PR 5244 B4 1895 MAIN I III yC-NRLF n B 4 DT? 445 J (:^^. ^Ur/^^^ c/^/i-ne^n^ • fS ^be »ibclot Scries. THE BLESSED DAMOZEL A BOOK OF LYRICS. \\/ ATER, for anguish of the solstice : — najy, » » But dip the vessel slowly, — nay, hut lean And hark how at its verge the wave sighs in Reluctant. Hush ! Bej>ond all depth away The heat lies silent at the brink of day : 'Now the hand trails upon the viol-string That sobs, and the brown faces cease to sing, Sad with the whole of pleasure. IVhither stray Her eyes tiow, from whose mouth the slim pipes creep And leave it pouting, while the shadowed grass Is cool against her naked side ? Let be : — Say nothing now unto her lest she weep, Nor name this ever. Be it as it was, — 'Life touching lips with Immortality. FOR A VENETIAN PASTORAL. {Tty Giorgione.) THE BLESSED DA- MOZEL A Y^ook of Lyrics Chosen from, the works of Dartte Qabrid Kojfetti. PrlnUd Jor Thomas B. Hosher and VubUshtd bif him at 31 £xchafu^ SUeet, Portland, HCHnvMO^s...-.HE«« This Bdition is limited to j2^ copies. mi a) CONTENTS. In Memoriam a. mary f. robinson. Lyrics: I THE BLESSED DAMOZEL . II II love's NOCTURN i6 III JENNY . . ., . 21 IV THE PORTRAIT Z^ V THE STREAM'S SECRET V VI THE CARD DEALER . 45 VII MY SISTER'S SLEEP . 47 VIII A NEW year's BURDEN . 49 IX EVEN SO . 50 X AN OLD SONG ENDED 51 XI SPHERAL CHANGE 52 XII ALAS SO LONG 53 XIII CLOUD CONFINES 54 Three Translations from FRANgois Villon : I BALLAD OF DEAD LADIES . . 56 II TO DEATH 57 III HIS mother's SERVICE TO OUR LADY 58 514B76 CONTENTS. Ballads : i troy town 60 ii sister helen 63 iii eden bower 72 Songs from the House of Life: i sudden light .... 79 ii a little while . . . . 80 iii love-lily 81 iv first love remembered . . 82 v the song of the bower . . 83 vi penumbra 85 vii the woodspurge .... 86 viii the sea limits .... 87 Notes 91 From "An Italian Garden" by A. Mary F. Robinson (London, 1886.) IN MEMORIAM. DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. (A CANZONE.) OBORN in May and dead at Eastertide, O mournful nightingale That sang as solemn in our English vale As any in the Italian country side. 'Now comes the spring again, When listeners hush and every songster sings ; The swallows sweep with darting wings At last and larks arise, For spring is here and only waits in vain One sweeter note for winch we all are fain That sounds in Paradise. Yea, thou art dead, nor hast thou any care That the first haw t home swells in bud to-night, Nor yet for our despair ; Nor for the songs that once were thy delight, Whose singing wings shall never cease to beat In music strange and sweet, And make a southern April in our air. But thou art gone before To that remote, eternal, final shore That was thine unf or gotten goal ; And thou hast climbed the Mount of Paradise ; And thy triumphant soul, With him who living went that way. And him who saw all Heaven with blinded eyes Rejoices in the day ! Rejoice at last, O souls, That never were on earth completely glad For the full vision that ye had Of everlasting things ; ^ow sing within your shining aureoles And strike the golden strings Of an eternal lyre ! Thou, too, O latest comer in the Quire, Whom most I praise with him Thy master, and our milder English seer. Lift up thy music clear ; Yor never didst thou find the vision dim, Or long to linger here Among the roses and the summer green, 'But, knowing not a wavering in desire With unrelenting wings Thou fieddest past us towards eternal things As swallows fly to summers never seen. THE BLESSED DAMOZEL: A BOOK OF LYRICS. THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. THE blessed damo^el leaned out From the gold bar of Heaven ; Herjves were deeper than the depth Of waters stilled at even; She had three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seven. Her robe, ungirtfrom clasp to hem, "No wrought flowers did adorn, But a white rose of Marys gift, For service meetly worn; Her hair that lay along her back , Vf as yellow like ripe corn. Herseemed she scarce had been a day One of God's choristers; The wonder was not yet quite gone From that stJlUookjof hers ; Albeit, to them she left, her day Had counted as ten years. (To one, it is tenyears of years. . . . Yet now, and in this place, Surely she leaned o'er me — her hair Fell all about my face. . . . Nothing : the autumn-fall of leaves. The whole year sets apace.) It was the rampart of God's house That she was standing on ; Bjf God built over the sheer depth The which is Space begun ; So high, that looking downward thence She scarce could see the sun. It lies in Heaven, across the flood Of ether, as a bridge. Beneath, the tides of day and night V^ith flame and darkness ridge The void, as low as where this earth Spins like a fretful midge. Around her, lovers, newly met ^Mid deathless love's acclaims, Spoke evermore among thetnselves Their heart-remembered names ; And the souls mounting up to God Went by her like thin flames. And still she bowed herself and stooped Out of the circling charm ; Until her bosom must have made The bar she leamd on warm. And the lilies lay as if asleep Along her bended arm. From the fixed place of Heaven sbejaw Time like a pulse shake fierce Through all the worlds. HeiL^{e still strove Within the gulf to pierce Its path ; and now she spoke as when The stars sang in their spheres. The sun was gone now ; the curled moon Was like a little feather fluttering far down the gulf; and now She spoke through the still weather. Her voice was like the voice the stars Had when tbey sang together. (Ab sweet! Even now, in that bird's song, Strove not ber accents tbere, Fain to be bearkened? IVhen tbose bells "Possessed tbe mid-day air, Strove not ber steps to reacb mj> side Down all tbe ecboing stair ? ) " I wisb that be were come to me, For be will come,'' sbe said. " Have I not prayed in Heaven ? — oti eartb, L.ord, Lord, has be not pray d? Are not two prayers a perfect strength ? And sball I feel afraid? " y^ben round bis bead tbe aureole clings, And be is clotbed in white, Vll take bis hand and go with him To tbe deep wells of light ; As unto a stream we will step down. And bathe tbere in God's sight. " W^ two will stand beside that shrine. Occult, withheld, untrod, \Whose lamps are stirred continually ^ith prayer sent up to God; And see our old prayers, granted, melt Each like a little cloud. " W^ two will lie V tbe shadow of That living mystic tree Within whose secret growth the Dove Is sometimes felt to be, 'While every leaf that His plumes touch Saith His Name audibly. ** And I myself will teach to him, I myself, lying so, The songs I sing here ; which his voice Shall pause in, hushed and slow, And find some knowledge at each pause, Or sotru new thing to know." {Alas ! We two, we two, thou say'st! Yea, one wast thou with me That once of old. But shall God lift To endless unitjy The soul whose likeness with thj> soul Was but its love for thee ? ) " W^ two," she said, "will seek the groves Where the lady Mary is, With her five handmaidens, whose names Are five sweet symphonies, Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, Margaret and Rosalys. " Circlewise sit they, with hound locks And foreheads garlanded; Into the fine cloth white like flame Weaving the golden thread, To fashion the birth-robes for them Who are just born, being dead. " He shall fear, haply, and he dumb : Then will I lay my cheek To his, and tell about our love, 'i^ot once abashed or weak : And the dear Mother will approve My pride, and let me speak. " Herself shall bring us, hand in hand. To Him round whom all souls Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads Bowed with their aureoles : And angels meeting us shall sing To their citherns and citoles. " There will I ask of Christ the Lord Thus much for him and me : — Only to live as once on earth With Love, — ofily to be, As then awhile, for ever now Together, I and he.'' She ga^ed and listened and then said, 'Less sad of speech than mild, — " All this is when he comes." She ceased. The light thrilled towards her,fiird With angels in strong level /light. Her ejyes prayed, and she smil'd. (I saw her smile.) But soon their path Was vague in distant spheres : And then she cast her arms along The golden barriers, And laid her face between her hands, And wept. (/ heard her tears.) LOVE'S NOCTURN. /\/l ASTER of the murmuring courts 1 T 1 V^here the shapes of sleep convene !- Lo / mjp spirit here exhorts All the powers of thjf demesne For their aid to woo my queen. What reports Yield thy jealous courts unseen? Vaporous, unaccountable, T^reanrworld lies forlorn of light, Hollow like a breathing shell. Ah! that from all dreams I might Choose one dream and guide its flight! I know well Vfhat her sleep should tell to-night. There the dreams are multitudes : Some that will not wait for sleep, Deep within the August woods ; Some that bum while rest may steep V^eary labour laid a-heap ; Interludes, Some, of grievous moods that weep. Foets* fancies all are there : There the elf-girls flood with wings Valleys full of plaintive air ; There breathe perfumes ; there in rings Whirl the foam-bewildered springs ; Siren there "Winds her di^^y hair and sings. Thence the one' dream mutually Dreamed in bridal unison, L.ess than waking ecstasy ; Half-formed visions that make moan In the house of birth alone ; And what we At death's wicket see, unknown. But for mine own sleep, it lies In one gracious form' s cotttrol, Fair with honourable ej/es, ILamps of a translucent soul : O their glance is loftiest dole, Sweet and wise, Vf herein Love descries bis goal. Reft of her, mjy dreams are all Clamniy trance that fears the skj> : Changing footpaths shift and fall ; From polluted coverts nigh. Miserable phantoms sigh ; Quakes the pall. And the funeral goes bjf. master, is it soothly said That, as echoes of man's speech Far in secret clefts are made. So do all men's bodies reach Shadows o'er thjy sunken beach, — Shape or shade In those halls pourtrayed of each? Ah ! might I, by thy good grace Groping in the windy stair, (Darkness and the breath of space l^ike loud waters everywhere,) Meeting mine own image there Face to face. Send it from that place to her! J^^qy, not I; but oh ! do thou, Master, from thjy shadowkind Call my body s phantom now : Bid it bear its face declined Till its flight her slumbers find, And her brow Feel its presence how like wind. Vfhere in groves the gracile Spring Trembles, with mute orison Confidently strengthening, Water^s voice and wind's as one Shed an echo in the sun. Soft as Spring, Master, bid it sing and moan. Song shall tell how glad and strong Is the night she soothes alwaj' ; Moan shall grieve with that parched tongue Of the brazen hours of day : Sounds as of the springtide they, Moan and song, V^hile the chill months Icnigfor May. T^ot the prayers which with all leave The woi'ld' s fluent woes prefer, — No/ the praise the world doth give, Dulcet fulsome whisperer ; — \-.et it yield my love to her. And achieve Strength that shall not grieve or err. Wheresoever my dreams befall, Both at night-watch, [let it say,) And where round the sundial The reluctant hours of day. Heartless, hopeless of their way, ^est and call ; — There her glance doth fall and stay. Suddenly her face is there : So do mounting vapours wreathe Subtle-scented transports where The black Jirwood sets its teeth. "Part the boughs and look beneath, — L.ilies share Secret waters there, and breathe. Master, bid mjy shadow bend Whispering thus till birth of light. Lest new shapes that sleep majy send Scatter all its work to flight ; — Master, master of the night, Bid it spend Speech, song, prayer, and end aright. Met, ah me ! if at her head There another phantom lean Murmuring o'er the fragrant bed, — Ah! and if my spirifs queen Smile those alien prayers between, — Ah ! poor shade ! Shall it strive, or fade unseen ? How should love's own messenger Strive with love and be love's foe ? Master, nay ! If thus, in her. Sleep a wedded heart should show, — Silent let mine image go. Its old share Of thy spell-bound air to know. laike a vapour wan and mute, 'Like aflame, so let it pass ; One low sigh across her lute. One dull breath against her glass ; And to my sad soul, alas ! One salute Cold as when death's foot shall pass. Then, too, let all hopes of mine, All vain hopes by night and day, Slowly at thjy summofting sign Rise up pallid and obey. Dreams, if this is thus, were they : — B^ they thine, And to dreamworld pine away. Yet from old time, life, not death. Master, in thy rule is rife : Lo / through thee, with mingling breath, Adam woke beside his wife. O Love bring me so, for strife. Force and faith. Bring me so not death hut life ! Yea, to Love himself is pour' d This frail song of hope and fear. Thou art Love, of one accord With kind Sleep to bring her near, Still-eyed, deep-eyed, ah how dear! Master, 'Lord, In her name implor'd, O hear! JENNY. Vengeance of Jenny's case! Ftc on her! Never name her, child! (MRS. QUICKLY.) 1 LAZY kxitghing languid Jennjy, Fond of a kiss and fond of a guinea,^ Whose bead upon nijy knee to-night Rests for a while, as tf grown light With all our dances and the sound To ivhich the wild tunes spunjyou round: Yair Jennv mine, the thoughtless queen Of kisses which the blush between Could hardly make much daintier; Whose eyes are as blue skies, whose hair Is countless gold incomparable : Fresh flower, scarce touched with signs that tell Of Love's exuberant hotbed: — Nay, Foor flower left torn since yesterday Until to-morrow leave you bare ; Foor handful of bright spring-water Flung in the whirlpool's shrieking face ; Poor shameful Jenny , full of grace Thus with your head upon my knee ; — Whose person or whose purse may be The lodestar of your reverie ? This room of yours, my Jenny, looks A change from mine so full of books, Whose serried ranks hold fast, forsooth, So many captive hours of youth, — The hours they thieve from day and night To make one's cherished work come right. And leave it wrong for all their theft, Fvcn as to-night my work was left : Until I vowed that since my brain And eyes of dancing seemed so fain, Mjf feet should have some dancing too : — And thus it was I met with you. Well, I suppose 'twas hard to part, For here I am. ^And now, sweetheart, You seem too tired to get to hed. It was a careless life I led V^hen rooms like this were scarce so strange Not long ago. IVhat breeds the change, — The many aims or the few years ? Because to-night it all appears Something I do not know again. The cloud's not danced out of my brain, The cloud that made it turn and swim While hour by hour the books grew dim. Why, Jenny, as I watch you there, — For all your wealth of loosened hair. Your silk un girdled and unlac'd And warm sweets open to the waist, All golden in the lamplighfs gleam, — You know not what a bookyou seem, Half -read by lightning in a dream ! How should you know, my Jenny ? C^ay, And I should be ashamed to say : — Toor beauty, so well worth a kiss ! But while my thought runs on like this With wasteful whims more than enough, I wotider what you're thinking of. If of myself you think at all. What is the thought ? — conjectural On Sony matters best unsolved? — Or inly is each grace revolved To fit me with a lure ? — or {sad To think!) perhaps you' re merely glad That I'm not drunk or ruffianly And let you rest upon my knee. For sometimes, were the truth con/ess' d,i You're thankful for a little rest, — Glad from the crush to rest within. From the heart-sickness and the din Where etrov's voice at virtue's pitch Mocks fou because your gown is rich ; Kndfrom the pale girl's dumb rebuke, Whose ill-clad grace and toil-worn look Vroclaim the strength that keeps her weak, And other nights than jy ours bespeak; And from the wise unchildish elf. To schoolmate lesser than himself Vointingyou out, what thing you are : — Yes, from the daily jeer and Jar, From shame and shame's outbraving too, Is rest not sometimes sweet to you? — But most from the hatefulness of man Who spares not to end what he began. Whose acts are ill and his speech ill, Who, having used you at his will. Thrusts you aside, as when I dine I serve the dishes and the wine. Well, handsome Jenny mim, sit up, I've filled our glasses, let us sup, And do not let me think of you, 'Lest shame of yours suffice for two. What, still so tired? Well, well then, keep Your head there, so you do not sleep ; But that the weariness may pass And leave you merry, take this glass. Ah! lapf lily hand, more bless' d If ne'er in rings it had been dress' d 'Nor ever by a glove conceal' d! Behold the lilies of the field, They toil not neither do they spin ; (So doth the ancient text begin, — No/ of such rest as one of these Can share.) t/lnother rest and ease Along each summer-sated path From its new lord the garden hath, Than that whose spring in blessings ran Which praised the bounteous husbandman, F.rejyet, in days of hankering breath. The lilies sickened unto death. What, Jenny, are your lilies dead? Aye, and the snow-white leaves are spread hike winter on the garden-bed. But you had roses left in May, — They were not gone too. Jenny, nay. But must your roses die, and those Their purfled buds that should unclose ? 'Even so; the leaves are curled apart. Still red as from the broken heart, And here's the naked stem of thorns. 'Nay, nay, mere words. Here nothing warns As yet of winter. Sickness here Or want alone could waken fear, — Nothing but passion wrings a tear. 'Except when there may rise tmsought 'Haply at times a passing thought Of the old days which seem to be 'Much older than any history That is written in any book ; When she would lie infields and look Along the ground through the blown grass, And wonder where the city was, Far out of sight, whose broil and bale They told her then for a child's tale. 4 Jenny, you know the city now. A child can tell the tale there, how Some things which are not yet enroll' d In market-lists are bought and sold Even till the early Sunday light. When Saturday night is market-night Everywhere, he it dry or wet, And market-night in the Hqymarket. Our learned London children know, Voorjennv, all your pride and woe ; Wave seen your lifted silken skirt Advertise dainties through the dirt ; Wave seen your coach-wheels splash rebuke On virtue ; and have learned your look When, wealth and health slipped past, you stare Along the streets alone, and there. Round the long park, across the bridge. The cold lamps at the pavement's edge Wind on together and apart, A fiery serpent foi' your heart. Let the thoughts pass, an empty cloud! Suppose I were to think aloud, — VJhat if to her all this were said? Why, as a volume seldom read Being opened halfway shuts again. So might the pages of her brain Be parted at such words, and theme Close back upon the dusty sense. For is there hue or shape defined In Jenny's desecrated mind, Where all contagious currents meet, A Lethe of the middle street ? Noj', it reflects not any face, l>ior sound is in its sluggish pace, But as they coil those eddies clot, And night and day remember not. Why, Jenny, you' re asleep at last! — Asleep, poor Jenny, hard and fast, — So young and soft atid tired; so fair. With chin thus nestled inyour hair. Mouth quiet, eyelids almost blue As if some sky of dreams shone through ! Just as another woman sleeps! 'Enough to throw one's thoughts in heaps Of doubt and horror, — what to say Or think, — this awful secret sway, The potter's power over the clay! Of the same lump {it has been said) ¥or honour and dishonour made. Two sister vessels. Here is ane. My cousin Nell is fond of fun, And fond of dress, and change, and praise So mere a woman in her ways : And if her sweet eyes rich in youth Are like her lips that tell the truth, Uiy cousin Nell is fond of love. And she's the girl Pm proudest of. Who does not pri^e her, guard her well ? The love of change, in cousin ^ell, Shall find the best and hold it dear : The wiconquered mirth turn quieter 'Not through her own, through others' woe : The conscious pride of beauty glow Beside another's pride in her. One little part of all they share. For Love himself shall ripen these In a kind soil to just increase Through years of fertilising peace. Of the same lump {as it is said) For honour and dishonour made, Two sister vessels. Here is one. It makes a goblin of the sun. So pure, — 50 fall'n ! How dare to think Of the first common kindred link ? Yet, Jenny, till the world shall burn It seems that all things take their turn; And who shall say but this fair tree May need, in changes that may be, Your children's children's charity ? Scorned then, no doubt, as yon are scorn' d! Shall no man hold his pride forewarned Till in the end, the Day of Days, At Judgment, one of his own race, As frail and lost as you, shall rise, — H/5 daughter, with his mother's eyes ? How Jenny's clock ticks on the shelf! Might not the dial scorn itself That has such hours to register ? Yet as to me, even so to her Are golden sun and silver moon, In daily largesse of earth's boon. Counted for life-coins to one tune. And if, as blindfold fates are toss'd. Through some one man this life be lost, Shall soul not somehow pay for soul? Fair shines the gilded aureole In which our highest painters place Some living woman's simple face. And the stilled features thus descried As Jenny's long throat droops aside, — The shadows where the cheeks are thin. And pure wide curve from ear to chin, — Y^ith Raffael's, Leonardo's hand To show them to men's souls, might stand, Yfhole ages long, the whole world through, For preachings of what God can do. YJhat has man done here ? How atone. Great God, for this which man has done ? And for the body and soul which by Man's pitiless doom must now comply With lifelong hell, what lullaby Of sweet forgetful second birth Remains ? (/Ill dark. O^o sign on earth y^hat measure of God's rest endows The many mansions of his house. If hut a woman's heart might see Such erring heart unerringly For once! 'But that can never he. L,ike a rose shut in a hook In which pure women may not look, Yor its hase pages claim control To crush the flower within the soul ; Where through each dead rose-leaf that clings. Vale as transparent Psyche-wings, To the vile text, are traced such things As might make lady's cheek indeed More than a living rose to read; So nought save foolish foulness may Watch with hard eyes the sure decay ; And so the life-hlood of this rose, Vuddled with shanwful knowledge, flows Through leaves no chaste hand may unclose : Yet still it ^eeps such faded show Of when 'twas gathered lang ago, That the crushed petals' lovely grain, The sweetness of the sanguine stain. Seen of a woman's eyes, must make tier pitiful heart, so prone to ache, L,ove roses better for its sake : — Only that this can never be : — Fven so unto her sex is she. Yet, Jenny, looking long atyou,s The woman almost fades from view. A cipher of man's changeless sum Of lust, past, present, and to come, Is left. A riddle that one shrinks To challenge from the scornful sphinx. 'Like a toad within a stone 6 Seated while Tir..e crumbles on; Which sits there since the earth was curs' d For Man's transgression at the first ; Which, living through all centuries, 'Not once has seen the sun arise ; Whose life, to its cold circle charmed. The earth's whole summers have not warmed; Which always — whither so the stone "Re flung — 5/75 there, deaf, blind, alone ; — Aye, and shall not he driven out Till that which shuts him round about Break at the verjy Master's stroke. And the dust thereof vanish as smoke, And the seed of Man vanish as dust : — Fven so -within this world is Lust. Come, come, what use in thoughts like this ? Poor little Jenny, good to kiss, — You'd not believe by what strange roads Thought travels, when your beauty goads A man to-night to think of toads ! ]enny, wake up. . . . iVby, there's the dawn ! And there's an early waggon drawn To market, and some sheep that jog Bleating before a barking dog; And the old streets come peering through Another night that London knew ; And all as ghostlike as the lamps. So on the wings of day decamps My last night's frolic. Glooms begin To shiver off as lights creep in Bast the gau^e curtains half drawn-to. And the lamp's doubled shad^ grows blue, — Your lamp, my Jenny, kept alight, l^ike a wise virgin's, all one night ! And in the alcove coolly spread Glimmers with dawnyour empty bed; Knd yonder your fair face I see Reflected lying on my knee, y^here teems with first foreshadowings Your pier-glass scrawled with diamond rings : And oftyour bosom all night worn Yesterday^ s rose now droops forlorn, Bm/ dies not yet this summer morn. And now without, as if some word Had called upon them that they heard. The London sparrows far and nigh Clamour together suddenly ; And Jenny' s cage-bird grown awake Here in their song his part must take, 'because here too the day doth break. And somehow in myself the dawn Among stirred clouds and veils withdrawn Strikes greyly on her. Let her sleep. But will it wake her if I heap These cushions thus beneath her head Where my knee was .? No, — there's your bed. My Jenny, while you dream. t/Jnd there I lay among your golden hair "Perhaps the subject of your dreams, These golden coins. ¥or still one deems That Jenny s flattering sleep confers New magic on the magic purse, — Grim web, how clogged with shrivelled flies ! Between the threads fine fumes arise And shape their pictures in the brain. There roll no streets in glare and rain, "i^or flagrant man-swine whets his tusk; But delicately sighs in musk The homage of the dim boudoir ; Or like a palpitating star Thrilled into song, the opera-night Breathes faint in the quick pulse of light ; Or at the carriage-window shine Rich wares for choice ; or, free to dine, Vfhirls through its hour of health {divine Yor her) the concourse of the Park. And though in the discounted dark Her functions there and here are one, beneath the lamps and in the sun There reigns at least the acknowledged belle Apparelled bej^ond parallel. Ah,Jennjy,j>es, we knowjyour dreams. For even the Taphian Venus seems A goddess o'er the realms of love, V^hen silver-shrined in shadowjy grove Aye, or let offerings nicely placed Hut hide Priapus to the waist, And whoso looks on him shall see An eligible deity. V^hy, Jenny, waking here alone May help you to remember one, Though all the memory's long outworn Of many a double-pillowed morn. I tlr'nk I see you when you wake. And rub your eyes for me, and shake My gold, in rising, from your hair, A Danae for a moment there. Jenny, my love rang true ! for still 'Love at first sight is vague, imtil That tinkling makes him audible. And must I mock you to the last, Ashamed of my own shame, — aghast 'because some thoughts not born amiss Rose at a poor fair face like this ? V^ell, of such thoughts so much I know In my life, as in hers, thej' show, By afar gleam which I maj> near, A dark path I can strive to clear. • Only one kiss. Good-bye, my dear. THE PORTRAIT. THIS is ber picture as she was : It seems a thing to wonder oti, As though wine image in the glass Should tarrjf when ntyself am gone. I ga{e until she seems to stir, — Vntil mine eyes almost aver That now, even now, the sweet lips part To breathe the words of the sweet heart : ■ And yet the earth is over her. Alas ! even such the thin-drawn ray That makes the prison-depths more rude, • The drip of water night and day Giving a tongue to solitude. Yet only this, of love's whole pri{e, "Remains ; save what in mournful guise Takes counsel with my soul alone, — Save what is secret and unknown, "Below the earth, above the skies. In painting her I shrined her face 'Mid mystic trees, where light falls in Hardly at all ; a covert place \Y here you might think to find a din Of doubtful talk, and a live flame ^ atidering, and many a shape whose name "Not itself knoweth, and old dew, And your own footsteps meeting you^ And all things going as they came. A deep dim wood; and there she stands As in that wood that day : for so Was the still movement of her hands And such the pure line's gracious flow. And passing fair the type must seem, Unknown the presence and the dream. 'Tis she : though of herself, alas ! l^ess than her shadow on the grass Or than her image in the stream. That day we met there, I and she One with the other all alone ; And we were blithe ; yet memory Saddens those hours, as when the moon hooks upon daylight. t/Jnd with her I stooped to drink the spring-water, Athirst where other waters sprang : And where the echo is, she sang, — M;* soul another echo there. But when that hour my soul won strength For words whose silence wastes and kills, Dull raindrops smote us, and at length Thundered the heat within the hills. That eve I spoke those words again Beside the pelted window-pane ; And there she hearkened what I said, With under-glances that surveyed The empty pastures blind with rain. "Next day the memories of these things, hike leaves through which a bird has flown, Still vibrated with Love's warm wings ; Till I must make them all my own And paint this picture. So, 'twixt ease Of talk and sweet long silences. She stood among the plants in bloom At windows of a summer room, To feign the shadow of the trees. And as I wrought, while all above And all around was fragrant air, In the sick burthen of my love It seemed each sun-thrilled blossom there Beat like a heart among the leaves. O heart that never beats nor heaves, In that one darkness lying still, What now to thee my love's great will Or the fine web the sunshine weaves? For now doth daylight disavow Those days — nought left to see or hear. Only in solemn whispers now At night-time these things reach mine ear When the leaf-shadows at a breath Shrink in the road, and all the heath, Forest and water, far and wid^, In limpid starlight glorified, 'Lie like the mystery of death. Last night at last I could have slept, And yet delayed my sleep till dawn, Still wandering. Then it was I wept : For tmawares I came upon Those glades where once she walked with me , And as I stood there suddenly, All wan with traversing the night, Upon the desolate verge of light Yearned loud the iron-bosomed sea. F.ven so, where Heaven holds breath and hears The beating heart of Love's own breast, — Where round the secret of all spheres All angels lay their wings to rest, — Flow shall my soul stand rapt and awed. When, by the new birth borne abroad Throughout the music of the suns, It enters in her soul at once And knows the silence therefor God! Here with her face doth memorjy sit Meanwhile, and wait the day^s decline, Till other eyes shall look from it, Y.j>es of the spirifs Palestine, Even than the old ga^e tenderer : While hopes and aims long lost with her Stand round her image side hy side, 'Like tombs of pilgrims that have died About the Holy Sepulchre. THE STREAM'S SECRET. WHAT thing unto mine ear Wottldst tbou convey,— what secret thing, O wandering water ever whispering ? Surely thy speech shall be of her. Tbou water, O thou whispering wanderer, What message dost tbou bring? Say, bath not Love leaned low This hour beside thy far well-head. And there through jealous hollowed fingers said The thing that most I long to know, — Murmuring with curls all dabbled in thy/low . And washed lips rosy red? He told it to thee there Where thy voice hath a louder tone ; But where it welters to this little moan His will decrees that I should hear. l^ow speak: for with the silence is no fear, And I am all alone. Shall Time not still endow One hour with life, and I and she Slake in one kiss the thirst of memory ? Say, stream ; lest Love should disavow Thy service, and the bird upon the bough Sing first to tell it me. What whisper est thou ? tT(ay, why 'Name the dead hours ? I mind them well : Their ghosts in many darkened doorways dwell Vfith desolate eyes to know them by. The hour^tSat ntusfbe born ere it can die, — Of that Vd have thee tell. But hear, before thou speak ! Withhold, I pray, the vain behest That while the ma^e hath still its bower for qtiest My burning heart should cease to seek. B^ sure that Love ordained for souls more meek tiis roadside dells of rest. Stream, when this silver thread In flood-time is a torrent brown May any bulwark bind thy foaming crown ? Shall not the waters surge and spread And to the crannied boulders of their bed Still shoot the dead drift down ? Liet no rebuke find place In speech of thine : or it shall prove That thou dost ill expound the words of Love, 'Even as thine eddy^s rippling race Would blur the perfect image of his face. I will have none thereof. O learn and understand That 'gainst the wrongs himself did wreak 'Love sought her aid ; until her shadowy cheek And eyes beseeching gave command; And cornpassedTn her close compassionate hand My heart must burn and speak. For then at last we spoke What eyes so oft had told to eyes Through that long-lingering'stlence whose half -sighs Alone the buried secret broke, Which with snatched hands and lips'' reverberate stroke Then from the heart did rise. But she is far away Now ; nor the hours of night grown hoar Bring vet to me, l ong gating from the door, The wind-stirred robe of roseate grav And rose-crown of the hour that leads the dajy Wbefi we shall meet ottce more. Dark as tbjy blinded wave When brimming midnight floods the glen, — Bright as the laughter of tfjy runnels when The dawn yields all the light they crave ; Even so these hours to wound and that to save Are sisters in Love's ken. Oh sweet her bending grace Then when I kneel beside her feet ; And s weet herj yes'd'erhanging heaven ; and sweet The gathering folds of her embrace ; And her fall* n hair at last shed round my face When breaths and tears shall meet. Beneath her sheltering hair, In the warm silence near her breast, Our kisses and our sobs shall sink to rest ; As in some still trance made aware That day and night have wrought to fulness there And Love has built our ttest. And as in the dim grove. When the rains cease that hushed them long, 'Mid glistening boughs the song-birds wake to song. So from our hearts deep-shrined in love, While the leaves throb beneath, around, above, The quivering notes shall throng. Till tender est words found vain T)razv back to wonder mute and deep, And closed lips in closed arms a silence keep. Subdued by memory s circling strain, — The wind-rapt sound that the wind brings again While all the willows weep. Then by her summoning art Shall memorjy canjure back the sere Autumnal Springs, from many a dying year Born dead; and, bitter to the heart. The very ways where now we walk apart Who then shall cling so near. Knd with each thought new-grown^ Some sweet caress or some sweet name \jOW-breathed shall let me know her thought the same, Making me rich with every tone And touch of the dear heaven so long unknown That filled my dreams with flame. Vity and love shall burn In her pressed cheek and cherishing hands ; And from the living spirit of love that stands Between her lips to soothe and yearn, Y^ach separate breath shall clasp me round in turn And loose my spirits bands. Oh passing sweet and dear, Then when the worshipped form and face Are felt at length in darkling close embrace ; Round which so oft the sun shone clear, , With mocking light and pitiless atmosphere, In many an hour and place. Ah me ! with what proud growth Shall that hour's thirsting race be run; While, for each several sweetness still begun Afresh, endures love's endless drouth : Sweet hands, sweet hair, sweet cheeks, swjet__^es, sweet Each singly wooed and won. [mouth, Yet most with the sweet soul Shall love's espousals then be knit ; For vety passion of peace shall breathe from it O'er tremulous wings that touch the goal, As on the unmeasured height of Love's control The lustral fires are lit. Therefore, when breast and cheek Now part, from long embraces free, — 'E ach oil the other ga^in^ shall but see A self that has no need to speak : All things unsought, yet nothing more to seek, — One love in unity. O water wandering past, — Albeit to thee I speak this thing, O water, thou that wanderest whispering, Thou keep'st thy counsel to the last. What spell upon thy bosom should Love cast, His message thence to wring ? "Nay, must thou hear the tale Of the past days, — the heavy debt Of life that obdurate time withholds, — ere yet To win thine ear these prayers prevail. And by thy voice Love's self with high All-hail Yield up the love-secret ? How should all this be told ? — All the sad sum of wayworn days ; — Heart's anguish in the impenetrable ma^e ; And on the waste uncoloured wold The visible burthen of the sun grown cold And the moon's labouring ga^e ? Alas! shall hope be nurs'd On life's all-succouring breast in vain, And made so perfect only to be slain ? xli Or shall not rather the sweet thirst Evenjyet rejoice the heart with warmth dispersed And strength grown fair again ? Stands it not by the door — Love's Hour — //// she and I shall meet; With bodiless form and unapparent feet That cast no shadow yet before, Though round its head the dawn begins to pour The breath that makes day sweet ? Its ey es invisibj e Watch tilTthe diaVs thin-thrown shade Be born, — yea, till the journeying Urn be laid Upon the point that wakes the spell. And there in lovelier light than tongue can tell Its presence stand array' d. Its soul remembers yet Those sunless hours that passed it by ; And still it hears the night's disconsolate cry, And feels the branches wringing wet Cast on its brow, that may not once forget, Dumb tears from the blind sky . But oh! when now her foot T>raws near, for whose sake night and day Were long in weary longing sighed awar, — The Hour of Love, 'mid airs grown mute. Shall sing beside the door, and Love's own lute Thrill to the passionate lay. Thou know' st, for Love has told Within thine ear, O stream, how soon That sofig shall lift its sweet appointed tune. O tell me, for my lips are cold. And in my veins the blood is waxing old 'Even while I beg the boon. xlii So, in that hour of sighs Assuaged, shall we beside this stone Yield thanks for grace ; while in thy mirror shown The twofold image softlj' lies, Until we kiss, and e ach in other's ejyes Is imaged all alone. S//// silent ? Can no art Of Love's then move thj> pitjf ? CP(ay, To thee let nothing come that owns his swaj> : 'Let happy lovers have no part With thee ; nor rcen so sad and poor a heart As thou hast spurned to-day. To-day ? Lo ! night is here. The glen grozos heavy with some veil Risen from the earth or fallen to make earth pale ; And all stands hushed tojye and ear., Until the night-wind shake the shade like fear And every covert quail. Ah f by a colder wave On deathlier airs the hour must come Which to thy heart, my love, shall call me home. Between the lips of the low cave Against that night the lapping waters lave, And the dark lips are dumb. But there Love's self doth stand, And with Life's weary wings far flown, And with D eath's eye s that make the water moan. Gathers the water in his hand : And they that drink know nought of sky or land But only love alone. O soul-sequestered face Far off, — O were that night but now ! So even beside that stream even I and thou xliii Through thirsting lips should draw Love's grace, Knd in the {one of that supreme embrace Bind aching breast and brow. O water whispering Still through the dark into mine ears, — A5 with mine eve s, is it not now with hers ? — Mine eyes that add to thy cold spring. Wan water, wandering water weltering, This hidden tide of tears. xliv THE CARD -DEALER. C OVLD j/ou not drink her ga^e like wiiw ? Yet though its splendour swoon Into the silence languidly As a tune into a tune, Those eyes unravel the coiled night And know the stars at noon. The gold thafs heaped beside her hand, In truth rich pri{e it were ; And rich the dreams that wreathe her brows \Yith magic stillness there ; And he were rich who should unwind That woven golden hair. Around her, where she sits, the dance Now breathes its eager heat ; And not more lightljp or more true Fall there the dancers' feet Than fall her cards on the bright board As 'twere a heart that beat. Yier fingers let them softly through, Smooth polished silent things ; And each one as it falls reflects In swift light-shadowings. Blood-red and purple, green and blue. The great eyes of her rings. Whom plays she with ? IVith thee, who lov'st Those gems upon her hand; With me, who search her secret brows ; With all men, bless' d or bann'd. We play together, she and we, Within a vain strange land: xlv A land without any order, — V)ay even as night, {one saith,) — y^here who lieth down arisetb not 'Nor the sleeper awakeneth ; A land of darkness as darkness itself And of the shadow of death. What he her cards, you ask ? Even these : — The heart, that doth but crave More, having fed; the diamond, Skilled to make base seem brave ; The club, for smiting in the dark; The spade, to dig a grave. And do you ask what game she plays ? With me 'tis lost or won; With thee it is playing still; with him It is not well begun ; But 'tis a game she plays with all Beneath the sway o' the sun. Thou seest the card that falls, — she knows The card that followeth : Her game in thy tongue is called Life, As ebbs thy daily breath : When she shall speak, thou' It learn her tongue And know she calls it T>eath. xlvi v MY SISTER'S SLEEP. SUE fell asleep oti Christmas Eve : At length the Ion g-un granted shade Of weary eyelids over-weigh' d The pain nought else might yet relieve. Our mother, who had leaned all day Over the bed from chime to chime, Then raised herself for the first time, And as she sat her down, did pray. Her little work-table was spread With work to finish. For the glare Made by her candle, she had care To work some distance from the bed. \Nithout, there was a cold moon np, Of winter radiance sheer and thin ; The hollow halo it was in Was like an icy crystal cup. Through the small room, with subtle sound Of fame, by vents the fireshine drove And reddened. In its dim alcove The mirror shed a clearness round. I had been sitting up some nights, And my tired mind felt weak and blank ; L.ike a sharp strengthening wine it drank The stillness and the broken lights. Twelve struck. That sound, by dwindling years Heard in each hour, crept off ; and then The ruffled silence spread again, Like water that a pebble stirs. xlvii Our mother rose from where she sat : Her needles, as she laid them down, Met h'ghtljf, and her silken gown Settled: no other noise than that. " Glorjf imto the Newly Born!'* So, as said angels, she did saj> ; because we were in Christmas Daj>, Though it would still he long till morn. Just then in the room over us There was a pushing back of chairs, As some who had sat unawares So late, now heard the hour, and rose. With anxious softly-stepping haste Our mother went where Margaret lay, ¥ earing the sounds overhead — should they Have broken her long watched-for rest ! She stopped an instant, calm, and turned; But suddenly turned back again ; And all her features seemed in pain With woe, and her eyes ga{ed and yearned. For my part, I but hid my face. And held my breath, and spoke no word: There was none spoken ; but I heard The silence for a little space. Our mother bowed herself and wept : And both my arms fell, and I said, " God knows I knew that she was dead.'' And there, all white, my sister slept. Then kneeling, upon Christmas morn A little after twelve o'clock, We said, ere the first quarter struck, " Christ's blessing on the newly born!" xlviii A NEW-YEAR'S BURDEN. ALONG the grass sweet airs are blown Our way this day in Spring. Of all the songs that we have known New which one shall we sing ? No^ that, my love, ah no! — No/ this, my love? why, so! — Yet both were ours, hut hours will come and go. The grove is all a pale frail mist, The new year sucks the sun. Of all the kisses that we kissed Now which shall he the one ? Not that, my love, ah no! — Not this, my love ? — heigh-ho For all the sweets that all the winds can blow ! The branches cross above our eyes, The skies are in a net : And what's the thing beneath the skies W^ two would most forget ? Not birth, my love, no, no, — Not death, my love, no, no, — The love once ours, but ours long hours ago. xlix EVEN SO. ^o it is, mj> dear. -^ All such things touch secret strings For heavy hearts to hear. So it is, mjy dear. Very like indeed: Sea and sky, afar, on high, Sand and strewn seaweed, — Very like indeed, "But the sea stands spread As one wall with the flat skies, Where the lean black craft like flies Seem well-nigh stagnated. Soon to drop off dead. Seemed it so to us Vfhen I was thine and thou wast mine, And all these things were thus, 'Rut all our world in us ? Could we be so now ? No/ if all beneath heaven's pall 'Lay d^ad but I and thou. Could we be so now ! AN OLD SONG ENDED. ' • Ll ow should I your true love know ■*• A From another one?" " By his cockle-hat and staff And his sandal-shoon." " And what signs have told you now That he hastens home ? " " Lo / the spring is nearly gane, He is nearly come."" " For a token is there nought, Say, that he should bring ?^^ " He will hear a ring I gave And another ring." " How may I, when he shall ask. Tell him who lies there ? " " No;;, but leave my face unveiled And unbound my hair^ " Canyon say to me some word I shall say to him ? " " Say I'm looking in bis eyes Though my eyes are dim.'' SPHERAL CHANGE. N this tuw shade of Death, the show Fasses me still of form and face ; Some bent, some gating as they go, Some swiftly, some at a dull pace, "Not one that speaks in anjy case. 1/ only one might speak! — the one Who never waits till I come near ; But always seated all alone As listening to the sunken air, Is gone before I come to her. O dearest ! while we lived and died A living death in every day, Some hours we still were side by side, When where I was you too might stay Knd rest and need not go away. O nearest, furthest ! Can there be At length some hard-earned heart-won home. Where, — exile changed for sanctuary, — Our lot may fill .indeed its sum, Andyou may wait and I may come ? Hi ALAS, SO LONG! AH ! dear one, we werejyoimg so long, It seemed thatjyoiith would never go. For skies and trees were ever in song And water in singing /low In the days we never again shall know. Alas, so long! Ab ! then was it all Spring weather ? ^aj>, hut we were young and together. Ah ! dear one, I've been old so long, It seems that age is loth to part, Though days andyears have never a song. And oh ! have they still the art That warmed the pulses of heart to heart ? Alas, so long! Ah ! then was it all Spring weather ? Nay, but we were young and together. Ah! dear one, you've been dead so long, — How long until we meet again, Where hours may never lose their song Nor flowers forget the rain In glad noonlight that never shall wane ? Alas, so long! Ab ! shall it be then Spring weather, And ab! shall we he young together? liii THE CLOUD CONFINES. THE dajf is dark and the night To him that would search their heart ; No lips of cloud that will part Nor morning song in the light : Only, gating alone, To him wild shadows are shown, Deep under deep unknown And height above unknown height, iitill we say as we go, — " Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know, That shall we know one day^ The Past is over and fled; Named new, we name it the old; Thereof some tale hath been told, "But no word comes from the dead ; "Whether at all thejy be, Or whether as bond or free, Or whether they too were we, Or by what spell they have sped. Still we say as we go, — " Strange to think by the way. Whatever there is to know, That shall we know one day.'* What of the heart of hate That beats in thy breast, O Time ? — Red strife from the furthest prime, And anguish of fierce debate War that shatters her slain, And peace that grinds them as grain. And eyes fixed ever in vain On the pitiless eyes of Fate. liv S//7/ we say as we go, — " Strange to think by the wajy, Whatever there is to know, That shall we know one dajyJ' Vfhat of the heart of love That bleeds in thjy breast, O Man? — Thy kisses snatched 'neath the ban Of fangs that mock them above ; Thjy bells prolonged unto knells, Thy hope that a breath dispels, Thy bitter forlorn farewells And the empty echoes thereof? Still we say as we go, — " Strange to think by the way, Vf hat ever there is to know, That shall we know one day." The sky leans dumb on the sea, Aweary with all its wings ; And oh ! the song the sea sings Is dark everlastingly. Our past is clean forgot, Our present is and is not. Our future's a sealed seedplot. And what betwixt them are we ? — W^ who say as we go, — " Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know. That shall we know otie day." Iv THREE TRANSLATIONS FROM FRANgOIS VILLON, 1450. I. THE BALLAD OF DEAD LADIES. TELL me now in what bidden way is "Lady Flora the lovely Roman ? Where's Hipparchia, and where is Thais, Neither of them the fairer woman ? Where is Echo, beheld of no man, Only heard on river and mere, — She whose beauty was more than human ? . Bitt where are the snows of yester-year ? Where's Heloise, the learned nun, For whose sake Abeillard, I ween, l^ost manhood and put priesthood on ? (From Love he won such dule and teen!) And where, I pray you, is the Queen Who willed that "Buridan should steer Sewed in a sack's mouth down the Seine ? . But where are the snows of yester-year ? White Queen "Blanche, like a queen of lilies, With a voice like any mermaiden, — Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice, And Ermen garde the lady of Maine, — And that good Joan whom Englishmen At T^ouen doomed and burned her there, — Mother of God, where are they then ? . . . But where are the snows of yester-year } Nay, never ask this week, fair lord. Where they are gone, nor yet this year, Save with thus much for an overword, — But where are the snows of yester-year ? Ivi II. TO DEATH, OF HIS LADY. DEATH, of thee do I maize my moan, Who hadst my lady away from me, lior wilt assuage thine enmity Till with her life thou hast mine own : For since that hour my strength has flown. Lo .' what wrong was her life to thee, Death ? Two we were, and the heart was one; Which now being dead, dead I must be, Or seem alive as lifelessly As in the choir the painted stone, Death! Ivii III. HIS MOTHER'S SERVICE TO OUR LADY. LADY of Heaven and Earth, and therewithal Crowned Empress of the nether clefts of Hell, — I, thy poor Christian, on thjy name do call, Commending me to thee, with thee to dwell, Albeit in nought I be commendable. But all mine undeserving may not mar Such mercies as thy sovereign mercies are; Without the which [as true words testify) No soul can reach thy Heaven so fair and far. 'Even in this faith I choose to live and die. Unto thy Son say thou that I am His, And to me graceless make Him gracious. Sad Mary of Egvpt lacked not of that bliss, Nor yet the sorrowful clerk Theophilus, Whose bitter sins were set aside even thus Though to the Fiend his bounden service was. Oh help me, lest in vain for me should pass (Sweet Virgin that shall have no loss thereby!) The blessed Host and sacring of the Mass. "Even in this faith I choose to live and die. A pitiful poor woman, shrunk and old, I am, and nothing learn' d in letter-lore. Within my parish-cloister I behold A painted Heaven where harps and lutes adore, And eke an Hell whose damned folk seethe full son One bringeth fear, the other jcy to me. That joy, great Goddess, make thou mine to be, — Thou of whom all must ask it even as I ; And that which faith desires, that let it see. For in this faith I choose to live and die. Iviii O excellent Virgin Trincess ! tbou didst bear y^ing Jesus, the most excellent comforter, Who even of this our weakness craved a share. And for our sake stooped to us from on high, Offering to death His young life sweet and fair. Su<:h as He is, Our Lord, I Him declare, And in this faith I choose to live and die. lix TROY TOWN. HEAVEN BORN Helen, Sparta's queen, (O Troy Town ! ) Had two breasts of heavenly sheen, The sun and moon of the heart's desire: All Love's lordship lay between. (O Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire ! ) 'Helen knelt at Venus' shrine, (O Troy Town!) laying, " A little gift is mine, A little gift for a heart's desire. Hear me speak and make me a sign ! (O Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire ! ) " 'Look, I bring thee a carven cup ; (O Troy Town ! ) S^^ it here as I hold it up, — Shaped it is to the heart's desire. Fit to Jill when the gods would sup. (O Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire ! ) *' 1/ was moulded like my breast ; (O Troy Town ! ) He that sees it may not rest, 'R.est at all for his heart's desire. O give ear to my heart's behest! (O Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire 1 ) " S^^ mj> breast, bow like it is ; (O Troy Town ! ) S^^ it bare for the air to kiss! Is the cup to thy heart's desire ? O for the breast, O make it his! (O Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire ! ) " Yea, for mv bosom here I sue ; (O Troy Town ! ) Thou must give it where ^tis due, Give it there to the heart's desire. Whom do I give my bosom to ? (O Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire ! ) " Kach twin breast is an apple sweet. (O Troy Town ! ) Once an apple stirred the beat Of thv heart with the hearfs desire : — Sajf, who brought it then to thy feet? (O Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire ! ) '• They that claimed it then were three : (O Troy Town!) For thy sake two hearts did he VLake forlorn of the hearfs desire. Do for him as he did for thee ! (O Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire ! ) " Mine are apples grown to the south, (O Troy Town ! ) Grown to taste in the days of drouth, Taste and waste to the hearfs desire : Mine are apples meet for his mouth. '^ (O Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire ! ) Ixi Wenus looked on Helen's gift, (O Troy Town ! ) hooked and smiled with subtle drift, Saw the work of her heart's desire : — ''There thou kneeVst for Love to lift!'' (O Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire!) Venus looked in Helen's face, (O Troy Town ! ) Knew far off an hour and place, And fire lit from the heart's desire; "Laughed and said, " Thy gift hath grace! " (O Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire ! ) Cupid looked on Helen's breast, (O Troy Town ! ) Saw the heart within its nest. Saw the flame of the heart's desire, — Marked his arrow's burning crest. (O Troy's down. Tall Troy's on fire!) Cupid took another dart, (O Troy Town ! ) Fledged it for another heart. Winged the shaft with the heart's desire. Drew the string and said, ''Depart!" (O Troy's down. Tall Troy's on fire ! ) Varis turned upon his bed, (O Troy Town!) Turned upon his bed and said, Dead at heart with the heart's desire, — " Oh to clasp her golden head! " (O Troy's down. Tall Troy's on fire ! ) Ixii SISTER HELEN. • * \A/ HY did jy Oil meltjyoiir waxen man, V V Sister Helen ? To-dajf is the third since you began.'' " The time was long,yet the time ran, "Little brother'' (O Mother, Mary Mother, Three days to-day, between Hell and Heaven !) " Bm/ ifjyou have done your work aright, Sister Helen, You'll let me play, for you said ! might." ''Be very still in your play to-night, Little brother." (O Mother, Mary Mother, Third night, to-night, between Hell and Heaven !) " You said it must melt ere vesper-bell, Sister Helen; If now it be molten, all is well." "Ew;/ so, — nay, peace! you cannot tell, Little brother." (O Mother, Mary Mother, O what is this, between Hell and Heaven ?) " O^ the waxen knave was plump to-day. Sister Helen ; How like dead folk he has dropped away!" " N^ now, of the dead what can you say. Little brother ?" (O Mother, Mary Mother, What of the dead, between Hell and Heaven ?) bdii " See, see, the sunken pile of wood. Sister Helen, Shines through the thinned wax red as blood!** " N^ now, when looked j>ou yet on blood, Uttle brother?*' (O Mother, Mary Mother, How pale she is, between Hell and Heaven I) " Now close j/our eyes, for they're sick and sore. Sister Helen, And r II play without the gallery door.** '■^ hye, let me rest, — I* II lie on the floor, Ijittle brother.** (O Mother, Mary Mother, What rest to-night, between Hell and Heaven ?) " Here high up in the balcony. Sister Helen, The moon flies face to face with me.*' '^Aye, look and say whatever you see, "Little brother.** (O Mother, Mary Mother, What sight to-night, between Hell and Heaven ?) " Outside it's merry in the wind's wake. Sister Helen ; In the shaken trees the chill stars shake.*' " 'Hush, heard you a horse-tread as you spake. Utile brother?** (O Mother, Mary Mother, What sound to-night, between Hell and Heaven ?) " I hear a horse-tread, and I see, Sister Helen, Three horsemen that ride terribly.** " Little brother, whence come the three. Little brother?" (O Mother, Mary Mother, Whence should they come,between Hell and Heaven?) Ixiv "They come hj> the hill-verge from Boyne Bar, Sister Helen, And one draws nigh, but two are afar." " hook, look, dojyou know them who thej> are, hittle brother?'' (O Mother, Mary Mother, Who should they be, between Hell and Heaven?) "Oh, it's Keith of Eastholm rides so fast, Sister Helen, For I know the white mane on the blast." " The hour has come, has come at last, 'Little brother !" (O Mother, Mary Mother, Her hour at last, between Hell and Heaven!) " H the earth's will, new form and feature Made me a wife for the earth's new creature. " Take me thou as I come from Adam : (Sing Eden Bower!) Once again shall my love subdue thee ; The past is past and I am come to thee. " O but Adam was thrall to Lilith ! (Alas the hour!) All the threads of my hair are golden, And there in a net his heart was holden. " O and Lilith zoas queen of Adam! (Sing Eden Bower!) All the day and the night together My breath could shake his soul like a feather. " W/'a^ great joys had Adam and Lilith ! — (Alas the hour!) Siveet close rings of the serpent's twining. As heart in heart lay sighing and pining. " What bright babes had Lilith and Adam! — (Sing Eden Bower!) Shapes that coiled in the woods and waters, Glittering sons and radiant daughters. " O thou God, the Lord God of Eden ! (Alas the hour!) So;', was this fair body for no man. That of Adam's flesh thou mak'st him a woman ? " O thou Snake, the King-snake of Eden ! (Sing Eden Bower!) God's strong will our necks are imder, But thou and I may cleave it in sunder. " Yielp, sweet Snake, sweet lover of Lilith ! (Alas the hour!) And let God learn how I loved and hated Ma« in the image of God created. ** Ylelp me once against Eve and Adam ! (Sing Eden Bower!) "Help me once for this one endeavour, And then my love shall be thine for ever! " Strong is God, the fell foe of Lilith : (Alas the hour !) 'Nought in heaven or earth may affright Him ; But Join thou with me and we will smite Him. " Strong is God, the great God of Eden : (Sing Eden Bower!) Over all He made He hath power ; But lend me thou thy shape for an hour! Ixxiii ""Leftd tbjf shape for the love of Lilith! (Alas the hour!) l^ook, my mouth and mj> cheek are ruddy, And thou art cold, and fire is my body. *' Lend thy shape for the hate of Adam! (Sing Eden Bower!) That he may wail my joy that forsook him, And curse the day when the hride-sleep took him. " Lend thy shape for the shame of Eden ! (Alas the hour!) I5 not the foe-God weak as the foeman When love grows hate in the heart of a woman ? " Wouldst thou know the heart's hope of Lilith ? (Sing Eden Bower !) Then bring thou close thine head till it glisten Along my breast, and lip me and listen. " Am I sweet, O sweet Snake of Eden ? (Alas the hour!) Then ope thine ear to my warm mouth's cooing And learn what deed remains for our doing. " Thou didst hear when God said to Adam : — (Sing Eden Bower!) ' 0/ all this wealth I have made thee warden ; Thou! rt free to eat of the trees of the garden : " * Only of om tree eat not in Eden ; (Alas the hour!) All save one I give to thy freewill, — The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.' " O my love, come nearer to Lilith ! (Sing Eden Bower!) In thy sweet folds bind me and bend me, And let me feel the shape thou shall lend me! Ixxiv " I« tbv shape Vll go hack to Eden; (Alas the hour!) I« these coils that Tree will I grapple, And stretch this crowned head forth by the apple. " Lo, Eve bends to the breath of Lilith ! (Sing Eden Bower !) O how then shall my heart desire All her blood as food to its fire! " Lo, Eve bends to the words of Lilith ! — (Alas the hour!) 'No;', this Tree's fruit, — why should ye hate it, Or Death be born the day that ye ate it ? " ' 'Nay, but on that great day in Eden, (Sing Eden Bower!) 'Sy the help that in this wise Tree is, God knows well ye shall be as He is.' " Then Eve shall eat and give unto Adam ; (Alas the hour!) And then they both shall know they are naked, And their hearts ache as my heart hath ached. *' Ay, let them hide 'mid the trees of Eden, (Sing Eden Bower!) A5 in the cool of the day in the garden God shall walk without pity or pardon. " 'Hear, thou Eve, the man's heart in Adam ! (Alas the hour!) Of his brave words hark to the bravest: — ' This the woman gave that thou gavest.' "Hear Eve speak, yea list to her, Lilith! (Sing Eden Bower!) Feast thine heart with words that shall sate it — * This the serpent gave and I ate it.' Ixxv ** O proud Eve, cling close to thine Adam, (Alas the hour!) Driven forth as the beasts of his naming By the sword that for ever is flaming. " Know, thy path is known unto Lilith ! (Sing Eden Bower !) While the blithe birds sang at thy wedding, There her tears grew thorns for thy treading. "O my love, thou Love-snake of Eden ! (Alas the hour!) to-day and the day to come after ! "Loose me, love, — give breath to my laughter. ** O bright Snake, the Death-worm of Adam ! (Sing Eden Bower!) Wreathe thy neck with my hair's bright tether. And wear my gold and thy gold together ! " On that day on the skirts of Eden, (Alas the hour!) In thy shape shall I glide back to thee, And in my shape for an instant view thee. " But when thou'rt thou and Lilith is Lilith, (Sing Eden Bower!) In what bliss past hearing or seeing Shall each one drink of The other's being! " With cries of ' Eve ! ' and ' Eden ! ' and ' Adam . (Alas the hour !) How shall we mingle our love's caresses, 1 in thy coils, and thou in my tresses ! " With those nanus, ye echoes of Eden, (Sing Eden Bower !) Yire shall cry from my heart that burneth, — ' Dust he is and to dust returneth ! ' Ixxvi " Yet to-daj>, thou master of Lt'litb, — (Alas the hour!) V/rap me round in the form Vll borrow And let me tell tbee of sweet to-morrow. •' In the planted garden eastward in Eden, (Sing Eden Bower!) Where the river goes forth to water the garden, The springs shall drjy and the soil shall harden. " Y^a, where the bride-sleep fell upon Adam, (Alas the hour!) ^ofie shall hear when the storm-wind whistles Through roses choked among thorns and thistles. " Yea, beside the east-gate of Eden, (Sing Eden Bower !) YJhere God pined them and none might sever , The sword turns this way and that for ever. " Y the grace of Lilith! (Alas the hour!) To Eve's womb, from our sweet to-morrow, God shall greatly multiply sorrow. " Yold me fast, O God-snake of Eden ! (Sing Eden Bower!) Yihat more pri^e than love to impel thee ? Grip and lip my limbs as I tell thee ! Ixxvii " Lo / two hahes for Eve and for Adam ! (Alas the hour!) Lo / sweet Snake, the travail and treasure, — Two men-children horn for their pleasure ! " The first is Cain and the second Abel : (Sing Eden Bower!) The soul of one shall be made thjy brother, And thjy tongue shall lap the blood of the other' (Alas the hour !) Ixxviii SUDDEN LIGHT. HAVE been here before, But when or how I cannot tell : I know the grass bej^and the door, The sweet keen smell. The sighing sound, the lights arowtd the shore. You have been mine before, — How long ago I may not know : But just when at that swallow^ s soar Your neck tjtrned so, Some veil did fall, — / knew it all of yore. Ha5 this been thus before ? And shall not thus time's eddying flight Still with our lives our love restore In death's despite, And day and night yield one delight once more ? Ixxix A LITTLE WHILE. A LITTLE while a little love The hour yet bears for thee and me Who have not drawn the veil to see If still our heaven be lit above. Thou merely, at the day's last sigh, Hast felt thy soul prolong the tone ; And I have heard the night-wind cry And deemed its speech mine own. A little while a little love The scattering autumn hoards for us Whose bower is not yet ruinous Nor quite unleaved our songless grove. Only across the shaken boughs We hear the flood-tides seek the sea, And deep in both our hearts they rouse One wail for thee and me. A little while a little love May yet be ours who have not said The word it makes our eyes afraid To know that each is thinking of. 'Not yet the end: be our lips dumb In smiles a little season yet : Vll tell thee, when the end is come, How we may best forget. Ixxx LOVE -LILY. BETWEEN the hands, between the brows, Between the lips of Love-Lily, A spirit is horn whose birth endows iAy blood with fire to burn through me ; Who breathes upon mj> gating eyes, Who laughs and murmurs in mine ear. At whose least touch my colour flies. And whom my life grows faint to hear. Within the voice, within the heart. Within the mind of Love-Lily, A spirit is horn who lifts apart His tremulous wings and looks at me ; Who on my mouth his finger lays, And shows, while whispering lutes confer, That Eden of Love's watered ways Whose winds and spirits worship her. Brows, hands, and lips, heart, mind, and voice, Kisses and words of Love- Lily, — O^ / bid me with your joy rejoice Till riotous longing rest in me ! Ah! let not hope be still distraught, But find in her its gracious goal, Whose speech Truth knows not from her thought Nor Love her body from her soul. Ixxxi FIRST LOVE REMEMBERED. PEACE in her chamber, wheresoever It he, a holy place : The thought still brings my soul such grace As morning meadows wear. Whether it still be small and light, A maid's who dreams alone, As from her orchard- gate the moon Its ceiling showed at night : Or whether, in a shadow dense As nuptial hymns invoke, Innocent maidenhood awoke To married innocence : There still the thanks unheard await The unconscious gift bequeathed; For there my soul this hour has breathed An air inviolate. Ixxxii THE SONG OF THE BOWER. SAY, is it day, is it dusk in thjy bower, Thou whom I long for, who longest for me? Oh! he it light, be it night, 'tis Love's hour, L,ove's that is fettered as Love's that is free. Free Love has leaped to that innermost chamber. Oh ! the last time, and the hundred before : Fettered Love, motionless, can but remember. Yet something that sighs from him passes the door. Nay, but my heart when it flies to thy bower. What does it find there that knows it again ? There it must droop like a shower-beaten flower, Red at the rent core and dark with the rain. Ah ! yet what shelter is still shed above it, — What waters still image its leaves torn apart ? Thy soul is the shade that clings round it to love it, And tears are its mirror deep down in thy heart. What were my pri^e, could I enter thy bower, This day, to-morrow, at eve or at morn ? L^rge lovely arms and a neck like a tower. Bosom then heaving that now lies forlorn. Kindled with love-breath, (the sun's kiss is colder /) Thy sweetness all near me, so distant to-day ; My hand round thy neck and thy hand on my shoulder, My mouth to thy mouth as the world melts away. What is it keeps me afar from thy bower, — My spirit, my body, so fain to be there ? Waters engulfing or fires that devour? — Flarth heaped against me or death in the air ? ^ay, but in day-dreams, for terror, for pity, The trees wave their heads with an omen to tell ; Nay, but in night-dreams, throughout the dark city. The hours, clashed together, lose count in the bell. Ixxxiii S/;a// / not one day remember thy hower, One day when all days are one day to me ? — Thinking, " / stirred not, and yet had the power / " — Yearning, ''Ah God, if again it might he!'' Veace, peace ! such a small lamp illumes, on this highway, So dimly so few steps in front of my feet, — Yet shows me that her way is parted from my way. . . . Out of sight, beyond light, at what goal may we meet ? Ixxxiv PENUMBRA. DID not look upon her eyes, {Though scarcely seen, with no surprise, 'Mid many eyes a single look,) Because they should not ga{e rebuke. At night, from stars in sky and brook. I did not take her by the hand, (Though little was to understand From touch of hand all friends might take,) Because it should not prove a flake Burnt in my palm to boil and ache. I did not listen to her voice, {Though none had noted, where at choice All might rejoice in listening,) Because no such a thing should cling In the wood's moan at evening. I did not cross her shadow once, {Though from the hollow west the sun's Last shadow runs along so far,} Because in June it should not bar My ways, at noon when fevers are. They told me she was sad that day, {Though wherefore tell what love's soothsay, Sooner than they, did register ?) And my heart leapt and wept to her, And yet I did not speak nor stir. vSo shall the tongues of the sea* s foam {Though many voices therexvith come From drowned hope's home to cry to me,) Bewail one hour the more, when sea And wind are one with memory. Ixxxv THE WOODSPURGE. T HE wind flapped loose, the -wind u-as still, Shaken out dead from tree and hill : I had walked an at the wind's will, — I sat now, for the wind was still. Between mj> knees m^ forehead was, Mjy lips, drawn in, said not Alas ! ^ly hair was over in the grass, My naked ears heard the day pass. Mj> eyes, wide open, had the Of some ten weeds to fix upon ; Among those few, out of the sm.. The woodspurge flowered, three cups in one. run m; sun. From perfect grief there need not be \Nisdom or even memory : One thing then learnt remains to me. The woodspurge has a cup of three. Ixxxvi THE SEA -LIMITS. CONSIDER the sea's listless chime: Timers self it is, made audible, — The murmur of the earth's own shell. Secret continuance sublime Is the sea's end : our sight may pass l>io furlong further. Since time was. This sound hath told the lapse of time. No quiet, which is death's, — it bath The mournfulness of ancient life, 'Enduring always at dull strife. As the world's heart of rest and wrath. Its painful pulse is in the sands. Last utterly, the whole sky stands, Gray and not known, along its path. Listen alone beside the sea. Listen alone among the woods ; Those voices of twin solitudes Shall have one sound alike to thee : Hark where the murmurs of thronged men Surge and sink back and surge again, — Still the one voice of wave and tree. Gather a shell from the sir own beach And listen at its lips : they sigh The same desire and mysterv, The echo of the whole sea's speech. And all mankind is thus at heart ISot anything but what thou art : And Earth, Sea, Man, are all in each. Ixxxvii NOTES NOTES. In a recent number of Poet-Lore (January, 1895) appeared an article by Professor William G. Kingsland of London • " Rossetti's 'Jenny.' With extracts from an hitherto unpub- lished version of the poem." By the courtesy of the editors of this scholarly little magazine, these extracts are here included for the first time in any edition of Rossetti's poems. 1 In the manuscript version two mottoes are appended : " An harlot is accounted as spittle," {_' Ecclesiasticus'); and Shelley's transcript from Goethe : — " What still here I In this enlightened age, too, since you have been 'Proved not to exist." 2 The poem opens with the two lines as in the printed text, and then we read : " Chooser of the oft-chosen part, With the old step by the old art Treading in the trodden way ; Blossom of the eternal May Plucked and fouled and trampled on Stemless, scentless, strengthless, gone." 3 The next passage somewhat resembles the sixth section of the published poem — " Or haply, were the truth confest Thou'rt thankful for a little rest? From the crush to rest within, And from the sickness and from the din Of woman's envious mocking, which Mocks thee because thy gown is rich; And from the wise unchildish elf, Of schoolmate lesser than himself NOTES. Asking, the while thou glid'st apart, Whether he knows what thing thou art, And then m whispers wickedly Teaching him lust and vice by thee. But most from the beastliness of man, Who spares not to end what he began, Whose acts are foul and his speech hard. Who having used thee, afterward Thrusts thee aside, as when I dine I serve the platter and the wine : Thou being all men's, yet no man thine." 4 Compare the tenth section of 'Jenny ' as printed, with the MS. reading: " Or else it may be that thou hast A thought in thee of what is past. Of the old time which seems to thee Much older than any history That is written in any book ; When thou would'st lie in the fields, and look Along the ground through the thick grass, Wondering where the city was Of whose loud gaudy broil and bale They told thee then for a child's tale. I think it may be that the press Of the exceeding silentness Weighelh on thee, letting thee hear Thy mother's voice, that brings strange fear, Talk to thee, as it used to talk : I think that on the lighted walk Even, and through folly's bauble-chimes That voice findeth thee many times." 5 Toward the end of the MS. these lines occur : — " Jenny mine, how dar'st thou be In the nineteenth century? Now when the naked Human Mind Laughs backward at the years behind, And though the goal seem to be won Still girds his loins that he may run ; NOTES. When the rind peels from the fruit beneath ; When the sword wears away the sheath ; When the Temple-veil is rent in twain; When through the luisk pierces the grain ; — Through sense and Hesh still strugghng out, Till wrong shall cease, and pain and doubt, And perfect Man be mind throughout. In this great day how darest thou stay, Thou wljom the daylight drives away ? Thou stumbling-stone of argument ! " 6 The MS. closes with the image used in the twenty- sixth section of the printed text : — * Like a toad within a stone Seated while Time crumbles on.' Readers familiar with Lecky's 'History of European iMorals ' will not forget the great peroration wherein this thought of Rossetti's is re-stated by the historian in impas- sioned and imperishable prose. UNDER the arch of Life, where love and death, Terror and nvysterjy, guard her shrine, I saw Beautjy enthroned; and though her ga^e struck awe, I drew it in as simply as my breath. Hers are the ejpes which, over and beneath. The sky and sea bend on thee, — which can draw, By sea or skjy or woman, to one law, The allotted bondman of her palm and wreath. This is that Lady Beauty, in whose praise Thy voice and hand shake still, — long known to thee By flying hair and fluttering hem, — the beat Following her daily of thy heart and feet, How passionately and irretrievably. In what fond flight, how many ways and days ! THE HOUSE OF LIFE. (Sonnet Ixxvii.) PRINTED BY SMITH &• SALE PORTLAND MAINE 14 DAY USE RETUKN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED LOAN DEPT. This book is due on the last date stamped below, or on the date to which renewed. Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. ncccivcp J. ' 67-i2!V! JUL 2 9 1987 LOAN DEPT fs^vS' AUG0 4 198? i98r 1 AUT0D1SC.MAY17'88 - DEC 21 1989 «t CEIVED m 1 9 -7 ■Mk. AUT0ai5aDEC27'88 ml 69 ^|gyp'M/P'-< jUNii^BMN LD 21A-60m-7,'66 (G4427sl0)476B General Library University of California Berkeley U.C. BERKELEY LIBRARIES B003Dn2MS 514876 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY mi