
 shall stand 
 Firm-based with all her Gods. 
 
 The Dragon's cave 
 Half hid, they tell me, now in flowing vines — 
 Where once he dwelt and whence he roll'd himself 
 
14 TIRES I AS. 
 
 At dead of night — thou knowest, and that smooth 
 
 rock 
 Before it, altar-fashion'd, where of late 
 The woman -breasted Sphinx, with wings drawn 
 
 back, 
 Folded her lion paws, and look'd to Thebes. 
 There blanch the bones of whom she slew, and these 
 Mixt with her own, because the fierce beast found 
 A wiser than herself, and dash'd herself 
 Dead in her rage : but thou art wise enough, 
 Tho' young, to love thy wiser, blunt the curse 
 Of Pallas, hear, and tho' I speak the truth 
 Believe I speak it, let thine own hand strike 
 Thy youthful pulses into rest and quench 
 The red God's anger, fearing not to plunge 
 Thy torch of life in darkness, rather — thou 
 Rejoicing that the sun, the moon, the stars 
 
TIRESIAS. 15 
 
 Send no such light upon the ways of men 
 As one great deed. 
 
 Thither, my son, and there 
 Thou, that hast never known the embrace of love, 
 Offer thy maiden life. 
 
 This useless hand ! 
 I felt one warm tear fall upon it. Gone ! 
 He will achieve his greatness. 
 
 But for me, 
 I would that I were gather'd to my rest, 
 And mingled with the famous kings of old, 
 On whom about their ocean-islands flash 
 The faces of the Gods — the wise man's word, 
 Here trampled by the populace underfoot, 
 There crown'd with worship — and these eyes will find 
 The men I knew, and watch the chariot whirl 
 About the goal again, and hunters race 
 
1 6 TIRES I AS. 
 
 The shadowy lion, and the warrior-kings, 
 In height and prowess more than human, strive 
 Again for glory, while the golden lyre 
 Is ever sounding in heroic ears 
 Heroic hymns, and every way the vales 
 Wind, clouded with the grateful incense-fume 
 Of those who mix all odour to the Gods 
 On one far height in one far-shining fire. 
 
 ' One height and one far-shining fire ' 
 And while I fancied that my friend 
 
 For this brief idyll would require 
 A less diffuse and opulent end, 
 
 And would defend his judgment well, 
 If I should deem it over nice — 
 
 The tolling of his funeral bell 
 
TIRES IAS. 17 
 
 Broke on my Pagan Paradise, 
 And mixt the dream of classic times, 
 
 And all the phantoms of the dream, 
 With present grief, and made the rhymes, 
 
 That miss'd his living welcome, seem 
 Like would-be guests an hour too late, 
 
 Who down the highway moving on 
 With easy laughter find the gate 
 
 Is bolted, and the master gone. 
 Gone into darkness, that full light 
 
 Of friendship ! past, in sleep, away 
 By night, into the deeper night ! 
 
 The deeper night ? A clearer day 
 Than our poor twilight dawn on earth — 
 
 If night, what barren toil to be ! 
 What life, so maim'd by night, were worth 
 
 Our living out ? Not mine to me 
 c 
 
1 8 TIRES I AS. 
 
 Remembering all the golden hours 
 
 Now silent, and so many dead, 
 And him the last ; and laying flowers, 
 
 This wreath, above his honour'd head, 
 And praying that, when I from hence 
 
 Shall fade with him into the unknown, 
 My close of earth's experience 
 
 May prove as peaceful as his own. 
 
THE WRECK. 
 
 i. 
 Hide me, Mother ! my Fathers belong'd to the 
 
 church of old, 
 I am driven by storm and sin and death to the 
 
 ancient fold, 
 I cling to the Catholic Cross once more, to the 
 
 Faith that saves, 
 My brain is full of the crash of wrecks, and the 
 
 roar of waves, 
 My life itself is a wreck, I have sullied a noble 
 
 name, 
 I am flung from the rushing tide of the world as a 
 
 waif of shame, 
 
20 THE WRECK. 
 
 I am roused by the wail of a child, and awake to a 
 
 livid light. 
 And a ghastlier face than ever has haunted a grave 
 
 by night, 
 I would hide from the storm without, I would flee 
 
 from the storm within, 
 I would make my life one prayer for a soul that 
 
 died in his sin, 
 I was the tempter, Mother, and mine was the 
 
 deeper fall ; 
 I will sit at your feet, I will hide my face, I will 
 
 tell you all. 
 
 ii. 
 
 He that they gave me to, Mother, a heedless and 
 
 innocent bride — 
 I never have wrong'd his heart, I have only wounded 
 
 his pride — 
 
THE WRECK. 21 
 
 Spain in his blood and the Jew dark-visaged, 
 
 stately and tall — 
 A princelier-looking man never stept thro' a Prince's 
 
 hall. 
 And who, when his anger was kindled, would ven- 
 ture to give him the nay ? 
 And a man men fear is a man to be loved by the 
 
 women they say. 
 And I could have loved him too, if the blossom 
 
 can doat on the blight, 
 Or the young green leaf rejoice in the frost that 
 
 sears it at night ; 
 He would open the books that I prized, and toss 
 
 them away with a yawn, 
 Repell'd by the magnet of Art to the which my 
 
 nature was drawn, 
 The word of the Poet by whom the deeps of the 
 
 world are stirr'd, 
 
22 THE WRECK. 
 
 The music that robes it in language beneath and 
 
 beyond the word ! 
 My Shelley would fall from my hands when he cast 
 
 a contemptuous glance 
 From where he was poring over his Tables of Trade 
 
 and Finance ; 
 My hands, when I heard him coming would drop 
 
 from the chords or the keys, 
 But ever I fail'd to please him, however I strove 
 
 to please — 
 All day long far-off in the cloud of the city, and 
 
 there 
 Lost, head and heart, in the chances of dividend, 
 
 consol, and share — 
 And at home if I sought for a kindly caress, being 
 
 woman and weak, 
 His formal kiss fell chill as a flake of snow on the 
 
 cheek : 
 
THE WRECK. 23 
 
 And so, when I bore him a girl, when I held it 
 
 aloft in my joy, 
 He look'd at it coldly, and said to me ' Pity it isn't 
 
 a boy.' 
 The one thing given me, to love and to live for, 
 
 glanced at in scorn ! 
 The child that I felt I could die for — as if she were 
 
 basely born ! 
 I had lived a wild-flower life, I was planted now in 
 
 a tomb ; 
 The daisy will shut to the shadow, I closed my 
 
 heart to the gloom ; 
 I threw myself all abroad — I would play my part 
 
 with the young 
 By the low foot-lights of the world — and I caught 
 
 the wreath that was flung. 
 
24 THE WRECK. 
 
 III. 
 
 Mother, I have not — however their tongues may 
 
 have babbled of me — 
 Sinn'd thro' an animal vileness, for all but a dwarf 
 
 was he, 
 And all but a hunchback too ; and I look'd at him, 
 
 first, askance 
 With pity — not he the knight for an amorous girl's 
 
 romance ! 
 Tho' wealthy enough to have bask'd in the light of 
 
 a dowerless smile, 
 Having lands at home and abroad in a rich West- 
 Indian isle ; 
 But I came on him once at a ball, the heart of a 
 
 listening crowd — 
 Why, what a brow was there ! he was seated — 
 
 speaking aloud 
 
THE WRECK. 25 
 
 To women, the flower of the time, and men at the 
 
 helm of state — 
 Flowing with easy greatness and touching on all 
 
 things great, 
 Science, philosophy, song — till I felt myself ready 
 
 to weep 
 For I knew not what, when I heard that voice, — as 
 
 mellow and deep 
 As a psalm by a mighty master and peal'd from an 
 
 organ, — roll 
 Rising and falling — for, Mother, the voice was the 
 
 voice of the soul ; 
 And the sun of the soul made day in the dark of 
 
 his wonderful eyes. 
 Here was the hand that would help me, would heal 
 
 me — the heart that was wise ! 
 And he, poor man, when he learnt that I hated the 
 
 ring I wore, 
 
26 THE WRECK. 
 
 He helpt me with death, and he heal'd me with 
 sorrow for evermore. 
 
 IV. 
 
 For I broke the bond. That day my nurse had 
 
 brought me the child. 
 The small sweet face was flush'd, but it coo'd to 
 
 the Mother and smiled. 
 ' Anything ailing/ I ask'd her, 'with baby?' She 
 
 shook her head, 
 And the Motherless Mother kiss'd it, and turn'd in 
 
 her haste and fled. 
 
 Low warm winds had gently breathed us away from 
 
 the land — 
 Ten long sweet summer days upon deck, sitting 
 
 hand in hand — 
 
THE WRECK. 27 
 
 When he clothed a naked mind with the wisdom 
 and wealth of his own, 
 
 And I bow'd myself down as a slave to his intel- 
 lectual throne, 
 
 When he coin'd into English gold some treasure of 
 classical song, 
 
 When he flouted a statesman's error, or flamed at 
 a public wrong, 
 
 When he rose as it were on the wings of an eagle 
 beyond me, and past 
 
 Over the range and the change of the world from 
 the first to the last, 
 
 When he spoke of his tropical home in the canes 
 by the purple tide, 
 
 And the high star-crowns of his palms on the deep- 
 wooded mountain-side, 
 
 And cliffs all robed in lianas that dropt to the brink 
 of his bay, 
 
28 THE WRECK. 
 
 And trees like the towers of a minster, the sons of 
 
 a winterless day. 
 ' Paradise there ! ' so he said, but I seem'd in Para- 
 dise then 
 With the first great love I had felt for the first and 
 
 greatest of men, 
 Ten long days of summer and sin — if it must be 
 
 so — 
 But days of a larger light than I ever again shall 
 
 know — 
 Days that will glimmer, I fear, thro' life to my latest 
 
 breath \ 
 1 No frost there,' so he said, \ as in truest Love no 
 
 Death.' 
 
 VI. 
 
 Mother, one morning a bird with a warble plain- 
 tively sweet 
 
THE WRECK. 29 
 
 Perch'd on the shrouds, and then fell fluttering 
 
 down at my feet ; 
 I took it, he made it a cage, we fondled it, Stephen 
 
 and I, 
 But it died, and I thought of the child for a 
 
 moment, I scarce know why. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But if sin be sin, not inherited fate, as many will 
 
 say, 
 My sin to my desolate little one found me at sea 
 
 on a day, 
 When her orphan wail came borne in the shriek of 
 
 a growing wind, 
 And a voice rang out in the thunders of Ocean and 
 
 Heaven ' Thou hast sinn'd.' 
 And down in the cabin were we, for the towering 
 
 crest of the tides 
 
30 THE WRECK. 
 
 Plunged on the vessel and swept in a cataract off 
 
 from her sides, 
 And ever the great storm grew with a howl and a 
 
 hoot of the blast 
 In the rigging, voices of hell — then came the crash 
 
 of the mast. 
 ' The wages of sin is death/ and then I began to 
 
 weep, 
 
 * I am the Jonah, the crew should cast me into the 
 
 deep, 
 For ah God, what a heart was mine to forsake her 
 
 even for you.' 
 c Never the heart among women,' he said, c more 
 
 tender and true.' 
 ' The heart ! not a mother's heart, when I left my 
 
 darling alone.' 
 
 * Comfort yourself, for the heart of the father will 
 
 care for his own.' 
 
THE WRECK. 31 
 
 1 The heart of the father will spurn her,' I cried, ' for 
 
 the sin of the wife, 
 The cloud of the mother's shame will enfold her 
 
 and darken her life.' 
 Then his pale face twitch'd; 'O Stephen, I love 
 
 you, I love you, and yet '— - 
 As I lean'd away from his arms — ' would God, we 
 
 had never met ! ' 
 And he spoke not — only the storm; till after a 
 
 little, I yearn'd 
 For his voice again, and he call'd to me * Kiss me ! ' 
 
 and there — as I turn'd — 
 * The heart, the heart !' I kiss'd him, I clung to the 
 
 sinking form, 
 And the storm went roaring above us, and he — 
 
 was out of the storm. 
 
32 THE WRECK. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And then, then, Mother, the ship stagger'd under 
 
 a thunderous shock, 
 That shook us asunder, as if she had struck and 
 
 crash'd on a rock ; 
 For a huge sea smote every soul from the decks of 
 
 The Falcon but one ; 
 All of them, all but the man that was lash'd to the 
 
 helm had gone ; 
 And I fell — and the storm and the days went by, 
 
 but I knew no more — 
 Lost myself — lay like the dead by the dead on the 
 
 cabin floor, 
 Dead to the death beside me, and lost to the loss 
 
 that was mine, 
 With a dim dream, now and then, of a hand giving 
 
 bread and wine, 
 
THE WRECK. 33 
 
 Till I woke from the trance, and the ship stood 
 
 still, and the skies were blue, 
 But the face I had known, O Mother, was not the 
 
 face that I knew. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The strange misfeaturing mask that I saw so amazed 
 
 me, that I 
 Stumbled on deck, half mad. I would fling myself 
 
 over and die ! 
 But one — he was waving a flag — the one man left 
 
 on the wreck — 
 1 Woman ' — he graspt at my arm — ' stay there ' — I 
 
 crouch'd on the deck — 
 ' We are sinking, and yet there's hope : look yonder,' 
 
 he cried, ' a sail ' 
 In a tone so rough that I broke into passionate 
 
 tears, and the wail 
 
34 THE WRECK. 
 
 Of a beaten babe, till I saw that a boat was nearing 
 
 us — then 
 
 All on a sudden I thought, I shall look on the 
 
 child again. 
 
 x. 
 
 They lower'd me down the side, and there in the 
 
 boat I lay 
 With sad eyes fixt on the lost sea -home, as we 
 
 glided away, 
 And I sigh'd, as the low dark hull dipt under the 
 
 smiling main, 
 1 Had I stay'd with hint, I had now — with him — 
 
 been out of my pain.' 
 
 XI. 
 
 They took us aboard : the crew were gentle, the 
 
 captain kind ; 
 But / was the lonely slave of an often-wandering 
 
 mind; 
 
THE WRECK. 35 
 
 For whenever a rougher gust might tumble a 
 
 stormier wave, 
 '0 Stephen/ I moan'd, 'I am coming to thee in 
 
 thine Ocean-grave.' 
 And again, when a balmier breeze curl'd over a 
 
 peacefuller sea, 
 I found myself moaning again 'O child, I am 
 
 coming to thee/ 
 
 XII. 
 
 The broad white brow of the Isle — that bay with 
 
 the colour'd sand — 
 Rich was the rose of sunset there, as we drew to 
 
 the land ; 
 All so quiet the ripple would hardly blanch into 
 
 spray 
 At the feet of the cliff; and I pray'd — 'my child' 
 
 — for I still could pray — 
 
36 THE WRECK. 
 
 1 May her life be as blissfully calm, be never 
 
 gloom'd by the curse 
 Of a sin, not hers V 
 
 Was it well with the child ? 
 
 I wrote to the nurse 
 Who had borne my flower on her hireling heart ; 
 
 and an answer came 
 Not from the nurse — nor yet to the wife — to her 
 
 maiden name ! 
 I shook as I open'd the letter — I knew that hand 
 
 too well — 
 And from it a scrap, dipt out of the ' deaths ' in a 
 
 paper, fell. 
 ' Ten long sweet summer days ' of fever, and want 
 
 of care ! 
 And gone — that day of the storm — O Mother, she 
 
 came to me there. 
 
DESPAIR. 
 
 A man and his wife having lost faith in a God, and hope 
 of a life to come, and being utterly miserable in this, resolve 
 to end themselves by drowning. The woman is drowned, 
 but the man rescued by a minister of the sect he had 
 abandoned. 
 
 I. 
 
 Is it you, that preach'd in the chapel there looking 
 
 over the sand ? 
 Follow'd us too that night, and dogg'd us, and drew 
 
 me to land ? 
 
 ii. 
 What did I feel that night? You are curious. 
 
 How should I tell ? 
 
38 DESPAIR. 
 
 Does it matter so much what I felt ? You rescued 
 
 me — yet — was it well 
 That you came unwish'd for, uncall'd, between me 
 
 and the deep and my doom, 
 Three days since, three more dark days of the 
 
 Godless gloom 
 Of a life without sun, without health, without hope, 
 
 without any delight 
 In anything here upon earth? but ah God, that 
 
 night, that night 
 When the rolling eyes of the light-house there on 
 
 the fatal neck 
 Of land running out into rock — they had saved 
 
 many hundreds from wreck — 
 Glared on our way toward death, I remember I 
 
 thought, as we past, 
 Does it matter how many they saved ? we are all 
 
 of us wreck'd at last — 
 
DESPAIR. 39 
 
 1 Do you fear,' and there came thro' the roar of the 
 
 breaker a whisper, a breath, 
 * Fear ? am I not with you ? I am frighted at life 
 
 not death.' 
 
 in. 
 And the suns of the limitless Universe sparkled 
 
 and shone in the sky, 
 Flashing with fires as of God, but we knew that 
 
 their light was a lie — 
 Bright as with deathless hope — but, however they 
 
 sparkled and shone, 
 The dark little worlds running round them were 
 
 worlds of woe like our own — 
 No soul in the heaven above, no soul on the earth 
 
 below, 
 A fiery scroll written over with lamentation and 
 
 woe. 
 
40 DESPAIR. 
 
 IV. 
 See, we were nursed in the drear night-fold of your 
 
 fatalist creed, 
 And we turn'd to the growing dawn, we had hoped 
 
 for a dawn indeed, 
 When the light of a Sun that was coming would 
 
 scatter the ghosts of the Past, 
 And the cramping creeds that had madden'd the 
 
 peoples would vanish at last, 
 And we broke away from the Christ, our human 
 
 brother and friend, 
 For He spoke, or it seem'd that He spoke, of a 
 
 Hell without help, without end. 
 
 v. 
 Hoped for a dawn and it came, but the promise 
 had faded away ; 
 
DESPAIR. 41 
 
 We had past from a cheerless night to the glare of 
 
 a drearier day ; 
 He is only a cloud and a smoke who was once a 
 
 pillar of fire, 
 The guess of a worm in the dust and the shadow 
 
 of its desire — 
 Of a worm as it writhes in a world of the weak 
 
 trodden down by the strong, 
 Of a dying worm in a world, all massacre, murder, 
 
 and wrong. 
 
 VI. 
 
 O we poor orphans of nothing — alone on that lonely 
 
 shore — 
 Born of the brainless Nature who knew not that 
 
 which she bore ! 
 Trusting no longer that earthly flower would be 
 
 heavenly fruit — 
 
42 DESPAIR. 
 
 Come from the brute, poor souls — no souls — and 
 to die with the brute 
 
 VII. 
 
 Nay, but I am not claiming your pity : I know you 
 
 of old- 
 Small pity for those that have ranged from the 
 
 narrow warmth of your fold, 
 Where you bawl'd the dark side of your faith and a 
 
 God of eternal rage, 
 Till you flung us back on ourselves, and the human 
 
 heart, and the Age. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But pity — the Pagan held it a vice — was in her and 
 
 in me, 
 Helpless, taking the place of the pitying God that 
 
 should be ! 
 
DESPAIR. 43 
 
 Pity for all that aches in the grasp of an idiot 
 
 power, 
 And pity for our own selves on an earth that bore 
 
 not a flower ; 
 Pity for all that suffers on land or in air or the deep, 
 And pity for our own selves till we long'd for eternal 
 
 sleep. 
 
 IX. 
 
 ' Lightly step over the sands ! the waters — you hear 
 
 them call ! 
 Life with its anguish, and horrors, and errors — away 
 
 with it all!' 
 And she laid her hand in my own — she was always 
 
 loyal and sweet — 
 Till the points of the foam in the dusk came playing 
 
 about our feet. 
 
44 DESPAIR. 
 
 There was a strong sea-current would sweep us out 
 
 to the main. 
 'Ah God' tho' I felt as I spoke I was taking the 
 
 name in vain — 
 1 Ah God ' and we turn'd to each other, we kiss'd, 
 
 we embraced, she and I, 
 Knowing the Love we were used to believe ever- 
 lasting would die : 
 We had read their know-nothing books and we lean'd 
 
 to the darker side — 
 Ah God, should we find Him, perhaps, perhaps, if 
 
 we died, if we died ; 
 We never had found Him on earth, this earth is a 
 
 fatherless Hell — 
 1 Dear Love, for ever and ever, for ever and ever 
 
 farewell/ 
 Never a cry so desolate, not since the world began, 
 
DESPAIR. 45 
 
 Never a kiss so sad, no, not since the coming of 
 man ! 
 
 x. 
 
 But the blind wave cast me ashore, and you saved 
 
 me, a valueless life. 
 Not a grain of gratitude mine ! You have parted 
 
 the man from the wife. 
 I am left alone on the land, she is all alone in the 
 
 sea; 
 If a curse meant ought, I would curse you for not 
 
 having let me be. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Visions of youth — for my brain was drunk with the 
 
 water, it seems ; 
 I had past into perfect quiet at length out of 
 
 pleasant dreams, 
 
46 DESPAIR. 
 
 And the transient trouble of drowning — what was 
 
 it when match'd with the pains 
 Of the hellish heat of a wretched life rushing back 
 
 thro' the veins ? 
 
 XII. 
 
 Why should I live? one son had forged on his 
 
 father and fled, 
 And if I believed in a God, I would thank him, 
 
 the other is dead, 
 And there was a baby-girl, that had never look'd 
 
 on the light : 
 Happiest she of us all, for she past from the night 
 
 to the night. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 But the crime, if a crime, of her eldest-born, her 
 glory, her boast, 
 
DESPAIR. 47 
 
 Struck hard at the tender heart of the mother, and 
 
 broke it almost ; 
 Tho', glory and shame dying out for ever in endless 
 
 time, 
 Does it matter so much whether crown'd for a virtue, 
 
 or hang'd for a crime ? 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And ruin'd by him, by him, I stood there, naked, 
 
 amazed 
 In a world of arrogant opulence, fear'd myself 
 
 turning crazed, 
 And I would not be mock'd in a madhouse ! and 
 
 she, the delicate wife, 
 With a grief that could only be cured, if cured, by 
 
 the surgeon's knife, — 
 
48 DESPAIR. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Why should we bear with an hour of torture, a 
 
 moment of pain, 
 If every man die for ever, if all his griefs are in vain, 
 And the homeless planet at length will be wheel'd 
 
 thro' the silence of space, 
 Motherless evermore of an ever-vanishing race, 
 When the worm shall have writhed its last, and its 
 
 last brother-worm will have fled 
 From the dead fossil skull that is left in the rocks 
 
 of an earth that is dead ? 
 
 Have I crazed myself over their horrible infidel 
 
 writings ? O yes, 
 For these are the new dark ages, you see, of the 
 
 popular press, 
 
DESPAIR. 49 
 
 When the bat comes out of his cave, and the owls 
 
 are whooping at noon, 
 And Doubt is the lord of this dunghill and crows 
 
 to the sun and the moon, 
 Till the Sun and the Moon of our science are both 
 
 of them turn'd into blood, 
 And Hope will have broken her heart, running 
 
 after a shadow of good ; 
 For their knowing and know-nothing books are 
 
 scatter'd from hand to hand — 
 We have knelt in your know-all chapel too looking 
 
 over the sand. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 What ! I should call on that Infinite Love that has 
 
 served us so well ? 
 Infinite cruelty rather that made everlasting Hell, 
 
5o DESPAIR. 
 
 Made us, foreknew us, foredoom'd us, and does 
 
 what he will with his own ; 
 Better our dead brute mother who never has heard 
 
 us groan ! 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Hell ? if the souls of men were immortal, as men 
 
 have been told, 
 The lecher would cleave to his lusts, and the miser 
 
 would yearn for his gold, 
 And so there were Hell for ever ! but were there a 
 
 God as you say, 
 His Love would have power over Hell till it utterly 
 
 vanish'd away. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Ah yet — I have had some glimmer, at times, in 
 my gloomiest woe, 
 
DESPAIR. 51 
 
 Of a God behind all — after all — the great God for 
 
 aught that I know ; 
 But the God of Love and of Hell together — they 
 
 cannot be thought, 
 If there be such a God, may the Great God curse 
 
 him and bring him to nought ! 
 
 xx. 
 
 Blasphemy ! whose is the fault ? is it mine ? for 
 
 why would you save 
 A madman to vex you with wretched words, who 
 
 is best in his grave ? 
 Blasphemy ! ay, why not, being damn'd beyond 
 
 hope of grace ? 
 O would I were yonder with her, and away from 
 
 your faith and your face ! 
 
52 DESPAIR. 
 
 Blasphemy ! true ! I have scared you pale with my 
 
 scandalous talk, 
 But the blasphemy to my mind lies all in the way 
 
 that you walk. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Hence ! she is gone ! can I stay ? can I breathe 
 divorced from the Past ? 
 
 You needs must have good lynx-eyes if I do not 
 escape you at last. 
 
 Our orthodox coroner doubtless will find it a felo- 
 de-se, 
 
 And the stake and the cross-road, fool, if you will, 
 does it matter to me ? 
 
THE ANCIENT SAGE. 
 
 A thousand summers ere the time of Christ 
 From out his ancient city came a Seer 
 Whom one that loved, and honour'd him, and yet 
 Was no disciple, richly garb'd, but worn 
 From wasteful living, follow'd— in his hand 
 A scroll of verse — till that old man before 
 A cavern whence an affluent fountain pour'd 
 From darkness into daylight, turn'd and spoke. 
 
 This wealth of waters might but seem to draw 
 From yon dark cave, but, son, the source is higher, 
 Yon summit half-a-league in air — and higher, 
 
54 THE ANCIENT SAGE. 
 
 The cloud that hides it — higher still, the heavens 
 Whereby the cloud was moulded, and whereout 
 The cloud descended. Force is from the heights. 
 I am wearied of our city, son, and go 
 To spend my one last year among the hills. 
 What hast thou there ? Some deathsong for the 
 
 Ghouls 
 To make their banquet relish ? let me read. 
 
 " How far thro' all the bloom and brake 
 
 That nightingale is heard ! 
 What power but the bird's could make 
 
 This music in the bird ? 
 How summer-bright are yonder skies, 
 
 And earth as fair in hue ! 
 And yet what sign of aught that lies 
 
 Behind the green and blue ? 
 
THE ANCIENT SAGE. 55 
 
 But man to-day is fancy's fool 
 
 As man hath ever been. 
 The nameless Power, or Powers, that rule 
 
 Were never heard or seen." 
 
 If thou would'st hear the Nameless, and wilt dive 
 Into the Temple-cave of thine own self, 
 There, brooding by the central altar, thou 
 May'st haply learn the Nameless hath a voice, 
 By which thou wilt abide, if thou be wise, 
 As if thou knewest, tho' thou canst not know ; 
 For Knowledge is the swallow on the lake 
 That sees and stirs the surface-shadow there 
 But never yet hath dipt into the abysm, 
 The Abysm of all Abysms, beneath, within 
 The blue of sky and sea, the green of earth, 
 And in the million-millionth of a grain 
 
56 THE ANCIENT SAGE. 
 
 Which cleft and cleft again for evermore, 
 And ever vanishing, never vanishes, 
 To me, my son, more mystic than myself, 
 Or even than the Nameless is to me. 
 
 And when thou sendest thy free soul thro' heaven, 
 Nor understandest bound nor boundlessness, 
 Thou seest the Nameless of the hundred names. 
 
 And if the Nameless should withdraw from all 
 Thy frailty counts most real, all thy world 
 Might vanish like thy shadow in the dark. 
 
 " And since — from when this earth began — 
 
 The Nameless never came 
 Among us, never spake with man, 
 
 And never named the Name " — 
 
 Thou canst not prove the Nameless, O my son, 
 Nor canst thou prove the world thou movest in, 
 
THE ANCIENT SAGE. 57 
 
 Thou canst not prove that thou art body alone, 
 Nor canst thou prove that thou art spirit alone 
 Nor canst thou prove that thou art both in one : 
 Thou canst not prove thou art immortal, no 
 Nor yet that thou art mortal — nay my son, 
 Thou canst not prove that I, who speak with 
 
 thee, 
 Am not thyself in converse with thyself, 
 For nothing worthy proving can be proven, 
 Nor yet disproven : wherefore thou be wise, 
 Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt, 
 And cling to Faith beyond the forms of Faith ! 
 She reels not in the storm of warring words, 
 She brightens at the clash of 'Yes' and 'No,' 
 She sees the Best that glimmers thro' the Worst, 
 She feels the Sun is hid but for a night, 
 She spies the summer thro' the winter bud, 
 
58 THE ANCIENT SAGE. 
 
 She tastes the fruit before the blossom falls, 
 
 She hears the lark within the songless egg, 
 
 She finds the fountain where they wail'd * Mirage ' ! 
 
 " What Power ? aught akin to Mind, 
 
 The mind in me and you ? 
 Or power as of the Gods gone blind 
 
 Who see not what they do ?" 
 
 But some in yonder city hold, my son, 
 
 That none but Gods could build this house of ours, 
 
 So beautiful, vast, various, so beyond 
 
 All work of man, yet, like all work of man, 
 
 A beauty with defect till That which knows, 
 
 And is not known, but felt thro' what we feel 
 Within ourselves is highest, shall descend 
 On this half-deed, and shape it at the last 
 According to the Highest in the Highest. 
 
THE ANCIENT SAGE. 59 
 
 " What Power but the Years that make 
 
 And break the vase of clay, 
 And stir the sleeping earth, and wake 
 
 The bloom that fades away ? 
 What rulers but the Days and Hours 
 
 That cancel weal with woe, 
 And wind the front of youth with flowers, 
 
 And cap our age with snow ? " 
 
 The days and hours are ever glancing by, 
 And seem to flicker past thro' sun and shade, 
 Or short, or long, as Pleasure leads, or Pain ; 
 But with the Nameless is nor Day nor Hour ; 
 Tho 5 we, thin minds, who creep from thought to 
 
 thought 
 Break into ' Thens ' and ' Whens ' the Eternal Now : 
 This double seeming of the single world ! — 
 
60 THE ANCIENT SAGE. 
 
 My words are like the babblings in a dream 
 
 Of nightmare, when the babblings break the dream. 
 
 But thou be wise in this dream-world of ours, 
 
 Nor take thy dial for thy deity, 
 
 But make the passing shadow serve thy will. 
 
 " The years that made the stripling wise 
 
 Undo their work again, 
 And leave him, blind of heart and eyes, 
 
 The last and least of men ; 
 Who clings to earth, and once would dare 
 
 Hell-heat or Arctic cold, 
 And now one breath of cooler air 
 
 Would loose him from his hold ; 
 His winter chills him to the root, 
 
 He withers marrow and mind ; 
 The kernel of the shrivell'd fruit 
 
THE ANCIENT SAGE. 61 
 
 Is jutting thro' the rind ; 
 The tiger spasms tear his chest, 
 
 The palsy wags his head ; 
 The wife, the sons, who love him best 
 
 Would fain that he were dead ; 
 The griefs by which he once was wrung 
 
 Were never worth the while " — 
 
 Who knows ? or whether this earth-narrow life 
 Be yet but yolk, and forming in the shell ? 
 
 " The shaft of scorn that once had stung 
 But wakes a dotard smile." 
 
 The placid gleam of sunset after storm ! 
 
 11 The statesman's brain that sway'd the past 
 
 Is feebler than his knees ; 
 The passive sailor wrecks at last 
 
62 THE ANCIENT SAGE. 
 
 In ever-silent seas \ 
 The warrior hath forgot his arms, 
 
 The Learned all his lore ; 
 The changing market frets or charms 
 
 The merchant's hope no more ; 
 The prophet's beacon burn'd in vain, 
 
 And now is lost in cloud ; 
 The plowman passes, bent with pain, 
 
 To mix with what he plow'd ; 
 The poet whom his Age would quote 
 
 As heir of endless fame — 
 He knows not ev'n the book he wrote, 
 
 Not even his own name. 
 For man has overlived his day, 
 
 And, darkening in the light, 
 Scarce feels the senses break away 
 
 To mix with ancient Night." 
 
THE ANCIENT SAGE. 63 
 
 The shell must break before the bird can fly. 
 
 " The years that when my Youth began 
 
 Had set the lily and rose 
 By all my ways where'er they ran, 
 
 Have ended mortal foes ; 
 My rose of love for ever gone, 
 
 My lily of truth and trust — 
 They made her lily and rose in one, 
 
 And changed her into dust. 
 O rosetree planted in my grief, 
 
 And growing, on her tomb, 
 Her dust is greening in your leaf, 
 
 Her blood is in your bloom. 
 O slender lily waving there, 
 
 And laughing back the light, 
 In vain you tell me * Earth is fair ' 
 
 When all is dark as night." 
 
64 THE ANCIENT SAGE. 
 
 My son, the world is dark with griefs and graves, 
 So dark that men cry out against the Heavens. 
 Who knows but that the darkness is in man ? 
 The doors of Night may be the gates of Light ; 
 For wert thou born or blind or deaf, and then 
 Suddenly heal'd, how would'st thou glory in all 
 The splendours and the voices of the world ! 
 And we, the poor earth's dying race, and yet 
 No phantoms, watching from a phantom shore 
 Await the last and largest sense to make 
 The phantom walls of this illusion fade, 
 And show us that the world is wholly fair. 
 
 " But vain the tears for darken'd years 
 
 As laughter over wine, 
 And vain the laughter as the tears, 
 
 O brother, mine or thine, 
 
THE ANCIENT SAGE. 65 
 
 For all that laugh, and all that weep, 
 
 And all that breathe are one 
 Slight ripple on the boundless deep 
 
 That moves, and all is gone." 
 
 But that one ripple on the boundless deep 
 Feels that the deep is boundless, and itself 
 For ever changing form, but evermore 
 One with the boundless motion of the deep. 
 
 " Yet wine and laughter friends ! and set 
 
 The lamps alight, and call 
 For golden music, and forget 
 
 The darkness of the pall." 
 
 If utter darkness closed the day, my son 
 
 But earth's dark forehead flings athwart the heavens 
 Her shadow crown'd with stars — and yonder — out 
 
 F 
 
66 THE ANCIENT SAGE. 
 
 To northward — some that never set, but pass 
 From sight and night to lose themselves in day. 
 I hate the black negation of the bier, 
 And wish the dead, as happier than ourselves 
 And higher, having climb'd one step beyond 
 Our village miseries, might be borne in white 
 To burial or to burning, hymn'd from hence 
 With songs in praise of death, and crown'd with 
 flowers ! 
 
 " O worms and maggots of to-day 
 Without their hope of wings ! " 
 
 But louder than thy rhyme the silent Word 
 Of that world-prophet in the heart of man. 
 
 " Tho' some have gleams or so they say 
 Of more than mortal things." 
 
THE ANCIENT SAGE. 67 
 
 To-day ? but what of yesterday ? for oft 
 
 On me, when boy, there came what then I call'd, 
 
 Who knew no books and no philosophies, 
 
 In my boy-phrase 'The Passion of the Past.' 
 
 The first gray streak of earliest summer-dawn, 
 
 The last long stripe of waning crimson gloom, 
 
 As if the late and early were but one — 
 
 A height, a broken grange, a grove, a flower 
 
 Had murmurs ' Lost and gone and lost and gone ! ' 
 
 A breath, a whisper — some divine farewell — 
 
 Desolate sweetness — far and far away — 
 
 What had he loved, what had he lost, the boy ? 
 
 I know not and I speak of what has been. 
 
 And more, my son ! for more than once when I 
 Sat all alone, revolving in myself 
 The word that is the symbol of myself, 
 The mortal limit of the Self was loosed, 
 
68 THE ANCIENT SAGE. 
 
 And past into the Nameless, as a cloud 
 
 Melts into Heaven. I touch'd my limbs, the limbs 
 
 Were strange not mine — and yet no shade of doubt, 
 
 But utter clearness, and thro' loss of Self 
 
 The gain of such large life as match'd with ours 
 
 Were Sun to spark — unshadowable in words, 
 
 Themselves but shadows of a shadow-world. 
 
 " And idle gleams will come and go, 
 But still the clouds remain ; " 
 
 The clouds themselves are children of the Sun. 
 
 "And Night and Shadow rule below 
 When only Day should reign." 
 
 And Day and Night are children of the Sun, 
 And idle gleams to thee are light to me. 
 
THE ANCIENT SAGE. 69 
 
 Some say, the Light was father of the Night, 
 And some, the Night was father of the Light. 
 No night no day ! — I touch thy world again — 
 No ill no good ! such counter-terms, my son, 
 Are border-races, holding, each its own 
 By endless war : but night enough is there 
 In yon dark city : get thee back : and since 
 The key to that weird casket, which for thee 
 But holds a skull, is neither thine nor mine, 
 But in the hand of what is more than man, 
 Or in man's hand when man is more than man, 
 Let be thy wail and help thy fellow men, 
 And make thy gold thy vassal not thy king, 
 And fling free alms into the beggar's bowl, 
 And send the day into the darken'd heart j 
 Nor list for guerdon in the voice of men, 
 A dying echo from a falling wall ; 
 
70 THE ANCIENT SAGE. 
 
 Nor care — for Hunger hath the Evil eye — 
 To vex the noon with fiery gems, or fold 
 Thy presence in the silk of sumptuous looms ; 
 Nor roll thy viands on a luscious tongue, 
 Nor drown thyself with flies in honied wine; 
 Nor thou be rageful, like a handled bee, 
 And lose thy life by usage of thy sting ; 
 Nor harm an adder thro' the lust for harm, 
 Nor make a snail's horn shrink for wantonness ; 
 And more — think well ! Do - well will follow 
 
 thought, 
 And in the fatal sequence of this world 
 An evil thought may soil thy children's blood ; 
 But curb the beast would cast thee in the mire, 
 And leave the hot swamp of voluptuousness 
 A cloud between the Nameless and thyself, 
 And lay thine uphill shoulder to the wheel, 
 
THE ANCIENT SAGE. 71 
 
 And climb the Mount of Blessing, whence, if thou 
 Look higher, then — perchance — thou mayest — be- 
 yond 
 A hundred ever-rising mountain lines, 
 And past the range of Night and Shadow — see 
 The high-heaven dawn of more than mortal day 
 Strike on the Mount of Vision ! 
 
 So, farewell. 
 
THE FLIGHT. 
 
 Are you sleeping? have you forgotten? do not 
 
 sleep, my sister dear ! 
 How can you sleep ? the morning brings the day I 
 
 hate and fear ; 
 The cock has crow'd already once, he crows before 
 
 his time ; 
 Awake ! the creeping glimmer steals, the hills are 
 
 white with rime. 
 
 ii. 
 Ah, clasp me in your arms, sister, ah, fold me to 
 
 your breast ! 
 
THE FLIGHT. 73 
 
 Ah, let me weep my fill once more, and cry myself 
 
 to rest ! 
 To rest ? to rest and wake no more were better rest 
 
 for me, 
 Than to waken every morning to that face I loathe 
 
 to see : 
 
 in. 
 
 I envied your sweet slumber, all night so calm you 
 
 lay, 
 The night was calm, the morn is calm, and like 
 
 another day ; 
 But I could wish yon moaning sea would rise and 
 
 burst the shore, 
 And such a whirlwind blow these woods, as never 
 
 blew before. 
 
74 THE FLIGHT. 
 
 IV. 
 
 For, one by one, the stars went down across the 
 
 gleaming pane, 
 And project after project rose, and all of them were 
 
 vain; 
 The blackthorn -blossom fades and falls and leaves 
 
 the bitter sloe, 
 The hope I catch at vanishes and youth is turn'd 
 
 to woe. 
 
 Come, speak a little comfort! all night I pray'd 
 
 with tears, 
 And yet no comfort came to me, and now the morn 
 
 Appears, 
 
 When he will tear me from your side, who bought 
 me for his slave : 
 
THE FLIGHT. 75 
 
 This father pays his debt with me, and weds me to 
 my grave. 
 
 VI. 
 
 What father, this or mine, was he, who, on that 
 
 summer day 
 When I had fall'n from off the crag we clamber'd 
 
 up in play, 
 Found, fear'd me dead, and groan'd, and took and 
 
 kiss'd me, and again 
 He kiss'd me ; and I loved him then ; he was my 
 
 father then. 
 
 VII. 
 
 No father now, the tyrant vassal of a tyrant vice ! 
 The Godless Jephtha vows his child ... to one 
 cast of the dice. 
 
76 THE FLIGHT. 
 
 These ancient woods, this Hall at last will go — 
 
 perhaps have gone, 
 Except his own meek daughter yield her life, heart, 
 
 soul to one — 
 
 VIII. 
 
 To one who knows I scorn him. O the formal 
 
 mocking bow, 
 The cruel smile, the courtly phrase that masks his 
 
 malice now — 
 But often in the sidelong eyes a gleam of all things 
 
 ill- 
 It is not Love but Hate that weds a bride against 
 
 her will ; 
 
 IX. 
 
 Hate, that would pluck, from this true breast the 
 locket that I wear, 
 
THE FLIGHT. 77 
 
 The precious crystal into which I braided Edwin's 
 
 hair! 
 The love that keeps this heart alive beats on it 
 
 night and day — 
 One golden curl, his golden gift, before he past 
 
 away. 
 
 He left us weeping in the woods ; his boat was on 
 
 the sand ; 
 How slowly down the rocks he went, how loth to 
 
 quit the land ! 
 And all my life was darken'd, as I saw the white 
 
 sail run, 
 And darken, up that lane of light into the setting 
 
 sun. 
 
78 THE FLIGHT. 
 
 XI. 
 
 How often have we watch'd the sun fade from us 
 
 thro' the West, 
 And follow Edwin to those isles, those islands of 
 
 the Blest ! 
 Is he not there? would I were there, the friend, 
 
 the bride, the wife, 
 With him, where summer never dies, with Love, 
 
 the Sun of life ! 
 
 XII. 
 
 O would I were in Edwin's arms — once more — to 
 
 feel his breath 
 Upon my cheek — on Edwin's ship, with Edwin, 
 
 ev'n in death, 
 
THE FLIGHT. 79 
 
 Tho' all about the shuddering wreck the death- 
 white sea should rave, 
 Or if lip were laid to lip on the pillows of the wave. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Shall I take him ? I kneel with him ? I swear and 
 
 swear forsworn 
 To love him most, whom most I loathe, to honour 
 
 whom I scorn? 
 The Fiend would yell, the grave would yawn, my 
 
 mother's ghost would rise — 
 To lie, to lie — in God's own house — the blackest of 
 
 all lies ! 
 
 xiv. 
 
 Why — rather than that hand in mine, tho' every 
 pulse would freeze, 
 
80 THE FLIGHT. 
 
 I'd sooner fold an icy corpse dead of some foul 
 
 disease : 
 Wed him ? I will not wed him, let them spurn me 
 
 from the doors, 
 And I will wander till I die about the barren 
 
 moors. 
 
 xv. 
 
 The dear, mad bride who stabb'd her bridegroom 
 
 on her bridal night — 
 If mad, then I am mad, but sane, if she were in 
 
 the right. 
 My father's madness makes me mad — but words 
 
 are only words ! 
 I am not mad, not yet, not quite — There ! listen 
 
 how the birds 
 
THE FLIGHT. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Begin to warble yonder in the budding orchard 
 
 trees ! 
 The lark has past from earth to Heaven upon the 
 
 morning breeze ! 
 How gladly, were I one of those, how early would 
 
 I wake ! 
 And yet the sorrow that I bear is sorrow for his 
 
 sake. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 They love their mates, to whom they sing ; or else 
 
 their songs, that meet 
 The morning with such music, would never be so 
 
 sweet ! 
 
82 THE FLIGHT. 
 
 And tho' these fathers will not hear, the blessed 
 
 Heavens are just, 
 And Love is fire, and burns the feet would trample 
 
 it to dust. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 A door was open'd in the house — who ? who ? my 
 
 father sleeps ! 
 A stealthy foot upon the stair ! he — some one — 
 
 this way creeps ! 
 If he ? yes, he . . . lurks, listens, fears his victim 
 
 may have fled — 
 He ! where is some sharp-pointed thing ? he comes, 
 
 and finds me dead. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Not he, not yet ! and time to act — but how my 
 temples burn ! 
 
THE FLIGHT. 83 
 
 And idle fancies flutter me, I know not where to 
 
 turn; 
 Speak to me, sister; counsel me; this marriage 
 
 must not be. 
 You only know the love that makes the world a 
 
 world to me ! 
 
 xx. 
 
 Our gentle mother, had she lived — but we were left 
 
 alone : 
 That other left us to ourselves; he cared not for 
 
 his own ; 
 So all the summer long we roam'd in these wild 
 
 woods of ours, 
 My Edwin loved to call us then 'His two wild 
 
 woodland flowers. 7 
 
84 THE FLIGHT. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Wild flowers blowing side by side in God's free 
 
 light and air, 
 Wild flowers of the secret woods, when Edwin 
 
 found us there, 
 Wild woods in which we roved with him, and heard 
 
 his passionate vow, 
 Wild woods in which we rove no more, if we be 
 
 parted now ! 
 
 XXII. 
 
 You will not leave me thus in grief to wander forth 
 
 forlorn ; 
 We never changed a bitter word, not one since we 
 
 were born \ 
 
THE FLIGHT. 85 
 
 Our dying mother join'd our hands ; she knew this 
 
 father well ; 
 She bad us love, like souls in Heaven, and now I 
 
 fly from Hell, 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 And you with me ; and we shall light upon some 
 
 lonely shore, 
 Some lodge within the waste sea-dunes, and hear 
 
 the waters roar, 
 And see the ships from out the West go dipping 
 
 thro' the foam, 
 And sunshine on that sail at last which brings our 
 
 Edwin home. * 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 But look, the morning grows apace, and lights the 
 old church-tower, 
 
86 THE FLIGHT. 
 
 And lights the clock ! the hand points five — O me 
 
 — it strikes the hour — 
 I bide no more, I meet my fate, whatever ills betide ! 
 Arise, my own true sister, come forth ! the world 
 
 is wide. 
 
 xxv. 
 And yet my heart is ill at ease, my eyes are dim 
 
 with dew, 
 I seem to see a new-dug grave up yonder by the yew ! 
 If we should never more return, but wander hand 
 
 in hand 
 With breaking hearts, without a friend, and in a 
 
 distant land. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 O sweet, they tell me that the world is hard, and 
 harsh of mind, 
 
THE FLIGHT. 87 
 
 But can it be so hard, so harsh, as those that should 
 
 be kind ? 
 That matters not : let come what will ; at last the 
 
 end is sure, 
 And every heart that loves with truth is equal to 
 
 endure. 
 
TOMORROW. 
 
 Her, that yer Honour was spakin' to ? Whin, yer 
 
 Honour ? last year — 
 Standin' here be the bridge, when last yer Honour 
 
 was here ? 
 An' yer Honour ye gev her the top of the mornin', 
 
 ' Tomorra ' says she. 
 What did they call her, yer Honour ? They call'd 
 
 her Molly Magee. 
 An' yer Honour 's the thrue ould blood that always 
 
 manes to be kind, 
 But there's rason in all things, yer Honour, for 
 
 Molly was out of her mind. 
 
TOMORROW. 89 
 
 II. 
 
 Shure, an' meself remimbers wan night comin' down 
 
 be the sthrame, 
 An' it seems to me now like a bit of yisther-day in 
 
 a dhrame — 
 Here where yer Honour seen her — there was but 
 
 a slip of a moon, 
 But I hard thim — Molly Magee wid her batchelor, 
 
 Danny O'Roon — 
 ' You've been takin' a dhrop o' the crathur ' an' 
 
 Danny says * Troth, an' I been 
 Dhrinkin' yer health wid Shamus O'Shea at Katty's 
 
 shebeen;* 
 But I must be lavin' ye soon.' 'Ochone are ye 
 
 goin' away?' 
 
 'Goin' to cut the Sassenach whate' he says 'over 
 
 the say ' — 
 
 * Grog-shop. 
 
9o TOMORROW. 
 
 ' An' whin will ye meet me agin ?' an' I hard him 
 
 * Molly asthore, 
 I'll meet you agin tomorra,' says he, ' be the chapel- 
 door.' 
 ' An' whin are ye goin' to lave me?' 'O' Monday 
 
 mornin' ' says he ; 
 'An shure thin ye'll meet me tomorra?' 'To- 
 
 morra, tomorra, Machree ! ' 
 Thin Molly's ould mother, yer Honour, that had 
 
 no likin' for Dan, 
 Call'd from her cabin an' tould her to come away 
 
 from the man, 
 An' Molly Magee kem flyin' acrass me, as light as 
 
 a lark, 
 An' Dan stood there for a minute, an' thin wint 
 
 into the dark. 
 But wirrah ! the storm that night — the tundher, an' 
 
 rain that fell, 
 
TOMORROW. 91 
 
 An' the sthrames runnin' down at the back o' the 
 glin 'ud 'a dhrownded Hell. 
 
 in. 
 
 But airth was at pace nixt morning an' Hiven in 
 
 its glory smiled, 
 As the Holy Mother o' Glory that smiles at her 
 
 sleepin' child — 
 Ethen — she stept an the chapel -green, an' she 
 
 turn'd herself roun' 
 Wid a diamond dhrop in her eye, for Danny was 
 
 not to be foun', 
 An' many's the time that I watch'd her at mass 
 
 lettin' down the tear, 
 For the Divil a Danny was there, yer Honour, for 
 
 forty year. 
 
92 TOMORROW. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Och, Molly Magee, wid the red o' the rose an' the 
 
 white o' the May, 
 An' yer hair as black as the night, an' yer eyes as 
 
 bright as the day ! 
 Achora, yer laste little whishper was sweet as the 
 
 lilt of a bird ! 
 Acushla, ye set me heart batin' to music wid ivery 
 
 word ! 
 An' sorra the Queen wid her sceptre in sich an 
 
 illigant han', 
 An' the fall of yer foot in the dance was as light as 
 
 snow an the Ian', 
 An' the sun kem out of a cloud whiniver ye walkt 
 
 in the shtreet, 
 An' Shamus O'Shea was yer shadda, an' laid him- 
 self undher yer feet, 
 
TOMORROW. 93 
 
 An' I loved ye meself wid a heart and a half, me 
 
 darling and he 
 'Ud 'a shot his own sowl dead for a kiss of ye, 
 
 Molly Magee. 
 
 v. 
 
 But shure we wor betther frinds whin I crack'd his 
 
 skull for her sake, 
 An' he ped me back wid the best he could give at 
 
 ould Donovan's wake — 
 For the boys wor about her agin whin Dan didn't 
 
 come to the fore, 
 An' Shamus along wid the rest, but she put thim all 
 
 to the door. 
 An', afther, I thried her meself av the bird 'ud come 
 
 to me call, 
 But Molly, begorrah, 'ud listhen to naither at all, 
 
 at all. 
 
94 TOMORROW. 
 
 VI. 
 
 An' her nabours an' frinds 'ud consowl an' condowl 
 
 wid her, airly and late, 
 ' Your Danny,' they says, ' niver crasst over say to 
 
 the Sassenach whate ; 
 He's gone to the States, aroon, an' he's married 
 
 another wife, 
 An' ye'll niver set eyes an the face of the thraithur 
 
 agin in life ! 
 An' to dhrame of a married man, death alive, is a 
 
 mortial'sin.' 
 But Molly says 'I'd his hand-promise, an' shure 
 
 he'll meet me agin.' 
 
 An' afther her paarints had inter'd glory, an' both 
 in wan day, 
 
TOMORROW. 95 
 
 She began to spake to herself, the crathur, an 
 
 whishper, an' say 
 'Tomorra, Tomorra!' an' Father Molowny he tuk 
 
 her in han', 
 ' Molly, you're manin',' he says, 'me dear, av I 
 
 undherstan', 
 That yell meet your paarints agin an' yer Danny 
 
 O'Roon afore God 
 Wid his blessed Marthyrs an' Saints;' an' she gev 
 
 him a frindly nod, 
 ' Tomorra, Tomorra,' she says, an' she didn't intind 
 
 to desave, 
 But her wits wor dead, an' her hair was as white 
 
 as the snow an a grave. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Arrah now, here last month they wor diggin' the 
 bog, an' they foun' 
 
96 TOMORROW, 
 
 Dhrownded in black bog-wather a corp lyin' undher 
 groun'. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Yer Honour's own agint, he says to me wanst, at 
 
 Katty's shebeen, 
 1 The Divil take all the black Ian', for a blessin' 'ud 
 
 come wid the green ! ' 
 An' where 'ud the poor man, thin, cut his bit o' 
 
 turf for the fire ? 
 But och ! bad scran to the bogs whin they swallies 
 
 the man intire ! 
 An' sorra the bog that's in Hiven wid all the light 
 
 an' the glow, 
 An' there's hate enough, shure, widout thim in the 
 
 Divil's kitchen below. 
 
TOMORROW. 97 
 
 X. 
 
 Thim ould blind nagers in Agypt, I hard his River- 
 
 ence say, 
 Could keep their haithen kings in the flesh for the 
 
 Jidgemint day, 
 An', faix, be the piper o' Moses, they kep the cat 
 
 an' the dog, 
 But it 'ud 'a been aisier work av they lived be an 
 
 Irish bog. 
 
 XI. 
 
 How-an-iver they laid this body they foun' an the 
 
 grass 
 Be the chapel-door, an 5 the people 'ud see it that 
 
 wint into mass — 
 But a frish gineration had riz, an' most of the ould 
 
 was few, 
 
98 TOMORROW, 
 
 An' I didn't know him meself, an' none of the 
 parish knew. 
 
 XII. 
 
 But Molly kem limpin' up wid her stick, she was 
 
 lamed iv a knee, 
 Thin a slip of a gossoon call'd, ' Div ye know him, 
 
 Molly Magee?' 
 An' she stood up strait as the Queen of the world — 
 
 she lifted her head — 
 1 He said he would meet me tomorra ! ' an' dhropt 
 
 down dead an the dead. 
 
 Och, Molly, we thought, machree, ye would start 
 
 back agin into life, 
 Whin we laid yez, aich be aich, at yer wake like 
 
 husban' an' wife. 
 
TOMORROW. 99 
 
 Sorra the dhry eye thin but was wet for the frinds 
 
 that was gone ! 
 Sorra the silent throat but we hard it cryin' 'Ochone ! ' 
 An' Shamus O'Shea that has now ten childer, 
 
 hansome an' tall, 
 Him an' his childer wor keenin' as if he had lost 
 
 thim all. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Thin his Riverence buried thim both in wan grave 
 
 be the dead boor-tree,* 
 The young man Danny O'Roon wid his ould 
 
 woman, Molly Magee. 
 
 xv. 
 
 May all the flowers o' Jeroosilim blossom an 7 spring 
 
 from the grass, 
 
 Imbrashin' an' kissin' aich other — as ye did — over 
 
 yer Crass ! 
 
 * Elder-tree. 
 
ioo TOMORROW. 
 
 An' the lark fly out o' the flowers wid his song to 
 
 the Sun an' the Moon, 
 An' tell thim in Hiven about Molly Magee an' her 
 
 Danny O'Roon, 
 Till Holy St. Pether gets up wid his kays an' opens 
 
 the gate ! 
 An' shure, be the Crass, that's betther nor cuttin' 
 
 the Sassenach whate 
 To be there wid the Blessed Mother, an' Saints an' 
 
 Marthyrs galore, 
 An' singin' yer ' Aves ' an' * Pathers ' for iver an' 
 
 ivermore. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 An' now that I tould yer Honour whativer I hard 
 
 an' seen, 
 Yer Honour 'ill give me a thrifle to dhrink yer 
 
 health in potheen. 
 
THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS. 
 
 i. 
 
 Milk for my sweet-arts, Bess ! fur it mun be the 
 
 time about now 
 When Molly cooms in fro' the far -end close wi' 
 
 her paails fro' the cow. 
 Eh ! tha be new to the plaace — thou'rt gaapin' — 
 
 doesn't tha see 
 
 I calls 'em arter the fellers es once was sweet upo' 
 
 me? 
 
 ii. 
 
 Naay to be sewer it be past 'er time. What 
 
 maakes 'er sa laate ? 
 Goa to the laane at the back, an' loook thruf 
 
 Maddison's gaate ! 
 
102. , , THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS. 
 
 r ,'.••. „ n . T - 
 
 Sweet-arts ! Molly belike may 'a lighted to-night 
 
 upo' one. 
 Sweet-arts ! thanks to the Lord that I niver not 
 
 listen'd to noan ! 
 So I sits i' my oan armchair wi' my oan kettle 
 
 theere o' the hob, 
 An' Tommy the fust, an' Tommy the second, an' 
 
 Steevie an' Rob. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Rob, coom oop 'ere o' my knee. Thou sees that 
 
 i' spite o' the men 
 I 'a kep' thruf thick an' thin my two 'oonderd a- 
 
 year to mysen ; 
 Yis ! thaw tha call'd me es pretty ; es ony lass i' 
 
 the Shere, 
 An' thou be es pretty a Tabby, but Robby I seed 
 
 thruf ya theere. 
 
THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS. 103 
 
 Feyther 'ud saay I wur ugly as sin, an' I beant not 
 
 vaain, 
 But I niver wur downright hugly, thaw soom 'ud 
 
 'a thowt ma plaain, 
 An' I wasn't sa plaain i' pink ribbons, ye said I 
 
 wur pretty i' pinks, 
 An' I liked to 'ear it I did, but I beant sich a fool 
 
 as ye thinks ; 
 Ye was stroakin ma down wi' the 'air, as I be a- 
 
 stroakin o' you, 
 But whiniver I loook'd i' the glass I wur sewer that 
 
 it couldn't be true \ 
 Niver wur pretty, not I, but ye knaw'd it wur 
 
 pleasant to 'ear, 
 Thaw it warn't not me es wur pretty, but my two 
 
 'oonderd a-year. 
 
104 THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 D'ya mind the murnin' when we was a-walkin' 
 
 togither, an' stood 
 By the claay'd-oop pond, that the foalk be sa scared 
 
 at, i' Gigglesby wood, 
 Wheer the poor wench drowndid hersen, black 
 
 Sal, es 'ed been disgraaced ? 
 An' I feel'd thy arm es I stood wur a-creeapin 
 
 about my waaist ; 
 An' me es wur alius afear'd of a man's gittin' ower 
 
 fond, 
 I sidled awaay an' awaay till I plumpt foot fust i' 
 
 the pond ; 
 And, Robby, I niver 'a liked tha sa well, as I did 
 
 that daay, 
 Fur tha joompt in thysen, an' tha hoickt my feet 
 
 wi' a flop fro' the claay. 
 
THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS. 105 
 
 Ay, stick oop thy back, an' set oop thy taail, tha 
 
 may gie ma a kiss, 
 Fur I walk'd wi' tha all the way hoam an' wur niver 
 
 sa nigh saayin' Yis. 
 But wa boath was i' sich a clat we was shaamed 
 
 to cross Gigglesby Greean, 
 Fur a cat may loook at a king thou knaws but the 
 
 cat mun be clean. 
 Sa we boath on us kep out o' sight o' the winders 
 
 o' Gigglesby Hinn — 
 Naay, but the claws o' tha ! quiet ! they pricks 
 
 clean thruf to the skin — 
 An' wa boath slinkt 'oam by the brokken shed i' 
 
 the laane at the back, 
 Wheer the poodle runn'd at tha' once, an' thou 
 
 runn'd oop o' the thack j 
 An' tha squeedg'd my 'and i' the shed, fur theere 
 
 we was forced to 'ide, 
 
106 THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS. 
 
 Fur I seed that Steevie wur coomin', and one o' 
 the Tommies beside. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Theere now, what art'a mewin at, Steevie? for owt 
 
 I can tell — 
 Robby wur fust to be sewer, or I mowt 'a liked tha 
 
 as well. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But, Robby, I thowt o' tha all the while I wur 
 
 chaangin' my gown, 
 An' I thowt shall I chaange my staate? but, O 
 
 Lord, upo' coomin' down — 
 My bran-new carpet es fresh es a midder o' flowers 
 
 i' Maay — 
 Why 'edn't tha wiped thy shoes ? it wur clatted all 
 
 ower wi' claay. 
 
THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS. 107 
 
 An' I could 'a cried ammost, fur I seed that it 
 
 couldn't be, 
 An' Robby I gied tha a raatin that sattled thy 
 
 coortin o' me. 
 An' Molly an' me was agreed, as we was a-cleanin' 
 
 the floor, 
 That a man be a durty thing an' a trouble an' 
 
 plague wi' indoor. 
 But I rued it arter a bit, fur I stuck to tha more 
 
 na the rest, 
 But I couldn't 'a lived wi' a man an' I knaws it 
 
 be all fur the best. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Naay — let ma stroak tha down till I maakes tha as 
 
 smooth as silk, 
 But if I 'ed married tha, Robby, thou'd not 'a been 
 
 worth thy milk, 
 
108 THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS. 
 
 Thou'd niver 'a cotch'd ony mice but 'a left me the 
 
 work to do, 
 And 'a taaen to the bottle beside, so es all that I 
 
 'ears be true ; 
 But I loovs tha to maake thysen 'appy, an' soa 
 
 purr awaay, my dear, 
 Thou 'ed wellnigh purr'd ma awaay fro' my oan 
 
 two 'oonderd a-year. 
 
 x. 
 
 Swearin agean, you Toms, as ye used to do twelve 
 
 years sin' ! 
 Ye niver 'eard Steevie swear 'cep' it wur at a dog 
 
 coomin' in. 
 An' boath o' ye mun be fools to be hallus a-shawin' 
 
 your claws, 
 Fur I niver cared nothink for neither — an' one o' 
 
 ye dead ye knaws ! 
 
THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS. 109 
 
 Coom giv hoaver then, weant ye? I warrant ye 
 
 soom fine daay — 
 Theere, lig down— I shall hev to gie one or tother 
 
 awaay. 
 Can't ye taake pattern by Steevie ? ye shant hev a 
 
 drop fro' the paail. 
 Steevie be right good manners bang thruf to the 
 
 tip o' the taail. 
 
 XL 
 
 Robby, git down wi'tha, wilt tha ? let Steevie coom 
 
 oop o' my knee. 
 Steevie, my lad, thou 'ed very nigh been the Steevie 
 
 fur me ! 
 Robby wur fust to be sewer, 'e wur burn an' bred 
 
 i' the 'ouse, 
 But thou be es 'ansom a tabby as iver patted a 
 
 mouse. 
 
no THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS. 
 
 XII. 
 
 An' I beant not vaain, but I knaws I 'ed led tha a 
 
 quieter life 
 Nor her wi' the hepitaph yonder ! " A faaithful an' 
 
 loovin' wife ! n 
 An' 'cos o' thy farm by the beck, an' thy windmill 
 
 oop o' the croft, 
 Tha thowt tha would marry ma, did tha ? but that 
 
 wur a bit ower soft, 
 Thaw thou was es soaber as daay, wi' a niced red 
 
 faace, an' es clean 
 Es a shillin' fresh fro' the mint wi' a bran-new 'ead 
 
 o' the Queean, 
 An' thy farmin' es clean es thysen, fur, Steevie, tha 
 
 kep' it sa neat 
 That I niver not spied sa much as a poppy along 
 
 wi' the wheat, 
 
THE SPINSTER'S SWEET -ARTS. in 
 
 An' the wool of a thistle a-flyin' an' seeadin' tha 
 
 haated to see ; 
 'Twur as bad as a battle-twig* 'ere i' my oan blue 
 
 chaumber to me. 
 Ay, roob thy whiskers agean ma, fur I could 'a taaen 
 
 to tha well, 
 But fur thy bairns, poor Steevie, a bouncin' boy an' 
 
 a gell. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 An' thou was es fond o' thy bairns es I be mysen 
 
 o' my cats, 
 But I niver not wish'd fur childer, I hevn't naw 
 
 likin' fur brats; 
 Pretty anew when ya dresses 'em oop, an' they goas 
 
 fur a walk, 
 
 Or sits wi' their 'ands afoor 'em, an' doesn't not 
 
 'inder the talk ! 
 
 * Earwig. 
 
ii2 THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS. 
 
 But their bottles o' pap, an' their mucky bibs, an' 
 
 the clats an' the clouts, 
 An' their mashin' their toys to pieaces an' maakin' 
 
 ma deaf wi' their shouts, 
 An' hallus a-joompin' about ma as if they was set 
 
 upo' springs, 
 An' a haxin' ma hawkard questions, an' saayin' 
 
 ondecent things, 
 An' a-callin' ma ' hugly ' mayhap to my faace, or a 
 
 tearin' my gown — 
 Dear ! dear ! dear ! I mun part them Tommies — 
 
 Steevie git down. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Ye be wuss nor the men-tommies, you. I tell'd ya, 
 
 na moor o' that I 
 Tom, lig theere o' the cushion, an' tother Tom 'ere 
 
 o' the mat. 
 
THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS. 113 
 
 XV. 
 
 Theere ! I ha' master'd them ! Hed I married the 
 
 Tommies — O Lord, 
 To loove an' obaay the Tommies ! I couldn't 'a 
 
 stuck by my word. 
 To be horder'd about, an' waaked, when Molly 'd 
 
 put out the light, 
 By a man coomin' in wi' a hiccup at ony hour o' 
 
 the night ! 
 An' the taable staain'd wi' 'is aale, an' the mud o' 
 
 'is boots o' the stairs, 
 An' the stink o' 'is pipe i' the 'ouse, an' the mark o' 
 
 'is 'ead o' the chairs ! 
 An' noan o' my four sweet-arts 'ud 'a let me 'a 
 
 hed my oan waay, 
 Sa I likes 'em best wi' taails when they 'evn't a 
 
 word to saay. 
 
114 THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 An' I sits i' my oan little parlour, an' sarved by my 
 
 oan little lass, 
 W? my oan little garden outside, an' my oan bed o' 
 
 sparrow-grass, 
 An* my oan door-poorch wi 5 the woodbine an' 
 
 jessmine a-dressin' it greean, 
 An* my oan fine Jackman i' purple a roabin' the 
 
 'ouse like a Queean. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 An' the little gells bobs to ma hoffens es I be abroad 
 
 i' the laanes, 
 When I goas to coomfut the poor es be down wi' 
 
 their haaches an' their paains : 
 An* a haaf-pot o' jam, or a mossel o' meat when it 
 
 beant too dear, 
 
THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS. 115 
 
 They maakes ma a graater Laady nor 'er i' the 
 
 mansion theer, 
 Hes 'es hallus to hax of a man how much to spare 
 
 or to spend ; 
 An' a spinster I be an' I will be, if soa please God, 
 
 to the hend. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Mew ! mew ! — Bess wi' the milk ! what ha maade 
 
 our Molly sa laate ? 
 It should 'a been 'ere by seven, an' theere — it be 
 
 strikin' height — 
 ' Cushie wur craazed fur 'er cauf ' well — I 'eard 'er 
 
 a maakin' 'er moan, 
 An' I thowt to mysen ' thank God that I hevn't naw 
 
 cauf o' my oan.' 
 Theere ! 
 
 Set it down ! 
 
n6 THE SPINSTER'S SWEET-ARTS. 
 
 Now Robby ! 
 You Tommies shall waait to-night 
 Till Robby an' Steevie 'es 'ed their lap — an' it 
 sarves ye right 
 
BALIN AND BALAN.* 
 
 Pellam the King, who held and lost with Lot 
 In that first war, and had his realm restored 
 But render'd tributary, fail'd of late 
 To send his tribute ; wherefore Arthur call'd 
 His treasurer, one of many years, and spake, 
 ' Go thou with him and him and bring it to us, 
 Lest we should set one truer on his throne. 
 Man's word is God in man.' 
 
 His Baron said 
 ' We go but harken : there be two strange knights 
 Who sit near Camelot at a fountain side, 
 A mile beneath the forest, challenging 
 
 * An introduction to ' Merlin and Vivien. ' 
 
u8 BALIN AND BALAN. 
 
 And overthrowing every knight who comes. 
 Wilt thou I undertake them as we pass, 
 And send them to thee ?' 
 
 Arthur laugh'd upon him. 
 ' Old friend, too old to be so young, depart, 
 Delay not thou for ought, but let them sit, 
 Until they find a lustier than themselves.' 
 
 So these departed. Early, one fair dawn, 
 The light-wing'd spirit of his youth return'd 
 On Arthur's heart ; he arm'd himself and went, 
 So coming to the fountain-side beheld 
 Balin and Balan sitting statuelike, 
 Brethren, to right and left the spring, that down, 
 From underneath a plume of lady-fern, 
 Sang, and the sand danced at the bottom of it. 
 And on the right of Balin Balin's horse 
 Was fast beside an alder, on the left 
 
BALIN AND BALAN. 1 19 
 
 Of Balan Balan's near a poplartree. 
 4 Fair Sirs,' said Arthur, 'wherefore sit ye here?' 
 Balin and Balan answer'd ' For the sake 
 Of glory ; we be mightier men than all 
 In Arthur's court ; that also have we proved ; 
 For whatsoever knight against us came 
 Or I or he have easily overthrown.' 
 ' I too,' said Arthur, ' am of Arthur's hall, 
 But rather proven in his Paynim wars 
 Than famous jousts ; but see, or proven or not, 
 Whether me likewise ye can overthrow.' 
 And Arthur lightly smote the brethren down, 
 And lightly so return'd, and no man knew. 
 Then Balin rose, and Balan, and beside 
 The carolling water set themselves again, 
 And spake no word until the shadow turn'd ; 
 When from the fringe of coppice round them burst 
 
120 BALIN AND BALAN. 
 
 A spangled pursuivant, and crying ' Sirs, 
 Rise, follow ! ye be sent for by the King,' 
 They follow'd ; whom when Arthur seeing ask'd 
 1 Tell me your names ; why sat ye by the well?' 
 Balin the stillness of a minute broke 
 Saying ' An unmelodious name to thee, 
 Balin, " the Savage " — that addition thine — 
 My brother and my better, this man here, 
 Balan. I smote upon the naked skull 
 A thrall of thine in open hall, my hand 
 Was gauntleted, half slew him ; for I heard 
 He had spoken evil of me ; thy just wrath 
 Sent me a three-years' exile from thine eyes. 
 I have not lived my life delightsomely : 
 For I that did that violence to thy thrall, 
 Had often wrought some fury on myself, 
 Saving for Balan : those three kingless years 
 
BALIN AND BALAN. 121 
 
 Have past — were wormwood-bitter to me. King, 
 Methought that if we sat beside the well, 
 And hurl'd to ground what knight soever spurr'd 
 Against us, thou would'st take me gladlier back, 
 And make, as ten-times worthier to be thine 
 Than twenty Balins, Balan knight. I have said. 
 Not so — not all. A man of thine to-day 
 Abash'd us both, and brake my boast. Thy will?' 
 Said Arthur ' Thou hast ever spoken truth ; 
 Thy too fierce manhood would not let thee lie. 
 Rise, my true knight. As children learn, be thou 
 Wiser for falling ! walk with me, and move 
 To music with thine Order and the King. 
 Thy chair, a grief to all the brethren, stands 
 Vacant, but thou retake it, mine again ! ' 
 
 Thereafter, when Sir Balin enter'd hall, 
 The Lost one Found was greeted as in Heaven 
 
122 BALIN AND BALAN. 
 
 With joy that blazed itself in woodland wealth 
 Of leaf, and gayest garlandage of flowers, 
 Along the walls and down the board ; they sat, 
 And cup clash'd cup; they drank and some one sang, 
 Sweet-voiced, a song of welcome, whereupon 
 Their common shout in chorus, mounting, made 
 Those banners of twelve battles overhead 
 Stir, as they stirr'd of old, when Arthur's host 
 Proclaimed him Victor, and the day was won. 
 
 Then Balan added to their Order lived 
 A wealthier life than heretofore with these 
 And Balin, till their embassage return'd. 
 
 ' Sir King ' they brought report ' we hardly found, 
 So bush'd about it is with gloom, the hall 
 Of him to whom ye sent us, Pellam, once 
 A Christless foe of thine as ever dash'd 
 Horse against horse j but seeing that thy realm 
 
BALIN AND BALAN. 123 
 
 Hath prosper'd in the name of Christ, the King 
 Took, as in rival heat, to holy things ; 
 And finds himself descended from the Saint 
 Arimathaean Joseph ; him who first 
 Brought the great faith to Britain over seas ; 
 He boasts his life as purer than thine own j 
 Eats scarce enow to keep his pulse abeat ; 
 Hath push'd aside his faithful wife, nor lets 
 Or dame or damsel enter at his gates 
 Lest he should be polluted. This gray King 
 Show'd us a shrine wherein were wonders — yea — 
 Rich arks with priceless bones of martyrdom, 
 Thorns of the crown and shivers of the cross, 
 And therewithal (for thus he told us) brought 
 By holy Joseph hither, that same spear 
 Wherewith the Roman pierced the side of Christ. 
 He much amazed us ; after, when we sought 
 
124 BALIN AND BALAN. 
 
 The tribute, answer'd ' I have quite foregone 
 All matters of this world : Garlon, mine heir 
 Of him demand it,' which this Garlon gave 
 With much ado, railing at thine and thee. 
 
 But when we left, in those deep woods we found 
 A knight of thine spear-stricken from behind, 
 Dead, whom we buried ; more than one of us 
 Cried out on Garlon, but a woodman there 
 Reported of some demon in the woods 
 Was once a man, who driven by evil tongues 
 From all his fellows, lived alone, and came 
 To learn black magic, and to hate his kind 
 With such a hate, that when he died, his soul 
 Became a Fiend, which, as the man in life 
 Was wounded by blind tongues he saw not whence, 
 Strikes from behind. This woodman show'd the 
 cave 
 
BALIN AND BALAN. 125 
 
 From which he sallies, and wherein he dwelt. 
 We saw the hoof-print of a horse, no more.' 
 
 Then Arthur, ' Let who goes before me, see 
 He do not fall behind me : foully slain 
 And villainously ! who will hunt for me 
 This demon of the woods ?' Said Balan, ' I ' ! 
 So claim'd the quest and rode away, but first, 
 Embracing Balin, * Good, my brother, hear ! 
 Let not thy moods prevail, when I am gone 
 Who used to lay them ! hold them outer fiends, 
 Who leap at thee to tear thee ; shake them aside, 
 Dreams ruling when wit sleeps ! yea, but to dream 
 That any of these would wrong thee, wrongs thyself. 
 Witness their flowery welcome. Bound are they 
 To speak no evil. Truly save for fears, 
 My fears for thee, so rich a fellowship 
 Would make me wholly blest : thou one of them, 
 
126 BALIN AND BALAN. 
 
 Be one indeed : consider them, and all 
 Their bearing in their common bond of love, 
 No more of hatred than in Heaven itself, 
 No more of jealousy than in Paradise.' 
 
 So Balan warn'd, and went ; Balin remain'd : 
 Who — for but three brief moons had glanced away 
 From being knighted till he smote the thrall, 
 And faded from the presence into years 
 Of exile — now would strictlier set himself 
 To learn what Arthur meant by courtesy, 
 Manhood, and knighthood ; wherefore hover'd 
 
 round 
 Lancelot, but when he mark'd his high sweet 
 
 smile 
 In passing, and a transitory word 
 Make knight or churl or child or damsel seem 
 From being smiled at happier in themselves — 
 
BALIN AND BALAN. 127 
 
 Sigh'd, as a boy lame-born beneath a height, 
 That glooms his valley, sighs to see the peak 
 Sun-flush'd, or touch at night the northern star j 
 For one from out his village lately climb'd 
 And brought report of azure lands and fair, 
 Far seen to left and right ; and he himself 
 Hath hardly scaled with help a hundred feet 
 Up from the base : so Balin marvelling oft 
 How far beyond him Lancelot seem'd to move, 
 Groan'd, and at times would mutter, ' These be gifts, 
 Born with the blood, not learnable, divine, 
 Beyond my reach. Well had I foughten — well — 
 In those fierce wars, struck hard — and had I crown'd 
 With my slain self the heaps of whom I slew — 
 So — better ! — But this worship of the Queen, 
 That honour too wherein she holds him — this, 
 This was the sunshine that hath given the man 
 
128 BALIN AND BALAN. 
 
 A growth, a name that branches o'er the rest, 
 And strength against all odds, and what the King 
 So prizes — overprizes — gentleness. 
 Her likewise would I worship an I might. 
 I never can be close with her, as he 
 That brought her hither. Shall I pray the King 
 To let me bear some token of his Queen 
 Whereon to gaze, remembering her — forget 
 My heats and violences ? live afresh ? 
 What, if the Queen disdain'd to grant it ! nay 
 Being so stately-gentle, would she make 
 My darkness blackness ? and with how sweet grace 
 She greeted my return ! Bold will I be — 
 Some goodly cognizance of Guinevere, 
 In lieu of this rough beast upon my shield, 
 Langued gules, and tooth'd with grinning savagery.' 
 And Arthur, when Sir Balin sought him, said 
 
BALIN AND BALAN. 129 
 
 ' What wilt thou bear?' Balin was bold, and ask'd 
 To bear her own crown-royal upon shield, 
 Whereat she smiled and turn'd her to the King, 
 Who answer'd ' Thou shalt put the crown to use. 
 The crown is but the shadow of the King, 
 And this a shadow's shadow, let him have it, 
 So this will help him of his violences ! ' 
 1 No shadow ' said Sir Balin ' O my Queen, 
 But light to me ! no shadow, O my King 
 But golden earnest of a gentler life ! ' 
 
 So Balin bare the crown, and all the knights 
 Approved him, and the Queen, and all the world 
 Made music, and he felt his being move 
 In music with his Order, and the King. 
 
 The nightingale, full-toned in middle May, 
 Hath ever and anon a note so thin 
 It seems another voice in other groves ; 
 
130 BALIN AND BALAN. 
 
 Thus, after some quick burst of sudden wrath, 
 The music in him seem'd to change, and grow 
 Faint and far-off. 
 
 And once he saw the thrall 
 His passion half had gauntleted to death, 
 That causer of his banishment and shame, 
 Smile at him, as he deem'd, presumptuously : 
 His arm half rose to strike again, but fell : 
 The memory of that cognizance on shield 
 Weighted it down, but in himself he moan'd : 
 
 1 Too high this mount of Camelot for me : 
 These high-set courtesies are not for me. 
 Shall I not rather prove the worse for these ? 
 Fierier and stormier from restraining, break 
 Into some madness ev'n before the Queen?' 
 
 Thus, as a hearth lit in a mountain home, 
 And glancing on the window, when the gloom 
 
BALIN AND BALAN. 131 
 
 Of twilight deepens round it, seems a flame 
 That rages in the woodland far below, 
 So when his moods were darken'd, court and King 
 And all the kindly warmth of Arthur's hall 
 Shadow'd an angry distance : yet he strove 
 To learn the graces of their Table, fought 
 Hard with himself, and seem'd at length in peace. 
 Then chanced, one morning, that Sir Balin sat 
 Close-bower'd in that garden nigh the hall. 
 A walk of roses ran from door to door ; 
 A walk of lilies crost it to the bower : 
 And down that range of roses the great Queen 
 Came with slow steps, the morning on her face; 
 And all in shadow from the counter door 
 Sir Lancelot as to meet her, then at once, 
 As if he saw not, glanced aside, and paced 
 The long white walk of lilies toward the bower. 
 
132 BALIN AND BALAN. 
 
 Follow'd the Queen ; Sir Balin heard her ' Prince, 
 
 Art thou so little loyal to thy Queen, 
 
 As pass without good morrow to thy Queen ?' 
 
 To whom Sir Lancelot with his eyes on earth, 
 
 1 Fain would I still be loyal to the Queen.' 
 
 * Yea so ' she said ' but so to pass me by — 
 
 So loyal scarce is loyal to thyself, 
 
 Whom all men rate the king of courtesy. 
 
 Let be : ye stand, fair lord, as in a dream.' 
 
 Then Lancelot with his hand among the flowers 
 1 Yea — for a dream. Last night methought I saw 
 That maiden Saint who stands with lily in hand 
 In yonder shrine. All round her prest the dark, 
 And all the light upon her silver face 
 Flow'd from the spiritual lily that she held. 
 Lo ! these her emblems drew mine eyes — away : 
 For see, how perfect-pure ! As light a flush 
 
BALIN AND BALAN. 133 
 
 As hardly tints the blossom of the quince 
 Would mar their charm of stainless maidenhood. ' 
 
 * Sweeter to me ' she said ' this garden rose 
 Deep-hued and many-folded ! sweeter still 
 The wild-wood hyacinth and the bloom of May. 
 Prince, we have ridd'n before among the flowers 
 In those fair days — not all as cool as these, 
 Tho' season-earlier. Art thou sad ? or sick ? 
 Our noble King will send thee his own leech — 
 Sick ? or for any matter anger'd at me ? ' 
 
 Then Lancelot lifted his large eyes ; they dwelt 
 Deep-tranced on hers, and could not fall : her hue 
 Changed at his gaze : so turning side by side 
 They past, and Balin started from his bower. 
 
 * Queen ? subject ? but I see not what I see. 
 Damsel and lover ? hear not what I hear. 
 
 My father hath begotten me in his wrath. 
 
134 BALIN AND BALAN. 
 
 I suffer from the things before me, know, 
 Learn nothing ; am not worthy to be knight \ 
 A churl, a clown ! ' and in him gloom on gloom 
 Deepen'd : he sharply caught his lance and shield, 
 Nor stay'd to crave permission 01 the king, 
 But, mad for strange adventure, dash'd away. 
 He took the selfsame track as Balan, saw 
 The fountain where they sat together, sigh'd 
 ' Was I not better there with him?' and rode 
 The skyless woods, but under open blue 
 Came on the hoarhead woodman at a bough 
 Wearily hewing, ' Churl, thine axe ! ' he cried, 
 Descended, and disjointed it at a blow : 
 To whom the woodman utter'd wonderingly 
 1 Lord, thou couldst lay the Devil of these woods 
 If arm of flesh could lay him.' Balin cried 
 ' Him, or the viler devil who plays his part, 
 
BALIN AND BALAN. 135 
 
 To lay that devil would lay the Devil in me.' 
 
 1 Nay ' said the churl, l our devil is a truth, 
 
 I saw the flash of him but yestereven. 
 
 And some do say that our Sir Garlon too 
 
 Hath learn'd black magic, and to ride unseen. 
 
 Look to the cave.' But Balin answer'd him 
 
 ' Old fabler, these be fancies of the churl, 
 
 Look to thy woodcraft,' and so leaving him, 
 
 Now with slack rein and careless of himself, 
 
 Now with dug spur and raving at himself, 
 
 Now with droopt brow down the long glades he rode j 
 
 So mark'd not on his right a cavern-chasm 
 
 Yawn over darkness, where, nor far within 
 
 The whole day died, but, dying, gleam'd on rocks 
 
 Roof-pendent, sharp ; and others from the floor, 
 
 Tusklike, arising, made that mouth of night 
 
 Whereout the Demon issued up from Hell. 
 
136 BALIN AND BALAN. 
 
 He mark'd not this, but blind and deaf to all 
 Save that chain'd rage, which ever yelpt within, 
 Past eastward from the falling sun. At once 
 He felt the hollow-beaten mosses thud 
 And tremble, and then the shadow of a spear, 
 Shot from behind him, ran along the ground. 
 Sideways he started from the path, and saw, 
 With pointed lance as if to pierce, a shape, 
 A light of armour by him flash, and pass 
 And vanish in the woods ; and follow'd this, 
 But all so blind in rage that unawares 
 He burst his lance against a forest bough, 
 Dishorsed himself, and rose again, and fled 
 Far, till the castle of a King, the hall 
 Of Pellam, lichen-bearded, grayly draped 
 With streaming grass, appear'd, low -built but 
 strong ; 
 
BALIN AND BALAN. 137 
 
 The ruinous donjon as a knoll of moss, 
 The battlement overtopt with ivytods, 
 A home of bats, in every tower an owl. 
 
 Then spake the men of Pellam crying * Lord, 
 Why wear ye this crown-royal upon shield ? ' 
 Said Balin ' For the fairest and the best 
 Of ladies living gave me this to bear.' 
 So stall'd his horse, and strode across the court, 
 But found the greetings both of knight and King 
 Faint in the low dark hall of banquet : leaves 
 Laid their green faces flat against the panes, 
 Sprays grated, and the canker'd boughs without 
 Whined in the wood ; for all was hush'd within, 
 Till when at feast Sir Garlon likewise ask'd 
 1 Why wear ye that crown-royal ? ' Balin said 
 1 The Queen we worship, Lancelot, I, and all, 
 As fairest, best and purest, granted me 
 
138 BALIN AND BALAN. 
 
 To bear it ! ' Such a sound (for Arthur's knights 
 Were hated strangers in the hall) as makes 
 The white swan-mother, sitting, when she hears 
 A strange knee rustle thro' her secret reeds, 
 Made Garlon, hissing ; then he sourly smiled. 
 • Fairest I grant her : I have seen ; but best, 
 Best, purest ? thou from Arthur's hall, and yet 
 So simple ! hast thou eyes, or if, are these 
 So far besotted that they fail to see 
 This fair wife-worship cloaks a secret shame ? 
 Truly, ye men of Arthur be but babes.' 
 
 A goblet on the board by Balin, boss'd 
 With holy Joseph's legend, on his right 
 Stood, all of massiest bronze : one side had sea 
 And ship and sail and angels blowing on it : 
 And one was rough with pole and scaffoldage 
 Of that low church he built at Glastonbury. 
 
BALIN AND BALAN. 139 
 
 This Balin graspt, but while in act to hurl, 
 Thro' memory of that token on the shield 
 Relax'd his hold : ' I will be gentle ' he thought 
 ' And passing gentle ' caught his hand away, 
 Then fiercely to Sir Garlon ' eyes have I 
 That saw to-day the shadow of a spear, 
 Shot from behind me, run along the ground ; 
 Eyes too that long have watch'd how Lancelot 
 
 draws 
 From homage to the best and purest, might, 
 Name, manhood, and a grace, but scantly thine, 
 Who, sitting in thine own hall, canst endure 
 To mouth so huge a foulness — to thy guest, 
 Me, me of Arthur's Table. Felon talk ! 
 Let be ! no more ! ' 
 
 But not the less by night 
 The scorn of Garlon, poisoning all his rest, 
 
140 BALIN AND BALAN. 
 
 Stung him in dreams. At length, and dim thro' 
 
 leaves 
 Blinkt the white morn, sprays grated, and old boughs 
 Whined in the wood. He rose, descended, met 
 The scorner in the castle court, and fain, 
 For hate and loathing, would have past him by \ 
 But when Sir Garlon utter'd mocking-wise \ 
 ' What, wear ye still that same crown-scandalous?' 
 His countenance blacken'd, and his forehead veins 
 Bloated, and branch'd \ and tearing out of sheath 
 The brand, Sir Balin with a fiery ' Ha ! 
 So thou be shadow, here I make thee ghost/ 
 Hard upon helm smote him, and the blade flew 
 Splintering in six, and clinkt upon the stones. 
 Then Garlon, reeling slowly backward, fell, 
 And Balin by the banneret of his helm 
 Dragg'd him, and struck, but from the castle a cry 
 
BALIN AND BALAN. 141 
 
 Sounded across the court, and — men-at-arms, 
 A score with pointed lances, making at him — 
 He dash'd the pummel at the foremost face, 
 Beneath a low door dipt, and made his feet 
 Wings thro' a glimmering gallery, till he mark'd 
 The portal of King Pellam's chapel wide 
 And inward to the wall ; he stept behind ; 
 Thence in a moment heard them pass like wolves 
 Howling ; but while he stared about the shrine, 
 In which he scarce could spy the Christ for Saints, 
 Beheld before a golden altar lie 
 
 I The longest lance his eyes had ever seen, 
 Point-painted red ; and seizing thereupon 
 Push'd thro' an open casement down, lean'd on it, 
 Leapt in a semicircle, and lit on earth ; 
 Then hand at ear, and harkening from what side 
 The blindfold rummage buried in the walls 
 
142 BALIN AND BALAN. 
 
 Might echo, ran the counter path, and found 
 
 His charger, mounted on him and away. 
 
 An arrow whizz'd to the right, one to the left, 
 
 One overhead ; and Pellam's feeble cry 
 
 ' Stay, stay him ! he defileth heavenly things 
 
 With earthly uses ' — made him quickly dive 
 
 Beneath the boughs, and race thro' many a mile 
 
 Of dense and open, till his goodly horse, 
 
 Arising wearily at a fallen oak, 
 
 Stumbled headlong, and cast him face to ground. 
 
 Half-wroth he had not ended, but all glad, 
 Knightlike, to find his charger yet unlamed, 
 Sir Balin drew the shield from off his neck, 
 Stared at the priceless cognizance, and thought 
 ' 1 have shamed thee so that now thou shamest me, 
 Thee will I bear no more/ high on a branch 
 Hung it, and turn'd aside into the woods, 
 
BALIN AND BALAN. 143 
 
 And there in gloom cast himself all along, 
 Moaning c My violences, my violences ! ' 
 
 But now the wholesome music of the wood 
 Was dumb'd by one from out the hall of Mark, 
 A damsel-errant, warbling, as she rode 
 The woodland alleys, Vivien, with her Squire. 
 
 * The fire of Heaven has kill'd the barren cold, 
 And kindled all the plain and all the wold. 
 The new leaf ever pushes off the old. 
 The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell. 
 
 Old priest, who mumble worship in your quire — 
 Old monk and nun, ye scorn the world's desire, 
 Yet in your frosty cells ye feel the fire ! 
 The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell. 
 
 The fire of Heaven is on the dusty ways. 
 The wayside blossoms open to the blaze. 
 The whole wood-world is one full peal of praise 
 
144 BALIN AND BALAN. 
 
 The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell. 
 
 The fire of Heaven is lord of all things good, 
 And starve not thou this fire within thy blood, 
 But follow Vivien thro' the fiery flood ! 
 The fire of Heaven is not the flame of Hell ! ' 
 
 Then turning to her Squire ' This fire of Heaven, 
 This old sun-worship, boy, will rise again, 
 And beat the cross to earth, and break the King 
 And all his Table.' 
 
 Then they reach'd a glade, 
 Where under one long lane of cloudless air 
 Before another wood, the royal crown 
 Sparkled, and swaying upon a restless elm 
 Drew the vague glance of Vivien, and her Squire ; 
 Amazed were these; 'Lo there' she cried — 'a 
 
 crown — 
 Borne by some high lord-prince of Arthur's hall, 
 
BALIN AND BALAN. 145 
 
 And there a horse ! the rider ? where is he ? 
 See, yonder lies one dead within the wood. 
 Not dead ; he stirs ! — but sleeping. I will speak. 
 Hail, royal knight, we break on thy sweet rest, 
 Not, doubtless, all unearn'd by noble deeds. 
 But bounden art thou, if from Arthur's hall, 
 To help the weak. Behold, I fly from shame, 
 A lustful King, who sought to win my love 
 Thro' evil ways : the knight, with whom I rode, 
 Hath suffer'd misadventure, and my squire 
 Hath in him small defence ; but thou, Sir Prince, 
 Wilt surely guide me to the warrior King, 
 Arthur the blameless, pure as any maid, 
 To get me shelter for my maidenhood. 
 I charge thee by that crown upon thy shield, 
 And by the great Queen's name, arise and hence.' 
 And Balin rose, ' Thither no more ! nor Prince 
 
 L 
 
146 BALIN AND BALAN. 
 
 Nor knight am I, but one that hath defamed 
 The cognizance she gave me : here I dwell 
 Savage among the savage woods, here die — 
 Die : let the wolves' black maws ensepulchre 
 Their brother beast, whose anger was his lord. 
 
 me, that such a name as Guinevere's, 
 Which our high Lancelot hath so lifted up, 
 And been thereby uplifted, should thro' me, 
 My violence, and my villainy, come to shame.' 
 
 Thereat she suddenly laugh'd and shrill, anon 
 Sigh'd all as suddenly. Said Balin to her 
 ' Is this thy courtesy — to mock me, ha ? 
 Hence, for I will not with thee.' Again she sigh'd 
 ' Pardon, sweet lord ! we maidens often laugh 
 When sick at heart, when rather we should weep. 
 
 1 knew thee wrong'd. I brake upon thy rest, 
 And now full loth am I to break thy dream, 
 
BALIN AND BALAN. 147 
 
 But thou art man, and canst abide a truth, 
 
 Tho' bitter. Hither, boy — and mark me well. 
 
 Dost thou remember at Caerleon once — 
 
 A year ago — nay, then I love thee not — 
 
 Ay, thou rememberest well — one summer dawn — 
 
 By the great tower — Caerleon upon Usk — 
 
 Nay, truly we were hidden : this fair lord, 
 
 The flower of all their vestal knighthood, knelt 
 
 In amorous homage — knelt — what else ? — O ay 
 
 Knelt, and drew down from out his night-black hair 
 
 And mumbled that white hand whose ring'd caress 
 
 Had wander'd from her own King's golden head, 
 
 And lost itself in darkness, till she cried — 
 
 I thought the great tower would crash down on 
 
 both— 
 " Rise, my sweet King, and kiss me on the lips, 
 Thou art my King." This lad, whose lightest word 
 
148 BALIN AND BALAN. 
 
 Is mere white truth in simple nakedness, 
 Saw them embrace : he reddens, cannot speak, 
 So bashful, he ! but all the maiden Saints, 
 The deathless mother-maidenhood of Heaven 
 Cry out upon her. Up then, ride with me ! 
 Talk not of shame ! thou canst not, an thou would'st, 
 Do these more shame than these have done them- 
 selves.' 
 
 She lied with ease ; but horror-stricken he, 
 Remembering that dark bower at Camelot, 
 Breathed in a dismal whisper 'It is truth.' 
 
 Sunnily she smiled ' And even in this lone wood 
 Sweet lord, ye do right well to whisper this. 
 Fools prate, and perish traitors. Woods have 
 
 tongues, 
 As walls have ears : but thou shalt go with me, 
 And we will speak at first exceeding low. 
 
BALIN AND BALAN. 149 
 
 Meet is it the good King be not deceived. 
 See now, I set thee high on vantage ground, 
 From whence to watch the time, and eagle-like 
 Stoop at thy will on Lancelot and the Queen.' 
 She ceased ; his evil spirit upon him leapt, 
 He ground his teeth together, sprang with a yell, 
 Tore from the branch, and cast on earth, the shield, 
 Drove his maiFd heel athwart the royal crown, 
 Stampt all into defacement, hurl'd it from him 
 Among the forest weeds, and cursed the tale, 
 The told-of, and the teller. 
 
 That weird yell, 
 Unearthlier than all shriek of bird or beast, 
 ThrilFd thro' the woods \ and Balan lurking there 
 (His quest was unaccomplished) heard and thought 
 1 The scream of that Wood-devil I came to quell ! ' 
 Thennearing 'Lo ! he hath slain some brother-knight, 
 
150 BALIN AND BALAN. 
 
 And tramples on the goodly shield to show 
 His loathing of our Order and the Queen. 
 My quest, meseems, is here. Or devil or man 
 Guard thou thine head.' Sir Balin spake not word, 
 But snatch'd a sudden buckler from the Squire, 
 And vaulted on his horse, and so they crash'd 
 In onset, and King Pellam's holy spear, 
 Reputed to be red with sinless blood, 
 Redden'd at once with sinful, for the point 
 Across the maiden shield of Balan prick'd 
 The hauberk to the flesh ; and Balin's horse 
 Was wearied to the death, and, when they clash'd, 
 Rolling back upon Balin, crush'd the man 
 Inward, and either fell, and swoon'd away. 
 
 Then to her Squire mutter'd the damsel ' Fools ! 
 This fellow hath wrought some foulness with his 
 Queen : 
 
BALIN AND BALAN. 151 
 
 Else never had he borne her crown, nor raved 
 
 And thus foam'd over at a rival name : 
 
 But thou, Sir Chick, that scarce hast broken shell, 
 
 Art yet half-yolk, not even come to down — 
 
 Who never sawest Caerleon upon Usk — 
 
 And yet hast often pleaded for my love — 
 
 See what I see, be thou where I have been, 
 
 Or else Sir Chick — dismount and loose their 
 
 casques 
 I fain would know what manner of men they be.' 
 And when the Squire had loosed them, ' Goodly ! — 
 
 look! 
 They might have cropt the myriad flower of May, 
 And butt each other here, like brainless bulls, 
 Dead for one heifer V 
 
 Then the gentle Squire 
 ' I hold them happy, so they died for love : 
 
152 BALIN AND BALAN. 
 
 And, Vivien, tho' ye beat me like your dog, 
 I too could die, as now I live, for thee.' 
 
 * Live on, Sir Boy,' she cried. ' I better prize 
 The living dog than the dead lion : away ! 
 I cannot brook to gaze upon the dead.' 
 Then leapt her palfrey o'er the fallen oak, 
 And bounding forward 'Leave them to the wolves.' 
 
 But when their foreheads felt the cooling air, 
 Balin first woke, and seeing that true face, 
 Familiar up from cradle-time, so wan, 
 Crawl'd slowly with low moans to where he lay, 
 And on his dying brother cast himself 
 Dying j and he lifted faint eyes ; he felt 
 One near him ; all at once they found the world, 
 Staring wild-wide ; then with a childlike wail, 
 And drawing down the dim disastrous brow 
 That o'er him hung, he kiss'd it, moan'd and spake; 
 
BALIN AND BALAN. 153 
 
 * O Balin, Balin, I that fain had died 
 To save thy life, have brought thee to thy death. 
 Why had ye not the shield I knew ? and why 
 Trampled ye thus on that which bare the Crown ?' 
 
 Then Balin told him brokenly, and in gasps, 
 All that had chanced, and Balan moan'd again. 
 
 ' Brother, I dwelt a day in Pellam's hall : 
 This Garlon mock'd me, but I heeded not. 
 And one said " Eat in peace ! a liar is he, 
 And hates thee for the tribute !" this good knight 
 Told me, that twice a wanton damsel came, 
 And sought for Garlon at the castle-gates, 
 Whom Pellam drove away with holy heat. 
 I well believe this damsel, and the one 
 Who stood beside thee even now, the same. 
 " She dwells among the woods " he said " and meets 
 And dallies with him in the Mouth of Hell.' 
 
154 BALIN AND BALAN. 
 
 Foul are their lives ; foul are their lips ; they lied. 
 Pure as our own true Mother is our Queen.' 
 ' brother ' answer'd Balin ' Woe is me ! 
 My madness all thy life has been thy doom, 
 Thy curse, and darken'd all thy day ; and now 
 The night has come. I scarce can see thee now. 
 Goodnight ! for we shall never bid again 
 Goodmorrow — Dark my doom was here, and dark 
 It will be there. I see thee now no more. 
 I would not mine again should darken thine, 
 Goodnight, true brother.' 
 
 Balan answer'd low 
 ' Goodnight, true brother here ! goodmorrow there ! 
 We two were born together, and we die 
 Together by one doom : ' and while he spoke 
 Closed his death-drowsing eyes, and slept the sleep 
 With Balin, either lock'd in either's arm. 
 
PROLOGUE 
 TO GENERAL HAMLEY. 
 
 Our birches yellowing and from each 
 
 The light leaf falling fast, 
 While squirrels from our fiery beech 
 
 Were bearing off the mast, 
 You came, and look'd and loved the view 
 
 Long-known and loved by me, 
 Green Sussex fading into blue 
 
 With one gray glimpse of sea ; 
 And, gazing from this height alone, 
 
 We spoke of what had been 
 
156 PROLOGUE 
 
 Most marvellous in the wars your own 
 
 Crimean eyes had seen ; 
 And now — like old-world inns that take 
 
 Some warrior for a sign 
 That therewithin a guest may make 
 
 True cheer with honest wine — 
 Because you heard the lines I read 
 
 Nor utter'd word of blame, 
 I dare without your leave to head 
 
 These rhymings with your name, 
 Who know you but as one of those 
 
 I fain would meet again, 
 Yet know you, as your England knows 
 
 That you and all your men 
 Were soldiers to her heart's desire, 
 
 When, in the vanish'd year, 
 You saw the league-long rampart-fire 
 
TO GENERAL HAMLEY. 157 
 
 Flare from Tel-el-Kebir 
 Thro' darkness, and the foe was driven, 
 
 And Wolseley overthrew 
 Arabi, and the stars in heaven 
 
 Paled, and the glory grew. 
 
THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE 
 AT BALACLAVA. 
 
 October 25, 1854. 
 1. 
 
 The charge of the gallant three hundred, the Heavy 
 Brigade ! 
 
 Down the hill, down the hill, thousands of Russians, 
 
 Thousands of horsemen, drew to the valley — and 
 stay'd ; 
 
 For Scarlett and Scarlett's three hundred were rid- 
 ing by 
 
 When the points of the Russian lances arose in the 
 sky; 
 
CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE, 159 
 And he call'd 'Left wheel into line!' and they 
 
 wheel'd and obey'd. 
 Then he look'd at the host that had halted he knew 
 
 not why, 
 And he turn'd half round, and he bad his trumpeter 
 
 sound 
 To the charge, and he rode on ahead, as he waved 
 
 his blade 
 To the gallant three hundred whose glory will never 
 
 die — 
 'Follow,' and up the hill, up the hill, up the 
 
 hill, 
 Follow'd the Heavy Brigade. 
 
 11. 
 
 The trumpet, the gallop, the charge, and the might 
 of the fight ! 
 
160 CHARGE OF THE HEA VY BRIGADE. 
 
 Thousands of horsemen had gather'd there on the 
 
 height, 
 With a wing push'd out to the left, and a wing to 
 
 the right, 
 And who shall escape if they close ? but he dash'd 
 
 up alone 
 Thro' the great gray slope of men, 
 Sway'd his sabre, and held his own 
 Like an Englishman there and then ; 
 All in a moment follow'd with force 
 Three that were next in their fiery course, 
 Wedged themselves in between horse and horse, 
 Fought for their lives in the narrow gap they had 
 
 made — 
 Four amid thousands ! and up the hill, up the hill, 
 Gallopt the gallant three hundred, the Heavy 
 
 Brigade. 
 
CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE. 161 
 
 III. 
 
 Fell like a cannonshot, 
 
 Burst like a thunderbolt, 
 
 Crash'd like a hurricane, 
 
 Broke thro' the mass from below, 
 
 Drove thro' the midst of the foe, 
 
 Plunged up and down, to and fro, 
 
 Rode flashing blow upon blow, 
 
 Brave Inniskillens and Greys 
 
 Whirling their sabres in circles of light ! 
 
 And some of us, all in amaze, 
 
 Who were held for a while from the fight, 
 
 And were only standing at gaze, 
 
 When the dark-muffled Russian crowd 
 
 Folded its wings from the left and the right, 
 
 And roll'd them around like a cloud, — 
 
 O mad for the charge and the battle were we, 
 
162 CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE. 
 
 When our own good redcoats sank from sight, 
 Like drops of blood in a dark-gray sea, 
 And we turn'd to each other, whispering, all dismay'd, 
 'Lost are the gallant three hundred of Scarlett's 
 Brigade ! ' 
 
 IV. 
 
 1 Lost one and all ' were the words 
 Mutter'd in our dismay ; 
 But they rode like Victors and Lords 
 Thro' the forest of lances and swords 
 In the heart of the Russian hordes, 
 They rode, or they stood at bay — 
 Struck with the sword-hand and slew, 
 Down with the bridle-hand drew 
 The foe from the saddle and threw 
 Underfoot there in the fray — 
 Ranged like a storm or stood like a rock 
 
CHARGE OF THE HEA FY BRIGADE. 163 
 
 In the wave of a stormy day ; 
 
 Till suddenly shock upon shock 
 
 Stagger'd the mass from without, 
 
 Drove it in wild disarray, 
 
 For our men gallopt up with a cheer and a shout, 
 
 And the foeman surged, and waver'd, and reel'd 
 
 Up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, out of the field, 
 
 And over the brow and away. 
 
 v. 
 Glory to each and to all, and the charge that they 
 
 made ! 
 Glory to all the three hundred, and all the Brigade ! 
 
 Note. — The ' three hundred ' of the ■ Heavy Brigade ' who 
 made this famous charge were the Scots Greys and the 2nd 
 squadron of Inniskillings ; the remainder of the ' Heavy 
 Brigade ' subsequently dashing up to their support. 
 
 The ' three ' were Scarlett's aide-de-camp, Elliot, and the 
 trumpeter and Shegog the orderly, who had been close 
 behind him. 
 
EPILOGUE. 
 
 Irene. 
 Not this way will you set your name 
 A star among the stars. 
 
 Poet. 
 What way ? 
 
 Irene. 
 You praise when you should blame 
 The barbarism of wars. 
 A juster epoch has begun. 
 
 Poet. 
 Yet tho' this cheek be gray, 
 And that bright hair the modern sun, 
 
EPILOGUE. 165 
 
 Those eyes the blue to-day, 
 You wrong me, passionate little friend. 
 
 I would that wars should cease, 
 I would the globe from end to end 
 
 Might sow and reap in peace, 
 And some new Spirit o'erbear the old, 
 
 Or Trade re-frain the Powers 
 From war with kindly links of gold, 
 
 Or Love with wreaths of flowers. 
 Slav, Teuton, Kelt, I count them all 
 
 My friends and brother souls, 
 With all the peoples, great and small, 
 
 That wheel between the poles. 
 But since, our mortal shadow, 111 
 
 To waste this earth began — 
 Perchance from some abuse of Will 
 
 In worlds before the man 
 
i66 EPILOGUE. 
 
 Involving ours — he needs must fight 
 
 To make true peace his own, 
 He needs must combat might with might, 
 
 Or Might would rule alone ; 
 And who loves War for War's own sake 
 
 Is fool, or crazed, or worse \ 
 But let the patriot-soldier take 
 
 His meed of fame in verse ; 
 Nay — tho' that realm were in the wrong 
 
 For which her warriors bleed, 
 It still were right to crown with song 
 
 The warrior's noble deed — 
 A crown the Singer hopes may last, 
 
 For so the deed endures ; 
 But Song will vanish in the Vast ; 
 
 And that large phrase of yours 
 ' A Star among the stars,' my dear, 
 
EPILOGUE. 167 
 
 Is girlish talk at best ; 
 For dare we dally with the sphere 
 
 As he did half in jest, 
 Old Horace ? ' I will strike ' said he 
 
 ' The stars with head sublime,' 
 But scarce could see, as now we see, 
 
 The man in Space and Time, 
 So drew perchance a happier lot 
 
 Than ours, who rhyme to-day. 
 The fires that arch this dusky dot — 
 
 Yon myriad-worlded way — 
 The vast sun-clusters' gather'd blaze, 
 
 World-isles in lonely skies, 
 Whole heavens within themselves, amaze 
 
 Our brief humanities ; 
 And so does Earth ; for Homer's fame, 
 
 Tho' carved in harder stone — 
 
1 68 EPILOGUE. 
 
 The falling drop will make his name 
 As mortal as my own. 
 
 Irene. 
 
 No! 
 
 Poet. 
 Let it live then — ay, till when ? 
 
 Earth passes, all is lost 
 In what they prophesy, our wise men, 
 
 Sun-flame or sunless frost, 
 And deed and song alike are swept 
 
 Away, and all in vain 
 As far as man can see, except 
 
 The man himself remain j 
 And tho', in this lean age forlorn, 
 
 Too many a voice may cry 
 That man can have no after-morn, 
 
 Not yet of these am I. 
 
EPILOGUE. 169 
 
 The man remains, and whatsoe'er 
 
 He wrought of good or brave 
 Will mould him thro' the cycle-year 
 
 That dawns behind the grave. 
 
 And here the Singer for his Art 
 
 Not all in vain may plead 
 * The song that nerves a nation's heart, 
 
 Is in itself a deed.' 
 
TO VIRGIL. 
 
 WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE MANTUANS FOR 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTENARY OF VIRGIL'S DEATH. 
 
 I. 
 
 Roman Virgil, thou that singest 
 
 Ilion's lofty temples robed in fire, 
 
 Ilion falling, Rome arising, 
 
 wars, and filial faith, and Dido's pyre ; 
 
 ii. 
 
 Landscape-lover, lord of language 
 
 more than he that sang the Works and Days, 
 All the chosen coin of fancy 
 
 flashing out from many a golden phrase ; 
 
TO VIRGIL. 171 
 
 III. 
 
 Thou that singest wheat and woodland, 
 
 tilth and vineyard, hive and horse and herd ; 
 All the charm of all the Muses 
 
 often flowering in a lonely word ; 
 
 IV. 
 
 Poet of the happy Tityrus 
 
 piping underneath his beechen bowers ; 
 Poet of the poet-satyr 
 
 whom the laughing shepherd bound with 
 flowers ; 
 
 v. 
 
 Chanter of the Pollio, glorying 
 
 in the blissful years again to be, 
 
 Summers of the snakeless meadow, 
 
 unlaborious earth and oarless sea ; 
 
172 TO VIRGIL. 
 
 VI. 
 Thou that seest Universal 
 
 Nature moved by Universal Mind ; 
 Thou majestic in thy sadness 
 
 at the doubtful doom of human kind \ 
 
 VII. 
 
 Light among the vanished ages ; 
 
 star that gildest yet this phantom shore ; 
 Golden branch amid the shadows, 
 
 kings and realms that pass to rise no more ; 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Now thy Forum roars no longer, 
 
 fallen every purple Caesar's dome — 
 
 Tho' thine ocean-roll of rhythm 
 
 sound for ever of Imperial Rome — 
 
TO VIRGIL. 173 
 
 IX. 
 
 Now the Rome of slaves hath perish'd, 
 
 and the Rome of freemen holds her place, 
 I, from out the Northern Island 
 
 sunder'd once from all the human race, 
 
 x. 
 
 I salute thee, Mantovano, 
 
 I that loved thee since my day began, 
 Wielder of the stateliest measure 
 
 ever moulded by the lips of man. 
 
THE DEAD PROPHET. 
 
 Dead ! 
 
 And the Muses cried with a stormy cry 
 1 Send them no more, for evermore. 
 
 Let the people die.' 
 
 ii. 
 Dead! 
 
 1 Is it he then brought so low ?' 
 
 And a careless people flock'd from the fields 
 
 With a purse to pay for the show. 
 
THE DEAD PROPHET. 175 
 
 III. 
 Dead, who had served his time, 
 
 Was one of the people's kings, 
 Had labour'd in lifting them out of slime, 
 
 And showing them, souls have wings ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Dumb on the winter heath he lay. 
 
 His friends had stript him bare, 
 And roll'd his nakedness everyway 
 
 That all the crowd might stare. 
 
 v. 
 A storm-worn signpost not to be read, 
 
 And a tree with a moulder' d nest 
 On its barkless bones, stood stark by the dead ; 
 
 And behind him, low in the West, 
 
176 THE DEAD PROPHET. 
 
 VI. 
 With shifting ladders of shadow and light, 
 
 And blurr'd in colour and form, 
 The sun hung over the gates of Night, 
 
 And glared at a coming storm. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Then glided a vulturous Beldam forth, 
 That on dumb death had thriven ; 
 
 They call'd her ' Reverence ' here upon earth, 
 And ' The Curse of the Prophet ' in Heaven. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 She knelt — ' We worship him ' — all but wept — 
 
 * So great so noble was he !' 
 She clear'd her sight, she arose, she swept 
 
 The dust of earth from her knee. 
 
THE DEAD PROPHET, 177 
 
 IX. 
 
 * Great ! for he spoke and the people heard, 
 And his eloquence caught like a flame 
 
 From zone to zone of the world, till his Word 
 Had won him a noble name. 
 
 x. 
 
 Noble ! he sung, and the sweet sound ran 
 
 Thro' palace and cottage door, 
 For he touch'd on the whole sad planet of man, 
 
 The kings and the rich and the poor ; 
 
 XI. 
 
 And he sung not' alone of an old sun set, 
 But a sun coming up in his youth ! 
 
 Great and noble — O yes — but yet — 
 For man is a lover of Truth, 
 
 N 
 
178 THE DEAD PROPHET. 
 
 XII. 
 And bound to follow, wherever she go 
 
 Stark-naked, and up or down, 
 Thro' her high hill-passes of stainless snow, 
 
 Or the foulest sewer of the town — 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Noble and great — O ay — but then, 
 Tho' a prophet should have his due, 
 
 Was he noblier-fashion'd than other men ? 
 Shall we see to it, I and you ? 
 
 XIV. 
 
 For since he would sit on a Prophet's seat, 
 As a lord of the Human soul, 
 
 We needs must scan him from head to feet 
 Were it but for a wart or a mole ?' 
 
THE DEAD PROPHET. 179 
 
 XV. 
 His wife and his child stood by him in tears, 
 
 But she — she push'd them aside. 
 * Tho' a name may last for a thousand years, 
 
 Yet a truth is a truth,' she cried. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And she that had haunted his pathway still, 
 
 Had often truckled and cower'd 
 When he rose in his wrath, and had yielded her will 
 
 To the master, as overpower'd, 
 
 XVII. 
 
 She tumbled his helpless corpse about. 
 
 ' Small blemish upon the skin ! 
 But I think we know what is fair without 
 
 Is often as foul within.' 
 
180 THE DEAD PROPHET. 
 
 XVIII. 
 She crouch' d, she tore him part from part, 
 
 And out of his body she drew 
 The red ' Blood-eagle '* of liver and heart ; 
 
 She held them up to the view ; 
 
 XIX. 
 
 She gabbled, as she groped in the dead, 
 And all the people were pleased ; 
 
 ' See, what a little heart/ she said, 
 1 And the liver is half-diseased ! - 
 
 xx. 
 
 She tore the Prophet after death, 
 
 And the people paid her well. 
 Lightnings flicker'd along the heath ; 
 
 One shriek'd 'The fires of Hell !' 
 
 * Old Viking term for lungs, liver, etc. , when torn by the 
 conqueror out of the body of the conquered. 
 
EARLY SPRING. 
 
 Once more the Heavenly Power 
 Makes all things new, 
 
 And domes the red-plow'd hills 
 With loving blue ; 
 
 The blackbirds have their wills, 
 The throstles too. 
 
 Opens a door in Heaven ; 
 From skies of glass 
 
182 EARLY SPRING. 
 
 A Jacob's ladder falls 
 On greening grass, 
 
 And o'er the mountain-walls 
 Young angels pass. 
 
 in. 
 Before them fleets the shower, 
 
 And burst the buds, 
 And shine the level lands, 
 
 And flash the floods ; 
 The stars are from their hands 
 
 Flung thro' the woods, 
 
 IV. 
 
 The woods with living airs 
 
 How softly fann'd, 
 Light airs from where the deep, 
 
 All down the sand, 
 
EARL Y SPRING. 183 
 
 Is breathing in his sleep, 
 Heard by the land. 
 
 v. 
 O follow, leaping blood, 
 
 The season's lure ! 
 O heart, look down and up 
 
 Serene, secure, 
 Warm as the crocus cup, 
 
 Like snowdrops, pure ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Past, Future glimpse and fade 
 
 Thro' some slight spell, 
 A gleam from yonder vale, 
 
 Some far blue fell, 
 And sympathies, how frail, 
 
 In sound and smell ! 
 
184 EARL Y SPRING. 
 
 VII. 
 Till at thy chuckled note, 
 
 Thou twinkling bird, 
 The fairy fancies range, 
 
 And, lightly stirr'd, 
 Ring little bells of change 
 
 From word to word. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 For now the Heavenly Power 
 Makes all things new, 
 
 And thaws the cold, and fills 
 The flower with dew ; 
 
 The blackbirds have their wills, 
 The poets too. 
 
PREFATORY POEM TO MY BROTHER'S 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Midnight, June 30, 1879. 
 
 1. 
 
 Midnight — in no midsummer tune 
 The breakers lash the shores : 
 The cuckoo of a joyless June 
 Is calling out of doors : 
 
 And thou hast vanish'd from thine own 
 To that which looks like rest, 
 True brother, only to be known 
 By those who love thee best. 
 
186 MIDNIGHT. 
 
 II. 
 Midnight — and joyless June gone by, 
 And from the deluged park 
 The cuckoo of a worse July 
 Is calling thro' the dark : 
 
 But thou art silent underground, 
 And o'er thee streams the rain, 
 True poet, surely to be found 
 When Truth is found again. 
 
 in. 
 And, now to these unsummer'd skies 
 The summer bird is still, 
 Far off a phantom cuckoo cries 
 From out a phantom hill ; 
 
MIDNIGHT. 187 
 
 And thro' this midnight breaks the sun 
 Of sixty years away, 
 The light of days when life begun, 
 The days that seem to-day, 
 
 When all my griefs were shared with thee, 
 As all my hopes were thine — 
 As all thou wert was one with me, 
 May all thou art be mine ! 
 
'FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE.' 
 
 Row us out from Desenzano, to your Sirmione 
 
 row ! 
 So they row'd, and there we landed — ' O venusta 
 
 Sirmio I' 
 There to me thro' all the groves of olive in the 
 
 summer glow, 
 There beneath the Roman ruin where the purple 
 
 flowers grow, 
 Came that ' Ave atque Vale ' of the Poet's hopeless 
 
 woe, 
 Tenderest of Roman poets nineteen-hundred years 
 
 ago, 
 
1 FRATER A VE ATQUE VALE. ' 189 
 
 ' Frater Ave atque Vale ' — as we wander'd to and 
 
 fro 
 Gazing at the Lydian laughter of the Garda Lake 
 
 below 
 Sweet Catullus's all-but-island, olive-silvery Sirmio ! 
 
HELEN'S TOWER.* 
 
 Helen's Tower, here I stand, 
 Dominant over sea and land. 
 Son's love built me, and I hold 
 Mother's love engrav'n in gold. 
 Love is in and out of time, 
 I am mortal stone and lime. 
 Would my granite girth were strong 
 As either love, to last as long ! 
 I should wear my crown entire 
 To and thro' the Doomsday fire, 
 And be found of angel eyes 
 In earth's recurring Paradise. 
 
 Written at the request of my friend, Lord DurTerin. 
 
EPITAPH ON LORD STRATFORD DE 
 REDCLIFFE. 
 
 In Westminster Abbey. 
 
 Thou third great Canning, stand among our best 
 And noblest, now thy long day's work hath 
 ceased, 
 
 Here silent in our Minster of the West 
 
 Who wert the voice of England in the East. 
 
EPITAPH ON GENERAL GORDON. 
 For a Cenotaph. 
 
 Warrior of God, man's friend, not laid below, 
 But somewhere dead far in the waste Soudan, 
 
 Thou livest in all hearts, for all men know 
 
 This earth has borne no simpler, nobler man. 
 
EPITAPH ON CAXTON. 
 
 In St. Margaret's, Westminster. 
 
 Fiat Lux (his motto). 
 
 Thy prayer was ' Light — more Light — while Time 
 
 shall last!' 
 Thou sawest a glory growing on the night, 
 But not the shadows which that light would cast, 
 Till shadows vanish in the Light of Light. 
 
TO THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. 
 
 O Patriot Statesman, be thou wise to know 
 The limits of resistance, and the bounds 
 Determining concession ; still be bold 
 Not only to slight praise but suffer scorn ; 
 And be thy heart a fortress to maintain 
 The day against the moment, and the year 
 Against the day ; thy voice, a music heard 
 Thro' all the yells and counter-yells of feud 
 And faction, and thy will, a power to make 
 This ever-changing world of circumstance, 
 In changing, chime with never-changing Law. 
 
HANDS ALL ROUND. 
 
 First pledge our Queen this solemn night, 
 
 Then drink to England, every guest ; 
 That man's the best Cosmopolite 
 
 Who loves his native country best. 
 May freedom's oak for ever live 
 
 With stronger life from day to day ; 
 That man's the best Conservative 
 
 Who lops the moulder'd branch away. 
 Hands all round ! 
 
 God the traitor's hope confound ! 
 To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends, 
 
 And the great name of England, round and 
 round. 
 
196 HANDS ALL ROUND. 
 
 To all the loyal hearts who long 
 
 To keep our English Empire whole ! 
 To all our noble sons, the strong 
 
 New England of the Southern Pole ! 
 To England under Indian skies, 
 
 To those dark millions of her realm ! 
 To Canada whom we love and prize, 
 
 Whatever statesman hold the helm. 
 Hands all round ! 
 
 God the traitor's hope confound ! 
 To this great name of England drink, my friends, 
 
 And all her glorious empire, round and 
 round. 
 
 To all our statesmen so they be 
 
 True leaders of the land's desire ! 
 To both our Houses, may they see 
 
HANDS ALL ROUND. 197 
 
 Beyond the borough and the shire ! 
 We sail'd wherever ship could sail, 
 
 We founded many a mighty state j 
 Pray God our greatness may not fail 
 
 Through craven fears of being great. 
 Hands all round ! 
 
 God the traitor's hope confound ! 
 To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends, 
 
 And the great name of England, round and 
 round. 
 
FREEDOM. 
 
 O thou so fair in summers gone, 
 While yet thy fresh and virgin soul 
 
 Inform'd the pillar'd Parthenon, 
 The glittering Capitol ; 
 
 ii. 
 
 So fair in southern sunshine bathed, 
 But scarce of such majestic mien 
 
 As here with forehead vapour-swathed 
 In meadows ever green ; 
 
FREEDOM. 199 
 
 III. 
 For thou — when Athens reign'd and Rome, 
 
 Thy glorious eyes were dimm'd with pain 
 To mark in many a freeman's home 
 
 The slave, the scourge, the chain ; 
 
 IV. 
 
 O follower of the Vision, still 
 
 In motion to the distant gleam, 
 Howe'er blind force and brainless will 
 
 May jar thy golden dream 
 
 v. 
 
 Of Knowledge fusing class with class, 
 
 Of civic Hate no more to be, 
 Of Love to leaven all the mass, 
 
 Till every Soul be free j 
 
d FREEDOM. 
 
 VI. 
 Who yet, like Nature, wouldst not mar 
 
 By changes all too fierce and fast 
 This order of Her Human Star, 
 
 This heritage of the past ; 
 
 VII. 
 
 O scorner of the party cry 
 
 That wanders from the public good, 
 Thou — when the nations rear on high 
 
 Their idol smear'd with blood, 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And when they roll their idol down — 
 Of saner worship sanely proud j 
 
 Thou loather of the lawless crown 
 As of the lawless crowd ; 
 
FREEDOM. 2C 
 
 IX. 
 How long thine ever-growing mind 
 
 Hath still'd the blast and strown the wave, 
 Tho' some of late would raise a wind 
 
 To sing thee to thy grave, 
 
 Men loud against all forms of power — 
 
 Unfurnish'd brows, tempestuous tongues- 
 Expecting all things in an hour — 
 Brass mouths and iron lungs ! 
 
TO H.R.H. PRINCESS BEATRICE. 
 
 Two Suns of Love make day of human life, 
 Which else with all its pains, and griefs, and deaths, 
 Were utter darkness — one, the Sun of dawn 
 That brightens thro' the Mother's tender eyes, 
 And warms the child's awakening world — and one 
 The later-rising Sun of spousal Love, 
 Which from her household orbit draws the child 
 To move in other spheres. The Mother weeps 
 At that white funeral of the single life, 
 Her maiden daughter's marriage ; and her tears 
 Are half of pleasure, half of pain — the child 
 Is happy — ev'n in leaving her ! but Thou, 
 
TO H.R.H. PRINCESS BEATRICE. 203 
 
 True daughter, whose all-faithful, filial eyes 
 Have seen the loneliness of earthly thrones, 
 Wilt neither quit the widow'd Crown, nor let 
 This later light of Love have risen in vain, 
 But moving thro' the Mother's home, between 
 The two that love thee, lead a summer life, 
 Sway'd by each Love, and swaying to each Love, 
 Like some conjectured planet in mid heaven 
 Between two Suns, and drawing down from both 
 The light and genial warmth of double day. 
 
Old poets foster'd under friendlier skies, 
 
 Old Virgil who would write ten lines, they say, 
 At dawn, and lavish all the golden day 
 
 To make them wealthier in his readers' eyes ; 
 
 And you, old popular Horace, you the wise 
 Adviser of the nine-years-ponder'd lay, 
 And you, that wear a wreath of sweeter bay, 
 
 Catullus, whose dead songster never dies ; 
 
 If, glancing downward on the kindly sphere 
 
 That once had roll'd you round and round the Sun, 
 You see your Art still shrined in human shelves, 
 
 You should be jubilant that you flourish'd here 
 Before the Love of Letters, overdone, 
 
 Had swampt the sacred poets with themselves. 
 
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