^* .■••>* «tev<- . .^ m J OF THr; 9k ftiuu^tsitg of ^cilifoifitki jvo. MA^^ Division Range Shelf Received ^^d^-<^ /^/ 187(^. m: ri^si^'i}-^. ^"/^ Library. POEMS BY COVENTRY PATMORE. <^^B^ Lihrarit. )j LONDON : EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET. M OCOC XLfV. ///^*^ ^^ CONTENTS. ' PAGE THE BIVER 1 SONG 19 " I KNEW A SOFT-EYED LADY" 21 THE woodman's DAUGHTER 23 GEBALDINE 45 " 'tis FINE, I VOW, TO SEE YOU NOW" 48 LILIAN ; A POEM FOB 1844 : PROLOGUE 50 THE TALE 57 EPILOGUE 95 SONNET 1 102 SONNET II 103 IV CONTENTS. p SONNET III j SIB HUBERT: PROLOGUE 1 THE TALE 1 EPILOGUE 1 POEMS. THE RIVER. It is a venerable place, An old ancestral ground, So wide, the rainbow wholly stands Within its lordly bound; And all about that large expanse A River runneth round. 8 THE RIVER. Upon a rise, where single oaks, And clumps of beeches tall. Drop pleasantly their shade beneath. Half -hidden amidst them all, Eesteth, in quiet dignity. An ancient manor-hall. Around its many gable-ends, The swallows wheel their flight; Its huge fantastic weather-vanes Look happy in the light; Its warm face through the foliage gleams, A comfortable sight. The ivy'd turrets seem to love The murmur of the bees; And though this manor-hall hath seen The snow of centuries, How freshly still it stands amid Its wealth of swelling trees ! THE RIVER. The leafy summer-time is young; The yearling lambs are strong; The sunlight glanceth merrily; The trees are full of song; The plain and polish'd Eiver flows Contentedly along. Beyond the River, bounding all, A host of green hills stand, The manor-rise their central point. As cheerful as a band Of happy children round their chief Extended, hand in hand. Their shadows from the setting sun Reach all across the plain; The guard-hound, in the silent night, Stops wrangling with his chain. To hear, at every burst of barks. The hills bark back again. b2 THE KIVER. Look! where the merry butterflies Float beside yonder tower: There, amid starry jessamine, And clasping passion-flower, The Lady of this peaceful place Is seated in her bower. That Lady loves the pale Witchaire, Who loves too much to sue. He came this morning hurriedly; Then out her young blood flew ! But he talked of common things, and so Her eyes are steeped in dew. THE RIVER. PART II. Time runneth on: through strong belief Of disregard — or pride — Or passion cooled — or causes that The intricate heart doth hide, The Lady hath her promise given To be another's Bride. November and the rains are come ; The River, once so bright. Is foul and black, and gloomily Makes known, across the night, In far-heard plash, and hollow drench, The passage of its might. THE RIVER. The Bridegroom hurrieth through the park. The hour is here at last ! The dark trees chatter drearily Within the dying blast: He thinks the Bride is at his side — What cares he for the blast ! The guests are gay; the minstrels play; The hall is liker noon than night; From side to side they toast the Bride, Who blusheth ruby light : For youth and age, for clown and sage, It is a cheerful sight ! But to the park — 111 suiteth us This merry noise and glare — The silent park, where a figure stands That's darker than the night — Witchaire, Leaning against an aged tree By thunder stricken bare. I THE RIVER. He mindeth neither warmth nor cold, Nor marketh he the dull moonshine, And yet he crieth, " Chill! oh! chill, Is this lonely heart of mine !" And yet he crieth, " Misery ! Cold is the dull moonshine !" The moonshine shineth in his eye. From which no tear doth fall : Full of yacuity as death. Its slaty, parched ball. Fixedly, though expressionless. Gleams on the distant hall. Thence, tinged by coloured figures quaint, Of nun and saint devout. Broad bars of red and purple light. Stand in the mist without ; Mournfully through the muffled air Cometh the laughter-shout. THE RIVER. No sound or sight this solemn night But moveth a dull fear : The faded nuns stare through the gloom, Askaunt, and wan, and blear ; The withered cheeks of the watchful saints Start from their purple gear. The treble of the women's voice Seems heightened to a wail ; The stream, behind the matted grove. Is shining ghastly pale. White-glimmering through the cedars dark. — Witchaire ! what doth thee ail ? His forehead cleareth suddenly! Some thought brings pleasant balm. He straighteneth up, and now he stands Erect as any palm. Hath he some soothing plan of life ? No ; for he looks too calm. THE RIVER. He turneth from the bridal hall; His bare breast scarcely heaves ; He paceth towards the gloomy wood, Through which he breaks and cleaves ; His measured footfall dies away, Upon the withered leaves. PART III. The sickly moon, among the clouds, Is loitering slowly by ; Now in a circle, like the ring About a weeping eye ; Now left quite bare ; now merely like A pallor in the sky. 10 THE RIVER. The lonely stars are here and there, But weak and wasting all ; The winds are dead ; the cedars spread Their black arms like a pall ; The guests have vanished, one by one. Out of the bridal hall. The moon is looking through the mist, Cold, lustreless, and wan ; How wildly past her dreary form Those watery clouds rush on ! A moment white beneath her light. And then, like spirits, gone. Silent and fast they hurry past. Their swiftness striketh dread. For earth is hush'd, and no breath sweeps The spider's dewy thread. And everything but those pale clouds Is dark, and stiU, and dead. THE RIVER. 11 Beneath the mossy ivy'd bridge, The River slippeth past; That current deep is still as sleep, And yet so very fast ! There's something in its quietness Which makes the soul aghast. No wind stirreth the wiUow tree That droopeth from the bank ; The water goeth quietly Beneath the sedges dank ; Yet the willow trembleth in the stream, And the dry reeds talk and clank. The weak stars swoon ; the jagged moon Is lost in the cloudy air. No thought of light ! save where the wave ; Sporteth a fitful glare. The world, in breathless impotence. Seems choking with nightmare. 12 THE RIVER. The hall clocks clang; the guard-hounds bark. What are their dreams about? Marsh-lights leap; and, though fast asleep, The night-owls shriek and shout; The stars, through breaks in the absolute black, Race like a drunken rout. Some figure stands on the bridge: you see The pale cheeks in the dark. It watcheth the stars race on in the stream, And knoweth them not: — but hark! The clocks stop tolling, the owls are still. The guard-hounds cease to bark. A plunge ! — a thin hand through the froth— A stifled gurgling sound: — The circlets dance, with lurid glance. Like witches, round and round; Big bubbles rise, like demons' eyes; The wavelets skip and bound THE RIVER. • 13 From side to side, and far and wide, The echoes clash their knell; From side to side the echoes ride; Hark, how the owls now yell! The turmoil's o'er; the waves once more Resume their silent swell. "Wake! wake!" meanwhile the Bridegroom calls Aloud to his sleeping Bride. ^^ O God! I saw thee, pale and dead. Roll down a silent tide!" He claspeth her hand — " How chill thou art! Why tremblest thou, my bride?" The Bride bethinketh her of him Who last night was no guest. " Sweet Heaven! — and for me? — I dream! Be calm, thou throbbing breast!" She saith in thought a solemn prayer, And turneth again to rest. 14 THE RIVER. Along, along, swiftly and strong, The River slippeth past; That current deep is still as sleep, And yet so very fast! There's something in its quietness Which makes the soul aghast. PART IV. The morn hath risen: wildly on The waters glide to-day; Outspread upon their paUid face. Lank grass and rushes play; But the spell that clung to the murky stream Is broken, and passed away. THE RIVER. 15 Time runneth on : the park is bare; The year is scant and lean; The Eiver's banks are desolate; The air is chill and keen; Yet now and then a sunny day Bringeth a thought of green. Amid blear February's flaw. Tremulous snowdrops peep; Erect and sharp the crocus starts Up from its winter sleep; The river-buds, in starry hosts, Ride on the water deep. The current, in its old content, Betwixt fresh banks doth run; The pike, as trackless as a sound, Shoots through the waters dun ; And languid April chesnut leaves Have broadened in the sup. 16 THE RIVER. The summer's prime is come again; The trees are out anew; The current keeps the dreadful Past Deep in its bosom blue; And babbleth low, through sleeping fields, Grey with the falling dew. The sheep-bell toUeth curfew -time; The gnats, a busy rout. Fleck the warm air; the distant owl Shouteth a sleepy shout; The voiceless bat, more felt than seen. Is flitting round about; The aspen leaflets scarcely stir; The River seems to think; Athwart the dusk, the lotus broad Looks cooUy from its brink. Where, listening to the freshet's noise. The quiet cattle drink. THE RIVER. 17 The bees boom past; the white moths rise, Like spirits, from the ground; The grey-flies hum their weary tune, A distant, dream-like sound; And far, far off, to the slumberous eve, Bayeth an old guard-hound. In this sweet time the Lady walks Beside the gentle Stream; She marks the waters curl along Beneath the sunset-gleam. And a doubtful influence moveth her, Like memory of a dream. Her pulses throb more palpably; Her spirits droop and fail. As they did that night when the Bridegroom thought He saw her dead and pale; — She knoweth not what moveth her: The Stream hath told no tale, c 18 THE RIVER. She passeth on. How still the earth, And all the air above! Here, where of late the scritch-owl shrieked, Broodeth the quiet dove; And the River, through the ivy'd bridge, Flows calm as household love. 19 SONG. Dear mother, do not blame me, nor Ronald either, pray! Last night he looked so thoughtful; how could I say him nay! And see, dear mother, see! he came just now to bring These roses in my bosom, the earliest of the spring. Poor Ronald said so little, but his face expressed so much, That, when he gave them to me, I trembled at his touch: c 2 20 His eyes were red all round, that once were full of glee, And it must have been from waking, and weeping about me. Then why, dear mother, why do you say it was not right To give the hour he wished for, to walk in the moonlight? O ! even if he asked me to walk with him all day. And I knew how much he loved me, how could I say him nay? 21 I KNEW a soft-eyed lady, from a noble foreign land; Her words, I thought, were lowest when we walked out, hand in hand: I began to say, " God pleasing, I shall have her for my bride." Bitter, bitter, bitter was it to me when she died! In the street a man since stopped me: in a noble foreign tongue He said he was a stranger, poor, and strangers all among. 22 I know your thoughts, yet tell you, World, — I gave him all I had. But I — I'm much the wisest; — it is you, O World ! that's mad. He stared upon the proflPered purse; then took it, hand and all. O I what a look he gave me, while he kept my hand in thrall! And press'd it with a gratitude that made the blushes start; For I had not deserved it, and it smote me to the heart. THE WOODMAN'S DAUGHTER. In " Gerald's Cottage/' on the hill, Old Gerald, and his child — His daughter, Maud — dwelt happily;- He worked, and she beguiled The long day at her spinning-wheel. In the garden, now grown wild. At Gerald's stroke the jay awoke; Till noon hack followed hack. Before the nearest hill had time To give its echo back; The evening mists were in the lane Before his arm grew slack. 24 THE woodman's daughter. Meanwhile, beneath the coronets Of honey-suckle flower, Which made their simple cottage-porch A cool, luxurious bower, Maud sat beside her spinning-wheel, And spun from hour to hour. The growing thread through her fingers sped; Round flew the polished wheel; Merrily rang the notes she sang At every finished reel; From the hill again, like a shrill refrain, Out leapt the rapid peal. If Gerald worked in the wood hard by. The task, o'er which he frown'd, Was then continued placidly: The villagers around Would oft declare the morning air Grew clearer from the sound. THE woodman's DAUGHTER. 25 These sounds are heard no more; no more The gnarl'd and lichen'd oak Shakes moss and earth from its crooked roots, Quick starting at the stroke Which once kept all day long from sleep The silence it awoke. The woodman died long since: his axe Reddens the prostrate bough In which he struck it last; and, though The villagers allow The spot its ancient title, Maud Is its sole tenant now. The flies now rest all day around The dusty spinning-wheel: The neighbours think it strange Maud's grief Should take so long to heal; — The cause they know for it is nought To the cause she doth conceal. 26 THE woodman's daughter. Her tale is this: In that sweet age. When heaven's our side the lark, She used to be with Gerald, where He worked from dawn to dark. For months, to thin the crowded groves Of the ancient Manor Park. She went merely to think she helped; And, whilst he hack'd and saw'd, The rich squire's son, a young boy then, For whole days, as if awed, Stood by, and gazed alternately At Gerald and at Maud. He sometimes, in a sullen tone, . Would offer fruits, and she Always received his gifts with an air So unreserved and free. That half-feign'd distance soon became Familiarity. THE woodman's DAUGHTER. 27 Therefore in time, when Gerald shook The woods at his employ, The young heir and the cottage girl Would steal out to enjoy The music of each other's talk, A simple girl and boy. They passed their time, both girl and boy, Uncheck'd, unquestion'd; yet They always hid their wanderings By wood and rivulet, Because they could not give themselves A reason why they met. — It may have been in the ancient time, Before Love's earliest ban, Psychean curiosity. Had broken Nature's plan; When all that was not youth was age. And men knew less of Man; — 28 THE woodman's daughter. Or, when the works of Time shall reach The goal to which they tend, And knowledge, being perfect, shall At last in wisdom end, — That wisdom to end knowledge; — or Some change comes, yet unkenned; — It perhaps may be again, that men, Like orange plants, will bear. At once, the many fine effects To which God made them heir — Large souls, large forms, and love like that Between this childish pair. — Two summers passed away; and then, — Though yet young Merton's eyes, Wide with their language, spake of youth's Habitual surprise, — He felt that pleasures such as these No longer could suffice. THE woodman's DAUGHTER. 29 He therefore sought new joys from books; He turn'd them o'er and o'er, — Fiction and truth, yet chiefliest truth, — And only wondered more, Trying to solve the things that were So wonderful before. He sometimes paused, to breathe awhile, And glanced proud looks around: " To-morrow I will go," said he, <' And tell her what I've found." And Merton's heart, as he thought of that. Beat till he heard the sound. So when to-morrow came, while Maud Stood listening with surprise, He told the tale learnt overnight. And, if he met her eyes. Perhaps said how far the stars were, and Talk'd on about the skies. 30 THE woodman's DAUGHTER. Thus fable, science, history, Were all pour'd forth at chance; And real knowledge thus became So coloured by romance, That, for awhile, it was as sweet. Almost, as ignorance. Their childhood fled; and still their life Was one long jubilee; For Maud, by Nature helped, had now Acquired the power to see The second Nature opened through Deep-thoughted poetry. She wept for joy if the cushat sang Its love-song in the fir; The cat, perhaps, broke the quiet with Its regular slow purr — 'Twas music now; and her wheel gave forth A rhythm in its whirr. THE WOODMAN S DAUGHTER. 31 She once had read, — When lovers die, And go where angels are, Each pair of lovers' souls, perhaps. Will make a double star : So stars grew dearer, and she thought They did not look so far. But being ignorant, and still So young as to be prone To think aU very great delights Peculiarly her own. She guessed not what to her made sweet Books writ on lover's moan. Time passed away. The month was But almost upon June; The linnets to the joyful time Their voices did attune; And hermit moles crept out, to suck The pleasant breath of noon. 32 THE woodman's daughter. The two friends met, and wandered forth, Along the river-side, Talking of this and that by the way ; She questioned, and he replied ; And she now remembered suddenly A question yet untried: — " How is it that we never talk Of love, like other things ? Let's do so now, and you shall tell Its nature, and whence springs This joy of which the poet so Continually sings." If Maud had looked upon him then, She would have seen how pale His face grew ; but, at last, he said, " If, Sweet — if poet's fail To explain this to you, how shall I ? Besides, of small avail " THE woodman's DAUGHTER. 33 And here lie ceased, forgetting what He was about to say. Observing this, Maud tried to turn The talk another way, And worded thus her next stray thought — At least, she thought it stray : " Last evening, when, just after dusk, You rose up to depart. We saw the moon, all liquid white. Out of the dark trees start : — As then I felt, I felt when you First came upon my heart." He mostly answered Maud's remarks By an unmix'd applause Of all she spoke; but now, with a fear For which he knew no cause. He said, " That's love, Sweet," hurriedly; And then there was a pause. D S4 THE woodman's DAUGHTER. The multitudinous clouds moved past, In broad, swoU'n heaps uproll'd, Like globular flakes, or wreathed surge Of boiling, embossed gold; And all between their carv'd forms stood The plain skies, blue, and cold; The flat, white river, laps'd along. Now, a broad, broken glare, Now, winding around through the bosomed lands, Till lost in the distance, where The tall hills, sunning their chisell'd peaks. Made emptier the empty air; Swallows, among the boisterous winds, Were striving to and fro; The raving trees tossed out their arms Toward the sky; below. The streaming corn-fields smoothly sped. In one continual flow. THE woodman's DAUGHTER. 35 Maud felt the wind, and saw the scene; The cottage, on the mound, Motionless stood in the moving air; She threw her eyes around: " Love," said she, " is a noble thing!" And her eyes were on the ground. And Merton's eyes were fixed there too; But different feelings wrought To the same effect in each; they went Right on, nor said they aught. But quickened their steps, as if they strove To overtake their thought. He spoke at last some scattered words; Thus aiming to prevent The increase of what he never knew Till then — embarrassment; Unfelt by Maud, who was alone Upon her joy intent. D 2 36 THE woodman's daughter. But new urged questionings soon placed Her lover at his ease: They looked again, with a novel joy, At the distant river and leas. And talked on, nearly as before, Under the shady trees. The noon-day fled: still on they sped, Their hands lock'd each in each; The youth, now and then, pluck'd wantonly The flowers within his reach; And both felt a strong unusual joy, For which they wanted speech. Such careless, riotous delight They never felt before; " But then," thought they, " so fine a day We never knew before !" So they held their faces towards the wind, That they might feel it more. THE woodman's DAUGHTER. 37 Their new delight was not unmixed: That indistinct alarm Which whispers, to unsullied minds, The coming on of harm. Made joy sit heavily, like pain, And half undid the charm. Their steps now faster and faster grew. Irregular and fast: His cheeks were ridged with a strong smile, Hers wore a serious cast, And neither spoke, nor spent they a look On anything they passed. Questions, from which Maud knew not why She always had abstained. Appeared, she also knew not why, About to be explained; Doubts, more than ever dubious then. Engrossed what thoughts remained. 38 THE woodman's daughter. But Merton's thoughts were less confused. " What! /wrong aught so good? Besides, the danger that is seen Is easily withstood." Then loud, " The sun is very warm!" And they walked into the wood. * * * * * * # # Months passed away; and every day The lovers still were wont To meet together, and their shame At meeting had grown blunt; For they were of an age when sin Is only seen in front. But this did not continue long. For Maud began to shun Her father's sight, in which alone She knew what she had done; So Gerald stayed at home one day. And asked what she had done. THE woodman's DAUGHTER^ 39 She answer'd him. — " Poor child! — poor child!" Was all he ever said. Weeks afterwards he'd put his hand Softly upon her head, And think of her as tranquilly As wise men of the dead. Such times she strongly shook with tears, And though she had given o'er All thoughts of love and Merton, cried, — If only he forbore To look so calm, indeed she'd not See Merton any more. y^ ■tF 7f^ ^ * * * * Poor Maud comes out to feel the air, Tliis gentle day of June; And having sobbed her babe to sleep, Help'd by the stream's soft tune. She rests along the aspen trunk. Below the calm blue noon. 40 THE woodman's DAUGHTER. Her thoughts now rise instead of tears : When Merton met her last It was just such a day as this — How life since then has passed! How henceforth pass it? — for she feels Her mind is ebbing fast. Best break at once her present plan! Out-blush the heavy shame — Bear scorn she cannot scorn in turn — Unanswerable blame; Lose — that whose worth is never felt Till lost — a spotless name. But Merton? He, if that were done, Could scarcely fail to know The ruin he had caused; — he might Be brought to share her woe. Making it doubly sharp. With that She weeps aside — and, lo! d THE woodman's DAUGHTER. 41 The shadow of her little babe, Deep in the stream, behold! Smiles quake over her parted lips: Some thought hath made her bold; She stoops to dip her fingers in To feel if it is cold. The water's warm, and runs as if Perpetually at play! But then the stream, she recollects, Bears everything away! There is a dull pool some way off, That sleepeth night and day. * * * * * * * * The weeds at length have closed and shut The water from her sight: They stir awhile, but now are still. Her arms fall down; — the light * Is horrible, and her countenance Is pale as a cloud at night. 42 THE woodman's daughter. Merrily now from the small church spire Ringeth a;ioisy chime; The larks climb up through the heavenly blue, Carolling as they climb; And lo ! in her eyes stands the great surprise That comes with the first crime! She throws a glance of terror round : There's not a creature nigh. But, behold! the Sun, that looketh through The frowning western sky, Is lifting up one broad beam, like A lash of God's own eye. She sees it; and, with steady fear At what she dares not shun, Still gazes: her astonished heart Faints down, for she has done An act which to her soul has made A spy of the great Sun. THE woodman's DAUGHTER. 43 The pool reflects the scarlet west With a hot and guilty glow, The east is changing ashy pale, And yet she dares not go, For still those bubbles struggle up From the rotting weeds below. The light has changed. One minute since You scarcely could descry The moon, now sharply gleaming, From the cloud that sleepeth nigh, And one by one the timid stars Are coming from the sky. The night is far advanced, yet Maud Remaineth at her post. Sunk in a deep unnatural sleep, Beneath the skiey host Of drifting mists, through which the moon Is riding, like a ghost. * # * * * * * * 44 THE woodman's daughter. Maud, with her books, comes day by day. Fantastically clad. To read them near the pool; and all Who meet her look so sad. That even to herself it is Quite plain that she is mad. 45 GERALDINE. Geraldine, the sun is out! Let us leave this busy rout; Men and women, girls and boys, All the city's stir and noise. Come! and, while we rove along, I will chant thee such a song! Song so full of praise, I wist, 'Tis not girlhood's to resist. — Why do sceptic Sittings fine Wreathe thy red lips, Geraldine? 46 GERALDINE. • We are in the fields. Delight! Look around! The bird's-eyes bright; Pink-tipp'd daisies; sorrel red, Drooping o'er the lark's green bed; Oxlips; glazed buttercups, Out of which the wild bee sups; See! they dance about thy feet! Play with, pluck them, little Sweet! Some affinity divine Thou hast with them, Geraldine. ♦ Now, sweet wanton, toss them high; Race about, you know not why. Now stand still, from sheer excess Of exhaustless happiness. I, meanwhile, on this old gate. Sit sagely calm, and perhaps relate Lore of fairies. Do you know How they make the mushrooms grow? Ah! what means that shout of thine? You can't tell me, Geraldine. 4 GERALDINE. 47 Shall I call thy voice's ringing Talking, laughing, or wild singing? April rain through waving trees; Flashings cool of sunlit seas; Breezes in the bearded corn; Robins piping on the thorn; Prattling brooks in pebbled dells; Clearest chimes of silver bells; — None so glad as voice of thine, Joyous, laughing Geraldine. Who hath eyes so soft as you — Such translucent shady blue? Poets, men of all the earth Truest judges of true worth, Steal the life of their sweet books From the heaven of such looks, Though Love doom them, every man, To punishment Promethean. — Where are those sceptic flittings fine. That wreath'd thy red lips, Geraldine? 48 'Tis fine, I vow, to see you, now All men to your beauty bow; Fine to hear you, night and day. Whispering happy hearts away; Cheating age, and cheating youth With a well-shamm'd show of truth. To some it will be finer still Seeing you descend the hill; Careless lovers dropping oiF; Scoff'd at, where you used to scofi*. Cause to some for triumph yet! — If 'twere not so for regret. I 49 But finer much 'twill be to such Watching you in Time's full clutch; Dead to losses; dead to gains; Dead to pleasures; dead to pains; Fearing still to part with breath:— :- Dead to everything but death. r'l^'i^ ii^. 50 LILIAN. A POEM FOR 1844. prologue. I SCARCELY knew my school friend On his entering, but could see, As talking re-establish'd Our familiarity, A kind of pleading sweetness Play about his eyes, that told Of too precocious passions. Which had made him early old. LILIAN. 51 I therefore ask'd no reason For his absence. Perhaps he read The question in my silence, And why urged not, — for he said, Abruptly, " It is long since We have met. You think me changed? And you shall hear the causes; But not now." His eyes then ranged In restless search for something To be fix'd on. Then he smiled, Resuming his old manner. So indifferent and mild, And ask'd what I was reading When he first came in. The book Lay by me on the table, And he open'd it to look. E 2 52 LILIAN. It struck quick transformation Through his visage at a glance. (The work all tongues were full of: 'Twas a brilliant French romance ;- Fair type of those which furnish Half the reading of the class Whose manners are the standard For the manners of the mass.) Red indignation flooded Through his cheeks, and his mild eyes Were powerful in anger. I was silent for surprise. He then, without explaining His wild gesture, like a man Whom wrongs have arm*d with judgment, Dash'd the book down, and began: LILIAN. 53 " O Heaven! then can I nowhere Plant my hope, but there advance These literary panders Of that mighty brothel, France ! x What hideous act committed — What huge sin of general man. Precipitates upon him This, sin's most tremendous ban — *' The doom which makes sin huger, Therefore seems beyond repeal!" Then to me: "I came, expecting To find one whose early zeal For honest thoughts had haply Kept its place, and kept it pure: — But there's a youth in virtue. Which I see does not endure!" 54 LILIAN. To that I answer'd lightly, " You are not yourself, and so These words must be forgiven. For the anger you bestow On France's luckless favourites, 'Tis too violent to be wise; Their sins are their own beacons, Staring through their thin disguise. " At worst — are souls worth saving Which are lost with so much ease ! If sound, can they make shipwreck Upon mud-banks such as these? Au reste, the books excite one — Shew like nature — (French, I grant) Are subtly nerv'd with passion — All we novel readers want." LILIAN. 55 " You are not wholly serious," He replied, " or I should scorn A word in confutation. As it is, for friendship born Too long ago between us To be readily undone, I would not — will not — leave you, Till our minds on this be one. " I therefore do acquaint you, I have seen the venom act. And urge no more than simply The strong logic of a fact: And, good friend, should its statement Take a somewhat broader range, Forgive the whole, as solving My blank absence and grey change. 56 LILIAN. " But do not deem my language Fit to laud the lavish worth, Which the influence you questicm Brought to miserable dearth. Should I attempt its praises, Hold them less, not more, than true." He now began his story; And believing, as I do, That the sum, the mighty total, Of mankind was never worse For acts weU meant towards it, I embalm his tale in verse, With all its windy passion. Thoughtless thinking, speech uncouth; For some will hear within them A wild harmony of truth. LILIAN. €f}t Cale. I loved; saw hope; then said so; learned that Lilian loved again. Wherefore speak of joy then suffer'd? My head throbs, and I would fain Find words to lay the spectre starting now before my brain. You will think Love paints the portrait I shall give: no, that were base ! — You will find it cannot be, friend, and you'll bear with me in case Tears come: — I feel 'them coming, by the smarting in my face. 58 LILIAN. A foolish weakness sometimes makes them rise at my own voice. — Let's forget I love no longer! — So! — Your heart shall now rejoice With beauty, or, at bidding, it shall grieve and have no choice. She loved ; words, all things told it; eye to eye, and palm to palm. As the pause upon the ceasing of a thousand-voiced psalm. Was the mighty satisfaction, and the full eternal calm. She could see me coming to her with the vision of the hawk; Always hastened on to meet me, heavy passion in her walk; Low tones to me grew lower, sweetening so her honey talk. LILIAN. 59 That it filled up all my hearing; drown'd the voices of the birds, The voices of the breezes, and the voices of the herds; * ' For to me the lowest ever were the loudest of her words. 'io umm '^ A paleness, as of beauty fainting through its own excess .... But how discourse of features whose least action could express What, while it made them lovely, far surpass'd all loveliness! .0* '? Even when alone together, looks, no utterance can define, Mark'd now and then soul-wanderings, that con- firmed her half-divine : High treasure, ten times treasured for not seeming wholly mine ! 60 LILIAN. On her face, then and for ever, was the seriousness within. Her sweetest smiles (and sweeter did a lover never win) Ere half-done grew so absent, that they made her fair cheek thin. On her face, then and for ever, thoughts unworded used to live; So that when she whisper'd to me, " Better joy earth cannot give " — Her lips, though shut, continued, " But earth's joy is fugitive." 4 For there a nameless something, though suppressed, still spread around; The same was on her eye-lids if she looked towards the ground; When she spoke, you knew directly that the same was in the sound; LILIAN. 61 A fine dissatisfaction, which at no time went away, But mingled with her laughter, even at its brightest play. Till it touched you like the sunshine in the closing of the day. This still and saint-like beauty, and a difference between Our years, (she numbered twenty — mine were scarcely then eighteen,) Made my love the blind idolatry which it could not else have been. Her presence was the garden where my soul breathed heavenly free, And lived in naked silence, and felt no per- plexity. When alone with Time I killed him, with a wild and headlong glee. 62 LILIAN. In playing music she had played, that the keys might be the same Which she had touched before me; or in pencilling her name, With pointed glories round it, on the nearest things that came; Or in fifty similar follies, fit to make the wise world laugh: But you and I know better: the sweet kernels, life's true staff. We know are in the trifles which the wise world takes for chaff. — I now thought earthly fortune had attained its utmost height: The things we cannot fathom we imagine in- finite. I soon found that perfecting means confiding a delight : LILIAN. 68 One day my Lilian told me she had met, by happy chance, A formerly-lov'd companion: he was fresh from sprightly France, And, with many volumes laden — essay, poem, and romance — Was, at her father's bidding, come to dwell with them awhile. " He has heard of you," said Lilian, with a slow and speaking smile, " And, judging you from your friendships, would have place among the file." We met. — His name was Winton — Ani I pale, friend ? something ran. Like death, through all my body. — Now it's over. — If I can, m sketch, from after insight, some faint picture of this man. 64 LILIAN. He had learnt, in well-taught boyhood, under quick and watchful eyes, Doctrines a sharp mind led him first to doubt, and then despise. Better to be greatly foolish, than to be so little wise ! When free, all healthy study was put by, that he might rush To his favourite books — French chiefly — that his blood might boil and gush Over scenes which set his visage glowing crimson — not a blush. His heart, placed right by Heaven, was to Heaven once akin; Now changed to stone; — less, truly, by degrading act, than in Too curious contemplation of the sole Medusa, Sin. LILIAN. 65 To this effect, however, those who knew him best were blind; Feeling, so suddenly frozen, left its lineaments behind; And passionate language, working a deceit but half design'd. And lips, still most expressive, though deform'd with quoting French, Were tools that texts of all sorts from their proper aims could wrench — Clothing, after Gallic models, baseless thoughts in words that clench. — I loved, the hour I saw him; in part for the man he seem'd; In part because my Lilian loved his talk, which she esteem'd. As she said, — and I opposed not,— for the thought with which it teem'd. 66 LILIAN. (For even when he utter'd common things and clear to sight, He look'd at you so intently that you hardly thought them trite; A trick of serious manner wherein women much delight.) Faith in hira, ten years my senior, daily, hourly strengthen'd. Naught Flatters youth like such a friendship: brief ac- quaintance therefore wrought A confidence unbounded, and, I then believed, un- sought. He heard with patience always, sometimes join'd, with seeming heat, The unvaried round of praises lovers love so to repeat: Lilian, each assured the other, was most lavishly complete. LILIAN. 67 And he very soon discovered that it gave me joy- above All other things, to tell me how (no news!) my passion throve. Repetitions never tedious ! sweet tautologies of love! When, for such honey'd moments, I, through half the restless night. Lay thanking this kind Winton, then my bliss was at its height; I then found that perfecting means confiding a delight. — But let none ask joy at the highest, save those who would have it end: There's weight in earthly pleasures; they are earthy, and they tend. By sure, though hidden impulse, at their highest, to descend. F 2 Delights were still remaining — hate — shame — rage — I can't teU what — Comes to me at their memory: none that, more or less, was not The soul's unconscious incest on creations self- begot! But 1 talk too fast — and scarcely can remember why I talk. Every little recollection is a stumbling-stone, to balk The progress of my story, which is like a drunkard's walk. O! Friend, if you had seen her! heard her speaking, felt her grace. When serious looks seem'd filling with the smiles which, in a space. Broke, sweet as sabbath sunshine, and lit up her shady face! LILIAN. 69 Try to conceive her image: — does it make your brain reel round ? — But all of this is over. — Well, Friend, various signs (I found Too late, on rumination) then and thenceforth did abound, Wherefrom, but that all lovers look too closely to see clear, I might have gathered matter fit for just and jealous fear. From her face the nameless something now began to disappear; The wandering thoughts unworded that once made her half divine. Yet, fairest with, without these she looked more completely mine; So I thought this shew'd love's increase: — truly read, 'twas love's decline. 70 LILIAN. What I felt for her I often told her boldly to her face: — Blushes used to blush at blushes, flushing on in glowing chase! But latterly she listened, bending, full of bashful grace: It was to hide those blushes, I thought then, but I suspect It was to hide their absence. Once I said I could detect Higher purity in her daily; and she did not then affect To blush, but did blush, wholly: — such a blush, when frost first nips. Paints vine-leaves. Then her eyelids closed as slow as an eclipse. She knew she had been lying, though 'twas through another's lips. LILIAN. 71 Her voice grew louder, losing the much meaning it once bore; The passion in her carriage, though it every day grew more, Was now the same to all men; and that was not so before. And grosser signs, far grosser, I remember now; but these I missed of course, and counted with those light anomalies Too frequent to disturb us into searching for their keys. Kindness at last grew effort. Then I should have seen a flaw: Love's duties are spontaneous — oh. Love's law is perfect law, And does the things it dictates, and descends not to a saw! 72 LILIAN. But the faith I had in Lilian was a strong thing to destroy. IMoreover, as, in manhood, half the moments you enjoy Are memories of others something like them when a boy, So, faith wanting, I might still have through the present seen the past. Long taking one for the other; feeling sure my hold was fast On that of which the symbols weakened daily. But, at last, — As, when we watch bright cloud-banks round about the low sun ranged. We suddenly remember some rich glory gone, or changed, — All at once the knowledge struck me that her love had grown estranged. LILIAN. 73 From this time forward, glimpses of a dreadful truth came on: They came, but, how I know not, were no sooner come than gone. — At times some link of harmony seems missing, and we, anon, Remember states of living ended ere we left the womb. And see an awful something flashing to us from the tomb — The zodiac light of new states, dash'd tremendously with gloom. We tremble for an instant, and a single instant more Brings absolute oblivion, and we push on as be- fore. — Even thus those dreadful glimpses came, and startled, and were o'er. 74 LILIAN. (All this to you, a poet ! You once said, " A poet's art Lies in tolerating wholly, and accounting for in part, By one heart's subtle movements those of every other heart.") The change I saw in Lilian I had no time to bemoan, But combatted conviction, till 'twas almost over- thrown. No falsehoods so effectual to deceive us as our Even the dreadful glimpses now began to fade And disappear'd completely, when my Lilian asked> one day. If I knew what reason Winton had to make so long a stay LILIAN. 75 In England. " For," said Lilian, with untroubled countenance, " Winton of course has told you of the Love he left in France." — I seized her hand, and kissed it: joy had left no utterance. — I know that there are many so skill'd in the world that none Can fool them — :not even women, be they glorious as the sun, And lie unto sphere music; — but Fm glad that Fm . not one. — I marveU'd, at the moment, why Winton himself forbore To tell me this; but Lilian was in tears. I thought no more, And fuller calm came to me than I ever felt before. 76 LILIAN. Another calm so perfect I should think is only- shed On good men dying gently, who recal a life well led, Till they cannot tell, for sweetness, if they be alive or dead. I'll stop here. You already have, I think, divined the rest. There's a prophetic moisture in your eyes: — yet, tears being blest And delicate nutrition, apt to cease, too much sup- pressed, I'll go on ; but less for your sake than my own: — ^my skin is hot, And there's an arid pricking in my veins; their currents clot: Tears sometimes soothe such fever, where the letting of blood will not. LILIAN. 77 I often tell my story to myself, to make them come; And, as I think of this part, thought grows wild; it seems to numb My reason: — 'twill be now so. — Shall I speak, friend, or be dumb ? You'll hear? Pause then, an instant, so that you may understand. — The glimpses which I spoke of, never had as yet been fanned Into distinct suspicion: they could scarcely have been scanned Clear enough, had I will'd it, being general lumour, thrown From many a light, too little to be recognised alone. Besides, they were possessions which I always feared to own; 78 LILIAN. I ventured not to word them, even in my secret mind : And thoughts pass off like flavours, or like scents, if unconsign'd In language to the memory — not an impress stays behind. Between my soul and Winton's there had long been a divorce. Of which, you see, I chose not to y-.Yestigate the source; -i^ My friendship then recovered^ of itself, its ancient force. And (now that I remember!) neither then nor all that while. Did he mark these revolutions; as of old, an eager smile Came when we talked of Lilian, and we talked in the old style. LILIAN. 79 One morning — are you listening ? — One fair morning, he and I, As we rode across the country, met a friend of his. His eye Caught Winton's — who rode past him. — " What!" said he, " pass old friends by! "So! I've heard your suit's successful? Truly, stuff for a romance After yo'-^ ;^ ^ourite fashion. But, ah! ha! should Perc^ .lance — " " Nay, Percy's here," said Winton, pointing towards me, with a glance Of easy smiles, and adding something — I've for- gotten. Then This passed off; and soon after I went home, and took a pen. And put down what I've told you, — how it happened, where, and when; 80 LILIAN. And, having read it over once or twice, sat down to think; From time to time, beneath it, writing more; till, link by link. The chain I've partly shewn you was complete. I did not shrink. But read it all together, and I found it was no dream ! What I felt I can't remember — an oblivion which the gleam Of light that now comes through it shews for blessedness extreme. — At last I moved, exclaiming, " I shall not believe, until I've spoken more with Lilian." Thereon all my heart grew still: For man's belief is active, and a matter of the will. LILIAN. 81 I sought my love. She started — I suppose that I was pale. We talked; but words, on both sides, seemed to sicken, flag, and fail. Then I gave her what Fd written, watching whether she would quail. In and out flew sultry blushes. So, when red re- flections rise From conflagrations, filling the alarm'd heart with surmise, They lighten now, now darken, up and down the spacious skies. I She finished once; but fearing to look from it, read it o'er Ten times at least. Poor Lilian! had those readings been ten score. That refuge from confusion had confused thee more and more. G 82 LILIAN. I turn'd a volume, — waiting her full leisure to reply. The book was one which Winton had asked me to read, and I Had stopped half way, for horror, lest my soul should putrify. " Behold!" said I, — " from this time, back to that time, when, from France, With many volumes laden, essay, poem and ro- mance. Smooth Winton came, — the riddle's all unriddled at a glance!" She heard me; saw how surely my convictions now were built; So stood at bay, depending on that crutch made like a stilt. The impudent vulgarity wherewith women outstare guilt. LILIAN. 83 " By what right is it," said she, " you are here to question me? There! take your rude indictment, which acknow- ledges the plea Of common love now cancelFd. Truly, sir, the times are free, When ladies must not venture, in appearance, to requite Some foolish boy's first passion, for their own or his delight. Lest he, a man, hatch insult — pleading perhaps his * wrong' his right!" "No wrong — no wrong!" I answer'd, breaking short this senseless throng Of words, which shew'd she dreaded accusation loud and long. " Beside your's, mine is nothing. Your's, oh ! Lilian, is the wrong. g2 84 LILIAN. ** Love ends where wrong commences; and, with love, love's wrong must end. IVe lost — ah! what, love losing, youVe lost power to comprehend. 1 urge no wrong." — Then, finding all her baseless pride unbend, I said, " You're ill ; sit, Lilian." And she sat down, and was meek. " Ah I tears? Not lost to God, then. But, pray, Lilian, do not speak: I understand you better by the moisture on your cheek. " You loved me fondly, Lilian — Yes, I see — but do not cry: The force, I know, was wielded very subtly, to defy Truth, like a tower time-strengthen'd, and to turn it to a lie. LILIAN. 85 " Don't speak! You would not have me unac- quainted with what led To this result? No! listen, and let me relate what bred Thy tears and cheapen'd chasteness — (we may talk now as if wed). " This book here, that lay open when I came in unaware, Is not the first — I thought so ! — but the last of many a stair Of easy fall. Such only could have led you to his lair. " These drugs, at first, had scarcely strength to move your virgin blood; They slowly rose in action, till they wrought it to a flood. Fit for their giver's purpose, who — who turn'd it into mud!" 86 LILIAN. She shook with tears, in silence. I, yet checking passion*s sway, Said simply, " Good by, Lilian;" and got up, and strode away; For I knew that she would make me weep before her, should I stay. — Now followed the revulsion. Passion changed me to a beast. — You know how I hate passion. Fair is foul, with passion pieced. Of good things miscall'd passions, surely love is passion least. What passion is in marriage — type of perfect love on earth? The passion, ' love,' is really sense of love oppos'd — love's dearth: Even good, if born of passion, is it not a bastard birth? LILIAN. 87 Yet I — I, knowing all this — I — was vulgar passion's slave — Would lie and roll, as brutes do; sick of that, would up and rave; — Weep, like a peevish woman balk'd of what her fancies crave; — Stoop to thirst for present vengeance, — which I knew I could not sate Without including Lilian; still ceas'd not to medi- tate. Gratuitous self-torturer! Deepest hell is hopeless hate! I madly ask'd, " Where's Justice?" Found no an- swer in the text — Self-wrong is paid in this world, wrong to others in the next. — But time makes grief less grievous: now my mind is less perplex'd. 88 LILIAN. We know there must be justice! Else what man could breathe his breath, Except to suffocation? Hear the promise — what it saith Fact-proved — in life are many that foretaste the perfect death! For this, kind Heaven, I thank thee: — 0! thou dost not let us burst Through sense of man's oppression: — the oppressor shall be curst. Thank, thank thee! How I thank thee! Thank- ing seems to slake mj thirst. In the pride of words I question'd — shall death limitless requite Wrong limited? Thank, thank thee! I see now with better sight. We are the fools of language; — every wrong is infinite. LILIAN. 89 Pardon, Heaven! that I doubted whether there was any hell. O! but now I do believe it! Firmly, firmly! I foretell Of one that shall rank high there: he's a scoffer, and must dwell Where worms are — ever gnawing scoffers' hearts into belief; Where weepings, gnashings, wailings, thirstings, groanings, ghastly grief. For ever and for ever pay the price of pleasures brief; Where Gallios, who while living knew but cared for none of these, Now amazed with shame, would gladly, might it God (Fate there) appease. Watch and pray a million cycles for a single mo- ment's ease; 90 LILIAN. Where— Enough! my petty fancy, dreaming trifles sense-begot ! But thou art just, great Father! I will pray while I am hot. Oh, let this — Wherefore stop me? Right! friend, right! — let this be not! Ay, scorn me ! I have earn'd it. But I said how it would be. Fool! to passion against passion, and in face of that to flee Forthwith into its shackles, spouting mad im- piety! Ah! but had you known my Lilian! (a sweet name?) Indeed, indeed, I doted on my Lilian. None can praise her half her meed. Perfect in soul; too gentle — others' need she made her need; LILIAN. 91 Quite passionless, but ever bounteous-minded even to waste; Much tenderness in talking ; very urgent, yet no haste; And chastity — to laud it would have seemed almost unchaste. Graced highly, too, with knowledge; vers'd in tongues; a queen of dance; An artist at her playing ; a most touching utter- ance In song; her lips' mild music could make sweet the clack of France. France? — Ah, friend, much I've followed what I meant should be my theme ! A little more! — ^^So quiet in her ways; a pride supreme In truth — that can't be neither: — no more! — this is a dreamt dream. 92 LILIAN. And, good friend, judge this doting mad re-action of mad rage. — I fled from love and Lilian, as IVe said; tried to engage My thought, — intending sometimes to forget grief; so assuage. I now and then succeeded: but — forgetfulness too sweet ! It startled with its sweetness — thus involved its own defeat; And every time this happened with it brought a full repeat Of the pain upon discovery. So, at length, I learned by heart, And never, save when sleeping, suffered henceforth to depart The knowledge of my sorrow ; and in time this soothed its smart. LILIAN. 93 Great sorrows are not lasting : they can kill, or drive us mad, Or leave a way of talking that will make the hearer sad; But they are never lasting — not even such as I have had. For, evermore, Grief's offspring kill their mother; at least so I've found : I thank kind Heaven, woe-bought wis- dom has made woe Seem light, — when I remember what it was two years ago. But often even now friend, in my leisure, in the thick Of other thoughts, unchalleng'd, words and looks come crowding quick — Good friend! they did this morning, till the sun- shine made me sick. 94 LILIAN. Yet that's not much. This sorrow is not selfish; and the tear Of pity hath a sweetness, among sweets, without its peer: Souls sainted, by such sadness lift themselves from sphere to sphere. 95 epilogue* He ended: all his passion Had consumed itself in speech; And now a silence followed Which was understood by each. At last he look'd around him, Smiled, discoursed of common things. Then boldly and abruptly Touched again on tender strings. He lost his story's purpose In the sense of its relief; G-rew garrulous in praising All the kind effects of grief, And told the pithy maxims It had taught him: thus they ran — " We love God first in Nature; Then in Woman; last in Man." — 96 LILIAN. " At best, the heart of woman Is a narrow depth." — " For aye, Griefs growth, like that of fungus, Hath its essence in decay." With many others — worded From the life that's only had By having lived. These finished. All his countenance turn'd glad; For perfect vent for sorrow Is in words (as doth aver The many-moral'd story Of the bright-eyed Mariner.) The facing a dead evil Frights the spectre to its shroud; And, franchised thus, my dreamer Dreamt a dream like this, aloud: — LILIAN. 97 " Our foe once more is working, But with pen in place of lance. And is the hope of conquest With our England, or with France? The question, for the first time, Should be thought upon in dread; For Fear, it is, not Valour, That must bruise the serpent's head. " Dear country! Noble England! Pause awhile! the stake is vast. The Present bears a Future Which has no type in the Past. Through coming revolutions, Through an age or two of storm. Behold that giant Future Left for thee, in chief, to form ! 98 LILIAN. " Mark well the wondrous changes — Mark the ends towards which we climb; Results that nought can frustrate, Save the stopping short of time. Ere long the sun of knowledge Must produce a nightless day; Ere long the curse of Babel Shall have worn itself away. " Then art, man's proper nature, Shall become an active life; And blessed births must follow The approaching death of strife. Let War once cease to root up Re-production in her rage, What fruits may come of nations' Lying fallow for an age! LILIAN. ' 99 " The wheels are now revolving Which must work all this, and more; The hearts of common people Swelling now with precious lore; The rustic hasting homeward, To his Paper from the plough; And books, that will be henceforth What they never were till now. " The outward eye turns inward, Slowly wedding fact to fact; Such harmonized experience Making knowledge, knowledge act. While all of this progresses Sense is weakly, vision thick, Sin itself has little savour. And the soul of man lies sick. H 2 100 " The creeping thing has dwindled To a grub, that it may fly; And those who stand and calmly Watch the Present, can descry. Upon its corpse-like surface — In its dead, mechanic strife — The blind, uneasy motions That precede the higher life. " The vital warmth, the leaven. The condition of this birth. Is hearted here, in England. Therefore, England! watch thy worth; Keep bright the truth that's left thee; Hold suspicious the advance Of every foreign spirit. But esj)ecially of France. LILIAN. 101 " With thy soul's eye see the Present Not alone the Past's cold tomb. It is that, but it is also A true chrysalis — all womb. Then look forth to the Future! Till that haven's won, be thou The great world's rudder always, And, when possible, its prow." 102 SONNET I. My childhood was a vision heavenly wrought ; Vast joys, of which I sometimes dream, yet fail To recollect sufficient to bewail, And now for ever seek, came then unsought. But thoughts denying feeling, — every thought Some buried feeling's ghost, a spirit pale, — Sprang up, and wordy nothings could prevail In juggle with my soul. Since, better taught: Truth-seeing contemplation, light that solves Doubts without logic, rose in logic's room. Then faith came back, and hope, that faith involves ; And joys — rare stars! which though they not illume The clouded night, have glory that dissolves And strikes to quick transparence all its gloom. 103 SONNET II. Not wholly for the few in whom thou hast Trust for strong judgment, work ; nor wholly cling To gaudy popularity, whose wing Was never made for flight. Fame's perfect blast Wants undivided breath. Wise they who cast For both ; wisest who neither serve, but sing Verse motive-void as Pythia's muttering ; For poets are the prophets of the past. Rich Spenser, deep -toned Wordsworth, Chaucer green, Shakspere, and mighty Milton, sought their fame First in their own approval : we have seen How the world's followed. Then seek thou the same, If, Poet, thou wouldst be what those have been. And live for ever in a laurelled name. 104 SONNET III. At nine years old I was Love's willing Page : Poets love earlier than other men, And would love later, but for the prodigal pen. " Oh ! wherefore hast thou, Love, ceased now to engage Thy servitor, found true in every stage Of all the eleven Springs gone by since then?" Vain quest ! — and I, no more Love's denizen. Sought the pure leisure of the Golden Age. But lately wandering, from the world apart, Chance brought me where, before her quiet nest, A village-girl was standing without art. My soul sprang up from its lethargic rest. The slack veins tightened all across my heart. And love once more was aching in my breast. 105 SIR HUBERT. prologue. O Love, by all beloved, Lovelj Love, that comes to all! The world is pressing on me; Help me, Love, or I must fall! My soul is sick within me; Give me strength to fly the thrall — The darkness which I suffer — Shade forecast from perfect death. O, my desire is to thee ! Breathe upon me living breath; Some part of that make actual Which my soul remembereth! 106 SIR HUBERT. — Love's one to all: to Heaven, Mistress, father, friend, or wife; And what's not love is evil; For " the way, the truth, the life," Is, God declares, love only; Other ways, guilt, grief, and strife. Time was that blushes started If I took Love's name in vain; My soul was Love's pure priestess. And my body Love's pure fane. O precious time! — thrice precious, That it cannot come again. Years, bearing much love from me. Left me happy; I could still Call spirits — potent spirits — Could at all times have my fill Of love, by mere volition : Youth, through faith, is strong to will. SIR HUBERT. 107 Now, heart, how is it with thee? Wholly impotent to pray, Thou sleep'st, the slave of motives Thou shouldst rule, and not obey! But, hot thoughts ! blindly striving To get good things upon clay, First warm that clay to being; — Search through memory; from the throng Of time-bequeathed stories Choose some passion, sane and strong; Soul, try to see it strongly. And arouse thyself to song. Who help themselves, God helpeth; But the boon pray'd and the pray'r Are one — both, therefore. Heaven's: Man's sole place is, to prepare The path, through which Heaven leads him, Then, before he is aware. 108 SIR HUBERT. I'll work once more to clear it! Will shall conquer will: I'll sing, Though minded more for weeping, Till from song song's temper spring; For that is love's. — My story Be of love, without its wing; Of steady love well guerdon'd; Of as much as I may scan, Through dim and tarnish'd knowledge, Of Grod's earthly perfect plan. The melody of woman Making harmony with man> SIR HUBERT. 109 I. Ah I who would not be Hubert, For his birth and bearing fine ; His rich sky-skirted woodlands ; ValleySy flowing oil and wine; — Sir Hubert, to whose sunning All the rays of fortune shine ? Thus many talk'd of Hubert. Many others warm'd in praise Of Hubert, the pure-hearted, Than whom none went on his ways Less tempted of temptations ; Whom no peril could amaze. 110 SIR HUBERT. But Hubert to sweet woman Was the standard by which worth Of every sort was measured: So that many maids, for dearth Of such a man to woo them, Love foreswore, and with it mirth. At foot of one fair altar Offered he his sighs, and chose To love a large-eyed maiden Of sixteen: — Sweet years! that close The promise and completion. Like the ripe buds of a rose ! She cared not for his sighing: — "Ah!" said some, " earth's best and chief Miss always earthly guerdons!" — Better suits it my belief That God holds such men worthy To be glorified by grief. SIR HUBERT. Ill Now Hubert, finding Mabel Did not love him, thought it best Neither to urge directly, Nor to wholly drop his quest; Because love yet might burgeon With her yet unburgeon'd breast. Sir Hubert, therefore, order'd Sumptuous banquets and rich shows, In Lady Mabel's honour. Partly, that they might dispose Her young heart well towards him; Partly for, if thence arose Small profit to his love-suit, At the least she should partake Delight of his producing. — 'Twas a thought had power to make, Of poverty, proud splendour. Could it come for her rich sake! 112 SIR HUBERT. It came — unseen — uncared for. With his hopes, which daily fled, Fled joy in his possessions ; So the news in one day spread, Of Hubert's fortunes bankrupt. And of Mabel richly wed. XL Sir Hubert knew much better Than to carp at Heaven's will. Although he could escape not From that load which seem'd to fill And heave about his bosom, Like material weight, he still SIR HUBERT. 113 Could banish Mabel's image, He was certain; — that he would Was, to him, the simple sequence Of the power: because the good Perceive one meaning only In the words — should, would, and could. He went forth from the city , Where she dwelt, to one poor farm, — All left of all his valleys; There, Sir Hubert's single arm Met Hubert's wants; and labour Lost its hardship in its charm: Much action eased the burthen. And the everlasting freight He bore within his bosom; But his bosom grew elate. And light as air, on thinking, Of what led to this estate! I 114 SIR HUBERT. Moreover, he discovered That the Heaven-establish'd task, Direct and serious seeking For the bread we daily ask, Strikes clear the face of Nature From an unsuspected mask. And glad was he, accustomed' To the state, almost, of kings, To now find purest waters In the simplest wayside springs; And novelties, twice novel. Because seen in common things. All these results together Wrought, in time, a total peace: He could walk and think of Mabel, And his pace would not increase ; He often, therefore, did so. — Not that love does ever cease: SIR HUBERT. 11$ Who say, when somewhat distanced From its heat and grosser might, " Love's brand burns us no longer — It is out!" use not their sight: For ever and for ever We are lighted by the light. Before there be extinguish'd One minutest flame, love-fann'd, The Pyramids of Egypt Shall have no place in the land, But as a nameless portion Of its ever-shifting sand. I2 116 SIR HUBERT. III. From his fortune's ruins, Hubert Had retained one hawk, whose flight And form had made it precious Even at his fortune's height; A thousand-fold more precious Was it now; for Hubert's plight None other friend or servant Chose to share; but, day by day, This hawk would, while affording Relaxation noble, slay The meal for which, not seldom, Hubert lack'd the power to pay. < SIR HUBERT. 117 It served him, too, of evenings: On a sudden he would rise, From books or simple music, And awake his hawk's large eyes, (Almost as large as MabeFs,) Teasing out its dumb replies, In sulky sidelong glances. And reluctlantly flapp'd wings. Or looks of slow communion, To the lightsome questionings That broke the drowsy sameness. And the sense, like fear, which springs At night, when we are conscious Of our distance from the strife Of cities; and the memory Of the spirit in all things rife. Endues the chairs and tables With a disagreeable life. 118 SIR HUBERT. These debts, and more debts like these, Work'd, in concert with the need, In healthy minds, of something To be kind to, till, indeed. The love he bore his favourite Might be well thought to exceed The just and due proportion. By the world, that, bold and blind. Compares finite and infinite, — Wholly impotent to find The heaven, by men like Hubert, , Found in love of mind to mind. SIR HUBERT. 119 IV. Love's heaven, long shut against him, Time re-open'd; but he led A life so far from Mabel, That two years were wholly sped Before report first told him, She was free — her husband dead. Sir Hubert now determined. Judging sorrow's fit space spent. To urge at once fresh love-suit; But his heart, late heal'd, was rent Anew, to find how hopeless Was his hope's accomplishment. 120 SIR H¥BERT. It went abroad — Should Mabel Wed again, her spacious land, The wealth of her dead husband. By his latest breathed command, Belong'd all to the infant He had left: so Mabel's hand Was not for Hubert's seeking; For, if possible to thought That she would then have loved him, None the more would he have sought An unimagined treasure, Whose bestowal might have brought No treasure to its giver: For, to her, what would suffice To crown him with contentment. Would be poor. — The Man descries. Where Woman knows but discord, Often mightiest harmonies ; vSIR HUBERT. 121 And Hubert thought — Though Mabel Could, perhaps, become resigned To live, like him, quite simply. She would never, like him, find That poverty is riches. Only of another kind. The air of resignation Had, thought he, too much of gloom For wedded love to flower. And let forth its soft perfume: Love, unfulfilled, was fearless. Like the wild hedge-primrose bloom; Wed, — like an evening primrose, That folds up, and is afraid. Except in utter calmness And pure peace; but is displayed Of afternoons, when peaches Cool their angry cheeks in shade. 122 SIR HUBERT. V. He gather'd consolation, As before, where best he might: But though there was the difference That he now could claim a right To grieve as much as pleased him, It was six years, since his sight Had fed on Mabel's features. So that Hubert scarcely knew What traits to give the vision Which should fill his eyes with dew : For she must needs, by that time. Have become another, who. SIR HUBERT. 123 In girlhood's triple glory (For a higher third outflows Whenever Promise marries With Completion,) troubled those That saw, with trouble sweeter Than the sweetest of repose. It, therefore, was the business Of his thoughts to try to trace The probable fulfilment Of her former soul and face, — From buds deducing blossoms. For, although an easy space Led from the farm of Hubert, To where Mabel's castle stood. Closed in, a league on all sides. With wall'd parks, and wealthy wood. No chance glimpse could be look'd for. So recluse her widowhood. 124 SIR HUBERT. Hence seasons past, and Hubert Earn'd his bread, but leisure spent In loved dissatisfaction, Which he made his element Of choice, as much as, till then, He had sought it in content. VI. One day, as Hubert rested From his labour, spade in hand. There came a sense of glory, And he look'd around the land; And he, and all he looked at, Seem'd to brighten and expand. SIR HUBERT. 125 The wind had just arisen, And the airy skies were rife With flocks of perfect cloudlets, And the trees were all in strife, Extravagantly triumphing At their newly-gotten life. Birds wrangled in the branches With a sweet, confused noise; Even the earnest cuckoo, Judging wisest to rejoice, Shook round his " cuckoo, cuckoo," As if careless of his voice. But Hubert leant and listen'd To the glory in his breast. The first glow turn'd to passion, But he nursed it, unexpress'd. And glory gilding glory Turn'd at last to sunny rest. 126 SIR HUBERT. Then again he look'd around him, Like an angel, and, behold! The scene was changed — no cloudlets Cross'd the serious blue; but (roU'd Behind the breathing mountains) Watch'd tumultuous piles of gold. The wind, too, was abated, And the trees and birds had grown As watchful as the clouds were; Right above the bright sun shone, Down looking from the forehead Of the giant sky, alone. Then a nightingale, perhaps waking At the stillness, shot a throng Of notes into the sunshine ; First with care, then swift and strong; Then he madly struck them round him. Till the bright air throbb'd with song; SIR HUBERT. 127 And suddenly grew silent All amid his ecstasies; — Laurels rustle! What sees Hubert? Sight is sceptic, but swift knees Acknowledge Lady Mabel, As she issues from the trees! YIL For a little, she stood speechless, ■ And the gorgeous vision seem'd To sate the air with beauty; Then she spoke, and Hubert drean^'d Of voices giving glory To the utterly redeemed. 128 SIR HUBERT. " Sir Hubert!" — and, that instant, Mabel saw the fresh light flush Out of her rosy shoulders. And perceived her sweet blood hush About her, till, all over, There shone forth a sumptuous blush— " Sir Hubert, I have sought you. Unattended, to request A boon — ^the first I ever Have entreated." Then she press'd Her small hand's weight of whiteness To her richly-sloping breast. But said on, blushing brighter: " The demand I have to make. You must believe. Sir Hubert, Cannot be for my own sake; For that, too much already You have spent." And as she spake. SIR HUBERT. 129 She look'd at his poor homestead, At the tool, dropt from his hand; Then suddenly it cross'd her. How immense was the demand Which she was here for urging. Yet, what grief, should he withstand! Tears came. " But since," thought Mabel, " It is said — Time cannot mar The depth of genuine kindness, — And because the tenderest star That tries the April twilight Is more bold than lovers are, " I'll stay and dine with Hubert, — So to offer space and pause For hope to re-illumine. Gentle heavens! that see the flaws In every human action, Pardon this one, for the cause!" K 130 SIR HUBERT. Then (by- her looks, whose meaning She half wished him to divine, Confessing her confusion. And unfitness for design) She said that she was wearied With her walk — would stay to dine, And name her wishes after. She grew silent. — Oh, her mouth Was sweet beyond new honey, Or the bean-perfumed south, And better than pomegranates To a pilgrim dumb for drouth. SIR HUBERT. 131 VIII. How was it with Sir Hubert? — Beggarly language ! I could burst For impotence of effort: Those who made thee were accurst! Dumb men were gods were aU dumb. But go on, and do thy worst! — His life-blood stopp'd to listen — Her delivering lips dealt sound — Oh ! hungrily he listen'd ; But the meaning meant was drown'd; For, to him, her voice and presence Meaning held far more profound. k2 132 SIR HUBERT. He gave his soul to feasting, And his sense, (which is the soul More thoroughly incarnate) Backward standing, to control His object, as a painter Views a picture in the whole. She stood, her eyes cast downwards. And, upon them, dropp'd half-way, Lids, sweeter than the bosom Of an unburst lily, lay, With black abundant lashes, To keep out the upper day. A breath from out her shoulders Made the air cool, and the ground Was greener' in their shadow; All her dark locks loU'd, unbound, About them, heavily lifted By the breeze that struggled round. SIR HUBERT. 133 As if from weight of beauty, Gently bent... but oh, how draw This thousand-featured splendour — Thousand-featured without flaw ! — At last, his vision revelling On her ravishing mouth, he saw It closed; and then remembered That she spoke not. — *^ Stay to dine. And name her wishes after" — To these sounds he could assign A sense, for still he heard them, Echoing silvery and divine. — Now Hubert summons knowledge — Asks forgiveness, fearfully. For his too much attention — Says, it is his misery That he must lose her presence, Even a moment; yet to be 134 SIR HUBERT. Her servant almost mends it : — Her repast he must prepare Himself; — so leaves the garden, And, that instant, is aware That he has nought to give her, Nought wherewith to purchase fare, No friend, of whom to borrow, No one near, of whom to claim The tax, and force its payment In his passion's sovereign name; — Nought seen, at any turning, But unsufFerable shame! Too late to fly his falcon ! Which, as if it would assist Its master's sorrow, perches On his vaguely-offer'd fist, With busy, dumb caresses, Sidling up along his wrist. SIR HUBERT. 135 — Lo! now a short confusion, And a kind of dim dismay, Flit over Hubert's features; Now, as wishing to assay The weight of his fat falcon. Up and down does Hubert play The bird, and, in an instant. Takes it from its living stand. Grasps all its struggling body With the strength of the left hand, And, with the right, he kills it; And its eyes, so broad and bland. Will never meet Sir Hubert's Any more, nor find him food. He plucks it now — now roasts it; And now, in a merry mood. Leads Mabel to the dinner. And forespeaks it passing good. 136 SIR HUBERT. IX. When Mabel and blithe Hubert Had well eaten of the hawk, And of the garden's fruitage, Seasoned all with gracious talk, They rose, and left the table, And went out again to walk. At Mabel's wish; — for Hubert Could not then observe her eyes. As he had done at dinner, With such unrelax'd surprise. The whole time she was speaking! Much as if he could surmise SIR HUBERT. Her motive for remaining So long with him, and for ways So little to be look'd for From her use in former days. At length, sure now to prosper. She begins her suit, and says, That he can no more wonder At her coming, when he learns How all she has to cherish. In the world, upon it turns; Her little son, she tells him. Even now with fever burns, Which he can forthwith banish. If he will; — her boy's decease, She thinks, would cause hers also:- Thus forecasting many a piece Of truth most apt to touch him, She unfolds how strong caprice, 137 138 SIR HUBERT. That's nothing strange in children, Bound her son, and seem'd to balk All effort to destroy it: Often had the child heard talk About the unequall'd beauty, And sure flight of Hubert's hawk, And all day long he fretted, And all night he kept awake. Because he could not have it. It was only for his sake She came there — would Sir Hubert Give his falcon for her sake? SIR HUBERT. 139 Thought she, " What ails Sir Hubert, That his visage, just now bright For hope of being able Still to furnish me delight, Changes, as I were changing Into something fit for fright? " As if a nightmare had him. He stands powerless to speak — With gaping lips and eyelids! — Surely, surely this is weak In such a man as Hubert! Tears are flowing down his cheek ! 140 SIR HUBERT. " If he would keep his falcon, Why not say so? — But I see That I was much mistaken In Sir Hubert's love to me!" Then loud, and a little proudly, " Sir, be sure that you are free " To utter a refusal, And offend not: nay, I feel The extravagance of asking So much worth from your own weal." Then cried Sir Hubert, vaguely, " Why, I kill'd it, for her meal !" — " Ah ! much was I mistaken In Sir Hubert's love to me !" She murmur'd; and her eyelids Blush'd with tears, and two or three ^ Fell down the fair perfection Of her face. And it must be SIR HUBERT. 141 That they were not wept solely For her proper loss. Her eyes Dwelt calmly on Sir Hubert; She allow'd new tears to rise, Uncheck'd; and ever, through them, Sweetly streamed a soft surprise. The truth at last felt fully, Mabel summon'd will to say — " For this magnificent banquet I have eaten of to-day. Sir Hubert, it much grieves me I can make no fit repay ; " But if, sir, for the future, We can meet as friends, my board Will be as open to you As it would were you its lord." Then she bow'd; and left him standing From his stupor unrestored. 142 SIR HUBERT. XI. Now, this time, he lost nothing Of the things that Mabel said. Yet time crept on; full labour Just sufficed, his falcon dead, To keep his roof above him, And provide him daily bread. And Mabel waited ever, (For she saw his love unslack'd) To hear of Hubert's coming. But a woman has the tact To estimate an action She would not know how to act; SIR HUBERT. 143 When, therefore, Hubert came not, She conceived the cause, and why He hinted no new love-suit, — Which the petty-spirited fry Said, was because the spirit Was too low — that was too high. Still thought-engrossing visions Of the hand of Death, whose clutch Seem'd close upon her infant, Did not let her mind dwell much On Hubert's wealthy banquet. Or the want which made it such. But now, — her infant vanish'd, And the astonishment aU past, Which Death, though we expect him. Not the less wakes at his blast; And no sign left of weeping, But a gentle downward cast 144 SIR HUBERT. Of silk-smooth lids, and whiter Than unfallen flakes of snow, — Remembrance came of Hubert. " Ah !" thought she, '' how do I know But he may yet be fasting For that feast he did bestow ! " How comes it that I never Have remembered this before! But perhaps I can amend it. ril send for him, and deplore This oversight unto him; And he shall accept good store " Of all that I can think of Which will ease his life's hard way." That very morn, as Hubert Roughly work'd, came one to say That, should it suit his leisure, She would speak with him that day. SIR HUBERT. 145 So, to the tower'd castle Comes Sir Hubert. — Half reclined Along a couch leans Mabel, Deeply musing in her mind Something her bosom echoes. O'er her face, like breaths of wind Upon a summer meadow, Serious pleasures live; and eyes, Large always, slowly largen. As if some far-seen surprise Approached; — then fully orb them, At near sound of one that sighs. 146 SIR HUBERT. XII. " Ah, Hubert! Welcome Hubert!— My thoughts were of you just now." — Then, but not quite so warmly, " And they were, Sir Hubert, how To alleviate the burthen Of the debts with which I bow. " Sit, sir, for you look wearied By your walk: it wearied me. I hoped to have had you oftener For a guest; but now I see That you are even prouder Than they whisper you to be. SIR HUBERT. 147 " You wanted formal asking — Nay! deny not!" — And she ran On talking, till a terror Seem'd to take her, lest her plan Should fail of forcing Hubert To forget how she began. And ceased at last, exhausted. Then Sir Hubert straight replied, With every noble courtesy. To her words, and spoke, beside, All things that are permitted To mere friendship ;^-not in pride, Or wilful overacting Of the right, which often blends Its sacrificial pathos, Bitter-sweet, with lovers' ends; Or that he recollected Her command to "meet as friends:'* L 2 148 SIR HUBERT. It was because he knew not That the little child was dead Whose living made it proper To preserve his love unsaid. — On Hubert's ceasing, Mabel Thought her plan was too well sped. She holds a moment's silence, Now begins again, not loud: " When very young. Sir Hubert, I was thoughtless — therefore proud: I think much more at present, And believe that, like a cloud, " Youth hides worth from the youthful: Very like the cloud's, youth's light Seems more, because more scatter'd, Than the sun's that makes it bright,— The truth that, shining through it, Is itself obscured to sight. SIR HUBERT. 149 " / was, for one, content with, Nay, did even more affect This gay, transmitted radiance. Than truth's glory seen direct:" — Now low: " I but suggest, sir, Some excuse for disrespect, " And ill return to kindness Exhibited to me then: — I was not then so worth it. Near, as — as — Alas! 'tis when We think aloud we're conscious We have not clear minds, like men." She strove to give her meaning, Yet blush'd darkly for dismay That he should catch it. Hubert Fear'd she wanted to repay Love's offerings with lucre, Which she knew not how to say. 150 SIR HUBERT. He dropt his eyes, for sadness, From their worshipping. But, lo ! Upon her sable garments They are fall'n! With progress slow, Through sunny satisfaction To sweet hope his features grow, And, all at once, are lighted With a light, — as when the moon, Long labouring towards the margin Of a cloud, aye seeming soon About to swim beyond it. Bursts, at last, as bare as noon. " Oh, hear me. Lady Mabel! You might animate a clod To speak. I have not spoken; But in true paths have I trod: Ah! I have loved you, Mabel, And I also have loved God; — SIR HUBERT. 151 " And you much more for loving Him beyond you. But I see The time is now for utterance: Lady Mabel, I would be A man of joy — possessed by My possession — would wed thee." Her hands are woo'd with kisses; They refuse not the caress. Closer, closer, ever closer, Vigorous lips for answer press ! Feasting the hungry silence. Comes, sob-clad, a silver " Yes." — Ah! who would not be Hubert, For his dark-eyed bride divine ; Her rich, sky-skirted woodlands ; Valleys, flowing oil and wine ; — Sir Hubert, to whose sunning All the rays of fortune shine? 152 SIR HUBERT. epilogue. This sober song is ended. It has made my bosom well ; And bosoms well see visions Which it betters them to telL Clear-visaged truths uncall'd for Come: I suit them to my shell. The Muses are the helpmates Of mankind — are born to be Supporters of our moments Slack in faith ; their deity Is but our own reflected ; Make them idols, and they flee ; SIR HUBERT. 153 Or worse, remain as tyrants, Who (most tyrant-like) employ The power we give, against us, — KiUing that perpetual Boy Which is the Man's best manhood. With a jealous hate to joy. And thence, although my heart throbs Often hoping that, from thrall, Man climbs up, through the centuries, — Quite as often doth it pall With fear, that they are spaces Of his uncompleted fall. Even now my spirit sickens As I think how truth's prime staff Fails through this idol-worship, — What was corn becoming chaff. The man that loves a woman Loves his passion more than half; 154 SIR HUBERT. He loves himself for loving ; Hopes to thus divide the gain. Love will not be divided, And too late he finds, with pain, That he has left Love's substance To pursue its shadow vain. It is the same in all things : Our unfruitful feelings flow Back on themselves for ever ; — We thrive only when we sow Our virtues freely round us, All unweeting how they grow. True Love began declining When the God of Love was born : To Him, not Her, the loved one, Have man's vows, since then, been sworn. But more of late than ever There's of Love's best life to mourn; SIR HUBERT. 155 Though now a man, as always, , For his mistress might divorce Body and soul, the action Would be tainted at its source With self-congratulation — Done no more of simple course. The dignity of loving Is deceased ; and it is hence That marriage turns among us. On a point of pounds and pence. The instinct of a woman Hates the whining impotence Which marks a modern lover : And the love, from Heaven brought, To work the souFs redemption From the sense, goes all for nought. — Yet, as men are saved by hoping. Why not Man ? Look forward thought ! 156 SIR HUBERT. The bandage loosens slowly From Love's eyes. Love falsely deems To get fresh food by knowledge : — But this brightest of my dreams, That knowledge shall end knowledge, Points my vision to where streams A little wavering lumour, Vanished now, now clear to ken — The hidden Sun of Wisdom Throwing up its dawn ! And then I see Love sway the sceptre For a thousand years to men ; Hear learning laugh'd at — knowing Any truth, be it great or small, A pin-hole pierced in ignorance, (Hiding Heaven, as with a wall,) Through which the eye sees nothing, Till drawn close — and then sees all. SIR HUBERT. 157 Were any truth made polestar, We should then no longer steer Unprofitable journeys, Half by faith, and half by fear. God soon shall be our Polestar, And to Him shaU we draw near. THE END. T, C. Savin, Printer, 107, St. Martin's Lane. m 5 *> ■mm