;.«i* i.^,itj' l^..*: .r-t ff- i^v iJ<- rV?,-^ &% .Jt/. ^.♦// d^ '•''•"''■''**'^- ■" '" "' ■'■--— (n^(j/v^^>^^ SELECTED POEMS MATTHEW ARNOLD 3Lonti0n MACMILLAN AND CO. AND NEW YORK 1886 Printed bj' R. & R- Clark, Edinburgh. M3 nBRARY BMyERSlIY OF CAf.IFORIVIS" SANTA JfAiU; \!i V CONTENTS. EARLY POEMS. Sonnets — Quiet Work To a Friend PACK 3 4 Shakspeare To a Republican Friend, 1 848 Continued 5 6 7 A Question . 8 Requiescat . 9 Youth and Calm 10 A Memory-Picture . 12 Youth's Agitations . 15 The World's Triumphs 16 Stagirius 17 To a Gipsy Child by the Sea-Shori s 20 NARRATIVE POEMS. Sohrab and Rustum Tristram and Iseult — I. Tristram II. Iseult of Ireland III. Iseult of Brittany 27 62 78 87 CONTENTS. Saint Brandan The Neckan The Forsaken Merman PAGE 97 lOI 104 SONNETS. Sonnets — Austerity of Poetry • "3 East and West 114 East London • 115 West London 116 The Divinity 117 Immortality 118 The Good Shepherd with the Kid 119 Monica's last Prayer 120 LYRIC AND ELEGIAC POEMS. Switzerland — 1. Meeting 2. Parting 3. A Farewell 4. Isolation. To Marguerite 5. To Marguerite. — Continued 6. Absence 7. The Terrace at Berne The Strayed Reveller Cadmus and Harmonia Apollo Musagetes . Urania eupiirosynb 123 124 128 132 134 136 137 140 153 155 158 160 CONTENTS. PAGE Calais Sands 162 Dover Beach 164 Progress .... 166 Revolutions . . . , 169 Self-Dependence 170 Morality .... 172 A Summer Night 174 Lines written in Kensington Gardens 178 The Scholar-Gipsy . 180 Thyrsis .... 192 Memorial Verses 203 Stanzas from Carnac 207 A Southern Night , 210 Rugby Chapel 216 The Future .... 225 Notes .... 229 EARLY POEMS SONNETS. QUIET WORK. ONE lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee. One lesson which in every wind is blown. One lesson of two duties kept at one Though the loud world proclaim their enmity — Of toil unsever'd from tranquillity ; Of labour, that in lasting fruit outgrows P'ar noisier schemes, accomplish'd in repose. Too great for haste, too high for rivalry. Yes, while on earth a thousand discords ring, Man's senseless uproar mingling with his toil. Still do thy quiet ministers move on. Their glorious tasks in silence perfecting ; Still working, blaming still our vain turmoil ; Labourers that shall not fail, when man is gone. EARLY rOEMS. TO A FRIEND. TTTHO prop, thou ask'st, in these bad days, my mind ? — He much, the old man, who, clearest-soul'd of men, Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen,^ And Tmolus hill, and Smyrna bay, though blind. Much he, whose friendship I not long since won, That halting slave, who in Nicopolis Taught Arrian, when Vespasian's brutal son Clear'd Rome of what most shamed him. But be his My special thanks, whose even-balanced soul, From first youth tested up to extreme old age. Business could not make dull, nor passion wild ; Who saw life steadily, and saw it whole ; The mellow glory of the Attic stage, Singer of sweet Colonus, and its child. SONNETS. SHAKSPEARE. OTHERS abide our question. Tliou art free. We ask and ask — Thou smilest and art still, Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill, Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty, Planting his stedfast footsteps in the sea. Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place, Spares but the cloudy border of his base To the foil'd searching of mortality ; And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know. Self-school'd, self-scann'd, self-honour'd, self-secure, Didst tread on earth unguess'd at. — Better so ! All pains the immortal spirit must endure, All weakness which impairs, all griefs which bow. Find their sole speech in that victorious brow. EARLY POEMS. TO A REPUBLICAN FRIEND, 1848. /~^ OD knows it, I am with you. If to prize ^-^ Those virtues, prized and practised by too few But prized, but loved, but eminent in you, Man's fundamental life ; if to despise The barren optimistic sophistries Of comfortable moles, whom what they do Teaches the limit of the just and true (And for such doing they require not eyes) ; If sadness at the long heart-wasting show Wherein earth's great ones are disquieted ; If thoughts, not idle, while before me flow The armies of the homeless and unfed — If these are yours, if this is what you are, Then am I yours, and what you feel, I share SONNETS. CONTINUED. "\7"ET, when I muse on what hfe is, I seem -^ Rather to patience prompted, than that proud Prospect of hope which France proclaims so loud — France, famed in all great arts, in none supreme ; Seeing this vale, this earth, whereon we dream, Is on all sides o'ershadow'd by the high Uno'erleap'd Mountains of Necessity, Sparing us narrower margin than we deem. Nor will that day dawn at a human nod. When, bursting through the network superposed By selfish occupation — plot and plan, Lust, avarice, envy — liberated man. All difference with his fellow-mortal closed, Shall be left standing face to face with God. EARLY POEMS. A QUESTION. TO FAUSTA. JOY comes and goes, hope ebbs and flows Like the wave ; Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of men Love lends life a little grace, A few sad smiles ; and then, Both are laid in one cold place, In the grave. Dreams dawn and fly, friends smile and die Like spring flowers ; Our vaunted life is one long funeral. Men dig graves with bitter tears For their dead hopes ; and all, Mazed with doubts and sick with fears. Count the hours. We count the hours ! These dreams of ours False and hollow Do we go hence and find they are not dead ? Joys we dimly apprehend, Faces that smiled and fled, Hopes born here, and Ijorn to end, Shall we follow ? KF.gUIESCAT REQUIESCAT. O TREW on her roses, roses, ^^ And never a spray of yew ! In quiet she reposes ; Ah ! would that I did too. Her mirth the world required ; She bathed it in smiles of glee. But her heart was tired, tired, And now they let her be. Her life was turning, turning, In mazes of heat and sound ; But for peace her soul was yearning. And now peace laps her round. Her cabin'd, ample spirit, It flutter'd and fail'd for breath ; To-night it doth inherit The vasty hall of dea.th. 10 EARLY POEMS. YOUTH AND CALM. "T^IS death ! and peace, indeed, is here, -*- And ease from shame, and rest from fear There's nothing can dismarble now The smoothness of that limpid brow. But is a cahn hke this, in truth, The crowning end of Hfe and youth, And when this boon rewards the dead. Are all debts paid, has all been said ? And is the heart of youth so light, Its step so firm, its eye so bright, Because on its hot brow there blows A wind of promise and repose From the far grave, to which it goes ; Because it has the hope to come. One day, to harbour in the tomb ? Ah no, the bliss youth dreams is one For daylight, for the cheerful sun, For feeling nerves and living breath — Youth dreams a bliss on this side death. It dreams a rest, if not more deep, More grateful than this marble sleep ; YOUTH AND CALM. It hears a voice within it tell : Calm^s not lif^s crown, though calm is well. 'Tis all perhaps which man acquires, But 'tis not what our youth desires. EARLY POEMS. A MEMORY-PICTURE. T AUGH, my friends, and without blame -* — ' Lightly quit what lightly came ; Rich to-morrow as to-day, Spend as madly as you may ! I, with little land to stir, Am the exacter labourer. Ere the parting hour go by, Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! Once I said : " A face is gone If too hotly mused upon ; And our best impressions are Those that do themselves repair." Many a face I so let flee, Ah ! is faded utterly. Ere the parting hour go by, Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! Marguerite says : " As last year went, So the coming year '11 be spent ; Some day next year, I shall be, Entering heedless, kiss'd by thee.'' A MEMORY-PICTURE. 13 Ah, I hope ! — yet, once away, What may chain us, who can say ? Ere the parting hour go by. Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! Paint that lilac kerchief, bound Her soft face, her hair around ; Tied under the archest chin Mockery ever ambush'd in. Let the fluttering fringes streak All her pale, sweet-rounded cheek. Ere the parting hour go by. Quick, thy tablets, Memoiy ! Paint that figure's pliant grace As she toward me lean'd her face, Half refused and half resign'd. Murmuring : "Art thou still unkind?" Many a broken promise then Was new made — to break again. Ere the parting hour go by. Quick, thy tablets. Memory ! Paint those eyes, so blue, so kind, Eager tell-tales of her mind ; Paint, with their impetuous stress Of enquiring tenderness, 14 EARLY POEMS. Those frank eyes, where deep will be An angelic gravity. Ere the parting hour go by, Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! What, my friends, these feeble lines Shew, you say, my love declines ? To paint ill as I have done, Proves forgetfulness begun ? Time's gay minions, pleased you see. Time, your master, governs me ; Pleased, you mock the fruitless cry : " Quick, thy tablets. Memory ! " Ah, too true ! Time's current strong Leaves us true to nothing long. Yet, if little stays with man. Ah, retain we all we can ! If the clear impression dies, Ah, the dim remembrance prize ! Ere the parting hour go by. Quick, thy tablets. Memory ! YOUTH'S AGITATIONS. 15 YOUTH'S AGITATIONS. WHEN I shall be divorced, some ten years hence, From this poor present self which I am now ; When youth has done its tedious vain expense Of passions that for ever ebb and flow ; Shall I not joy youth's heats are left behind, And breathe more happy in an even clime? — Ah no, for then I shall begin to find A thousand virtues in this hated time ! Then I shall wish its agitations back. And all its thwarting currents of desire ; Then I shall praise the heat which then I lack, And call this hurrying fever, generous fire ; And sigh that one thing only has been lent To youth and age in common — discontent. i6 EARLY POEMS. THE WORLD'S TRIUMPHS. SO far as I conceive the world's rebuke To him address'd who would recast her new. Not from herself her fame of strength she took, But from their weakness who would work her rue. " Behold," she cries, " so many rages luU'd, So many fiery spirits quite cool'd down ; Look how so many valours, long undull'd, After short commerce with me fear my frown ! Thou too, when thou against my crimes wouldst cry Let thy foreboded homage check thy tongue !" — The world speaks well ; yet might her foe reply : " Are wills so weak ? — then let not mine wait long i Hast thou so rare a poison ? — let me be Keener to slay thee, lest thou poison me !" STAGIRIUS. 17 STAGIRIUS.2 '"T'HOU, who dost dwell alone — -'- Thou, who dost know thine own- Thou, to whom all are known From the cradle to the grave- Save, oh ! save. From the world's temptations, From tribulations, From that fierce anguish Wherein we languish, From that torpor deep Wherein we lie asleep, Heavy as death, cold as the grave. Save, oh ! save. When the soul, growing clearer, Sees God no nearer ; When the soul, mounting higher, To God comes no nigher ; But the arch-fiend Pride Mounts at her side, Foiling her high emprise, Sealing her eagle eyes, c s^- t8 EARLY POEMS. And, when she fain would soar, Makes idols to adore, Changing the pure emotion Of her high devotion, To a skin-deep sense Of her own eloquence ; Strong to deceive, strong to enslave— Save, oh ! save. From the ingrain'd fashion Of this earthly nature That mars thy creature ; From grief that is but passion, From mirth that is but feigning, From tears that bring no healing, From wild and weak complaining, Thine old strength revealing, Save, oh ! save. From doubt, where all is double ; Where wise men are not strong, Where comfort turns to trouble. Where just men suffer wrong ; Where sorrow treads on joy, Where sweet things soonest cloy, Where faiths are built on dust, Where love is half mistrust. Hungry, and barren, and sharp as the sea- Oh ! set us free. STAGIRIUS, 19 O let the false dream fly Where our sick souls do lie Tossing continually ! O where thy voice doth come Let all doubts be dumb, Let all words be mild, All strifes be reconciled. All pains beguiled ! Light bring no blindness, Love no unkindness, Knowledge no ruin, Fear no undoing ! From the cradle to the grave, Save, oh ! save. EARLY POEMS. TO A GIPSY CHILD BY THE SEA-SHORE, DOUGLAS, ISLE OF MAN. \ T fHO taught this pleading to unpractised eyes? * * Who hid such import in an infant's gloom ? Who lent thee, child, this meditative guise ? Who mass'd, round that slight brow, these clouds of doom ? Lo ! sails that gleam a moment and are gone ; The swinging waters, and the cluster'd pier. Not idly Earth and Ocean labour on, Nor idly do these sea-birds hover near. But thou, whom superfluity of joy Wafts not from thine own thoughts, nor longings vain, Nor weariness, the full-fed soul's annoy— Remaining in thy hunger and thy pain ; TO A GIPSY CHILD. 21 Thou, drugging pain by patience ; half averse From thine own mother's breast, that knows not tliee ; With eyes which sought thine eyes thou didst con- verse, And that soul-searching vision fell on me. Glooms that go deep as thine I have not known : Moods of fantastic sadness, nothing worth. Thy sorrow and thy calmness are thine own : Glooms that enhance and glorify this earth. What mood wears like complexion to thy woe? His, who in mountain glens, at noon of day. Sits rapt, and hears the battle break below } — Ah ! thine was not the shelter, but the fray. Some exile's, mindful how the past was glad } Some angel's, in an alien planet born ? — No exile's dream was ever half so sad, Nor any angel's sorrow so forlorn. Is the calm thine of stoic souls, who weigh Life well, and find it wanting, nor deplore ; But in disdainful silence turn away. Stand mute, self-centred, stern, and dream no more ? 22 EARLY POEMS. Or do I wait, to hear some grey-hair'd king Unravel all his many-colour'd lore ; Whose mind hath known all arts of governing, Mused much, loved life a little, loathed it more ? Down the pale cheek long lines of shadow slope. Which years, and curious thought, and suffering give. — Thou hast foreknown the vanity of hope, Foreseen thy harvest, yet proceed'st to live. meek anticipant of that sure pain Whose sureness grey-hair'd scholars hardly learn ! What wonder shall time breed, to swell thy strain ? What heavens, what earth, what suns shalt thou discern ? Ere the long night, whose stillness brooks no star, Match that funereal aspect with her pall, 1 think, thou wilt have fathom'd life too far. Have known too much or else forgotten all. The Guide of our dark steps a triple veil Betwixt our senses and our sorrow keeps ; Hath sown with cloudless passages the tale Of grief, and eased us with a thousand sleeps. TO A GIPSY CHILD. 23 Ah ! not the nectarous poppy lovers use, Not daily labour's dull, Letheean spring, Oblivion in lost angels can infuse Of the soil'd glory, and the trailing wing ; And though thou glean, what strenuous gleaners may. In the throng'd fields where winning comes by strife ; And though the just sun gild, as mortals pray. Some reaches of thy storm-vext stream of life ; Though that blank sunshine blind thee ; though the cloud That sever'd the world's march and thine, be gone ; Though ease dulls grace, and Wisdom be too proud To halve a lodging that was all her own — Once, ere thy day go down, thou shalt discern, Oh once, ere night, in thy success, thy chain ! Ere the long evening close, thou shalt return, And wear this majesty of grief again. NARRATIVE POEMS. SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 27 SOHRAB AND RUSTUM.^ A ND the first grey of morning fiU'd the east, ^ ^ And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream. But all the Tartar camp along the stream Was hush'd, and still the men were plunged in sleep ; Sohrab alone, he slept not ; all night long He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed ; But when the grey dawn stole into his tent, He rose, and clad himself, and girt his sword. And took his horseman's cloak, and left his tent. And went abroad into the cold wet fog. Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa's tent. Through the black Tartar tents he pass'd, which stood Clustering like bee-hives on the low flat strand Of Oxus, where the summer-floods o'erflow When the sun melts the snows in high Pamere ; Through the black tents he pass'd, o'er that low strand. And to a hillock came, a little back 28 NARRATIVE POEMS. From the stream's brink — the spot where first a boat, Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes the land. The men of former times had crown'd the top With a clay fort ; but that was fall'n, and now The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa's tent, A dome of laths, and o'er it felts were spread. And Sohrab came there, and went in, and stood Upon the thick piled carpets in the tent. And found the old man sleeping on his bed Of rugs and felts, and near him lay his arms. And Peran-Wisa heard him, though the step Was duU'd ; for he slept light, an old man's sleep ; And he rose quickly on one arm, and said : — " Who art thou ? for it is not yet clear dawn. Speak ! is there news, or any night alarm ? " But Sohrab came to the bedside, and said : — " Thou know'st me, Peran-Wisa ! it is I. The sun is not yet risen, and the foe Sleep ; but I sleep not ; all night long I lie Tossing and wakeful, and I come to thee. For so did King Afrasiab bid me seek Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son, In Samarcand, before the army march'd ; And I will tell thee what my heart desires. Thou know'st if, since from Ader-baijan first I came among the Tartars and bore arms, SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 29 I have still served Afrasiab well, and shown, At my boy's years, the courage of a man. This too thou know'st, that while I still bear on The conquering Tartar ensigns through the world, And beat the Persians back on every field, I seek one man, one man, and one alone — Rustum, my father ; who I hoped should greet, Should one day greet, upon some well-fought field. His not unworthy, not inglorious son. So I long hoped, but him I never find. Come then, hear now, and grant me what I ask. Let the two armies rest to-day ; but I Will challenge forth the bravest Persian lords To meet me, man to man ; if I prevail, Rustum will surely hear it ; if I fall — Old man, the dead need no one, claim no kin. Dim is the rumour of a common fight, Where host meets host, and many names are sunk But of a single combat fame speaks clear." He spoke ; and Peran-Wisa took the hand Of the young man in his, and sigh'd, and said : " O Sohrab, an unquiet heart is thine ! Canst thou not rest among the Tartar chiefs, And share the battle's common chance with us Who love thee, but must press for ever first In single fight incurring single risk, To find a father thou hast never seen ? so NARRATIVE POEMS. That were far best, my son, to stay with us Unmurmuring; in our tents, while it is war, And when 'tis truce, then in Afrasiab's towns. But, if this one desire indeed rules all. To seek out Rustum — seek him not through fight ! Seek him in peace, and carry to his arms, O Sohrab, carry an unwounded son ! But far hence seek him, for he is not here. For now it is not as when I was young. When Rustum was in front of every fray : But now he keeps apart, and sits at home. In Seistan, with Zal, his father old. Whether that his own mighty strength at last Feels the abhorr'd approaches of old age ; Or in some quarrel with the Persian King. There go ! — Thou wilt not ? Yet my heart fore- bodes Danger or death awaits thee on this field. Fain would I know thee safe and well, though lost To us ; fain therefore send thee hence, in peace To seek thy father, not seek single fights In vain ; — but who can keep the lion's cub From ravening, and who govern Rustum's son .'' Go, I will grant thee what thy heart desires." So said he, and dropp'd Sohrab's hand, and lefl His bed, and the warm rugs whereon he lay; And o'er his chilly limbs his woollen coat SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 31 He pass'd, and tied his sandals on his feet, And threw a white cloak round him, and he took In his right hand a ruler's staff, no sword ; And on his head he set his sheep-skin cap, Black, glossy, curl'd, the fleece of Kara-Kul : And raised the curtain of his tent, and call'd His herald to his side, and went abroad. The sun by this had risen, and clear'd the fog From the broad Oxus and the glittering sands. And from their tents the Tartar horsemen filed Into the open plain ; so Haman bade — Haman, who next to Peran-Wisa ruled The host, and still was in his lusty prime. From their black tents, long files of horse, they stream'd ; As when some grey November morn the files. In marching order spread, of long-neck'd cranes Stream over Casbin and the southern slopes Of Elburz, from the Aralian estuaries. Or some frore Caspian reed-bed, southward bound For the wann Persian sea-board — so they stream'd. The Tartars of the Oxus, the King's guard. First, with black sheep-skin caps and with long spears ; Large men, large steeds ; who from Bokhara come And Khiva, and ferment the milk of mares. Next, the more temperate Toorkrnuns of the south, 32 NARRATIVE POEMS. The Tukas, and the lances of Salore, And those from Attruck and the Caspian sands ; Light men and on hght steeds, who only drink The acrid milk of camels, and their wells. And then a swarm of wandering horse, who came From far, and a more doubtful service own'd ; The Tartars of Ferghana, from the banks Of the Jaxartes, men with scanty beards And close-set skull-caps ; and those wilder hordes Who roam o'er Kipchak and the northern waste, Kalmucks and unkempt Kuzzaks, tribes who stray Nearest the Pole, and wandering Kirghizzes, Who come on shaggy ponies from Pamere ; These all filed out from camp into the plain. And on the other side the Persians form'd ; — First a light cloud of horse, Tartars they seem'd, The Ilyats of Khorassan ; and behind. The royal troops of Persia, horse and foot, Marshall'd battalions bright in burnish'd steel. But Peran-Wisa with his herald came. Threading the Tartar squadrons to the front. And with his staff kept back the foremost ranks. And when Ferood, who led the Persians, saw That Peran-Wisa kept the Tartars back. He took his spear, and to the front he came, And check'd his ranks, and fi.x'd them where fhey stood. SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 33 And the old Tartar came upon the sand Betwixt the silent hosts, and spake, and said : — " Ferood, and ye, Persians and Tartars, hear ! Let there be truce between the hosts to-day. But choose a champion from the Persian lords To fight our champion Sohrab, man to man." As, in the country, on a morn in June, When the dew glistens on the pearled ears, A shiver runs through the deep com for joy — So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa said, A thrill through all the Tartar squadrons ran Of pride and hope for Sohrab, whom they loved. But as a troop of pedlars, from Cabool, Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus, That vast sky-neighbouring mountain of milk snow ; Crossing so high, that, as they mount, they pass Long flocks of travelling birds dead on the snow. Choked by the air, and scarce can they themselves Slake theirparch'd throats with sugar'd mulberries — In single file they move, and stop their breath, For fear they should dislodge the o'erhanging snows — So the pale Persians held their breath with fear. And to Ferood his brother chiefs came up To counsel ; Gudurz and Zoarrah came, And Feraburz, who ruled the Persian host Second, and was the uncle of the King ; D 34 NARRATIVE POEMS. These came and counsell'd, and then Gudun said :— " Ferood, shame bids us take their challenge up Yet champion have we none to match this youth. He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart. But Rustum came last night ; aloof he sits And sullen, and has pitch'd his tents apart. Him will I seek, and carry to his ear The Tartar challenge, and this young man's name ; Haply he will forget his wrath, and fight. Stand forth the while, and take their challenge up." So spake he ; and Ferood stood forth and cried : — " Old man, be it agreed as thou hast said ! Let Sohrab arm, and we will find a man." He spake ; and Peran-Wisa turn'd, and strode Back through the opening squadrons to his tent. But through the anxious Persians Gudurz ran. And cross'd the camp which lay behind, and reach'd. Out on the sands beyond it, Rustum's tents. Of scarlet cloth they were, and glittering gay. Just pitch'd ; the high pavilion in the midst Was Rustum's, and his men lay camp'd around. And Gudurz enter'd Rustum's tent, and found Rustum ; his morning meal was done, but still The table stood before him, charged with food — SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 35 A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of bread, And dark green melons ; and there Rustum sate Listless, and held a falcon on his wrist, And play'd with it ; but Gudurz came and stood Before him ; and he look'd, and saw him stand, And with a cry sprang up and dropp'd the bird, And greeted Gudurz with both hands, and said : — " Welcome ! these eyes could see no better sight. What news ? but sit down first, and eat and drink." But Gudurz stood in the tent-door, and said : — " Not now ! a time will come to eat and drink. But not to-day ; to-day has other needs. The armies are drawn out, and stand at gaze ; For from the Tartars is a challenge brought To pick a champion from the Persian lords To fight their champion — and thou know'st his name — Sohrab men call him, but his birth is hid. O Rustum, like thy might is this young man's ! He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart ; And he is young, and Iran's chiefs are old. Or else too weak ; and all eyes turn to thee. Come down and help us, Rustum, or we lose ! " He spoke ; but Rustum answer'd with a smile : — " Go to ! if Iran's chiefs are old, then I Am older ; if the young are weak, the King Errs strangely ; for the King, for Kai Khosroo, 36 NARRATIVE POEMS. Himself is young, and honours younger men, And lets the aged moulder to their graves. Rustum he loves no more, but loves the young — The young may rise at Sohrab's vaunts, not I. For what care I, though all speak Sohrab's fame ? For would that I myself had such a son. And not that one slight helpless girl I have— A son so famed, so brave, to send to war, And I to tarry with the snow-hair'd Zal, My father, whom the robber Afghans vex. And clip his borders short, and drive his herds, And he has none to guard his weak old age. There would I go, and hang my armour up, And with my great name fence that weak old man And spend the goodly treasures I have got, And rest my age, and hear of Sohrab's fame, And leave to death the hosts of thankless kings. And with these slaughterous hands draw sword no more." He spoke, and smiled ; and Gudurz made reply : — " What then, O Rustum, will men say to this. When Sohrab dares our bravest forth, and seeks Thee most of all, and thou, whom most he seeks, Hidest thy face? Take heed lest men should say : Like some old miser, Rustum hoards his faine. And shuns to peril it with younger men." And, greatly moved, tlien Rustum made reply : — SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 37 " O Gudurz, wherefore dost thou say such words ? Thou knowest better words than this to say. What is one more, one less, obscure or famed, Valiant or craven, young or old, to me ? Are not they mortal, am not I myself ? But who for men of nought would do great deeds ? Come, thou shalt see how Rustum hoards his fame ! But I will fight unknown, and in plain arms ; Let not men say of Rustum, he was match'd In single fight with any mortal man." He spoke, and frown'd ; and Gudurz turn'd, and ran Back quickly through the camp in fear and joy — Fear at his wrath, but joy that Rustum came. But Rustum strode to his tent-door, and call'd His followers in, and bade them bring his arms, And clad himself in steel ; the arms he chose Were plain, and on his shield was no device, Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold. And, from the fluted spine atop, a plume Of horsehair waved, a scarlet horsehair plume. So arm'd, he issued forth ; and Ruksh, his horse, Follow'd him like a faithful hound at heel — Ruksh, whose renown was noised through all the earth. The horse, whom Rustum on a foray once Did in Bokhara by the river find 38 NARRATIVE POEMS. A colt beneath its dam, and drove him home, And rear'd him ; a bright bay, with lofty crest, Dight with a saddle-cloth of broider'd green Crusted with gold, and on the ground were work'd All beasts of chase, all beasts which hunters know. So follow'd, Rustum left his tents, and cross'd The camp, and to the Persian host appear'd. And all the Persians knew him, and with shouts Hail'd ; but the Tartars knew not who he was. And dear as the wet diver to the eyes Of his pale wife who waits and weeps on shore. By sandy Bahrein, in the Persian Gulf, Plunging all day in the blue waves, at night, Having made up his tale of precious pearls, Rejoins her in their hut upon the sands — So dear to the pale Persians Rustum came. And Rustum to the Persian front advanced. And Sohrab arm'd in Haman's tent, and came. And as afield the reapers cut a swath Down through the middle of a rich man's corn, And on each side are squares of standing corn. And in the midst a stubble, short and bare — So on each side were squares of men, with spears Bristling, and in the midst, the open sand. And Rustum came upon the sand, and cast His eyes toward the Tartar tents, and saw Sohrab come forth, and eyed him as he came. SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 39 As some rich woman, on a winter's mom, Eyes through her silken curtains the poor drudge Who with numb blacken'd fingers makes her fire — At cock-crow, on a starlit winter's morn, When the frost flowers the whiten'd window- panes — And wonders how she lives, and what the thoughts Of that poor drudge may be ; so Rustum eyed The unknown adventurous .Youth, who from afar Came seeking Rustum, and defying forth All the most valiant chiefs ; long he perused His spirited air, and wonder'd who he was. For very young he seem'd, tenderly rear'd ; Like some young cypress, tall, and dark, and straight. Which in a queen's secluded garden throws Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf. By midnight, to a bubbhng fountain's sound — So slender Sohrab seem'd, so softly rear'd. And a deep pity enter'd Rustum's soul As he beheld him coming ; and he stood. And beckon'd to him with his hand, and said : — " O thou young man, the air of Heaven is soft, And warm, and pleasant ; but the grave is cold ! Heaven's air is better than the cold dead grave. Behold me ! I am vast, and clad in iron. And tried : and I have stood on many a field 40 NARRATIVE POEMS. Of blood, and I have fought with many a foe— Never was that field lost, or that foe saved. O Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on death ? Be govern'd ! quit the Tartar host, and come To Iran, and be as my son to me, And fight beneath my banner till I die ! There are no youths in Iran brave as thou." So he spake, mildly ; Sohrab heard his voice, The mighty voice of Rustum, and he saw His giant figure planted on the sand, Sole, like some single tower, which a chief Hath builded on the waste in former years Against the robbers ; and he saw that head, Streak'd with its first grey hairs ; — hope filled his soul, And he ran forward and embraced his knees, And clasp'd his hand within his own, and said : — " Oh, by thy father's head ! by thine own soul ! Art thou not Rustum ? speak ! art thou not he.'' " But Rustum eyed askance the kneeling youth, And turn'd away, and spake to his own soul : — " Ah me, I muse what this young fox may mean ! False, wily, boastful, are these Tartar boys. For if I now confess this thing he asks. And hide it not, but say : Rustum is here ! He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes, But he will find some pretext not to fight. SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 41 And praise my fame, and proffer courteous gifts, A belt or sword perhaps, and go his way. And on a feast-tide, in Afrasiab's hall, In Samarcand, he will arise and cry : ' I challenged once, when the two armies camp'd Beside the Oxus, all the Persian lords To cope with me in single fight ; but they Shrank, only Rustum dared ; then he and I Changed gifts, and went on equal terms away.' So will he speak, perhaps, while men applaud ; Then were the chiefs of Iran shamed through me." And then he turn'd, and sternly spake aloud : — " Rise ! wherefore dost thou vainly question thus Of Rustum ? I am here, whom thou hast call'd By challenge forth ; make good thy vaunt, or yield ! Is it with Rustum only thou wouldst fight ? Rash boy, men look on Rustum's face and flee ! For well I know, that did great Rustum stand Before thy face this day, and were reveal'd. There would be then no talk of fighting more. But being what I am, I tell thee this — Do thou record it in thine inmost soul : Either thou shalt renounce thy vaunt and yield, Or else thy bones shall strew this sand, till winds Bleach them, or Oxus with his summer floods, Oxus in summer wash them all away." He spoke ; and Sohrab answer'd, on his feet : — 42 NARRATIVE POEMS. "Art thou so fierce? Thou wilt not fright me so ! I am no girl, to be made pale by words. Yet this thou hast said well, did Rustum stand Here on this field, there were no fighting then. But Rustum is far hence, and we stand here. Begin ! thou art more vast, more dread than I, And thou art proved, I know, and I am young — But yet success sways with the breath of Heaven. And though thou thinkest that thou knowest sure Thy victory, yet thou canst not surely know. For we are all, like swimmers in the sea, Poised on the top of a huge wave of fate, Which hangs uncertain to which side to fall. And whether it will heave us up to land, Or whether it will roll us out to sea, Back out to sea, to the deep waves of death. We know not, and no search will make us know ; Only the event will teach us in its hour." He spoke, and Rustum answer'd not, but hurl'd His spear ; down from the shoulder, down it came, As on some partridge in the corn a hawk. That long has tower'd in the airy clouds. Drops like a plummet ; Sohrab saw it come. And sprang aside, quick as a flash ; the spear Hiss'd, and went quivering down into the sand. Which it sent flying wide ; — 'then Sohrab threw In turn, and full struck Rustum's shield ; sharp rang, SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 43 The iron plates rang sharp, but turn'd the spear. And Rustum seized his club, which none but he Could wield ; an unlopp'd trunk it was, and huge. Still rough — like those which men in treeless plains To build them boats fish from the flooded rivers, Hyphasis or Hydaspes, when, high up By their dark springs, the wind in winter-time Hath made in Himalayan forests wrack, And strewn the channels with torn boughs — so huge The club which Rustum lifted now, and struck One stroke ; but again Sohrab sprang aside, Lithe as the glancing snake, and the club came Thundering to earth, and leapt from Rustum's hand. And Rustum followed his own blow, and fell To his knees, and with his fingers clutch'd the sand ; And now might Sohrab have unsheathed his sword, And pierced the mighty Rustum while he lay Dizzy, and on his knees, and choked with sand ; But he look'd on, and smiled, nor bared his sword, But courteously drew back, and spoke, and said : — " Thou strik'st too hard ! that club of thine will float Upon the summer floods, and not my bones. But rise, and be not wroth ! not wroth am T ; 44 NARRATIVE POEMS, No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul. Thou say'st, thou art not Rustum ; be it so ! Who art thou then, that canst so touch my soul ? Boy as I am, I have seen battles too — Have waded foremost in their bloody waves, A.nd heard their hollow roar of dying men ; But never was my heart thus touch'd before. Are they from Heaven, these softenings of the heart ? O thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven ! Come, plant we here in earth our angry spears. And make a truce, and sit upon this sand, And pledge each other in red wine, like friends, And thou shalt talk to me of Rustum's deeds. There are enough foes in the Persian host. Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel no pang ; Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thou Mayst fight ; fight them, when they confront thy spear ! But oh, let there be peace 'twixt thee and me ! " He ceased, but while he spake, Rustum had risen. And stood erect, trembling with rage ; his club He left to lie, but had regain'd his spear. Whose fiery point now in his mail'd right-hand Blazed bright and baleful, like that autumn-star, The baleful sign of fevers ; dust had soil'd SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 45 His stately crest, and dimm'd his glittering arms. His breast heaved, his lips foam'd, and twice his voice Was choked with rage ; at last these words broke way : — " Girl ! nimble with thy feet, not with thy hands ! Curl'd minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words ! Fight, let me hear thy hateful voice no more ! Thou art not in Afrasiab's gardens now With Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont to dance ; But on the Oxus-sands, and in the dance Of battle, and with me, who make no play Of war ; I fight it out, and hand to hand. Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine ! Remember all thy valour ; try thy feints And cunning ! all the pity I had is gone ; Because thou hast shamed me before both the hosts With thy light skipping tricks, and thy girl's wiles." He spoke, and Sohrab kindled at his taunts, And he too drew his sword ; at once they rush'd Together, as two eagles on one prey Come rushing down together from the clouds, One from the east, one from the west; their shields Dash'd with a clang together, and a din Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters 46 NARRATIVE POEMS. Make often in the forest's heart at morn, Of hewing axes, crashing trees — such blows Rustum and Sohrab on each other hail'd. And you would say that sun and stars took part In that unnatural conflict ; for a cloud Grew suddenly in Heaven, and dark'd the sun Over the fighters' heads ; and a wind rose Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain, And in a sandy whirlwind wrapp'd the pair. In gloom they twain were wrapp'd, and they alone ; For both the on-looking hosts on either hand Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure, And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream. But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyes And labouring breath ; first Rustum struck the shield Which Sohrab held stiff out ; the steel-spiked spear Rent the tough plates, but fail'd to reach the skin, And Rustum pluck'd it back with angry groan. Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum's helm, Nor clove its steel quite through ; but all the crest He shore away, and that proud horsehair plume, Never till now defiled, sank to the dust ; And Rustum bow'd his head ; but then the gloom Grew blacker, thunder rumbled in the air, And lightnings rent the cloud ; and Ruksh, the horse. SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 47 Who stood at hand, utter'd a dreadful cry ; — No horse's cry was that, most hke the roar Of some pain'd desert-lion, who all day Has trail'd the hunter's javelin in his side. And comes at night to die upon the sand — The two hosts heard that cry, and quaked for fear. And Oxus curdled as it cross'd his stream. But Sohrab heard, and quail'd not, but rush'd on, And struck again ; and again Rustum bow'd His head ; but this time all the blade, like glass, Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm. And in the hand the hilt remain'd alone. Then Rustum raised his head ; his dreadful eyes Glared, and he shook on high his menacing spear, And shouted : Rusttan ! — Sohrab heard that shout. And shrank amazed ; back he recoil'd one step. And scann'd with blinking eyes the advancing form ; And then he stood bewilder'd, and he dropp'd His covering shield, and the spear pierced his side. He reel'd, and staggering back, sank to the ground ; And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind fell, And the bright sun broke forth, and melted all The cloud ; and the two armies saw the pair ; — Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet, And Sohrab, wounded, on the bloody sand. Then, with a bitter smile, Rustum began : — " Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to kill 48 NARRATIVE POEMS. A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse, And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent. Or else that the great Rustum would come down Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move His heart to take a gift, and let thee go. And then that all the Tartar host would praise Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame, To glad thy father in his weak old age. Fool, thou art slain, and by an unknown man ! Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be Than to thy friends, and to thy father old." And, with a fearless mien, Sohrab replied : — " Unknown thou art ; yet thy fierce vaunt is vain. Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful man ! No ! Rustum slays me, and this filial heart. For were I match'd with ten such men as thee. And I were that which till to-day I was. They should be lying here, I standing there. But that beloved name unnerved my arm — That name, and something, I confess, in thee. Which troubles all my heart, and made my shield Fall ; and thy spear transfix'd an unarm'd foe. And now thou boastest, and insult'st my fate. But hear thou this, fierce man, tremble to hear : The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death ! My father, whom 1 seek through all the world, He shall avenge my death, and punish thee ! " SOHRAB AND RUSTUM, 49 As when some hunter in the spring hath found A breeding eagle sitting on her nest, Upon the craggy isle of a hill-lake, And pierced her with an arrow as she rose, And foUow'd her to find her where she fell Far off ; — anon her mate comes winging back From hunting, and a great way off descries His huddling young left sole ; at that, he checks His pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps Circles above his eyry, with loud screams Chiding his mate back to her nest ; but she Lies dying, with the arrow in her side, In some far stony gorge out of his ken, A heap of fluttering feathers — never more Shall the lake glass her, flying over it ; Never the black and dripping precipices Echo her stormy scream as she sails by — As that poor bird flies home, nor knows his loss. So Rustum knew not his own loss, but stood Over his dying son, and knew him not. And with a cold, incredulous voice, he said :— " What prate is this of fathers and revenge ? The mighty Rustum never had a son." And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied : — "Ah yes, he had ! and that lost son am I. Surely the news will one day reach his ear, Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries long, E 50 NARRATIVE POEMS. Somewhere, I know not where, but far from here ■• And pierce him hke a stab, and make him leap To arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee. Fierce man, bethink thee, for an only son ! What will that grief, what will that vengeance he? Oh, could I live, till I that grief had seen ! Yet him I pity not so much, but her. My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwells With that old king, her father, who grows grey With age, and rules over the valiant Koords. Her most I pity, who no more will see Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp, With spoils and honour, when the war is done. But a dark rumour will be bruited up, From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear ; And then will that defenceless woman learn That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more ; But that in battle with a nameless foe. By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain." He spoke ; and as he ceased, he wept aloud. Thinking of her he left, and his own death. He spoke ; but Rustum listen'd, plunged in thought Nor did he yet believe it was his son Who spoke, although he call'd back names he knew ; For he had had sure tidings that the babe^ SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 51 Which was in Ader-baijan born to him, Had been a puny girl, no boy at all — So that sad mother sent him word, for fear Rustum should seek the boy, to train in arms. And so he deem'd that either Sohrab took, By a false boast, the style of Rustum's son ; Or that men gave it him, to swell his fame. So deem'd he ; yet he listen'd, plunged in thought .; And his soul set to grief, as the vast tide Of the bright rocking Ocean sets to shore At the full moon ; tears gather'd in his eyes ; For he remember'd his own early youth And all its bounding rapture ; as, at dawn, The shepherd from his mountain-lodge descries A far, bright city, smitten by the sun, Through many rolling clouds — so Rustum saw His youth ; saw Sohrab's mother, in her bloom ; And that old king, her father, who loved well His wandering guest, and gave him his fair child With joy ; and all the pleasant life they led. They three, in that long distant summer-time — The castle, and the dewy woods, and hunt And hound, and morn on those delightful hills In Ader-baijan. And he saw that Youth, Of age and looks to be his own dear son. Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand, Like some rich hyacinth which by the scythe 52 NARRATIVE POEMS. Of an unskilful gardener has been cut, Mowing the garden grass-plots near its bed, And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom, On the mown, dying grass — so Sohrab lay, Lovely in death, upon the common sand. And Rustum gazed on him with grief, and said : — " O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have loved ! Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men Have told thee false — thou art not Rustum's son. For Rustum had no son ; one child he had — But one — a girl ; who with her mother now Plies some light female task, nor dreams of us — Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor war." But Sohrab answer'd him in wrath ; for now The anguish of the deep-fix'd spear grew fierce, And he desired to draw forth the steel, And let the blood flow free, and so to die — But first he would convince his stubborn foe ; And, rising sternly on one arm, he said : — " Man, who art thou who dost deny my words .'' Truth sits upon the lips of dying men. And falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine. I tell thee, prick'd upon this arm I bear That seal which Rustum to my mother gave. That she might prick it on the babe she bore. SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 53 He spoke ; and all the blood left Rustum's cheeks, And his knees totter'd, and he smote his hand Against his breast, his heavy mailed hand, That the hard iron corselet clank'd aloud ; And to his heart he press'd the other hand, And in a hollow voice he spake, and said : — " Sohrab, that were a proof which could not lie ! If thou show this, then art thou Rustum's son." Then, with weak hasty fingers, Sohrab loosed His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm, And show'd a sign in faint vermilion points Prick'd ; as a cunning workman, in Pekin, Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase. An emperor's gift — at early morn he paints, And all day long, and, when night comes, the lamp Lights up his studious forehead and thin hands — So delicately prick'd the sign appear'd On Sohrab's arm, the sign of Rustum's seal. It was that griffin, which of old rear'd Zal, Rustum's great father, whom they left to die, A helpless babe, among the mountain-rocks ; Him that kind creature found, and rear'd, and loved — Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign. And Sohrab bared that image on his arm. And himself scann'd it long with mournful eyes, 54 NARRATIVE POEMS. And then he touch'd it with his hand and said : — " How say'st thou ? Is that sign the proper sign Of Rustum's son, or of some other man's ?" He spoke ; but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and stood Speechless ; and then he utter'd one sharp cry : O boy — thy father / — and his voice choked there. And then a dark cloud pass'd before his eyes. And his head swam, and he sank down to earth. But Sohrab crawl'd to where he lay, and cast His arms about his neck, and kiss'd his lips, And with fond faltering fingers stroked his cheeks, Trying to call him back to life ; and life Came back to Rustum, and he oped his eyes, And they stood wide with horror ; and he seized In both his hands the dust which lay around, And threw it on his head, and smirch'd his hair, — His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering arms ;. And strong convulsive groanings shook his breast. And his sobs choked him ; and he clutch'd his sword. To draw it, and for ever let life out. But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his hands. And with a soothing voice he spake, and said : — " Father, forbear ! for 1 but meet to-day The doom which at my birth was written down In Heaven, and thou art Heaven's unconscious hand. SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 55 Surely my heart cried out that it was thou, When first I saw thee ; and thy heart spoke too, I know it I but fate trod those promptings down Under its iron heel ; fate, fate engaged The strife, and hurl'd me on my father's spear. But let us speak no more of this ! I find My father ; let me feel that I have found ! Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks. And wash them with thy tears, and say : My son J Quick ! quick ! for number'd are my sands of life. And swift ; for like the lightning to this field I came, and like the wind I go away — Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind ; But it was writ in Heaven that this should be." So said he, and his voice released the heart Of Rustum, and his tears broke forth ; he cast His arm's round his son's neck, and wept aloud. And kiss'd him. And awe fell on both the hosts, When they saw Rustum's grief; and Ruksh, the horse, With his head bowing to the ground and mane Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe First to the one then to the other moved His head, as if enquiring what their grief Might mean ; and from his dark, compassionate eyes, 56 NARRATIVE POEMS. The big warm tears roU'd down, and caked the sand. But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and said :— " Ruksh, now thou grievest ; but, O Ruksh, thy feet Should first have rotted on their nimble joints, Or ere they brought thy master to this field !" But Sohrab look'd upon the horse and said : — " Is this, then, Ruksh ? How often, in past days. My mother told me of thee, thou brave steed, My terrible father's terrible horse ! and said, That I should one day find thy lord and thee. Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane ! O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I ; For thou hast gone where I shall never go. And snuff'd the breezes of my father's home. And thou hast trod the sands of Seistan, And seen the River of Helmund, and the Lake Of Zirrah ; and the aged Zal himself Has often stroked thy neck, and given thee food, Corn in a golden platter soak'd with wine, And said : ' O Ruksh! bear Rnstum luell /' — but I Have never known my grandsire's furrow'd face, Nor seen his lofty house in Seistan, Nor slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund stream ; But lodged among my father's foes, and seen Afrasiab's cities only, Samarcand, SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 57 Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste, And the black Toorkmun tents ; and only drunk The desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend, Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep, The northern Sir ; and this great Oxus stream. The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die." Then, with a heavy groan, Rustum bewail'd :— " Oh, that its waves were flowing over me ! Oh, that I saw its grains of yellow silt Roll tumbling in the current o'er my head ! " But, with a grave mild voice, Sohrab replied : — " Desire not that, my father ! thou must live. For some are born to do great deeds, and live, As some are born to be obscured, and die. Do thou the deeds I die too young to do. And reap a second glory in thine age ; Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine. But come ! thou seest this gi-eat host of men Which follow me ; I pray thee, slay not these ! Let me entreat for them ; what have they done ? They foUow'd me, my hope, my fame, my star. Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. But me thou must bear hence, not send with them, But carry me with thee to Seistan, And place me on a bed, and mourn for me, Thou, and the snow-hair'd Zal, and all thy friends. And thou must lay me in that lovely earth. 58 NARRATIVE POEMS. And heap a stately mound above my bones, And plant a far-seen pillar over all. That so the passing horseman on the waste May see my tomb a great way off, and cry : Sohrab, the 7nighty Riistwn's son, lies there, Whom his great father did in ignorance kill ! And I be not forgotten in my grave." And, with a mournful voice, Rustum replied :-- " Fear not ! as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son, So shall it be ; for I will burn my tents, And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me. And carry thee away to Seistan, And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee, With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends. And I will lay thee in that lovely earth, And heap a stately mound above thy bones. And plant a far-seen pillar over all, And men shall not forget thee in thy grave. And I will spare thy host ; yea, let them go ! Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace ! What should I do with slaying any more ? For would that all whom I have ever slain Might be once more alive ; my bitterest foes. And they who were call'd champions in their time. And through whose death I won that fame I have— And I were nothing but a common man, A poor, mean soldier, and without renown, SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 59 So thou mightest live too, my son, my son ! Or rather would that I, even I myself, Might now be lying on this bloody sand, Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine, Not thou of mine ! and I might die, not thou ; And I, not thou, be borne to Seistan ; And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine ; And say : O son, I weep thee not too sore, For willingly, I know, thou mefst thine end! But now in blood and battles was my youth, And full of blood and battles is my age, And I shall never end this life of blood." Then, at the point of death, Sohrab replied ; — " A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful man ! But thou shalt yet have peace ; only not now, Not yet ! but thou shalt have it on that day. When thou shalt sail in a high-masted ship, Thou and the other peers of Kai Khosroo, Returning home over the salt blue sea. From laying thy dear master in his grave." And Rustum gazed in Sohrab's face, and said : " Soon be that day, my son, and deep that sea ! Till then, if fate so wills, let me endure." He spoke ; and Sohrab smiled on him, and took The spear, and drew it from his side, and eased His wound's imperious anguish ; but the blood Came welling from the open gash, and life bo NARRATIVE POEMS. Flow'd with the stream ; — all down his cold white side The crimson torrent ran, dim now and soil'd, Like the soil'd tissue of white violets Left, freshly gather'd, on their native bank, By children whom their nurses call with haste Indoors from the sun's eye ; his head droop'd low, His limbs grew slack ; motionless, white, he lay — White, with eyes closed ; only when heavy gasps, Deep heavy gasps quivering through all his frame, Convulsed him back to life, he open'd them. And fix'd them feebly on his father's face ; Till now all strength was ebb'd, and from his limbs Unwillingly the spirit fled away. Regretting the warm mansion which it left. And youth, and bloom, and this delightful world. So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead ; And the great Rustum drew his horseman's cloak Down o'er his face, and sate by his dead son. As those black granite pillars, once high-rear'd By Jemshid in Persepolis, to bear His house, now mid their broken flights of steps Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain side — So in the sand lay Rustum by his son. And.night came down over the solemn waste. And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair. And darkcn'd all ; and a cold fog, with night SOHRAB AND RUSTUM. 6i Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum arose, As of a great assembly loosed, and fires Began to twinkle through the fog ; for now Both aniiies moved to camp, and took their meal ; The Persians took it on the open sands Southward, the Tartars by the river marge ; And Rustum and his son were left alone. But the majestic river floated on, Out of the mist and hum of that low land, Into the frosty starlight, and there moved, Rejoicing, through the hush'd Chorasmian waste. Under the solitary moon ; — he flow'd Right for the polar star, past Orgunj^, Brimming, and bright, and large ; then sands begin To hem his watery march, and dam his streams. And split his currents ; that for many a league The shorn and parcell'd Oxus strains along Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles — Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had In his high mountain-cradle in Pamere, A foil'd circuitous wanderer — tiU at last The long'd-for dash of waves is heard, and wide His luminous home of waters opens, bright And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed stars Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea. 62 NARRATIVE POEMS, TRISTRAM AND ISEULT." I. STrigtram. Tristram. T S she not come ? The messenger was sure. ■*- Prop me upon the pillows once again — Raise me, my page ! this cannot long endure. — Christ, what a night ! how the sleet whips the pane ! What lights will those out to the northward be ? The Page. The lanterns of the fishing-boats at sea. Tristram. Soft — who is that, stands by the dying fire .'* The Page. Iseult. Tristram. Ah ! not the Iseult I desire. * * « jt What Knight is this so weak and pale, TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 63 Though the locks are yet brown on his noble head, Propt on pillows in his bed, Gazing seaward for the light Of some ship that fights the gale On this wild December night ? Over the sick man's feet is spread A dark green forest-dress ; A gold harp leans against the bed, Ruddy in the fire's light. I know him by his harp of gold. Famous in Arthur's court of old ; I know him by his forest-dress — The peerless hunter, harper, knight, Tristram of Lyoness. What Lady is this, whose silk attire Gleams so rich in the light of the fire <• The ringlets on her shoulders lying In their flitting lustre vying With the clasp of burnish'd gold Which her heavy robe doth hold. Her looks are sweet, her fingers slight As the driven snow are white ; But her cheeks are sunk and pale. Is it that the bleak sea-gale Beating from the Atlantic sea On this coast of Brittany, Nips too keenly the sweet flower? 54 NARRATIVE POEMS. Is it that a deep fatigue Hath come on her, a chilly fear. Passing all her youthful hour Spinning with her maidens here, Listlessly through the window-bars Gazing seawards many a league From her lonely shore-built tower, While the knights are at the wars ? Or, perhaps, has her young heart Felt already some deeper smart, Of those that in secret the heart-strings rive Leaving her sunk and pale, though fair ? Who is this snowdrop by the sea ?— I know her by her mildness rare, Her snow-white hands, her golden hair ; I know her by her rich silk dress. And her fragile loveliness — The sweetest Christian soul alive, Iseult of Brittany. Iseult of Brittany? — but where Is that other Iseult fair. That proud, first Iseult, Cornwall's queen? She, whom Tristram's ship of yore From Ireland to Cornwall bore. To Tyntagel, to the side Of King Marc, to be his bride ? She who, as they voyaged, quaft"'d TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 65 With Tristram tliat spiced magic draught, Which since then for ever rolls Through their blood, and binds their souls, Working love, but working teen ? — There were two Iseults who did sway Each her hour of Tristram's day ; But one possess'd his waning time, The other his resplendent prime. Behold her here, the patient flower, Who possess'd his darker hour ! Iseult of the Snow-White Hand Watches pale by Tristram's bed. She is here who had his gloom. Where art thou who hadst his bloom ? One such kiss as those of yore Might thy dying knight restore ! Does the love-draught work no more ? Art thou cold, or false, or dead, Iseult of Ireland? * * * * Loud howls the wind, sharp patters the rain, And the knight sinks back on his pillows again ; He is weak with fever and pain, And his spirit is not clear. Hark ! he mutters in his sleep, As he wanders far from here, Changes place and time of year, F 66 NARRATIVE POEMS. And his closed eye doth sweep O'er some fair unwintry sea, Not this fierce Atlantic deep, While he mutters brokenly : — Tristram. The calm sea shines, loose hang the vessel's sails ; Before us are the sweet green fields of Wales, And overhead the cloudless sky of May. — " Ah, would I were in those green fields at play Not petit on ship-board this delicious day ! Tristram, I pray thee, of thy courtesy, Reach me my golden cup that stands by thee. But pledge me in it first for cotirtesy.—" Ha ! dost thou start? are thy lips blanch'd like mine? Child, 'tis no true draught this, 'tis poison'd wine ! Iseult ! . . . . ♦ * * * Ah, sweet angels, let him dream ! Keep his eyelids ! let him seem Not this fever-wasted wight Thinn'd and paled before his time, But the brilliant youthful knight In the glory of his prime. Sitting in the gilded barge. At thy side, thou lovely charge, .Rending gaily o'er thy hand. TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 67 Iseult of Ireland ! And she too, that princess fair, If her bloom be now less rare, Let her have her youth again — Let her be as she was then ! Let her have her proud dark eyes, And her petulant quick replies — Let her sweep her dazzling hand With its gesture of command, And shake back her raven hair With the old imperious air ! As of old, so let her be, That first Iseult, princess bright, Chatting with her youthful knight As he steers her o'er the sea, Quitting at her father's will The green isle where she was bred, And her bower in Ireland, For the surge-beat Cornish strand : Where the prince whom she must v/ed Dwells on loud Tyntagel's hill, High above the sounding sea. And that phial rare her mother Gave her, that her future lord. Gave her, that King Marc and she; Might drink it on their marriage-day, And for ever love each other — 68 NARRATIVE POEMS. Let her, as she sits on board, Ah, sweet saints, unwittingly ! See it shine, and take it up. And to Tristram laughing say : " Sir Tristram, of thy courtesy, Pledge me in my golden cup ! '" Let them drink it — let their hands Tremble, and their cheeks be flame. As they feel the fatal bands Of a love they dare not name, With a wild delicious pain, Twine about their hearts again ! Let the early summer be Once more round them, and the sea Blue, and o'er its mirror kind Let the breath of the May-wind, Wandering through their drooping sails, Die on the green fields of Wales ! Let a dream like this restore What his eye must see no more ! Tristram. Chill blows the wind, the pleasauncc-walks are drear — Madcap, what jest was this, to meet me here ? Were feet like those made for so wild a way ? The southern winter-parlour, by my fay, TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 69 Had been the likeliest trysting-place to-day ! — '■' Tristram ! — nay, nay — thou ifiust not take my hand/— Tristram f— sweet love ! — we are betrayed — ont- platin'd. Fly — save thyself— save me ! — / dare not stay." — One last kiss first ! — " ' Tis vain — to horse — away /" * * » ♦ Ah ! sweet saints, his dream doth move Faster surely than it should, From the fever in his blood ! All the spring-time of his love Is already gone and past, And instead thereof is seen Its winter, which endureth still— Tyntagel on its surge-beat hill, The pleasaunce-walks, the weeping queen, The flying leaves, the straining blast. And that long, wild kiss — their last. And this rough December-night, And his burning fever-pain. Mingle with his hurrying dream. Till they rule it, till he seem The press'd fugitive again. The love-desperate banish'd Icnight With a fire in his brain Flying o'er the stormy main. 70 NARRATIVE POEMS. — Whither does he wander now ? Haply in his dreams the wind Wafts him here, and lets him find The lovely orphan child again In her castle by the coast ; The youngest, fairest chatelaine, That this realm of France can boast, Our snowdrop by the Atlantic sea, Iseult of Brittany. And — for through the haggard air, The stain'd arms, the matted hair Of that stranger-knight ill-starr'd, There gleam'd something, which recall'd The Tristram who in better days Was Launcelot's guest at Joyous Card — Welcomed here, and here install'd. Tended of his fever here, Haply he seems again to move His young guardian's heart with love ; In his exiled loneliness, In his stately, deep distress, Without a word, without a tear — Ah ! 'tis well he should retrace His tranquil life in this lone place ; His gentle bearing at the side Of his timid youthful bride ; His long rambles by the shore TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 71 On winter-evenings, when the roar Of the near waves came, sadly grand, Through the dark, up the drown'd sand. Or his endless reveries In the woods, where the gleams play On the grass under the trees. Passing the long summer's day Idle as a mossy stone In the forest-depths alone, The chase neglected, and his hound Couch'd beside him on the ground. — Ah ! what trouble's on his brow ? Hither let him wander now ; Hither, to the quiet hours Pass'd among these heaths of ours By the grey Atlantic sea ; Hours, if not of ecstasy. From violent anguish surely free ! Ti'istram. AH red with blood the whirling river flows, The wide plain rings, the dazed air throbs with blows. Upon us are the chivalry of Rome — Their spears are down, their steeds are bathed in foam. "Up, Tristram, up," men cry, "thou moonstruck knight ! 72 NARRATIVE POEMS. What foul fiend rides thee? On into the fight !" —Above the din her voice is in my ears ; I see her form ghde through the crossing spears. - Iseult ! . . . . « » * » Ah ! he wanders forth again ; We cannot keep him ; now, as then, There's a secret in his breast Which will never let him rest. These musing fits in the green wood, They cloud the brain, they dull the blood ! — His sword is sharp, his horse is good ; Beyond the mountains will he see The famous towns of Italy, And label with the blessed sign The heathen Saxons on the Rhine. At Arthur's side he fights once more With the Roman Emperor. There's many a gay knight where he goes Will help him to forget his care ; The march, the leaguer, Heaven's blithe air, The neighing steeds, the ringing blows — Sick pining comes not where these are. — Ah ! what boots it, that the jest Lightens every other brow, What, that every other breast Dances as the trumpets blow- TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 73 If one's own heart beats not light On the waves of the toss'd fight, If oneself cannot get free From the clog of misery ? Thy lovely youthful wife grows pale Watching by the salt sea-tide With her children at her side ' For the gleam of thy white sail. Home, Tristram, to thy halls again ! To our lonely sea complain, To our forests tell thy pain ! Tristram. All round the forest sweeps off, black in shade But it is moonlight in the open glade ; And in the bottom of the glade shine clear The forest-chapel and the fountain near. — I think, I have a fever in my blood ; Come, let me leave the shadow of this wood. Ride down, and bathe my hot brow in the flood. — Mild shines the cold spring in the moon's clear light. God ! 'tis her face plays in the waters bright. " Fair love," she says, "canst thou forget so soon, At this soft hour, under this sweet moon?" Iseult ! . . . . * * * * ^4 NARRATIVE POEMS. Ah, poor soul ! if this be so, Only death can balm thy woe. The solitudes of the green wood Had no medicine for thy mood ; The rushing battle clear'd thy blood As little as did solitude. — Ah ! his eyelids slowly break Their hot seals, and let him wake ; What new change shall we now see ? A happier ? Worse it cannot be. Tristram. Is my page here? Come, turn me to the fire ! Upon the window-panes the moon shines bright ; The wind is down — but she'll not come to-night. Ah no ! she is asleep in Cornwall now. Far hence ; her dreams are fair — smooth is her brow Of me she recks not, nor my vain desire. — I have had dreams, I have had dreams, my page, Would take a score years from a strong man's age ; And with a blood like mine, will leave, I fear. Scant leisure for a second messenger. — My princess, art thou there ? Sweet, 'tis too late ! To bed, and sleep ! my fever is gone by ; To-night my page shall keep me company. Where do the children sleep .'' kiss them for mc ! Poor child, thou art almost as pale as I ; TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 75 This comes of nursing long and watching late. To bed — good-night ! * * * ♦ She left the gleam-lit fire-place, She came to the bed-side ; She took his hands in hers — her tears Down on her slender fingers rain'd. She raised her eyes upon his face — Not with a look of wounded pride, A look as if the heart complain'd — Her look was like a sad embrace ; The gaze of one who can divine A grief, and sympathise. Sweet flower ! thy children's eyes Are not more innocent than thine. But they sleep in shelter'd rest. Like helpless birds in the warm nest, On the castle's southern side ; Where feebly comes the mournful roar Of buffeting wind and surging tide Through many a room and corridor. — Full on their window the moon's ray Makes their chamber as bright as day. It shines upon the blank white walls. And on the snowy pillow falls, And on two angel-heads doth play 76 NARRATIVE POEMS. Turn'd to each other — the eyes closed, The lashes on the cheeks reposed. Round each sweet brow the cap close-set Hardly lets peep the golden hair ; Through the soft-open'd lips the air Scarcely moves the coverlet. One little wandering arm is thrown At random on the counterpane, And often the fingers close in haste As if their baby-owner chased The butterflies again. This stir they have, and this alone ; But else they are so still ! — Ah, tired madcaps ! you lie still : But were you at the window now, To look forth on the fairy sight Of your illumined haunts by night, To see the park-glades where you play Far lovelier than they are by day, To see the sparkle on the eaves, And upon every giant-bough Of those old oaks, whose wet red leaves Are jewell'd with bright drops of rain — How would your voices run again ! And far beyond the sparkling trees Of the castle-park one sees The bare heaths spreading, clear as day, TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 77 Moor behind moor, far, far away, Into the heart of Brittany. And here and there, lock'd by the land, Long inlets of smooth glittering sea, And many a stretch of watery sand All shining in the white moon-beams — But you see fairer in your dreams ! What voices are these on the clear night air ? What lights in the court- -what steps on the stair? 78 NARRATIVE POEMS. TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. II. Egeult of Irelanti. Tristram. O AISE the light, my page ! that I may see her.— -'-^ Thou art come at last then, haughty Queen I Long I've waited, long I've fought my fever ; Late thou comest, cruel thou hast been. Iseult. Blame me not, poor sufferer ! that I tarried ; Bound I was, I could not break the band. Chide not with the past, but feel the present ! I am here — we meet — I hold thy hand. Tristram. Thou art come, indeed — thou hast rejoin'd me ; Thou hast dared it — but too late to save. Fear not now that men should tax thine honour ! I am dying ; build — (thou may'st) — my grave ! TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 79 Iseult. Tristram, ah, for love of Heaven, speak kindly ! What, I hear these bitter words from thee ? Sick with grief I am, and faint with travel — Take my hand — dear Tristram, look on me ! Tri strain. I forgot, thou comest from thy voyage — Yes, the spray is on thy cloak and hair. But thy dark eyes are not dimm'd, proud Iseult ! And thy beauty never was more fair. Iseult. Ah, harsh flatterer ! let alone my beauty ! I, like thee, have left my youth afar. Take my hand, and touch these wasted fingers- See my cheek and lips, how white they are I Tristram. Thou art paler — but thy sweet charm, Iseult ! Would not fade with the dull years away. Ah, how fair thou standest in the moonlight ! I forgive thee, Iseult ! — thou wilt stay 1 Iseult. Fear me not, I will be always with thee ; I will watch thee, tend thee, soothe thy pain ; 8o NARRATIVE POEMS. Sing thee tales of true, long-parted lovers, Join'd at evening of their days again. Tristram. No, thou shalt not speak ! I should be finding Something altered in thy courtly tone. Sit — sit by me ! I will think, we've lived so In the green wood, all our lives, alone. Iseiclt. Alter'd, Tristram ? Not in courts, believe me. Love like mine is alter'd in the breast ; Courtly life is light and cannot reach it — Ah ! it lives, because so deep-suppress'd ! What, thou think'st men speak in courtly chambers Words by which the wretched are consoled .? What, thou think'st this aching brow was cooler, Circled, Tristram, by a band of gold .-* Royal state with Marc, my deep-wrong'd husband- That was bliss to make my sorrows flee ! Silken courtiers whispering honied nothings — Those were friends to make me false to thee ! Ah, on which, if both our lots were balanced, Was indeed the heaviest burden thrown— TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. Si Thee, a pining exile in thy forest, Me, a smiling queen upon my throne? Vain and strange debate, where both have suffer'd Both have pass'd a youth repress'd and sad, Both have brought their anxious day to evening, And have now short space for being glad ! Join'd we are henceforth ; nor will thy people. Nor thy younger Iseult take it ill, That a former rival shares her office, When she sees her humbled, pale, and still. I, a faded watcher by thy pillow, I, a statue on thy chapel-floor, Pour'd in prayer before the Virgin-Mother, Rouse no anger, make no rivals more. She will cry : " Is this the foe I dreaded ? This his idol ? this that royal bride ? Ah, an hour of health would purge his eyesight ! Stay, pale queen ! for ever by my side." Hush, no words ! that smile, I see, forgives me. I am now thy nurse, I bid thee sleep. Close thine eyes — this flooding moonlight blinds them ! — Nay, all's well again ! thou must not weep. 82 NARRATIVE POEMS. Tristram. I am happy ! yet I feel, there's something Swells my heart, and takes my breath away. Through a mist I see thee ; near— come nearer ! Bend — bend down ! — I yet have much to say, Isetilt. Heaven ! his head sinks back upon the pillow — Tristram ! Tristram ! let thy heart not fail ! Call on God and on the holy angels ! What, love, courage ! — Christ ! he is so pale. Tristram. Hush, 'tis vain, I feel my end approaching ! This is what my mother said should be, When the fierce pains took her in the forest. The deep draughts of death, in bearing me. " Son," she said, " thy name shall be of sorrow ; Tristram art thou call'd for my death's sake." So she said, and died in the drear forest — Grief since then his home with me doth make I am dying. — Start not, nor look wildly ! Me, thy living friend, thou canst not save. But, since living we were ununited. Go not far, O Iseult 1 from my grave. TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 83 Close mine eyes, then seek the princess Iseult ; Speak her fair, she is of royal blood ! Say, I charged her, that thou stay beside me— She will grant it ; she is kind and good. Now to sail the seas of death I leave thee — One last kiss upon the living shore ! Iseult. Tristram i — Tristram ! —stay — receive me with thee ! Iseult leaves thee, Tristram ! never more. » « * » You see them clear — the moon shines bright. Slow, slow and softly, where she stood. She sinks upon the ground ; her hood Had fallen back ; her arms outspread Still hold her lover's hands ; her head Is bow'd, half-buried, on the bed. O'er the blanch'd sheet her raven hair Lies in disorder'd streams ; and there, Strung like white stars, the pearls still are. And the golden bracelets, heavy and rare. Flash on her white arms still. The very same which yesternight Flash'd in the silver sconces' light. When the feast was gay and the laughter loud In Tyntagel's palace proud. 84 NARRATIVE POEMS. But then they deck'd a restless ghost With hot-flush'd cheeks and brilliant eyes^ And quivering lips on which the tide Of courtly speech abruptly died, And a glance which over the crowded floor, The dancers, and the festive host. Flew ever to the door. That the knights eyed her in surprise. And the dames whispered scoffingly : " Her moods, good lack, they pass like showers ! But yesternight and she would be As pale and still as wither'd flowers, And now to-night she laughs and speaks And has a colour in her cheeks ; Christ keep us from such fantasy !" Yes, now the longing is o'erpast. Which, dogg'd by fear and fought by shame, Shook her weak bosom day and night, Consimied her beauty like a flame. And dimm'd it like the desert-blast. And though the curtains hide her face. Yet were it lifted to the hght, The sweet expression of her brow Would charm the gazer, till his thouglit Erased the ravages of time, Fill'd up the hollow cheek, and brought TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 85 A freshness back as of her prime — So heahng is her quiet now. So perfectly the hnes express A tranquil, settled loveliness, Her younger rival's purest grace. The air of the December-night Steals coldly around the chamber bright, Where those lifeless lovers be. Swinging with it, in the light Flaps the ghostlike tapestry. And on the arras wrought you see A stately Huntsman, clad in green. And round him a fresh forest-scene. On that clear forest-knoll he stays, With his pack round him, and delays. He stares and stares, with troubled face, At this huge, gleam-lit fireplace, At that bright, iron-figured door, And those blown rushes on the floor. He gazes down into the room With heated cheeks and flurried air, And to himself he seems to say : " What place is this, and ivho are they ? Who is that ktieeling Lady fair f A fid 071 his pillows that pale Knight Who seems of marble on a tomb f 86 NARRATIVE POEMS. How comes it here, this chamber bright, Through whose mullioiid windows clear The castle-court all wet with rain, The drawbridge and the moat appear. And then' the beach, and, marked with spray, The simken reefs, and far away The unquiet bright Atlantic plain f — What, has some glamour made me sleep And sent me with my dogs to sweep, By flight, with boisterous bugle-peal. Through some old, sea-side, knightly hall, Not in the free green wood at allf That Knighfs asleep, and at her prayer That Lady by the bed doth kneel — Then hush, thou boisterotis bugle-peal /^^ — The wild boar rustles in his lair ; The fierce hounds snuff the tainted air ; But lord and hounds keep rooted there. Cheer, cheer thy dogs into the brake, O Hunter ! and without a fear Thy golden-tassell'd bugle blow, And through the glades thy pastime take — For thou wilt rouse no sleepers here ! For these thou seest are unmoved ; Cold, cold as those who lived and loved A thousand years ago. TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 87 TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. III. Jgeiilt of Brittang. A YEAR had flown, and o'er the sea away, ■^ ^ In Cornwall, Tristram and Queen Iseult lay ; In King Marc's chapel, in Tyntagel old — There in a ship they bore those lovers cold. The young surviving Iseult, one bright day, Had wander'd forth. Her children were at play In a green circular hollow in the heath Which borders the sea-shore — a country path Creeps over it from the till'd fields behind. The hollow's grassy banks are soft-inclined, And to one standing on them, far and near The lone unbroken view spreads bright and clear Over the waste. This cirque of open ground Is light and green ; the heather, which all round Creeps thickly, grows not here ; but the pale grass Is strewn with rocks, and many a shiver'd mass Of vein'd white-gleaming quartz, and here and there 88 NARRATIVE POEMS. Dotted with holly-trees and juniper. In the smooth centre of the opening stood Three hollies side by side, and made a screen, Warm with the winter-sun, of burnish'd green With scarlet berries gemm'd, the fell-fare's food. Under the glittering hollies Iseult stands, Watching her children play ; their little hands Are busy gathering spars of quartz, and streams Of stagshorn for their hats ; anon, with screams Of mad delight they drop their spoils, and bound Among the holly-clumps and broken ground, Racing full speed, and startling in their rush The fell-fares and the speckled missel-thrush Out of their glossy coverts ; — but when now Their cheeks were flush'd, and over each hot brow Under the feather'd hats of the sweet pair, In blinding masses shower'd the golden hair — Then Iseult call'd them to her, and the three Cluster'd under the holly-screen, and she Told them an old-world Breton history. Warm in their mantles wrapt, the three stood there Under the hollies, in the clear still air- Mantles with those rich furs deep glistering Which Venice ships do from swart Egypt bring. Long they stay'd still — then, pacing at their ease, Moved up and down under the glossy trees ; TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 89 But still, as they pursued their warm dry road, From Iseult's lips the unbroken stor)'^ flow'd, And still the children listen'd, their blue eyes Fix'd on their mother's face in wide surprise ; Nor did their looks stray once to the sea-side, Nor to the brown heaths ro und them, bright and wide, Nor to the snow, which, though 'twas all away From the open heath, still by the hedgerows lay. Nor to the shining sea-fowl, that with screams Bore up from where the bright Atlantic gleams, Swooping to landward ; nor to where, quite clear. The fell-fares settled on the thickets near. And they would still have listen'd, till dark night Came keen and chill down on the heather bright ; But, when the red glow on the sea grew cold. And the grey turrets of the castle old Look'd sternly through the frosty evening-air, Then Iseult took by the hand those children fair, And brought her tale to an end, and found the path And led them home over the darkening heath. And is she happy 1 Does she see unmoved The days in which she might have lived and loved Slip without bringing bliss slowly away, One after one, to-morrow like to-day ? Joy has not found her yet, nor ever will — Is it this thought which makes her mien so still. Her features so fatigued, her eyes though sweet go NARRATIVE POEMS. So sunk, so rarely lifted save to meet Her children's ? She moves slow ; her voice alone Hath yet an infantine and silver tone, But even that comes languidly ; in truth, She seems one dying in a mask of youth. And now she will go home, and softly lay Her laughing children in their beds, and play Awhile with them before they sleep ; and then She'll light her silver lamp, which fishermen Dragging their nets through the rough waves, afar, Along this iron coast, know like a star, And take her broidery-frame, and there she'll sit Hour after hour, her gold curls sweeping it ; Lifting her soft-bent head only to mind Her children, or to listen to the wind. And when the clock peals midnight, she will move Her work away, and let her fingers rove Across the shaggy brows of Tristram's hound. Who lies, guarding her feet, along the ground ; Or else she will fall musing, her blue eyes Fix'd, her slight hands clasp'd on her lap ; then rise And at her prie-dieu kneel, until she have told Her rosary-beads of ebony tipp'd with gold, Then to her soft sleep — and to-morrow 'Jl be To-day's exact repeated efiigy. Yes, it is lonely for her in her hall. TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 91 The children, and the grey-hair'd seneschal, Hei women, and Sir Tristram's aged hound. Are there the sole companions to be found. But these she loves ; and noisier life than this She would find ill to bear, weak as she is. She has her children, too, and night and day- Is with them ; and the wide heaths where they play, The hollies, and the cliff, and the sea-shore. The sand, the sea-birds, and the distant sails. These are to her dear as to them ; the tales With which this day the children she beguiled She gleaned from Breton grandames, when a child, In every hut along this sea-coast wild ; She herself loves them still, and, when they arc told, Can forget all to hear them, as of old. Dear saints, it is not sorrow, as I hear. Not suffering, which shuts up eye and ear To all that has delighted them before, And lets us be what we were once no more. No, we may suffer deeply, yet retain Power to be moved and soothed, for all our pain. By what of old pleased us, and will again. No, 'tis the gradual furnace of the world. In whose hot air our spirits are upcurl'd Until they cnjmble, or else grow like steel — Which kills in us the bloom, the youth, the spring— 92 NARRATIVE POEMS. Which leaves the fierce necessity to feel, But takes away the power — this can avail, By drying up our joy in everything, To make our former pleasures all seem stale. This, or some tyrannous single thought, some fit Of passion, which subdues our souls to it. Till for its sake alone we live and move- Call it ambition, or remorse, or love — This too can change us wholly, and make seem All which we did before, shadow and dream. And yet, I swear, it angers me to see How this fool passion gulls men potently ; Being, in truth, but a diseased unrest, And an unnatural overheat at best. How they are full of languor and distress Not having it ; which when they do possess. They straightway are burnt up with fume and care. And spend their lives in posting here and there Where this plague drives them ; and have little ease, Are furious with themselves, and hard to please. Like that bald Caesar, the famed Roman wight. Who wept at reading of a Grecian knight Who made a name at younger years than he ; Or that renowned mirror of chivalry, Prince Alexander, Philip's peerless son. Who carried the great war from Macedon. TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 93 Into the Soudan's realm, and thundered on To die at thirty-five in Babylon. What tale did Iseult to the children say, Under the hollies, that bright winter's day ? She told them of the fairy-haunted land Away the other side of Brittany, Beyond the heaths, edged by the lonely sea ; Of the deep forest-glades of Broce-liande, Through whose green boughs the golden sunshine creeps, Where Merlin by the enchanted thorn-tree sleeps. For here he came with the fay Vivian, One April, when the warm days first began. He was on foot, and that false fay, his friend, On her white palfrey ; here he met his end, In these lone sylvan glades, that April-day. This tale of Merlin and the lovely fay Was the one Iseult chose, and she brought clear Before the children's fancy him and her. Blowing between the stems, the forest-air Had loosen'd the brown locks of Vivian's hair. Which play'd on her flush'd cheek, and her blue eyes Sparkled with mocking glee and exercise. 94 NARRATIVE POEMS. Her palfrey's flanks were mired, and bathed in sweat, For they had travell'd far and not stopp'd yet. A briar in that tangled wilderness Had scored her white right hand, which she allows To rest ungloved on her green riding-dress ; The other warded off the drooping boughs. But still she chatted on, with her blue eyes Fix'd full on Merlin's face, her stately prize. Her 'haviour had the morning's fresh clear grace, The spirit of the woods was in her face ; She look'd so witching fair, that learned wight Forgot his craft, and his best wits took flight, And he grew fond, and eager to obey His mistress, use her empire as she may. They came to where the brushwood ceased, and day Peer'd 'twixt the stems ; and the ground broke away, In a sloped sward down to a brawling brook ; And up as high as where they stood to look On the brook's farther side was clear, but then The underwood and trees began again. This open glen was studded thick with thorns Then white with blossom ; and you saw the horns, Through last year's fern, of the shy fallow-deer Who come at noon down to the water here. TRISTRAM AND ISEULT. 95 You saw the bright-eyed squirrels dart along Under the thorns on the green sward ; and strong The blackbird whistled from the dingles near, And the weird chipping of the woodpecker Rang lonelily and sharp ; the sky was fair, And a fresh breath of spring stirr'd everywhere. Merlin and Vivian stopp'd on the slope's brow. To gaze on the light sea of leaf and bough Which glistering plays all round them, lone and mild, As if to itself the quiet forest smiled. Upon the brow-top grew a thorn, and here The grass was dry and moss'd, and you saw clear Across the hollow ; white anemonies Starr'd the cool turf, and clumps of primroses Ran out from the dark underwood behind. No fairer resting-place a man could find. " Here let us halt," said Merlin then ; and she Nodded, and tied her palfrey to a tree. They sate them down together, and a sleep Fell upon Merlin, more like death, so deep. Her finger on her lips, then Vivian rose, And from her brown - lock'd head the wimple throws, And takes it in her hand, and waves it over The blossom'd thorn-tree and her sleeping lover 96 NARRATIVE POEMS. Nine times she waved the fluttering wimple round. And made a little plot of magic ground ; And in that daisied circle, as men say, Is Merlin prisoner till the judgment-day ; But she herself whither she will can rove — For she was passing weary of his love. SAINT BRAN DAN. 97 SAINT BRANDAN. SAINT BRANDAN sails the northern main ; The brotherhoods of saints are glad. He greets them once, he sails again ; So late ! — such storms ! — The Saint is mad : He heard, across the howling seas, Chime convent-bells on wintry nights ; He saw, on spray-swept Hebrides, Twinkle the monastery-hghts ; But north, still north, Saint Brandan steer'd — And now no bells, no convents more ! The hurthng Polar lights are near'd, The sea without a human shore. At last — (it was the Christmas night : Stars shone after a day of storm) — He sees float past an iceberg white, And on it— Christ ! — a living form. That furtive mien, that scowling eye, Of hair that red and tufted fell It is — Oh, where shall Brandan fly ?— The traitor Judas, out of hell ! H 98 NARRATIVE TOEMS. Palsied with terror, Brandan sate ; The moon was bright, the iceberg near. He hears a voice sigh humbly : " Wait ! By high permission I am here. " One moment wait, thou holy man ! On earth my crime, my death, they knew ; My name is under all men's ban — Ah, tell them of my respite too ! " Tell them, one blessed Christmas-night (It was the first after I came, Breathing self-murder, frenzy, spite, To rue my guilt in endless flame) — " I felt, as I in torment lay 'Mid the souls plagued by heavenly power, An angel touch mine arm, and say : Go hence, and cool thyself an Jioiir .' "'Ah, whence this mercy, Lord?' I said. The Leper recollect, said he, Who ask'd the passers-by for aid, In Joppa, and thy charity. " Then I remember'd how I went. In Joppa, through the public street, One morn when the sirocco spent Its storms of dust with burning heat ; SAINT BRANDAN. 99 " And in the street a leper sate, Shivering with fever, naked, old ; Sand raked his sores from heel to pate, The hot wind fever'd him five-fold. " He gazed upon me as I pass'd. And murmur'd : Help me, or I die / — To the poor wretch my cloak I cast, Saw him look eased, and hurried by. " Oh, Brandan, think what grace divine, What blessing must full goodness shower. When fragment of it small, like mine, Hath such inestimable power ! " Well-fed, well-clothed, well-friended, 1 Did that chance act of good, that one ! Then went my way to kill and lie — Forgot my good as soon as done. " That germ of kindness, in the womb Of mercy caught, did not expire ; Outhves my guilt, outlives my doom, And friends me in the pit of fire. " Once every year, when carols wake, On earth, the Christmas-night's repose. Arising from the sinners' lake, I journey to these healing snows. NARRATIVE POEMS. " I stanch with ice my burning breast, With silence balm my whirling brain. O Brandan ! to this hour of rest That Joppan leper's ease was pain." Tears started to Saint Brandan's eyes ; He bow'd his head, he breathed a prayer- Then look'd, and lo, the frosty skies ! The iceberg, and no Judas there ! THE NECKAN. THE NECKAN. T N summer, on the headlands, -*■ The Baltic Sea along. Sits Neckan with his harp of gold, And sings his plaintive song. Green rolls beneath the headlands, Green rolls the Baltic Sea ; And there, below the Neckan's feet, His wife and children be. He sings not of the ocean, Its shells and roses pale ; Of earth, of earth the Neckan sings, He hath no other tale. He sits upon the headlands. And sings a mournful stave Of all he saw and felt on earth, Far from the kind sea-wave. Sings how, a knight, he wander'd By castle, field, and town — But earthly knights have harder hearts Than the sea-children own. NARRATIVE POEMS. Sings of his earthly bridal — Priest, knights, and ladies gay. " — And who art thou," the priest began, " Sir Knight, who wedd'st to-day ? "— " — I am no knight," he answered ; " From the sea-waves I come." — The knights drew sword, the ladies scream'd, The surpliced priest stood dumb. He sings how from the chapel He vanish'd with his bride. And bore her down to the sea-halls, Beneath the salt sea-tide. He sings how she sits weeping 'Mid shells that round her lie. " — False Neckan shares my bed," she weeps; " No Christian mate have I." — He sings how through the billows He rose to earth again. And sought a priest to sign the cross, That Neckan Heaven might gain. He sings how, on an evening. Beneath the birch-trees cool, He sate and play'd his harp of gold, Beside the river-pool. THE NECKAN. 103 Beside the pool sate Neckan — Tears fill'd his mild blue eye. On his white mule, across the bridge, A cassock'd priest rode by. " — Why sitt'st thou there, O Neckan, And play'st thy harp of gold ? Sooner shall this my staff bear leaves, Than thou shalt Heaven behold." — But, lo, the staff, it budded ! It green'd, it branch'd, it waved. " — O ruth of God," the priest cried out, " This lost sea-creature saved ! " The cassock'd priest rode onwards, And vanish'd with his mule ; But Neckan in the twilight grey Wept by the river-pool. He wept : " The earth hath kindness, The sea, the starry poles ; Earth, sea, and sky, and God above- But, ah, not human souls ! '" In summer, on the headlands, The Baltic Sea along, Sits Neckan with his harp of gold, And sings this plaintive song. 104 NARRATIVE POEMS. THE FORSAKEN MERMAN. /'^OME, dear children, let us away ; ^~-' Down and away below! Now my brothers call from the bay, Now the great winds shoreward blow, Now the salt tides seaward flow ; Now the wild white horses play, Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. Children dear, let us away ! This way, this way ! Call her once before you go — Call once yet ! In a voice that she will know : " Margaret ! Margaret ! " Children's voices should be dear (Call once more) to a mother's ear ; Children's voices, wild with pain — Surely she will come again ! Call her once and come away ; This way, this way ! THE FORSAKEN MERMAN 105 " Mother dear, we cannot stay ! The wild white horses foam and fret." Margaret ! Margaret ! Come, dear children, come away down ; Call no more ! One last look at the white-wall'd town, And the little grey church on the. windy shore ; Then come down ! She will not come though you call all day ; Come away, come away ! Children dear, was it yesterday We heard the sweet bells over the bay ? In the caverns where we lay. Through the surf and through the swell, The far-off sound of a silver bell ? Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep. Where the winds are all asleep ; Where the spent lights quiver and gleam, Where the salt weed sways in the stream, Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round, Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground ; Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, Dry their mail and bask in the brine ; Where great whales come sailing hy, Sail and sail, with unshut eye, [o6 NARRATIVE POEMS. Round the world for ever and aye ? When did music come this way ? Children dear, was it yesterday ? Children dear, was it yesterday (Call yet once) that she went away ? Once she sate with you and me. On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, And the youngest sate on her knee. She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well- When down swung the sound of a far-off bell. She sigh'd, she loolc'd up through the clear green sea ; She said : " I must go, for my kinsfolk pray In the little grey church on the shore to-day. 'Twill be Easter-time in the world — ah me ! And I lose my poor soul. Merman ! here with thee. " I said : " Go up, dear heart, through the waves ; Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea- caves I " She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay. Children dear, was it yesterday ? Children dear, were we long alone? " The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan ; Long prayers," I said, " in the world they say ; THE FORSAKEN MERMAN. 107 Come ! " I said ; and we rose through the surf in the bay. We went up the beach, by the sandy down Wliere the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall'd town ; Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still, To the little grey church on the windy hill. From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. We climb'd on the graves, on the stones worn with rains. And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes. She sate by the pillar ; we saw her clear : " Margaret, hist ! come quick, we are here ! Dear heart," I said, " we are long alone ; The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan." But, ah, she gave me never a look, For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book ! Loud prays the priest ; shut stands the door. Come away, children, call no more ! Come away, come down, call no more ! Down, down, down ! Down to the depths of the sea ! io8 NARRATIVE POEMS. She sits at her wheel in the humming town, Singing most joyfully. Hark what she sings : " O joy, O joy, For the humming street, and the child with it& toy! For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well ; For the wheel where I spun. And the blessed light of the sun ! " And so she sings her fiU, Singing most joyfully, Till the spindle drops from her hand. And the whizzing wheel stands still. She steals to the window, and looks at the sand. And over the sand at the sea ; And her eyes are set in a stare ; And anon there breaks a sigh, And anon there drops a tear, From a sorrow-clouded eye, And a heart sorrow-laden, A long, long sigh ; For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden, And the gleam of her golden hair. Come away, away children ; Come children, come down ! The hoarse wind blows colder : Lights shine in the town. THE FORSAKEN MERMAN. 109 She will start from her slumber When gusts shake the door ; She will hear the winds howling, Will hear the waves roar. We shall see, while above us The waves roar and whirl, A ceiHng of amber, A pavement of pearl. Singing : " Here came a mortal^ But faithless was she ! And alone dwell for ever The kings of the sea." But, children, at midnight, When soft the winds blow, When clear falls the moonlight, When spring-tides are low ; When sweet airs come seaward From heaths starr'd with broom. And high rocks throw mildly On the blanch'd sands a gloom ; Up the still, glistening beaches. Up the creeks we will hie. Over banks of bright seaweed The ebb-tide leaves dry. We will gaze, from the sand-hills. At the white, sleeping town ; NARRATIVE POEMS. At the church on the hill-side — And then come back down. Singing : " There dwells a loved one. But cruel is she ! She left lonely for ever The kings of the sea." SONNETS. AUSTERITY OF POETRY. ri3 SONNETS. AUSTERITY OF POETRY. ' I '"HAT son of Italy who tried to blow,^ "■- Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song, In his hght youth amid a festal throng Sate with his bride to see a public show. Fair was the bride, and on her front did glow Youth like a star ; and what to youth belong — Gay raiment, sparkling gauds, elation strong. A prop gave way ! crash fell a platform ! lo. Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she lay ! Shuddering, they drew her garments off — and found A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin. Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse ! young, gay, Radiant, adorn'd outside ; a hidden ground Of thought and of austerity within. 114 SONNETS. EAST AND WEST. T N the bare midst of Anglesey they show -*- Two springs which close by one another play ; And, " Thirteen hundred years agone," they say, " Two saints met often where those waters flow. One came from Penmon westward, and a glow Whiten'd his face from the sun's fronting ray ; Eastward the other, from the dying day, And he with unsunn'd face did always go." Seiriol the Bright, Kybi the Dark ! men said. The seer from the East was then in light, The seer from the West was then in shade. Ah ! now 'tis changed. In conquering sunshine bright The man of the bold West now comes array'd ; He of the mystic East is touch'd with night. EAST LONDON. 115 EAST LONDON. ""T'WAS August, and the fierce sun overhead -*- Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green, And the pale weaver, through his windows seen In Spitalfields, look'd thrice dispirited. I met a preacher there I knew, and said : " 111 and o'ersvork'd, how fare you in this scene ? " — '* Bravely ! " said he ; "for I of late have been Much cheer'd with thoughts of Christ, the living bread." O human soul ! as long as thou canst so Set up a mark of everlasting light. Above the howling senses' ebb and flow, To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam — Not with lost toil thou labourest through the night ! Thou mak'st the heaven thouhop'st indeed thy home. 1 1 6 SONNETS. WEST LONDON. /'^^ROUCH'D on the pavement, close by Belgrave ^'-' Square, A tramp I saw, ill, moody, and tongue-tied. A babe was in her arms, and at her side A girl ; their clothes were rags, their feet were bare. Some labouring men, whose work lay somewhere there, Pass'd opposite ; she touch'd her girl, who hied Across, and begg'd, and came back satisfied. The rich she had let pass with frozen stare. Thought I : "Above her state this spirit towers ; She will not ask of aliens, but of friends. Of sharers in a common human fate. She turns from that cold succour, which attends The unknown little from the unknowing great, And points us to a better time than ours." THE DIVINITY. 117 THE DIVINITY. " \/'ES, write it in the rock," Saint Bernard said, "*- " Grave it on brass with adamantine pen ! 'Tis God himself becomes apparent, when God's wisdom and God's goodness are display'd, For God of these his attributes is made." — Well spake the impetuous Saint, and bore of men The suffrage captive ; now, not one in ten Recalls the obscure opposer he outweigh'd." God^s wisdom attd God's goodness ! — Ay, but fools Mis-define these till God knows them no more. Wisdom a7id goodtiess, they are God ! — what schools Have yet so much as heard this simpler lore ? This no Saint preaches, and this no Church rules ; 'Tis in the desert, now and heretofore. 1 18 SONNETS. IMMORTALITY. TTOIL'D by our fellow-men, depress'd, outworn^ ^ We leave the brutal world to take its way, And, Patience ! in another life, we say, The world shall be thrust down, and we up-borne. And will not, then, the immortal armies scorn The world's poor, routed leavings 1 or will they, Who fail'd under the heat of this life's day, Support the fervours of the heavenly morn ? No, no ! the energy of life may be Kept on after the grave, but not begun ; And he who flagg'd not in the earthly strife, From strength to strength advancing — only he, His soul well-knit, and all his battles won, Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life. THE GOOD SHEPHERD. ug THE GOOD SHEPHERD WITH THE KID TiJE saves the sheep, the goats he doth not save. So rang Tertullian's sentence, on the side Of that unpitying Phrygian sect which cried : "^ " Him can no fount of fresh forgiveness lave, Who sins, once wash'd by the baptismal wave." — So spake the fierce Tertullian. But she sigh'd. The infant Church ! of love she felt the tide Stream on her from her Lord's yet recent grave. And then she smiled ; and in the Catacombs, With eye suffused but heart inspired true. On those walls subterranean, where she hid Her head 'mid ignominy, death, and tombs. She her Good Shepherd's hasty image drew — And on his shoulders, not a lamb, a kid. SONNETS. • MONICA'S LAST PRAYER.s "AH could thy grave at home, at Carthage, be ! "- ^ Care not for that, and lay me where I fall / Everywhere heard will be the judgment-call ; But at God's altar, oh ! remember me. Thus Monica, and died in Italy. Yet fervent had her longing been, through all Her course, for home at last, and burial With her own husband, by the Libyan sea. Had been ! but at the end, to her pure soul All tie with all beside seem'd vain and cheap. And union before God the only care. Creeds pass, rites change, no altar standeth whole Yet we her memory, as she pray'd, will keep, Keep by this : Life in God, and union there/ LYRIC AND ELEGIAC POEMS SWITZERLAND. 123 SWITZERLAND. I. MEETING. A GAIN I see my bliss at hand, *^- The town, the lake are here ; My Marguerite smiles upon the strand,^ Unalter'd with the year. I know that graceful figure fair, That cheek of languid hue ; I know that soft, enkerchiefd hair. And those sweet eyes of blue. Again I spring to make my choice ; Again in tones of ire I hear a God's tremendous voice : " Be counsell'd, and retire." Ye guiding Powers who join and part, What would ye have with me ? Ah, warn some more ambitious heart. And let the peaceful be ! 124 LYRIC AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 2. PARTING. "^T'E storm-winds of Autumn ! -*- Who rush by, who shake The window, and ruffle The gleam-Hghted lake ; Who cross to the hill-side Thin-sprinkled with farms, Where the high woods strip sadly Their yellowing ai'ms — Ye are bound for the mountains ! Ah ! with you let me go Where your cold, distant barrier. The vast range of snow, Through the loose clouds lifts dimly Its white peaks in air — How deep is their stillness ! Ah, would I were there ! But on the stairs what voice is this I hear, Buoyant as morning, and as morning clear? Say, has some wet bird-haunted English lawn Lent it the music of its trees at dawn ? SWITZERLAND. 125 Or was it from some sun-fleck'd mountain-brook That the sweet voice its upland clearness took ? Ah ! it comes nearer — Sweet notes, this way ! Hark ! fast by the window The rushing winds go, To the ice-cumber'd gorges. The vast seas of snow ! There the torrents drive upward Their rock-strangled hum ; There the avalanche thunders The hoarse torrent dumb. — I come, O ye mountains ! Ye torrents, I come ! But who is this, by the half-open'd door. Whose figure casts a shadow on the floor? The sweet blue eyes — the soft, ash-colour'd hair — The cheeks that still their gentle paleness wear — The lovely lips, with their arch smile that tells The unconquer'd joy in which her spirit dwells ? Ah ! they bend nearer — Sweet lips, this way ! Hark ! the wind rushes past us ! Ah ! with that let me go LYRIC AND ELEGIAC POEMS. To the clear, waning hill-side, Unspotted by snow, There to watch, o'er the sunk vale. The frore mountain-wall. Where the niched snow-bed sprays down Its powdery fall. There its dusky blue clusters The aconite spreads ; There the pines slope, the cloud-strips Hung soft in their heads. No life but, at moments, The mountain-bee's hum. — I come, O ye mountains ! Ye pinewoods, I come ! Forgive me I forgive me ! Ah, Marguerite, fain Would these arms reach to clasp thee ! But see ! 'tis in vain. In the void air, towards thee, My stretch'd arms are cast ; But a sea rolls between us — Our different past ! To the lips, ah ! of others Those lips have been prest, SWITZERLAND. 127 And others, ere I was, Were strain'd to that breast ; Far, far from each other Our spirits have grown. And what heart knows another ? Ah ! who knows his own ? Blow, ye winds ! hft me with you ! I come to the wild. Fold closely, O Nature ! Thine arms round thy child. To thee only God granted A heart ever new — To all always open. To all always true. Ah ! calm me, restore me ; And dry up my tears On thy high mountain-platforms, Where morn first appears ; Where the white mists, for ever, Are spread and upfurl'd — In the stir of the forces Whence issued the v/orld. 128 LYRIC AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 3. A FAREWELL. IV /T Y horse's feet beside the lake, -1-T 1 "Where sweet the unbroken moonbeams lay Sent echoes through the night to wake Each glistening strand, each heath-fringed bay. The poplar avenue was pass'd, And the roof d bridge that spans the stream ; Up the steep street I hurried fast, Led by thy taper's starlike beam. I came ! I saw thee rise ! — the blood Pour'd flushing to thy languid cheek. Lock'd in each other's arms we stood. In tears, with hearts too full to speak. Days flew ; — ah, soon I could discern A trouble in thine alter'd air ! Thy hand lay languidly in mine, Thy cheek was grave, thy speech grew rare. I blame thee not ! — this heart, I know. To be long loved was never framed ; For something in its depths doth glow Too strange, too restless, too untamed. SWITZERLAND. 129 And women— things that live and move Mined by the fever of the soul — They seek to find in those they love Stern strength, and promise of control. They ask not kindness, gentle ways ; These they themselves have tried and known ; They ask a soul which never sways With the blind gusts that shake their own. I too have felt the load I bore In a too strong emotion's sway ; I too have wish'd, no woman more, This starting, feverish heart awaj'. I too have long'd for trenchant force, And will like a dividing spear ; Have praised the keen, unscrupulous course, Which knows no doubt, which feels no fear. But in the world I learnt, what there Thou too wilt surely one day prove, That will, that energy, though rare, Are yet far, far less rare than love. Go, then ! — till time and fate impress This truth on thee, be mine no more I They will ! — for thou, I feel, not less Than I, wast destined to this lore. K LYRIC AND ELEGIAC POEMS. We school our manners, act our parts— But He, who sees us through and through, Knows that the bent of both our hearts Was to be gentle, tranquil, true. And though we wear out life, alas ! Distracted as a homeless wind, In beating where we must not pass. In seeking what we shall not find ; Yet we shall one day gain, life past. Clear prospect o'er our being's whole ; Shall see ourselves, and learn at last Our true affinities of soul. We shall not then deny a course To every thought the mass ignore ; We shall not then call hardness force, Nor lightness wisdom any more. Then, in the eternal Father's smile, Our soothed, encouraged souls will dare To seem as free from pride and guile. As good, as generous, as they are. Then we shall know our friends !— though much Will have been lost — the help in strife, The thousand sweet, still joys of such As hand in hand face earthly life — SWITZERLAND. 131 Though these be lost, there will be yet A sympathy august and pure ; Ennobled by a vast regret, And by contrition seal'd thrice sure. And we, whose ways were unlike here, May then more neighbouring courses ply ; May to each other be brought near, And greet across infinity. How sweet, unreach'd by earthly jars, My sister ! to maintain with thee The hush among the shining stars. The calm upon the moonlit sea ! How sweet to feel, on the boon air. All our unquiet pulses cease ! To feel that nothing can impair The gentleness, the thirst for peace- — The gentleness too rudely hurl'd On this wild earth of hate and fear ; The thirst for peace a raving world Would never let us satiate here. 132 LYRIC AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 4. ISOLATION. TO MARGUERITE. "I T TE were apart ; yet, day by day, '^ * I bade my heart more constant be. 1 bade it keep the world away. And grow a home for only thee ; Nor fear'd but thy love likewise grew, As mine, each day, more tried, more true. The fault was grave ! I might have known, What far too soon, alas ! I learn'd — The heart can bind itself alone. And faith may oft be unreturn'd. Self-sway'd our feelings ebb and swell — Thou lov'st no more ; — Farewell ! Farewell ' Farewell ! — and thou, thou lonely heart, Which never yet without remorse Even for a moment didst depart From thy remote and sphered course To haunt the place where passions reign- - Back to thy solitude again ! Back ! with the conscious thrill of shame Which Luna felt, that summer-night, SWITZERLAND. 133 Flash through her pure immortal frame, When she forsook the starry height To hang over Endymion's sleep Upon the pine-grown Latmian steep. Yet she, chaste queen, had never proved How vain a thing is mortal love, Wandering in Heaven, far removed. But thou hast long had place to prove This truth — to prove, and make thine own : "Thou hast been, shalt be, art, alone." Or, if not quite alone, yet they Which touch thee are unmating things — Ocean and clouds and night and day ; Lorn autumns and triumphant springs ; And life, and others' joy and pain. And love, if love, of happier men. Of happier men — for they, at least, Have dreamed two human hearts might blend In one, and were through faith released From isolation without end Prolong'd ; nor knew, although not less Alone than thou, their loneliness. 134 LYRIC AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 5. TO MARGUERITE.— CONTINUED "\7'ES ! in the sea of life enisled, -*- With echoing straits between us thrown Dotting the shoreless watery wild, We mortal millions live alone. The islands feel the enclasping flow. And then their endless bounds they know. But when the moon their hollows lights, And they are swept by balms of spring, And in their glens, on starry nights. The nightingales divinely sing ; And lovely notes, from shore to shore. Across the sounds and channels pour — Oh ! then a longing like despair Is to their farthest caverns sent ; For surely once, they feel, we were Parts of a single continent ! Now round us spreads the watery plain— Oh might our marges meet again ! SWITZERLAND. 135 Who order'd, that their longing's fire Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd ? Who renders vain their deep desire ? — A God, a God their severance ruled ! And bade betwixt their shores to be The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea. 136 LYRIC AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 6. ABSENCE. T N this fair stranger's eyes of grey -*- Thine eyes, my love ! I see. I shiver ; for the passing day Had borne me far from thee. This is the curse of life ! that not A nobler, calmer train Of wiser thoughts and feelings blot Our passions from our brain ; But each day brings its petty dust Our soon-choked souls to fill, And we forget because we must And not because we will. I struggle towards the light ; and yc, Once-long'd-for storms of love ! If with the light ye cannot be, 1 bear that ye remove. I struggle towards the light — but oh, While yet the night is chill, Upon time's barren, stormy flow, Stay with me. Marguerite, still ! SWITZERLAND. 137 7. THE TERRACE AT BERNE. (COMPOSED TEN YEARS AFTER THE PRECEDING.) '"T^'EN years ! — and to my waking eye -*- Once more the roofs of Berne appear ; The rocky banks, the terrace high, The stream ! — and do I Hnger here ? The clouds are on the Obeiiand, The Jungfrau snows look faint and far ; But bright are those green fields at hand, And through those fields comes down the Aar, And from the blue twin-lakes it comes, Flows by the town, the church-yard fair ; And 'neath the garden-walk it hums. The house !^and is my Marguerite there? Ah, shall I see thee, while a flush Of startled pleasure floods thy brow, Quick through the oleanders brush, And clap thy hands, and cry : 'Tis fhott .' 138 LYRIC AND ELEGIAC POEMS. Or hast thou long since wander'd back, Daughter of France ! to France, thy home ; And flitted down the flowery track Where feet like thine too lightly come ? Doth riotous laughter now replace Thy smile, and rouge, with stony glare, Thy cheek's soft hue, and fluttering lace The kerchief that enwound thy hair ? Or is it over ? — art thou dead ? — Dead ! — and no warning shiver ran Across my heart, to say thy thread Of life was cut, and closed thy span ! Could from earth's ways that figure slight Be lost, and I not feel 'twas so ? Of that fresh voice the gay delight Fail from earth's air, and I not know ? Or shall I find thee still, but changed. But not the Marguerite of thy prime ? With all thy being re-arranged, Pass'd through the crucible of time ; With spirit vanish'd, beauty waned. And hardly yet a glance, a tone, A gesture — anything — retain'd Of all that was my Marguerite's own ? SWITZERLAND. 139 I will not know ! For wherefore try, To things by mortal course that live, A shadowy durability, For which they were not meant, to give ? Like driftwood spars, which meet and pass Upon the boundless ocean-plain, So on the sea of life, alas ! Man meets man — meets, and quits again. I knew it when my life was young ; I feel it still, now youth is o'er. — The mists are on the mountains hung, And Marguerite I shall see no more. HO LYRIC AND ELEGIAC POEMS. THE STRAYED REVELLER. The Portico of Circe's Palace. Evening. A Youth. Circe. The Youth. "P ASTER, faster, -*- O Circe, Goddess, Let the wild, thronging train, The bright procession Of eddying forms. Sweep through my soul ! Thou standest, smiling Down on me ! thy right arm, Lean'd up against the column there. Props thy soft cheek ; Thy left holds, hanging loosely. The deep cup, ivy-cinctured, I held but now. Is it then evening So soon ? I see, the night-dews. THE STRAYED REVELLER. 141 Cluster'd in thick beads, dim The agate brooch-stones On thy white shoulder ; The cool night-wind, too, Blows through the portico, Stirs thy hair. Goddess, Waves thy white robe ! Circe. Whence art thou, sleeper ? The Youth. When the white dawn first Through the rough fir-planks Of my hut, by the chestnuts, Up at the valley-head, Came breaking. Goddess ! I sprang up, I threw round me My dappled fawn-skin ; Passing out, from the wet turf, Where they lay, by the hut door, I snatch'd up my vine-crown, my fir-staff, All drench'd in dew — Came swift down to join The rout early gather'd In the town, round the templC; 142 LYRIC AND ELEGIAC POEMS. lacchus' white fane On yonder hill. Quick I pass'd, following The wood-cutters' cart-track Down the dark valley ; — I saw On my left, through the beeches, Thy palace, Goddess, Smokeless, empty ! Trembling, I enter'd ; beheld The court all silent, The lions sleeping, On the altar this bowl. I drank. Goddess ! And sank down here, sleeping. On the steps of thy portico. Circe. Foolish boy ! Why tremblest thou ? Thou lovest it, then, my wine ? Wouldst more of it ? See, how glows. Through the delicate, flush'd marble, V The red, creaming liquor, Strown with dark seeds ! Drink, then ! I chide thee not, Deny thee not my bowl. Come, stretch forth thy hand, then— so ! Drink — drink again ! THE STRAYED REVELLER. 143 The Youth. Thanks, gracious one ! — Ah, the sweet fumes again ! More soft, ah me. More subtle-winding Than Pan's flute-music ! Faint — faint ! Ah me. Again the sweet sleep ! Circe. Hist ! Thou — within there ! Come forth, Ulysses ! Art tired with hunting ? While we range the woodland^ See what the day brings. Ulysses. Ever new magic ! Hast thou then lured hither, Wonderful Goddess, by thy art, The young, languid-eyed Ampelus, lacchus' darling — Or some youth beloved of Pan, Of Pan and the Nymphs ? That he sits, bending downward His white, delicate neck To the ivy-wreathed marge [44 LYRIC AND ELEGIAC POEMS. Of thy cup ; the bright, glancing vine-leaves That crown his hair, Falling forward, mingling With the dark ivy-plants— His fawn-skin, half untied, Smear'd with red wine-stains ? Who is he That he sits, overweigh'd By fumes of wine and sleep. So late, in thy portico ? What youth, Goddess,— what guest Of Gods or mortals ? Circe. Hist ! he wakes ! I lured him not hither, Ulysses. Nay, ask him ! The Youth. Who speaks ! Ah, who comes fortli To thy side, Goddess, from within ? How shall I name him ? This spare, dark-featured. Quick-eyed stranger? Ah, and I see too His sailor's bonnet, His short coat, travel-tarnish'd. With one arm bare ! — THE STRAYED REVELLER. 145 Art thou not he, whom fame This long time rumours The favour'd guest of Circe, brought by the waves ? Art thou he, stranger ? The wise Ulysses, Laertes' son ? Ulysses.l I am Ulysses. And thou, too, sleeper? Thy voice is sweet. It may be thou hast follow'd Through the islands some divine bard, By age taught many things, Age and the Muses ; And heard him delighting The chiefs and people In the banquet, and learn'd his songs, Of Gods and Heroes, Of war and arts. And peopled cities, Inland, or built By the grey sea — If so, then hail ! I honour and welcome thee. The Yonth. The Gods are happy. 146 LYRIC AND ELEGIAC POEMS. They turn on all sides Their shining eyes, And see below them The earth and men. They see Tiresias Sitting, staff in hand, On the warm, grassy Asopus bank. His robe drawn over His old, sightless head, Revolving inly The doom of Thebes. They see the Centaurs In the upper glens Of Pelion, in the streams, Where red-berried ashes fringe The clear-brown shallow pools, With streaming flanks, and heads Rear'd proudly, snuffing The mountain wind. They see the Indian Drifting, knife in hand. His frail boat moor'd to A floating isle thick-matted THE STRAYED REVELLER. 147 With larged-leaved, low- creeping melon- plants, And the dark cucumber. He reaps, and stows them, Drifting — drifting ; — round him, Round his green harvest-plot, Flow the cool lake-waves. The mountains ring them. They see the Scythian On the wide stepp, unharnessing His wheel'd house at noon. He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal — Mares' milk, and bread Baked on the embers ;— all around The boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starr'd With saffron and the yellow hollyhock And flag-leaved iris-flowers. Sitting in his cart He makes his meal ; before him, for long miles. Alive with bright green lizards. And the springing bustard-fowl, The track, a straight black line, Furrows the rich soil ; here and there 148 LYRIC AND ELEGIAC POEMS. Clusters of lonely mounds Topp'd with rough-hewn, Grey, rain-blear'd statues, overpeer The sunny waste. They see the ferry On the broad, clay-laden Lone Chorasmian stream ; — thereon, With snort and strain, Two horses, strongly swimming, tow The ferry-boat, with woven ropes To either bow Firm-harness'd by the mane ; a chief. With shout and shaken spear. Stands at the prow, and guides them ; but astern The cowering merchants, in long robes, Sit pale beside their wealth Of silk-bales and of balsam-drops. Of gold and ivory. Of turquoise-earth and amethyst, Jasper and chalcedony. And milk-barr'd onyx-stones. The loaded boat swings groaning In the yellow eddies ; The Gods behold them. They see the Heroes THE STRAYED REVELLER. 149 Sitting in the dark ship On the foamless, long-heaving, Violet sea, At sunset nearing The Happy Islands. These things, Ulysses, The wise bards also Behold and sing. But oh, what labour ! O prince, what pain ! They too can see Tiresias ; — but the Gods, Who give them vision, Added this law : That they should bear too His groping blindness, His dark foreboding, His scorn'd white hairs ; Bear Hera's anger Through a life lengthen'd To seven ages. They see the Centaurs On Pelion ; — then they feel, They too, the maddening wine I50 LYRIC AND ELEGIAC POEMS. Swell their large veins to bursting ; in wild pain They feel the biting spears Of the grim Lapithae, and Theseus, drive, Drive crashing through their bones ; they feel High on a jutting rock in the red stream Alcmena's dreadful son Ply his bow ; — such a price The Gods exact for song : To become what we sing. They see the Indian On his mountain lake ; but squalls Make their skiff reel, and worms In the unkind spring have gnawn Their melon-harvest to the heart — They see The Scythian ; but long frosts Parch them in winter-time on the bare stepp, Till they too fade like grass ; they crawl Like shadows forth in spring. They see the merchants On the Oxus stream ; — but care Must visit first them too, and make them pale. Whether, through whirling sand. THE STRAYED REVELLER. 151 A cloud of desert robber-horse have burst Upon their caravan ; or greedy kings, In the wall'd cities the way passes through, Crush'd them with tolls ; or fever-airs. On some great river's marge, Mown them down, far from home. They see the Heroes Near harbour ; — but they share Their lives, and former violent toil in Thebes, Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy ; Or where the echoing oars Of Argo first Startled the unknown sea. The old Silenus Came, lolling in the sunshine, From the dewy forest-coverts, This way, at noon. Sitting by me, while his Fauns Down at the water-side Sprinkled and smoothed His drooping garland. He told me these things. But 1, Ulysses, Sitting on the warm steps, 152 LYRIC AND ELEGIAC POEMS. Looking over the valley, All day long, have seen, Without pain, without labour, Sometimes a wild-hair'd Masnad— Sometimes a Faun with torches — And sometimes, for a moment, Passing through the dark stems Flowing-robed, the beloved. The desired, the divine. Beloved lacchus. Ah, cool night-wind, tremulous stars ! Ah, glimmering water, Fitful earth-mumiur, Dreaming woods ! Ah, golden-hair'd, strangely smiling Goddess, And thou, proved, much enduring, Wave-toss'd Wanderer ! Who can stand still? Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me — The cup again ! Faster, faster, O Circe, Goddess, Let the wild, thronging train, The bright procession Of eddying forms. Sweep through my soul ! CADMUS AND HARMONIA. i53 CADMUS AND HARMONIA. T7AR, far from here, -*• The Adriatic breaks in a warm bay Among the green Illyrian hills ; and there The sunshine in the happy glens is fair, And by the sea, and in the brakes. The grass is cool, the sea-side air Buoyant and fresh, the mountain-flowers More virginal and sweet than ours. And there, they say, two bright and aged snakes. Who once were Cadmus and Harmonia, Bask in the glens or on the warm sea-shore, In breathless quiet, after all their ills ; Nor do they see their country, nor the place Where the Sphinx lived among the frowning hills Nor the unhappy palace of their race. Nor Thebes, nor the Ismenus, any more. There those two live, far in the Illyrian brakes. They had stay'd long enough to see, In Thebes, the billow of calamity Over their own dear children roll'd, 154 LYRIC AND ELEGIAC POEMS. Curse upon curse, pang upon pang, For years, they sitting helpless in their home, A grey old man and woman ; yet of old The Gods had to their marriage come. And at the banquet all the Muses sang. Therefore they did not end their days In sight of blood ; but were rapt, far away, To where the west-wind plays, And murmurs of the Adriatic come To those untrodden mountain-lawns ; and there Placed safely in changed forms, the pair Wholly forget their first sad life, and home. And all that Theban woe, and stray For ever through the glens, placid and dumb. APOLLO MUSAGETES. 155 APOLLO MUSAGETES. 'T^HROUGH the black, rushing smoke- -*- bursts, Thick breaks the red flame : All Etna heaves fiercely Her forest-clothed frame. Not here, O Apollo ! Are haunts meet for thee. But, where Helicon breaks down In chff to the sea. Where the moon-silver'd inlets Send far their light voice Up the still vale of Thisbe — O speed, and rejoice ! On the sward at the cliff-top Lie strewn the white flocks ; On the cliff-side the pigeons Roost deep in the rocks. 156 LYRIC AND ELEGIAC POEMS, In the moonlight the shepherds, Soft kill'd by the rills, Lie wrapt in their blankets Asleep on the hills. — What forms are these coming So white through the gloom ? What garments out-glistening The gold-flower'd broom ? What sweet-breathing presence Out-perfumes the thyme ? What voices enrapture The night's balmy prime? — 'Tis Apollo comes leading His choir, the Nine. — The leader is fairest, But all are divine. They are lost in the hollows ! They stream up again ! What seeks on this mountain The glorified train ? — They bathe on this mountain, In the spring by their road ; Then on to Olympus, Their endless abode. APOLLO MUSAGETES. 157 —Whose praise do they mention ? Of what is it told ?— What will be for ever ; What was from of old. First hymn they the Father Of all things ; — and then, The rest of immortals, The action of men. The day in his hotness, The strife with the palm ; The night in her silence, The stars in their calm. 158 LYRIC AND ELEGIAC POEMS. URANIA. O HE smiles and smiles, and will not sigh ^^ While we for hopeless passion die ; Yet she could love, those eyes declare, Were but men nobler than they are. Eagerly once her gracious ken Was turn'd upon the sons of men ; But light the serious visage grew — She look'd, and smiled, and saw them through Our petty souls, our strutting wits, Our labour'd, puny passion-fits — Ah, may she scorn them still, till we Scorn them as bitterly as she ! Yet show her once, ye heavenly Powers, One of some worthier race than ours ! One for whose sake she once might prove How deeply she who scorns can love. His eyes be like the starry lights — His voice like sounds of summer nights — In all his lovely mien let pierce The magic of the universe ! URANIA. 159 And she to him will reach her hand, And gazing in his eyes will stand, And know her friend, and weep for glee, And cry : Long, long Fve looked for thee. Then will she weep ; with smiles, till then, Coldly she mocks the sons of men. Till then, her lovely eyes maintain Their pure, unwavering, deep disdain. r6o LYRIC AND ELEGIAC POEMS. EUPHROSYNE. T MUST not say that she was true, ■*- Yet let me say that she was fair ; And they, that lovely face who view, They should not ask if truth be there. Truth— what is truth ? Two bleeding hearts, Wounded by men, by fortune tried, Outwearied with their lonely parts, Vow to beat henceforth side by side. The world to them was stern and drear, Their lot was but to weep and moan. Ah, let them keep their faith sincere. For neither could subsist alone ! But souls whom some benignant breath Hath charm'd at birth from gloom and care. These ask no love, these plight no faith, For they are happy as they are. The world to them may homage make, And garlands for their forehead weave ; And what the world can give, they take — But they bring more than they receive. EUPHROSYNE. i6i They shine upon the world — Their ears To one demand alone are coy ; They will not give us love and tears, They bring us light and warmth and joy. On one she smiled, and he was blest ; She smiles elsewhere — we make a din ! But 'twas not love which heaved her breast. Fair child ! — it was the bliss within. 1 62 LYRIC AND ELEGIAC POEMS. CALAIS SANDS. A THOUSAND knights have rein'd their steeds ^^ To watch this line of sand-hills run, Along the never-silent strait, To Calais glittering in the sun ; To look toward Ardres' Golden Field Across this wide aerial plain, Which glows as if the Middle Age Were gorgeous upon earth again. Oh, that to share this famous scene, I saw, upon the open sand. Thy lovely presence at my side, Thy shawl, thy look, thy smile, thy hand ! How exquisite thy voice would come, My darling, on this lonely air ! How sweetly would the fresh sea-breeze Shake loose some band of soft brown hair ! And now my glance but once hath roved O'er Calais and its famous plain ; To England's cliffs my gaze is turn'd, O'er the blue strait mine eyes I strain. CALAIS SANDS. 163 Thou comest ! Yes ! the vessel's cloud Hangs dark upon the rolling sea. Oh, that yon sea-bird's wings were mine, To win one instant's glimpse of thee ! I must not spring to grasp thy hand, To woo thy smile, to seek thine eye ; But I may stand far oft", and gaze, And watch thee pass unconscious by, And spell thy looks, and guess thy thoughts, Mixt with the idlers on the pier — Ah, might I always rest unseen. So I might have thee always near ! To-morrow hurry through the fields Of Flanders to the storied Rhine ! To-night those soft-fringed eyes shall close Beneath one roof, my queen ! with mine. 1 64 LYRIC AND ELEGIAC POEMS, DOVER BEACH. '"T'HE sea is calm to-night -*- The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits ; — on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone ; the clifts of England otand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet is the night-air ! Only, from the long line of spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land, Listen ! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling. At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in. Sophocles long ago Heard it on the /Egasan, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery ; we Find also in the sound a thought. Hearing it by this distant northern sea. DOVER BEACH. 165 The sea of faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar. Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world. Ah, love, let us be true To one another ! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain ; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night. i66 LYRIC AND ELEGIAC POEMS. PROGRESS. ' I ""HE Master stood upon the mount, and taught. -'- He saw a fire in his disciples' eyes ; " The old law," they said, "is wholly come to nought, Behold the new world rise ! " " Was it," the Lord then said, " with scorn ye saw The old law observed by Scribes and Pharisees ? I say unto you, seeje keep that law More faithfully than these ! '•' Too hasty heads for ordering worlds, alas ! Think not that I to annul the law have will'd ; No jot, no tittle from the law shall pass. Till all have been fulfill'd." So Christ said eighteen hundred years ago. And what then shall be said to those to-day. Who cry aloud to lay the old world low To clear the new world's way ? " Religious fervours ! ardour misapplied ! Hence, hence," they cry, "ye do but keep man blind ! But keep him self-immersed, preoccupied, And lame the active mind ! " PROGRESS. 167 Ah ! from the old world let some one answer give . " Scorn ye this world, their tears, their inward cares? I say unto you, see XhdXyour souls live A deeper life than theirs ! " Say ye : ' The spirit of man has found new roads, And we must leave the old faiths, and walk there- in ? '— Leave then the Cross as ye have left carved gods. But guard the fire within ! " Bright else and fast the stream of life may roll, And no man may the other's hurt behold ; Yet each will have one anguish — his own soul Which perishes of cold." Here let that voice make end ; then, let a strain, From a far lonelier distance, like the wind Be heard, floating through heaven, and fill again These men's profoundest mind : " Children of men ! the unseen Power, whose eye For ever doth accompany mankind, Hath look'd on no religion scornfully That men did ever find. " Which has not taught weak wills how much they can ] Which has not fall'n on the dry heart like rain .'' Which has not cried to sunk, self-weary man : Thoii must be botii a mi it ! 1 68 LYRIC AND ELEGIAC POEMS. " Children of men ! not that your age excel In pride of hfe the ages of your sires, But that j/