; 13 y THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES ' -FOOTSTEPS OF PROSERPINE - Footsteps of Proserpine AND OTHER VERSES AND INTERLUDES BY HENRY NEWMAN HOWARD LONDON ELLIOT STOCK 62, Paternoster Row, E.C. 1897 CHISWICK I'RESS :— CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO. TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON. To F. H. Little the world will heed These wild-flowers of my brain, This wreath of waif and weed, My songs of sun and rain : The loud world little recks Even of song divine ; She will not long perplex Her heart with notes of mine. But you my songs approve For my sake and for song's, For praise of perfect love, And fervid hate of wrongs ; But most of all, I deem, Because therein you trace, Broken, as in a stream, Some image of my face. 867 CONTENTS. Love's Day .... " If Joy should 'come to thee" . To the Uranian Aphrodite ' ' Dear slumbering head ' ' Ket the Tanner " T/>c rctQi a':' are overblown " tW Hofse by the Sea 1 " B>-e#k,JjLf>od of bitter sorrow " Sonnet- : I. To Theodore Watts-Dunton II. The Loom III. Through a Casement IV. Beethoven V. The Singer's Recompense VI. Of a certain social Chiromancy VII. Man's Insignificance VIII. Victor Hugo . IX. An Incident from Boccaccio X. The Bernina Snow-Mountains XI. Song Craft . XII. Evening XIII. Beloved Eyes XIV. Mortis Umbra XV. Beneath the Sky " Sighed a lad" . The Park . " Sighs are cloven " Love's Advent . PAGE I 8 10 15 16 25 26 37 38 39 40 4i 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 5i 52 53 54 59 60 Vlll CONTENTS. PAGE " My soul sang loud" 63 William Morris 64 " Day bears her torch away" ...... 67 Saint Thomas in India . . . . . . .68 " I laid a snare of "flowers" ....... 76 Footsteps of Proserpine : I. Cyclamen ........ 78 II. Little Gentian 82 III. Heath-Flower 85 IV. Soldanella 90 V. Saint Veronica . . . . . . .105 VI. Violet 109 VII. Spring Delayed . . . . . . .110 VIII. Spring Arrived . . . . . . .112 IX. The Garland 116 Notes 117 - LOVE'S DAY. " Venit post multas una serena dies." ' x r TJIDE of dawn silently -^L~- Welled from the orient, Fount of humanity, Lord of the firmament, Shine, Holy Light, on my love ! Glide with gold sandalled feet Into her sleeping bower, Dapple the snowy sheet, Cherish the folded Flower, Beam on the breast of my love ! Weave o'er the whiteness there Links for an amulet, Gleam in the glossy hair Strewn on the coverlet ; Then, when the nest of the dove B LOVE'S day. Warms for the bird to wake, Fashion her visions bright, Fall like a blossom flake, Soft on her lids alight, — Open her eyes to my love ! Watch while she robes in soft Raiment her tender limbs, Beckon the larks aloft Choiring her matin hymns ; Last, amid meadow and grove Weave her gay diadems, Flowers for our festivals, Zones of the forest gems, Garlands and coronals, Posies for plumes of my dove ; Buds to lie pillowed on Bosom where fancies blow — Lilies of Lebanon Nourished with virgin snow : Weave, Light and Dew, for my love ! Till, — as an April shower Shot through with golden fire Ripples the alder bower, Rouses the winged choir, Flutters the throstles, — my love ^ t love's day. Robed in her loveliness Comes to me blossoming, Fans me with waywardness, Wings me, all wondering, Skyward. For she whom I love Yields to the golden hour Foison it soweth not, Scent for the scentless flower, Balm the breeze bloweth not, Marvels Earth dreameth not of. Songs in the air will spring, Mute though her lips may be, — Earth is the viol-string, She is the melody : Rise, my Aurora, my Dove ! Shine, O my Morning Dream, Rosy with cheeks abloom ! Flash like a golden gleam, Lighting the forest gloom ! Haste, O my swallow, my love ! Laugh, O my meadow rill, Blush, O my damask rose, Droop not, my daffodil, Come where the Iris blows : There will we linger and rove. love's day. There, by the river edge : I know an arbour there, Latticed with silver sedge Woven with eglatere : Comes not a keel to that cove ; Rarely the strand is wet, Rarely a sound perturbs Love in that arboret ; Only the willow herbs, — Red as the lips of my love, — Whisper, and waters lap, Rushes sing lullaby, Wings of a heron flap, Hovers a dragon-fly, Far off the reaper is heard ; Swans with the zephyr sail, Rhythmic the river heaves, Idly the water-rail Threads through the lotus leaves : Come, O my Blossom ! my Bird ! Moist is the willow mead ; Loop up your kirtle folds, Lined like the silver weed, Sweeping the marigolds : Haste, whitest doe of the herd ! love's day. Fawn with the dainty feet Trip through the meadow dew ! Whisper you love me, Sweet ! Bind me with chains to you, — Caught in the toils of a word ! * Crowfoot her kirtle brushed, Squires of her garment hem, Daisies her feet have crushed — Look ! I will treasure them ! Fear apt ! a missel thrush stirred,- * -None else. Ah, lean on me ! Only forget-me-not Watches us : wistfully Beams on our trysting spot — Blue eyes no tear ever blurred. Me, too, good angels throng Now you are near me, love ; Ah, but the hours were long, Ah, night was weary, love ! Weary from kisses deferred ! Kiss me a thousand times ! Cleave, mouth, as honey bees Cling to the scented limes Rocked in the summer breeze, — Loudly their winglets are whirred ! LOVE S DAY. Me, too, my passion-wings Fold, and uplift again ; Flushed with wild hoverings, Breast to my breast I strain, — Clasp thee, my Blossom ! my Bird ! Speechless ! ah, how, beloved, How, when I yearn to thee, Speak ? Breath is weak beloved, Passion's eternity May not be cramped in a word ! Heart-throbs will whisper it, Summers and winters tell, Noon and night lisp of it, Love ! how I love thee well ! Till of two spirits a third, Godlike, yea, very God, Love, the Immortal One, Springs ; and our mortal clod Melts in the unison : Till betwixt two wings one bird Lives and breathes, travelling, Love-borne, from world to world, Lapt in eternal Spring, — Sinks, and the wings are furled, Folded as now ! For I heard — love's day. Yea, — as a shepherd hears Songs in the mountain breeze, — Hearkened, and all the spheres Sang, and the forest trees Murmured, and all the air stirred ; Whereupon, marvelling, This knowledge came to me : Life is the viol-string, Love is the melody : Sing Bride ! Sing Blossom ! Sing Bird ! If Joy should come to thee when I am far away, And make thy heart as blithe as birds at break of day, While mine is sadder than the sobbing of the sea, — Ah ! while thou joyest, Dearest ! Give one thought to me ! If Grief should come to thee when I am far away, And thou shouldst lack a loving breast whereon to lay Thine aching head for comfort in thy misery, — While yet thou grievest, Dearest ! Know I think of thee ! If Death should come to thee when I am far away, And raise the cruel hand Love hath no power to stay, And blanch thy sweet red lips, and still their melody, — Then, ere thou diest, Dearest ! Say one prayer for me ! ' TO'THE URANIAN APHRODITE. - Ovpavov Ovyc'iTijp, ijv ci) kcii ovpaviav tTrovoj.iaZofitr. IO TO THE URANIAN APHRODITE. My days pass wreathed in dreams, while Time's dim room, With bygone years like withered rushes strown, Hums with the music of Life's shuttle, thrown 'Twixt warps of death, on Aphrodite's loom ; And in my dreams, I hear amid the gloom Love sing, and shift her framework, and anon Cast off some wealth of beauty wov'n thereon, Some blush of art, some plenitude of bloom. Love ! while I lay and watched thy wing'd hand move Meshed in thy threads, a bright embosked dove, Thy casement opened wide, and Dawn's light shone From that far orient sea whence thou hadst flown. Still let me lie within thy lap, Great Love ! For I have gazed too long where light is none. Yea, I have seen Care's pestilent river creep Through meadows made for mirth, and fret a bank Fair with sweet flags and daffodils, which drank Poison, and perished ; I have watched Death reap June's rarest flowers ; and Fate, the tyrant, heap Gold crowns on churls, on heroes chains which clank, Thorns on grand brows, and stripes when brave men sank Bowed with great burdens ; wherefore I did weep. TO THE URANIAN APHRODITE. II Yet, as the darkling cells in leaves transmute Rays caught by those frail hands to flower and fruit, So, when woes touch thy light, O Love, they rank As earth's best beauties ; so thy loom doth prank Gold threads with gray ; and still the shuttle shoot A growing splendour, though the warp be blank. Behold yon moon, the Latmian dreamer's bride, Fling out one silver kiss, and then grow dim, Hiding in fleecy clouds until their rim Glows with her smile again ! So thou dost hide Tlly^empyreal countenance, and I abide The4oveiiness wherein my senses swim. But ah, when led by Fate's four warders grim I pass to darkness — what shall then betide ? Loss, Solitude, and Pain, dull scouts of Death, Wait at Time's porch, and moan with tremulous breath " Trust not Urania's smile ! A wanton's whim, Flown, it shall leave worn nerve and aching limb Sport for Death's playtime." Wherewithal Love saith : " He also is my servant ; go to him : " He hangs my warp ; he wards my palace gate ; Within his healing founts the wounded year Bathes with her swift young Hours, before they bear Laughing through all the land, in frolic state, Flowers for the feet of Spring, to celebrate The day my feet kissed earth, and fanned her air Azure with winnowing plumes ; yea, all things fair 12 TO THE URANIAN APHRODITE. He lulls and laves that I may re-create. The prism he holds, and I the dazzling light ; Which shattered falls in colours, not in night : He beards the ravening Anguish in his lair, Stills the loud Hate, and slays the remorseless Care, Makes black the heavens to show the stars are bright, And builds Eternal Hope from Time's despair." Love ceased her song of Death, and as I lay Lapt in my dreams, her swift hand I beheld Shifting the woof of wondrous times of eld. Florence, Rome, Salem, Athens, in array Passed, like brave pictures, decking still our day ; And many mourned by man, by fate debelled, Whose strength upholds our walls, like oak trees felled, Their beauty gone like leaves to trampled clay. And affluent arts which waxed and waned I saw Tattered or mildewed, once without a flaw; And some like frozen bloom, or founts which welled Poisoned, or barren brides at nuptials knelled ; The grace earth aches for, gone to glut the maw Of Erebus ; whereat my heart rebelled. Then Love to a garden led me, near her grange, Busying her hands with herbs of myriad hue ; Wing'd bees and zephyrs wafted there to woo — Deft artisans who draped with patterns strange Fantastic bridal chambers, sweet to range. Love, architect of every flower which grew, Shaped all those minarets and columns new, -TO THE URANIAN APHRODITE. 1 3 Tovrched by her wizard wands of Chance and Change. Watching these things, O Love ! I seemed to be A mariner borne across a pathless sea, And Life a freighted ship which onward flew Around bright capes, but not one bourne in view, — Holding her course, full-sailed, and helmed by thee, White pinions mirrored in the unfathomed blue. When day droops, and with purple plumage furled Dives like an ocean bird in waves of night, I see thee steadfast, clothed with inward light, Pijot o'er perilous deeps the enchanted world. Inttf" the gloom I gaze : salt spray breaks pearled, - 1 ashing the labouring prow, whose instant might Is given of fate. Though siren shoals invite, Though tempests track, and Life be headlong hurled On some hid reef beneath the Eternal main, Hearts by thy white arm holpen shall sustain The surge insufferable and the wreck's affright, And wrest from anguish ease, from dread delight, Havens from hurricanes, from Death's disdain Life, and Eternity from Time's despite. The dream fades, and again thy shape I see By mountain, heath, and glen, o'er blossoms bent, Filling Earth's lips with song, her breath with scent, Her lap with flowers which borrow sweets from thee : The rose to praise the blush of chastity, Dure heath for swains, lilies for brides unshent, 14 TO THE URANIAN APHRODITE. Myrtle for hardy mariners ; all intent To assuage rough toil, and Time's asperity. And to each hour thy hands new grace impart From Earth's largesse, and Life's florescence Art, As dames for growing maids new smocks invent ; And both, like herbs in fallow acres sprent, Increase where'er Apollo hurls his dart : Till Love's close garden grows a firmament. Dreams wreathe my days, while thou, Love, fashionest The flame-tipped weeds, and green deep-shadowed trees, Enkindlest stars like bloom on summer leas, And mak'st eve's saffron sky a couch of rest. Man yearns toward thee with hunger and heaving breast, And hymns thee in all choirs and symphonies. Thine are his altars, thine his sanctities ; The spheres lie at his feet who lives thy guest. When I lacked thee my thoughts tossed evermore Like boughs on turgid streams when tempests roar ; But when thy white hands' touch had brought me ease Time's casement opened, in the morning breeze, And lo ! upon the dim Eternal shore Hope's rainbow gleamed through foam of troubled seas. 15 Dear slumbering head, reclined on billowy tresses, -Moored to my heart, and locked within my arm, O that the shelter of my fond caresses 1. Could keep your life from harm ! The dark bird Sorrow nests a fledgling raven In warm recesses of each tender breast : Is there no safe resort, no quiet haven, Where Love unhurt may rest ? j t " I^estifellow Sorrow," Love's white bird complaineth, ' ' Give me but room to sleep awhile and sing : Ah, do not drive me out, — for lo, it raineth ! And thou hast torn my wing ! " Last night, dear love, your cheeks, like crimson roses, Bore dew-drop mirrors of the tenderest woe : Each kissed rose-petal on my arm reposes, Caught warmly blushing so. Ah, could Love bid the canker-worm of anguish Grow wings of moonlight moths, and waft away ! Foul thief ! he makes my darling blossom languish, Yet him I cannot slay ! i6 KET THE TANNER. A RHYME OF MOUSEHOLD HILL, NORWICH. 1 549. I. Ho ! Ket the tanner hath saddled his mare ! Ye fat-fed gentlefolk, have ye a care ! By barn and borough, by field and fen, Bob Ket the tanner goes gathering men. The sea-brine beats on the wry-blown toft ; Now empty the hithe is, and barren the croft. Ho ! grind your axes and out with your staves ! Though poor are we, squires, we be not your slaves ! Bob Ket the tanner hath ridden his mare, And roused up the yeomen from Irwell to Yare ! I warrant thee, fellow, the fingers shall burn That grabbed my meadows, and emptied thy churn ! The gentles ha' robbed us of commons and kine ; They tether our cattle, our pastures they tine ! Come, learn them a lesson, they squires and they lords For ours are the ploughshares, if theirs be the swords. KET THE TANNER. I? Ayef strait were our acres, aye woeful our lot ; They lordings ha' gathered the little we got. Aye dainty their dames be, aflaunt in their silk ; Our wives go a-weeping, — their babes ha' no milk ! Our wives go a-weeping, — their children lie dead ; They lordings ha' stolen their milk and their bread ! Gcd's curse en the caitiffs ! To hell wi' the knaves ! We're franklins and freemen, not villains and slaves. Rip out wi' thy reaper, lad ! Reap thee a squire ! Fa* beef Sftd line capons, lad, — they be thy hire ! Cr] ,""Ket and the Commonwealth ! Loud let it ring ! Bs-b Ket is our captain, lads ! Ned is our king ! II. Ho ! Ket the tanner hath gathered a host : They fare from the fenlands, they flock from the coast ; They march in their hundreds ; they camp on the heath. The city lies red in the hollow beneath. Bob Ket is our captain, lads ; he shall command. He holdeth the town in the palm of his hand. The burghers are whining ; ay, let them go whine ! Cry, Down with the lordings ! The people shall dine ! c 1 8 KET THE TANNER. Now drag forth the captive ; stand out with 'ee, squire ! Come bow to thy betters, or duck in the mire. Now shake him like dice, Will ; or devils shake thee ! Bob Ket shall be baron, and better than he. Go hang us the vermin ! The widow was poor : Squire drave her from home, with her face to the moor. Go hang us the vermin ! The widow went daft ; She caught up her bairns, and she cried and she laughed. "Though vermin he be, no killing ! " quoth Ket : " Man's life is God's loan ; would ye take up the debt, And toss it, besmirched, at the Lender, like mud ? — Leave that to the brutes, and the braggarts of blood ! " 'Tis e'en as ye list, Bob ; a curse for the hound ! A flog and a kick, and then let him lie bound ! "Ay, flog him," quoth Ket, "but your oaths are in vain; The poor were the rich if their curses were grain." Then he rose, and he cried : " No cursing ! but deeds ! Go, wrench from the robbers their ill-gotten meads ; No gate and no paling shall lock up the land, Save for keeping of cattle. Ye have my command ! "The barque to the sailor, the flock to the swain, The field to the tiller, to each man his gain ; Away through the county, and do as I bid : The land of the loons and the lordings we rid." KET THE TANNER. 19 LadS, tear up the fences ! Lads, set them afire ! Let beeves be a-roasting, all over the shire ! Lads, drink to the captain in gentlefolk's ale ! Hurrah for the land, and the people's entail ! III. Who cometh a-riding with pennon and helm ? TbBs'e arnyes are blister and bane of the realm. — C om.s, cajrve up thy capon and swallow thy beer ! By'dakin, my hearties, ye've som'at to hear ! King Ned sends a token. Hurrah for the King ! — Quoth Ket, " My lord herald, what word do ye bring ? " Now brayeth the bugle. "Ye rebels, take heed, And repair to your homes with uttermost speed ; " Whereof, an ye fail, in forfeit ye pay Your lives and your chattels ; but, if ye obey, Your King in his clemency pardons ye all ; Now hearken, ye rebels, or worse shall befall." " A fig for the pardon ! " Ket thundered, and swore : " They wights who ha' wronged us may go on that score ; Leal folk are we all, and this answer we send : ' Where the Many assemble, the Mighty shall bend.'" 20 KET THE TANNER. Hurrah for the Commonwealth ! Fling down the gage, Though war to the death for our freedom we wage. — Like a sword from a scabbard, the sun in the west Flashed out, as the heralds rode townward abreast. IV. Now what be they doing within the town ? The gates they have barred and the bolts let down ; There 's a clatter of steel, and a clangour of brass ; And from turret to turret the bowmen pass. Come shoulder your axes, and tighten your bows ! If they be for barking, lads, we be for blows ! Take pikes for the foemen, and picks for the wall ; The first at a fight are the last at a fall. A shot from the ramparts ! Lads, wheel ye about : Now cover the miners ; now drown with your shout The sound of the picks as they hammer and hew. Aim steady, my mates, for our shafts are but few ! What 's up with 'ee, Joe ? Art thou taking a rest ? — An arrow and kerchief he wrenched from his breast ; He showed them, and moaned as he looked at my bow, " The wimple for Nancy, — the shaft for the foe ! " KET THE TANNER. 21 His wounds are agape, and they cry to the brave, " Lads, fight for your freedom : your children ye save ! A stouter-bred carle never stept in the shire. To hell wi' the devils who slew him for hire ! Our ranks are an ocean, their arrows a hail ! We besiege them like breakers a hull in a gale ! Our bodies are hurled at their bulwarks like scud ! The troughs of the ramparts run red with our blood ! V. The city is taken, lads : cheer, lads, cheer ! Let victory foam in the froth of your beer ! Drink deep to the captain, lads, waving your swords ! Cry, Down with the hirelings who fought for the lords ! Well met, master tailor : come thread us thy twine : Our jerkins are yawning, and spattered like swine. Come, clout them with broadcloth, a groat for an ell, Or clout we thy pate, and thou hoppest to hell. From steps of the hostel, " My mates," shouted Ket, " Ye dared to remember, now dare to forget ; Lads, kill not the loons who lie low at your feet ; For life, even life to a lazar, is sweet. 22 KET THE TANNER. " Offend not a wight in the land, nor a lass ; Show mercy in conquest and let the word pass : The hind hath a heart, and the rich man a maw." — Hurrah to thee, Ket ! thou givest our law ! Now march we in file through the streets of the town, And many 's the maid, in white kirtle and gown, Will lift thee white fingers, all love to the tips, And wing thee white kisses blown warm from her lips. But the dead ! Ah, the dead that lie blanched by the wall ! Ah, why did ye leave us, lads ? Why must ye fall, And quaff not the goblet of gladness ye brewed With your anguish and valour, your tears and your blood ? Ah, the dead ! Ah, the dead ! They are fallen like leaves Whipt off by the whirlwind, ne'er garnered in sheaves : The morrow dawns laughing, bedewed from the storm ; Their bough-fellows bask, for the day is full warm : But ye lie a-cold, lads, and trampled to clay, And the wheels of the years will go soft where ye lay : Dear Memories are ye, our farefellows dead ; And Hopes are the flowers that have blossomed instead , KET THE TANNER. 23 Come pledge we the brave in a tankard of beer. The city is taken, lads ! Cheer, lads ! Cheer ! Alone we may fall, but together we stand ; And the might of the poor is the weal of the land ! * [The hind hath a heart and the rich man a maw ; But strife falleth still to the firmest of claw ; And biogd is a red bright seal on the deed, For acrca.io pass from the plundered who bleed. " The Lanzknechts are coming," the plunderers cry, And shake in their shoes till the succour is nigh, Then kneel to Earl Warwick, and call to his braves,— " Come rid us, we pray, of these riotous knaves ; " Their weapons are scant, and your matchlocks shall mow Our varlets like wheat in the fields that they sow."— Now blush, O ye Britons, who held it no sin To purchase the Germans to slaughter your kin ! Ket rallied his men and they fronted the foe, And battled with culverin, billhook, and bow : But valour ill-weaponed is flame without heat, And ruin rides hard on the heels of defeat. 24 KET THE TANNER. The cry is : " No quarter, but slay without care ! The hind is a creature to hunt like the hare ; The boor is a beast that ye bait like the boar, No quarter we swear ! " — and they slew as they swore. The mavis is mute, amid moanings of pain ; The trefoil is drenched in the blood of the slain ; Ten thousand blind eyeballs gaze blank at the b'ue ; And still they are killing, and still they pursue ; Nor pause in the chase till they cry in dismay, " The mouth eats the hand ! There are few more to slay ! These laboured for us : if we slaughter our beast We must bear our own burdens." And therefore they ceased. 2 Now women and children, in fair Dussindale Search weeping their mates and their fathers bewail ; Now silence is heavy o'er hovel and hut : A sobbing is heard, and the doors are all shut. And Christ at his shrine in the Poor Man's fane Hears the good Ket groan in a rust-red chain, And a dolorous harvest the long years reap, For rich men make merry, while poor men weep.] 25 , « The roses all are overblown ; . Full yellow falls the rye ; The long sweet summer days are flown : O love ! — and I, Who loved thee ere the seed was sown, Or winter's tears were dry, For lack of thy dear love am lone, And fain to die ! The roses' breath with thee remains ; The summer's heart is thine ; Flowers wither not, nor summer wanes Where thou dost shine ; Yet here, O love, 'mid bitter rains, Away from thee I pine : Ah, say one word to ease my pains ! — Sweet rose, be mine ! 26 THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. PART I. The clock ticks on the old oak stair, The wind is on the sea, The house is lone, the moon rides bare : To-night he comes to me ! To-night he comes ; the mansion's Head Is far away to-night. " Young wives," my wizened bridegroom said, " Make darkest houses bright." But David in his letter cries, " Reef coral lipped ! False lure ! Rock of my shipwreck, lit with eyes Love's cressets frank and pure : " To-night, before I sail for lands Where death is dropped like rain, I come, dear Fate, to kiss the hands That cut my life amain." I am not false ! Ah, bitter word ! Yet, love, how should you know ? They lied ! they forged ! I took my lord As from your arm a blow ! ' THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 2J They said, " With David duty sways Throned over lives and loves ; — The goodness he delights to praise Your meek submission proves." "Goodness," I answered, " is not twined Of maxims thonged and trite ; It is not' mail to cramp and bind, But wings to lend us flight." Myjover's letter, brave and cold, ..^ Qune after : forged it seems ! It bade me wed a purse of gold To aid a father's schemes. " How could I yield ? " My love ! My own ! I am a helpless girl : Not false ! Ah, no ! Fate sucked me down : You stood not nigh the swirl ! Too late you come ! We can but brood Till madness crowns our loss. Gold ! Gold ! They'd melt down flesh and blood To win an ounce of dross ! I rave, who wife-like should prepare A winter for my guest : Kill all love's flowers, long-sown and fair, He scattered in my breast. 28 THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. My heart is filled with sweet alarms : A wild bird flutters there. . . Ah, should he fold you in his arms ? . , Nay, foolish heart, beware ! Then were I lost indeed ! Ah, no, Beloved, this shall not be. Yet if he sail ? . . The tempests blow, The wind is on the sea ! The marquis till the month be passed Will sojourn far away : David, if this wild weather last, Whate'er befall, you stay. For, love, I dreamt of you asleep, And this word came to me : " The sheets are white, the sea is deep, There 's death in both for thee." I quail at omens void of sense : I fear, yet feel no grief; My bosom heaves in wild suspense ; I waver like a leaf ! Thoughtless, I wear this girlish gown, And roses in my breast ; And let these frolic tresses down, — As he would have me drest ; '• THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 29 Fool ! robe in russet, matron-wise, — Restrained, not April-free ! Fool ! doff thy dainty zephyr guise, — Thy sham virginity ! . . "Alack ! for once 'tis not amiss . . Ah, God ! the love we bore ! That. we must close it with a kiss, One kiss, and meet no more ! I will be brave, and freeze like stone, And act the better part . . tl*ome now, my love ! The house is lone, A cloud is on my heart : Come, love ! I feel a tremor creep ! The wind is on the sea ! " The sheets are white, the sea is deep, There 's death therein for thee ! " 30 THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. PART II. Great mirrored rooms are .comfortless ; My haste forgot a cloak ; How ghostly white my midnight dress ! How black the panelled oak ! Here did my resolution fail, And here upon his knees I sank, and here my love did sail, Not over raging seas, Not to the death he counted bliss With me no longer kind, — But, chartered by my trembling kiss And blown on passion's wind, Into the haven of our love . . Ah me, how deep his voice ! Ashamed I lay, too dazed to move, — Ashamed, yet I rejoice That, winnowing leaves of perished woe With sighs from passion's bower, I watched love's crimson petals blow And plucked with him the flower. — „ THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 3 1 What would you think to see me, Sweet, Beneath your chamber glide Spectral, with noiseless naked feet ? Ah, would you think I hide The footprints of our love in shame ? Nay, 'tis your safety, dear ; For, ere dawn sets the sky aflame We must be far from here. ^» \oung men have courage, old men craft : The young must fly the old: None knows the shooter of the shaft m Poisoned and barbed with gold. &■ Here is the missing note ! Who'll guess I let my lover in ? The room is clear, — my heart not less, — Of any mark of sin. Sin ! Is it sin to break a cord Close woven of lies accurst ? 'Twere sin to spare a name abhorred And let a great heart burst ! And now I mount the stairs to lie Nestling beside my dear ; Him softly wake, and with him fly Far from our woe and fear, 32 THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. Far from a land where frauds are thick As flowers in paths of love, Far from their snares. . . Ah, quick ! Ah, quick ! I hear a step above : You foolish boy ! You should obey ; For now you wake alone . . Who strides o'erhead that sudden way ? . . Who laughed ? . . Ah, God ! his groan ! THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 33 — * *t ■ PART III. Fear not, old man : he feels no spite ! His eyelids will not move. We are but effigies in white Froz'n on a tomb of Love. I wept an hour, but waked him not, J^or has one angel heard ; And when you chuckled hell forgot To take you at your word. The doors of heaven and hell are fast : None knows if heaven there be ; We are all shut out alike, and cast Into the same black sea. Yes, I will talk, and God may hear,— You also, if you will. Nay, keep your cloak, you need not fear ; This night-robe is not chill. You plead your act was natural : Doubtless to you it was. — My tumbled sense will not recall How all this came to pass. D 34 THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. Ah, yes, you conned his letter ; hence You lurked about the place : The journey was a mere pretence ; You witnessed " your disgrace." I must not " fight against my fate ; " You hold it was my crime. The deed is done : you " look for hate, And hope for love in time." You'll hush the deed ; you " know a way : " 'Twere best for both you said. We are not in England, as you say, And have not much to dread. — 'Tis well ! I deal with God alone, And vow to speak no word. We three will stand before His throne, And He will hold the sword. Murderer, you blench : there is no need. Be still, and go not now. You rouse the house ? It is your deed : I do not break my vow. Be still ! and hark to my discourse : Old man, I too am old ! My name is Love Enslaved, — and yours, My housemate, Greed of Gold. THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. 35 White-robed I sit, a marble prize, A lurid wraith of Pain, Love's cenotaph which money buys : Old man, admire your gain ! Why did I bend just now, and stop ? — (Your voice is sharp and hoarse : Is that door closed ?) — I did but drop The point of my discourse. t , My grievous fall confessed, you say, '•"" \ ou pardon me. But I? ■ W ill I forgive? No, not your way ! Yet kneel ! We can but try. Confess : by fraud you won your bride. The phrase fits not your mind ? The means you thought " were justified : " Ah, well : I wax more kind. The hand her husband's blood made wet Anne took, — you know the tale : You are my Gloucester. Stay, for yet My pardon may not fail. Draw near, my lord. Kneel so ! Beseech ! We slaves bow down to force, And worship boldness. Here I reach The point of my discourse : 36 THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. I may forgive — I cannot say. No, sir ! I will not kiss ! I do forgive you — dog ! this way ! And this — old man — and this ! John, move that screen. Shut out the light The strong sun fades and warps. Nay, do not linger now : all 's right ! Drag out my husband's corpse. Fear not the stain upon the bed ; Tis of the Flower of Greed. The petals, crushed, are sour and red. Call none : there is no need. My dear dead mother would complain " You are too tender, sweet ! " That is the first thing I have slain ; I am not nineteen yet. I vowed to wake my love, and fly With him to other lands. . . The poison works. . . John, let me die Alone. . . He understands. 37 Break, flood of bitter sorrow, o'er my head ! My love is dead ! No more life's maze with roses garlanded We two shall thread ; Blown petals mingle with the clay instead For Death to tread. Strew sapling leaves and lilies on her bier : I shed no tear. ■j, I stand and shout to death, " Give back thy prize ! - -' " 'Thou hast no eyes Sor^e*! the fair things thou hast filched away : Give back thy prey ! Or, if thou wilt take all, and nothing rue, Then take me too." Love for our hungry souls a table spread, Whereon we fed; Death overturned and trampled on the bread : "Now eat ! " he said. Love's fount we bathed our feet in when they bled Runs now blood red. Break, flood of sorrow ! May thy waters deep Tumultuous sweep Through every sluice and channel of my soul, Until they roll All joy, all fear, all care, all hope away : Then will I lay Me by my love, and bide with her Death's curse, Or God's reverse. 38 SONNETS. I. TO THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON. Beside a sea, on whose bare breast the sun Lavished gold links of light, in dreams I went, And found thee there on search and song intent, With other twain : a splendid shadow one, And one whose lips with luminous music shone. Then said I, " What, O Master, here besprent Cull ye ? " And thou, with frontal firmament Thought-furrowed, " Here Love's rubies are, my son." Wherefore I searched till dark ; but thou and they Passed, and above three comrade stars grew bright ; And the air melodious throbbed beneath, till day Touched with gemmed hands the vaporous chords of night ; Then did that music mount on wings sublime Those eyried crags that beacon boundless Time. 39 II. THE LOOM. Thought-woven is the fabric of this life ; From memory unto hope the shuttle flies ; The threads are steeped in hues which fancy dyes ; Soffietimes with quaint device the weft is rife ; The clatter of the loom — -this sound of strife — Is made of praise and laughter, prayer and cries : And at the loom One, veiled, sits and plies — Then cuts the weft across with ruthless knife. Ah, paragon of high accomplishment, Of purposes pursued, and graces gained ! Ah, bright illusions with the rainbow stained ! Is all this art and labour vainly spent ? And shall the soul go naked at the end, And die of chill, because the garb is rent ? 40 III. THROUGH A CASEMENT. When her long lashes lifted, through her eyes, Dark windows of a lily shrine unbarred, I watched Love croon o'er ashes, cold and charred, Of dead sweet hopes, and tender sanctities ; These with her tears Love watered, and with sighs Gathered in urns of memory, faith being guard To leave no chalice shent, no amphora marred Till that shrine, falling, knelled her hope's demise. Whereat I wept : " O Thou who takest heed Of soulless herbs, that scarce one flower-urn fail Before its freight, besprent with golden mead, Be born again a flower within the seed, — Grant yet, I pray thee, that her tears prevail To quicken Joy from her dead Hope's entail." 41 IV. BEETHOVEN. As from the nebulous elemental sea, Wand-smitten by the Eternal Mind, Earth rose, ** A. foam-born Venus on whose breast repose -RftS£, myrtle and amaranth, — her canopy Azure, her footfalls timed with Bacchic glee, And thundering rhythm of Birth and Death, and throes Of Races fluctuant, and the impassioned woes Of Orpheus wailing his Eurydice ; So at Beethoven's beck there grew above The waves of sound a wonder-world, where dwell Old gods and nymphs in many a mazy grove ; And in their midst — his deepest song — a well Where Psyche washes whiter than a dove Ere lapped in slumber with immortal Love. 42 V. THE SINGER'S RECOMPENSE. Our age discrowns the bard, unwreathes his lyre, And bids him thrum a stave to rouse the sot, Troll to the jingle of the tavern pot Or go unguerdoned. Ye who would aspire To chant the goat-song, swell the lyric choir, And think to cheat the mocker, think it not ! The light quill floats ; the bard must scrawl and blot, Climb Pindus on an ass of Mammon's hire, Yea, if he run to any worldly goal, Pander to prudes and prostitute his soul, A meretricious jade, for praise and pence. But ye who sing the Dawn, your song's expense Is paid, like songs of larks, in golden toll Won on the wing in azure eminence. 43 j * ■ VI. OF A CERTAIN SOCIAL CHIROMANCY. "... Referre negas, quali sit quisque parente Natus, dum ingenuus." Horace, Sat. I. 6. Stranger who would my proffered palm peruse, You are to me a fair untravelled land ; My life meets yours as on some golden strand A new keel rings, a voice acclaiming news Of foreign ports, and crying, Comrade, choose ! I lay my pinnace freight at your command, Free merchandise for him who takes my hand, Nor murmur if the commerce he refuse. Only I charge you in my sovereign's name, The king of Love whose livery proud I don, Seek not to read my fortune, rank or fame : Honour makes all men equal ; they alone Who boast themselves our betters, blind to shame, Bite dust beneath us, beggared by the claim. 44 VII. MAN'S INSIGNIFICANCE. "In the near future the man of poetic temperament will be paralyzed and made dumb, by too much knowledge of man and his insignificance in the order of Nature." — Athenceum. Yea, truly we are naught ! As moonbeams flashed Momently on a dark unfathomed sea, Starlets which glance, break, vanish, so are we ; Whose lives fly off like wheat-chaff, — winnowed, thrashed, Whirled from Fate's threshing-floor ; who, unabashed, Mouth mighty words and plumb eternity With ell-rod dogmas ; whose philosophy Through centuries reared, is in one decade dashed. Yea, we are naught : a frail and sentient eye In the world's blind bulk ; our pomp and proud estate Fleeting, phantasmal ! Yea, — but intimate With that Unknown which sways the glittering sky ; And at the noon our songs, like birds', abate ; At dawn, like stars, we fade and seem to die. 45 VIII. VICTOR HUGO. 1804 — 1814. In 1804 Napoleon, the reviver of despotism, was decreed Emperor, and in the same year Hugo was carried from Elba to Paris. In 1814 Hugo, child of the revolution and poet of " Les Miserables," made his first literary essay ; and in that year Napoleon, crushed, quitt.d Paris for Elba. That hour the Titan Corsican first dared ■ '• To knot, ignite, and wield, as scourge and brand, The lacerate life of Freedom's Motherland, — That hour the herded nations, maimed and scared, Fawned at the Titan's feet, though late prepared To take the freedom from Her bleeding hand, — That hour Fate timed with black volcanic sand, But Love mixed gold therewith lest men despaired. Napoleon thundered, Hugo lisped ; but Hope Hid with the babe ; and when the thunder sank, And all the tyrant's legions, rank on rank, Melted like mist, athwart a bright'ning slope, Robed in a golden shower of song sublime, Hope fired all plains and pinnacles of Time. 4 6 IX. AN INCIDENT FROM BOCCACCIO. When Guido Cavalcanti, Dante's friend, Met certain prosperous fellows, such as weave Their Bacchic garlands, bragging they achieve Life, — they through graveyards passing, bade him bend His steps their way ; but he " This place may lend Power to your hest ; yet see ! I gain reprieve." Then leaping o'er the wall, " Sirs, by your leave, Now am I free : for here your territ'ries end." The market, forum, and convivial board Are tombs for those who sit thereat too long ; But they who walk erect amid the throng, Who, seeking Wisdom, heed no Siren's song, Whose minds are gates wherethrough great floods are poured, — They live, wax rich, and grow amid their hoard. 47 THE BERNINA SNOW-MOUNTAINS FROM THE VALE OF ROSEG. In vista seen, like truth down glooms of thought ; Or pure long dreamt-of love, hard won and late '*Hy -wanderers through dark ways of wrong and hate ; Or,- ■d#w4»«the travelled years, keen memories, brought Brightly to view ; or shining palaces wrought Of hope amid impending cliffs of fate : So gleam thy peaks, — virgin, inviolate ; Pastures where light feeds only ; ever fraught With shadowy undulations ; like a bride Whose soul Love's pinions, passing undescried, Ripple, and lo, the snowy depths revealed ! And as fair spirits, by sorrow purified, Shine forth, so 'thwart Heaven's blue, where smiles abide, Beacons thy eternal snow's refulgent shield. 4 8 XI. SONG CRAFT. Build thou thy song as singing birds a nest, Woven of fresh-culled grasses, ripe and rare, Bright leaves, papilion wings, brave flowers which bear Fragrance and fruit, plumes from the king wren's crest, Down soft as slumber from some white dove's breast, Mingled with elf-trod moss, and votive hair, Moistened with human tears, and eyried where Barred branches of Life's tree from east and west Let shine the crimson cheeks of Morn and Eve, — Twin masked eternities which guard our day : Then with thy song heaven's Sun may bind and weave Beams of quick light, and silver moon-shafts play, And stars hold session still, though keen winds cleave Life's boughs asunder, and its boscage sway. 49 XII. EVENING. O soft last hour of evening, when the gold Dapples the meadows, and the timorous breeze rToys with the lindens, where the drowsy bees Murmur : and clouds than Love's own bosom roll'd Mpre whitely, sleek'd for Hesper's roses, fold The couch whence Dawn arose ; and Titan trees Brood o'er their shadows, and athwart the leas Flit phantom forms of love romances told : O evening, gracious, virginal ! I gaze Into thy tender eyes, and no more pine, But gather hope by that bright look of thine That Love, who gave thy grace to close our days, Shall of His bounty grant more grace to shine On bournes unknown, and far untravelled ways. So XIII. BELOVED EYES. Dearest, beneath your lashes' shadow bides A troop of poignant loves which, passing, seem To trail their wings reluctant as a dream Flitting at sunrise over ebbing tides Of azure sleep ; and like twin bashful brides Bowered in dark pines beside a tranquil stream Your eyes are ; and their light, as snows that gleam Where naked Psyche in her chamber hides. And though of all your eyes' deep splendours, Love Is lord and king, he ruleth them unseen, Like God the wonders of the skies above ; But if Death blur those mirrors, Love, I ween, Will weep beside my soul till God's white dove With wings of pity once more wash them clean. 5i XIV. MORTIS UMBRA. Walking a level plain, I passed a wood , .Whose'confines fork, as though Fate's giant hand '"Cast ominous gloom ; whence issued one crying "Stand ! In front sits Death ! See him below his hood Mutter, by yon red rivulet's babbling blood ! " Whereat Love clung to me ; and I, unmanned, Watched One approach who bore a burning brand, His face aglow with strange beatitude. Whether the sinking sun behind had shed My shadow on the bank, and dyed the brook Crimson, though fresh from God's far hills it sprang, I know not ; but behold that cowled Dread Vanished, and from its place the angel took A white new babe ; and lo, the nursling sang ! 52 XV. BENEATH THE SKY. Ah plaintive soul, poised palpitant in space, Blown on each gust, a trembling vagrant leaf, Why wail thy woes ? why cherish ghosts of grief ? Why drag thy wings in anguish, and efface What joy thy days may win, what fleeting grace Of glorious moons, and witchery bright and brief Of flowers in bud, and grain in golden sheaf? Earth is too fair to be a weeping place. Up, soul ! Drink sunlight in ! Breathe buxom air ! Bathe thee in beauty ! As frail robes caress A maiden's limbs, so light and loveliness Clasp Earth : shall not the Hidden Breast be fair ? Soft for tired heads, and warm at night to press ? For lo, Heaven's blue ! Thy benison is there ! 53 oiGHED a lad unto a lass, — Now my nights' may never pass But my thoughts upon the pillow, Like the branches of a willow, Dip and dance and dabble ever O'er a passion -swollen river : Fs* it madness ? Is it fever ? Fur it was not always so. — Said the lass, — I may not know. (Sang a birdlet, Tweet-ah-tweet ! Yet they say that love is sweet !) Laughed the lass unto the lad, — Now my nights are never sad, For betwixt my gown and bosom I have sewn a faded blossom, And the thread of glossy hair is ; So forgotten all my care is : Is it magic ? Is it fairies ? For it was not always so. — Sighed the lad, — I may not know. (Sang a birdlet, Tweet-ah-tweet ! Others' faded flowers are sweet !) Moaned the lad, — Your mirth will pass When I lie beneath the grass ! Laughed the lass, — The charm might save you If the flower and thread I gave you : When I stole them you were sleeping; — They are better in your keeping. Then the lass too fell a-weeping. Yet it was not always so : Is it love shall win us woe ? (Sang a birdlet, Tweet-ah-tweet! How those lovers' hearts do beat!) 54 1/ THE PARK. There is a park where oaks of Atlas girth Drop delicate goblets, wrought for elves' carouse, And Titan beeches elbow mossy earth, Beneath whose gnarled root the faeries house. The dews that bead the grass are elfin wine : The best they cull from off the spider's thread ; The hawthorn boughs, on whose red fruit they dine, Will shake a silver shower-bath on your head. To sway them you must stand full four feet high ; And then you top the bracken maze, and stoop Hiding, and stir no limb, or else they spy, And catch you quickly ere you call out, "Whoop !" ii. You dare not wander down the gloomy wood Beyond the scented limes across the stream, For there you meet the hag who wears the hood, And bearded men, with horns, and eyes that gleam. THE PARK. 55 They watch you down the cloistral grassy track, And though you run like mad, and say a prayer, One creeps behind unheard, and grabs your back, And hauls you through the greenwood by your hair. There, too, the gray bird lives who haunts the dell : You need not fear when overhead she flaps. What lies beyond the wood I cannot tell : The farthest edge of all the world perhaps. •^ m. 'But if you pass the woodman's hut, and skirt The hazel copse, alive with foxglove spears, And cross the field (the scarecrow does not hurt) Just through the gate a marvellous thing appears. Beside a leafy path a temple stands, Built wondrously in white, and domed within, Like fanes of heathen gods in far off lands : To worship there, they say, is deadly sin. 'Twas built, no doubt, a thousand years ago ; The plaster cracks, and shows the bricks inside. Perhaps the gods live still : for who shall know What strange wild things among those thickets hide ? IV. Hard by this temple once I met a man, Who stopped and said his father laid the bricks 56 THE PARK. Yet all folk know 'tis named the temple of pan : These cottage fellows talk such fiddlesticks ! They love not ancient tales of nymph and faun, Which tell how once a girl became a flute ; And how fays dance in rings upon the lawn ; And why by day the nightingale is mute. To such I speak not ; but to those who twine Child-dreams like gossamers round some leafy lane, I say there towers no carven dome or shrine So wondrous fair as that bright woodland fane. 'Mid other marvels ambushed in those glades, Behold a cedarn chalet, ringed about With sweet sequestered lawns and tuneful shades, Lapped by a river plashed with lightning trout. A trellised balcony belts that fair domain, Whence opes a garnished chamber, quaintly stored With ancient shields and weapons, doubtless lain Long hid, the relics of a barbarous horde. Brave not the paths of yonder reedy swamp, For haply there those savage spearsmen lurk, And if you pluck the loosestrife, out they ramp, Knives clenched atwixt their teeth for bloody work ! THE PARK. 57 VI. Wherefore 'tis wiser not to dally here ; So turn and lightly run across the park. Yet wait awhile to watch the slender deer, Or -scan the blue for yon mad minstrel lark; Or stretched full length along the river side, Peer at the weedy wonder-cities dim, Where in and out the water people glide : Then shake your head, and — whish ! away they swim ) White sheep are harmless, but beware the dun ! ': Go slowly by, and passing turn not back : The souls of bad men dwell in every one : That must be so, or wherefore are they black ? VII. The bracken mazes yield a sport so rare That gods and babes alone the like may know, — Or those who keep their youth without impair, Or, like brave Cortez, conquer Mexico. Each ardent pigmy player, dubbed a knight, On threefold quest fares knee-deep through the ferns — The first, a frond of perfect ivory white, By which the doughty knave an earldom earns ; The next a harebell coronal, frail as fame, Which crowns the finder duke ; and last of all, To win a kingdom, or a queen's acclaim, — One rare white bell-flower, matchless ! virginal ! 58 THE PARK. VIII. Around a rotten oak the king holds court, His throne, like many thrones, a stump decayed, His laws, like many laws, of futile sort, — Like most, far more debated than obeyed. Oft was I king ; but when in later days, Passing I viewed again my realm and throne, — The stump how dwarfed ! How shorn of charm the maze ! Shrunk, too, the Titan trees, the faeries flown, The woodland void of fauns, the swamp of foes, The fane vile stucco, and the chalet paint ! Ah, should I pass again, mine eyes shall close, Lest on Time's pitiless road I fall and faint ! :J 59 Sighs are cloven Gins -for anguish, Woes Unwoven, Loves which languish. Bosom billows, Brine in bursting, ]\take sad pillows : Love dies thirsting. Laughter bubbles, Beads upwelling, Banish troubles, Love compelling ; Soft eyes smiling, How resist them ? Lips beguiling — Philip kissed them ! Maiden sorry, Love will tarry; Maiden 7ner7y, Soon yoit marry. Bride, sow laughter: Golden grain ! Reap it after : Tears will rain. 'While the grain grows, Ere the reaping, Love weaves rainbows From thy weeping. 6o LOVE'S ADVENT. Passing the world's loud workshop, lo, within I saw vile weapons forged of Death and Woe ; The fires belched blood with labouring breath and slow, And hideous births, begott'n of Greed and Sin On ravished Want, respired amid the din. The anvils rang, a curse in every blow ; The great wheels groaned, the cranks throbbed to and fro, And Love's brave handiwork was crushed therein. To fields I fled where lavrocks dwelt alone, Frenzied with joy to find the world so fair ; There rivers crooned their songs through meadows sown With pleasures no man plucked, and buxom air Sighed fragrance; yet man breathed the blast of care With avarice foul, or mirk with anguished moan. Returned, I said, " Hath yon Cyclopean curse No single eye wherewith to see the stars ? Bears earth's fair face no blush amid her scars, No verdant spot where noise and smoke disperse ? " love's advent. 6i Yet still the more I searched the gloom grew worse ; Till, passing through a gate with brazen bars, Behold, a green abode which no moan mars ! Wherein I heard a virgin voice rehearse Sweet things of love, with ever one refrain : "Ah, Love, why dost thou tarry? Stay not long, Lest. Time should turn the flowing tide of song, And all my hope grow fear, my rapture pain, And men make mock, and say I sing in vain : ~ t « Ah, wherefore dost thou tarry, Love, so long ? " 'The'arf$Ils rang, the sweet notes welled and wept, Like nightingales beside a thundering shore ; Entranced I heard, and, as the long day wore, Upon a poisoned runnel bank I slept ; And dreamed a flood through vernal valleys crept, And on its breast a shining pinnace bore ; And through those brazen barriers evermore From each loud anvil's throat reverberant leapt The great word " Love " ; for Love himself was come. Nor were those voluble orbs and shaftings dumb, But sang of love like circling spheres in choir ; And ruddy tongues cried " Love ! " from out each fire ; And throngs swarmed forth like bees with eager hum ; For man and maid and child cried " Love is come ! " But when Love's argent barque ashore they bind, And Love leaps forth, the crowd awestruck recoils. "Nay, come, beloved ! " he cries, "Behold my spoils ! Pelf buys not these, but he who seeks shall find." 62 love's advent. The workmen shout ; the pelfmen shrink behind, — Whose luxuries bow their backs in tumid coils. But when Love sighed " For such the weary toils," They sloughed them, nor when once erect repined. Then on that place of travail Love's white wand Smote, and the fabric sank beneath the stream ; And labour laughed for joy of Love's sole bond : And homes waxed fair ; and man, to man grown fond, Sang " Hail, king Love ! thou dost alone redeem The world from woe ! " — Alas, how vain the dream ! 4 63 My soul sang loud upon a summer day, "Hark, winds and waters, meads and mountains, hark ! I am Earth's king ! My charioteer, the lark, ^» Math whirled me sunward ; whence, with many a ray •#*" Crowned, I advance triumphant. Lo, I tread " "f'afris' paved with flowers, with rainbows canopied ; ■ Fate is mine element ; with Hope I play : Eve's crimson clouds are pillows round my bed ; With stars for sentinels the world I sway ! " To whom shall I surrender? Not to Pain : He is my minister ; nor yet to Grief, Who finds me fruit beneath each faded leaf. I count my conquests not by foemen slain, But won to service. I have wrestled long And found no wrestler yet to do me wrong. Nor shall Time's mightiest terrors, ranked amain, Affray me. Hark, O Death, to my bold song ! Come forth, and I will fight and win again !" 6 4 WILLIAM MORRIS. Died Oct. 2, 1896. Weep, eyes that beauty brightens ! Mourn, hearts whose wings are song ! Whom love of man enlightens, And hate of wrong, Weep, gathering in your treasure ! The giver now lies mute ; The garden of our pleasure Bears no more fruit. Death, king of all disaster, Makes of his work an end, Bids us bewail a Master, The poor a friend. Son of the Skalds who chanted At Olaf's wassail board, His sagas bloom transplanted From firth and fiord. Therein with bright amazement We look, as one who peers Through some fair pictured casement On other years ; s* '•-nt A. WILLIAM MORRIS. 6$ Dreaming, we look and listen : Stout Harpdon's basnet rings, Rhodope's garments glisten, Rapunzel sings : Brynhild the Victory- Waiter, Gudrun and Sigurd pass ; Holt, stead, and glowing rafter Adorn the glass. ft „~ The tones waxed rarer, stronger ; The brush glow'd in his hand : He wields it now no longer ; The wizard wand Falls ; but the windows kindle, Fixed in the Muses' shrine : Their lights in dark hours dwindle, At dawn they shine ; And as he lies beneath them, Transfigured in their rays, We kiss his brows, and wreathe them With sad, sweet praise ; Singing, Our poet craved not The well-earned laurel crown, But held his course and raved not At fools' renown ; F 66 WILLIAM MORRIS. Not ours the sole bereavement : Art held our Master dear, Who by his life's achievement Made Art sincere ; Who, blameless, shrank from blaming, Was gracious to disgrace, Nor learned the trick of naming The hapless base ; But still for Freedom striving Lived brave and debonair, Wat Tyler's soul surviving In Chaucer's heir. 6 7 Day bears her torch away ; The hills with her kiss are blest ; The flame has changed to a full- blown rose, Whose petals strew the West. '\^ - - J^o Wijye jter footprints fleck '-The moss in the leafy shade ; The pines entangled her golden hair : — She fled, and would not be stayed. The winds lost in the woods Have laid themselves down to rest ; The lark is singing his last glad song; The thrush is in her nest. Fly o'er the hills, fair day ! And gladden another land ! My love awaits me when you have flown : I le takes me by the hand ! More fair than you, fair day ! Is the light in my love's eyes ; His voice more sweet than the throstle's song, His smile than azure skies. He takes me by the hand ! His kiss is upon my cheek ! Hush ! little heart ! Do not beat so loud ! My love his love would speak. His words are silver wings ; They bear my soul afar : Farther than you can fly, fair day ! Beyond the farthest star ! To a land where we may build On imperishable sod, A home whose rafters are tender thoughts, Whose truest is Love, our God. 68 SAINT THOMAS IN INDIA. i. Christ risen, commanded Thomas, saying " Begone ! Proclaim my word in India ! " but the Saint, Weak in the flesh, would suffer no constraint ; Wherefore He called a dark-browed merchant, one Who dealt in slaves : " Abbanes ho ! I bring My slave," the Master said, " a bondsman skilled At carpentry, well tutored, meet to build A palace for Gundaphoros thy king." — Abbanes turned : " Art thou His slave ? " he said ; "Yea," answered Thomas, yielding; and for gold, As once his Master, Thomas now was sold ; Who in the merchant's ship to India sped. And now the barque against the quay they warp, And as Abbanes ate and drank, his slave Sang of the Soul — -a Galilean stave ; And lo, a Hebrew virgin brought a harp. " Daughter of Light," he sang, — the wench's eyes Large with great love of kin and wonderment — " Daughter of Light, before whose feet are bent Kings, and the great of earth, in lowly wise, SAINT THOMAS IN INDIA. 69 Whose robes are woven of flowers from many Springs, — An odour of bloom comes forth, and carol of birds, Or ever she breathes or uttereth sighs or words, Whose sandals kissed make wise the lips of kings : " Truth sits upon her forehead ; thirty and two Are they who sing her praises ; at her call Seven groomsmen wait, and gird her as a wall ; Likewise before her feet seven virgins strew Cassia, sweet calamus, myrrh and cinnamon ; -^he. lifts her hand, and lo, in choral dance , TivelvjtwEons, offspring of the Light, advance, Crowned by the Bride and Bridegroom, one by one. Her neck is as a tower, and either breast Like ivory, and the milk within them Love : Who eat her banquet hunger shall not move, Who drink her wine shall know eternal rest." He sang ; and, singing, beasts beside the well Slew one who smote him, as the Saint foretold, Saying " A black dog in his teeth shall hold The hand which smites ; " and so the thing befell. Whereat they marvelled. And the king, who heard, Cried out "What slave, Abbanes, hast thou brought?" And he, " O king, a builder wisely taught ! " Wherefore Gundaphoros mused, and stroked his beard : " ' Daughter of Light ! ' — a goodly song, in sooth ! Singing thou buildest ! Build as thou dost sing, A builder thou and minstrel for the king : For lo, this day my daughter weds a youth ; JO SAINT THOMAS IN INDIA. " And thou shalt sing what time the groomsmen quit The bridal chamber and the bashful bride Steals through the arras to her bridegroom's side : ' Daughter of Light ' sing thou, and hearing it Wisdom may seal their nuptials, and her Rose Enwreathe their house porch ; yea, and thou in time Shalt build their palace that the tree may climb Walls fit to bear its blossom as it grows." These things the Lord put in his heart to say, And Thomas bowed, and sang, and sang anew Of truth and Christ before those wedded two, And wisdom blossomed in their hearts that day. ii. Thus spake the king Gundaphoros to his slave : "Forasmuch as I am fain betimes to see Mine heirs housed in a palace sumptuously, Build now, and well, or tarrying build thy grave ! Soon I go hence ; the month is Dius now, In Xanthicus the bases must be laid." Said Didymus, " My lord shall be obeyed : Ere then the palace shall be built, I vow ! " " Nay," quoth Gundaphoros, " lo, the frost is nigh ! Go to ! thou dost but say an idle thing ! None build in winter." Thomas saith, " O king ! In sun or frost I keep my vow, or die ! " "' SAINT THOMAS IN INDIA. yi Then spake he thus — and took a measuring reed — "Thy windows shall behold the dawning Light, Thy lucent portals shame the pomp of night : Southward, to banquet all thy race at need, Vast granaries will I stablish ; in the north, Which gazes on the azure hills, I lay Conduits, that men may see pure fountains play, And over all thy land the stream go forth." Whereat Gundaphoros mocked and wagged his head, Beholding all things ordered as he willed, — 'Ji-Thus ere the month Xanthicus wouldst thou - ---*- baild, Or meet thy death ? Then soothly thou art dead ! " So went his journey. And behold the slave Took all the wealth he left to build his dome, And went among the poor from home to home, Crying, " The king is gracious : this he gave To feed the famished, teach the unlettered poor, Uplift the orphan, give the sufferer ease, Make of the winter spring, and heal disease : In his name draw the bolt of every door ! Let in the sunshine ! Cleanse each squalid den ! " So day and night he laboured, so he raised Asylums for the sick, and hourly praised The king whose palace is the hearts of men. Now sped Gundaphoros home, and with him Gad, The bridegroom's regal sire, to whom he cried 7 2 SAINT THOMAS IN INDIA. (For now no more he deemeth Thomas lied) " Come, see a marvel ! So we love the lad, Your son, our daughter's spouse, that we have built A home for him whereof the world shall ring, A palace meet to house a deathless king, — Thanks to a slave who doeth what thou wilt, — Buildeth in winter, hath a wondrous voice, Goadeth black hounds to slaughter at his nod : In sooth a Mage, or else a son of God ; — Come, haste and see ! " And going they rejoice ; And seek that place the apostle meted out : But lo, the sod unturned, the meadows sweet With grass and golden flowers and children's feet ; Nor any hammer sounds ; but people shout Wildly their welcome, and acclaim the king Bless'd as a God in heaven ; yet he alone, Seeing no stone-built palace, turns to stone, Rails, threatens, curses, bids his warriors bring The traitor fettered in a thorny gyve, — Nay, on a shield his carcass ! Nay, his head Eyeless upon a trencher ! Nay, not dead, For they shall see him flayed and baked alive ! But lo, in that same hour, Gad falleth sick ; " The slave ! Go call the slave," the people cry, "The slave gives life, and certes he must die !" — " Yea, life to Ghouls, and towers that lack a brick !" SAINT THOMAS IN INDIA. 73 Gundaphoros thunders ; yet no more forbids, But, seeing him now past mortal power to save, Beckons the bride, the bridegroom, and the slave, Who straightway kneel and kiss his ashen lids, Weeping ; until at length the Doubter prays : ■ " Christ, by the nail-prints in thy blessed side ! O Master/ patient when thy slave denied : Do thou, who raised Thyself, our brother raise ! " 3*he kiflg hath stroked his beard and drunk his r-,w ivJ-ne: ': "Now hath the mummer juggled ? Let him bake ! " His speech is thick and fierce : " Prepare the stake ! Bring knives and faggots : wait the kingly sign, Then flay him ! " Once again he strokes his beard, Gazing at Gad, and sees a dead man blush ! His lips are parted ; lo, they quiver ! hush ! " O daughter, speak ! Was it a moan we heard ? " A moan ! a laugh ! he turns upon his bed ; His eyes are open, staring at the light ; He laughs again : 'tis earth ; but day, or night ? " Sell me thy palace ! " That was all he said. " Gundaphoros, pause ! " (he sees the whetted knives) " O pause ! O spare him ! I have seen a thing Which turns to dross the dowry of a king ! We dote, we maunder, all our mortal lives ! 74 SAINT THOMAS IN INDIA. What of our weary getting showeth good ? Our flaunting palaces, our fawning slaves — They are but mutes and tombstones on our graves ; Our wine is bitter with our foemen's blood ; We strain at others' joys, and snare distress ; Pride runs a bill, and Anguish pays her debt : Up ! up ! and snatch thy sandals from the net ! There is naught good but Love and loveliness. " ' Daughter of Light ! ' sang out a thousand choirs ; A maiden led me apparelled like the moon Whose raiment turns our mortal night to noon ; Eager, I neared the Fount of Fair Desires. Was it a palace ? — Thou in foolish pride Lookest for walls of loveless adamant : These walls have life ; they glow, they thrill, they pant — Thou feel'st them as a lover feels his bride. Was it a palace ? — There was warmth above ; Colours of conches, birds, and on the floor Roses, and fragrance gushing through the door ; The walls were music made of human love. " I craved an entrance : ' Nay ' the maiden said, ' There is a Name which opes the palace door ; Another crown than thine methinks He bore : Take off thy crown ; put ashes on thy head ; The builder seek ' (she smiled) ' or beg of one Who scorned the house to sell it unto thee ; SAINT THOMAS IN INDIA. 75 Or toil among the sick, and grasp the key ; Or kneel and learn the Name beside thy son.' — 'I am a king,' I cried, 'no toiling knave ! Utter the price, and certes I will buy ! ' 'Thy kingdom,' said the maid ; whereunto I : 'Who is the builder, then ? ' She said, ' The slave.' " Gad's tale is told. Now gleams the unglutted knife ; " Spare him ! O spare the slave ! " the people cry ; They weep, they wail, their clamour cracks the sky ; Faffing, the blade will cleave a nation's life. S.u't T6,tfTe king's left hand is on his crown, * His right hand beckons : " Bring your captive here ! Loose him, ye dogs," he thunders : loud they cheer ! Before his feet he bids the Saint bow down : "A well-taught slave in sooth, and cheaply priced ! Name thou thy Master ; I would pay him more." The Name is named which opes the palace door : " Take this ! " he said, " I yield my crown to Christ." G 76 I laid a snare of flowers to net my love : The lily's scimitar, my passion's flame, Burnt white within its sheath ; the violet wove Warm veils of perfume o'er the windflower's bed. Ah ! will she know me constant, droop her head, Pillowed upon my arm, and blush her shame, Red like my roses when I breathe Love's name ? Wild summer gale, be silent ! Make no moan ! My love comes nigh my garden all alone ! The gale sighed low and sank ; the lilac wept ; Laburnum cast gold fillets from her crown ; The bees were drowsed ; the loud cicala slept ; I heard my heart amid the stillness beat. Be silent, heart, or thou wilt stay her feet ! She comes ! She comes ! My pansies kiss her gown ! Her tranquil eyes are angels looking down ! My flowers, my heart, beneath her feet lie prone : My love hath trod my garden all alone. This pleasance hath a winepress : I have laid A snare of grapes, begemmed with morning dews ; Their boughs were heartstrings : lo, my heart arrayed The fruit with purple, and the leaves with green. Come now, and taste the clusters, O my Queen ! Her white small feet were strong, — ah strong to bruise ! She trod the winepress, and my blood did ooze ! Come, Death, and see my flowers ! My love hath flown ; Soft fall thy feet, and I am all alone. r*~0f -m -FOOTSTEPS OF PROSERPINE " 'Comites, accedite,' dixit, Et mecum plenos flore referte sinus.' . . Panditur interea Dili via. " Ovid, Fasti, IV. 431. 440. 7$ CYCLAMEN. Found among /alien leaves in a Mediterranean grove. O the tresses, blown On the April breeze, Of the maiden lone By the trembling seas ! O the vision bright Of the crimson gown Where the sunbeams light On the beech-leaves brown ! Apollo hath builded A wall of blue ; Its gates all gilded He rideth through. On the emerald plain His minions glance, Of the Nereids fain And the Tritons' dance. As a coral shell In the cool green sea, — As a rose by a well, — So fair is she ! CYCLAMEN. 79 By the shore she waits, In the grove by the shore, And looks to the gates O'er the emerald floor. O the silvery flakes, And the mad sweet trill That the skylark shakes From his mellow bill ! O the dip of the wings, And the flash of the spray That the sea-swallow flings As he darts away ! By the shore she lingers, Adown the glade, And bendeth white fingers Her brow to shade ; For her dark eyes follow Yon white-winged barque, And she heeds not the swallow And hears not the lark. O the vision bright Where the leaves lie brown, O the bosom white, And the breezy gown ! 80 CYCLAMEN. O the crimson flush, And the parting lips, And the mounting blush, And the eyes' eclipse ! Now she heareth the hiss Of the keel on the shore, And, alert for her bliss As the lavrock to soar, She runneth and winneth His bosom to hers, And the sweet hour beginnethj The crown of the years ! Ah, well for the maiden Who loveth a god, Whose heart is love-laden, Whose feet are love-shod ! For, through sun-gilded portals, He bears her away To the home of immortals, The fountain of day. But alas for the meadows Bereft of the maid, The light amid shadows, The glint of the glade ! -■** ^ CYCLAMEN. 8 1 In sorrow undying, In uttermost grief, The zephyrs go sighing From leaf to leaf. Yet now, where blown tresses Shone gay in the glooms Of the woodland recesses, Sweet Cyclamen blooms : For the gods, when they blight us By stealing our best, Oft toss to requite us Some trifle in jest : For a hero, a peace ; Wise laws for a seer ; For the thyrsus of Greece The pilum and spear ; A life's recollection For joy of an hour ; For woman's perfection — A picture — a flower ! 82 II. LITTLE GENTIAN. (Gentiana Nivalis : blossoming in mountain pastures, only beneath clear skies.) " Lean, little mother, o'er my bed ; And do not let your lashes fall ; I think, when God put in your head Those shining eyes, he smiled, and said : ' Here 's water from the lakes of heaven ! In case my child in pain should call For some cool drink, let this be given ! ' And now I have no joy at all, Save when the trouble leaves your brow, Or in blue skies I see God's eyes : In other times you taught me how : So when your eyes no longer shine Then I close mine. " Why have you grown so wan ? and why, Though now my pain is less, do you, When I feign sleeping, often sigh ? I know that fellow spoke a lie. God does not, as our usher, strike Poor boys, and help the rich ones through ! LITTLE GENTIAN. 83 Yet when I told that boy I like, Your eyes were large, and bright, and blue, One, knowing us, I know not how, Turned, sneered, and said ' She'll soon be dead.' That!s why I cried all night; and now, When your eyes shut, and cease to shine, Then I close mine. - " I wish you had not stitched, and wrought All night to have me tutored well ; '*! do not learn the half I ought : ' A mere small fool ' I'm named ; and thought, I know not why, beneath the rest. Your cheeks were far too fair to sell To have me taught and smartly drest : But all these things I could not tell : At nine you're such a child, you see ; It 's different when You're nearly ten ; And you had none but only me. Yet if your bright eyes will but shine I'll laugh with mine ! " How pale you are ! and chill as snow ! A few more coals were such a prize ! You're thinking of that man, I know, Who made you wretched years ago — The man now rich, who took your gold : You must not, dear ; it is not wise : 84 LITTLE GENTIAN. It always makes you wan and cold. Mother ! . . I'm frightened ! . . Move your eyes ! " He kissed her lips, and prayed in vain For one more smile ; Now sobbed awhile ; Till, told dead eyes ope not again, He stayed to know if that were true, Then closed his too. And when they laid them 'neath the sod The rich folk said, "We know her past : How sad ! Yet here we see His rod ! " Then went their several ways, and trod On other lives. But where they lay, In nameless graves, amid the vast Mute hills, whose brows the breaking day First kisses, lo, a seed was cast, Whence sprang beneath the darkling firs, Or haply grew In sign Love knew, A flower, stained like his eyes and hers ; And when Love seals Her eyes of blue This flower shuts too. 85 t • III. HEATH-FLOWER. Away with ye, prim wreaths and cockered blossoms, Vain garish coxcombs from the forcing houses ! ; >itch-dainties, flaunt where Circe's quarry browses ! Baubles, go deck our broker-kings' carouses ! Hang fawning on their Madams' painted bosoms ! Orchid, chrysanthemum, exotic crew, Go rot in Mammon's tomb ! I will have none of you ! Minions in Ceres' pageant masquerading, In lackey's livery dight, with well-combed tresses, You mock at toil no blossom ever blesses : Bought beauties ye, not won by Love's caresses, Warmed by no sun, nor wooed by wind's persuading, Fair flowers deflowered who weep no drop of dew, Perish the blight which bred you ! I'll have none of you ! Perish the luxury, prosper simple living ! And you, wild flowers, of rustic life the glory, Stay with me, boon companions ! Many a story Lurks on your lips, sad, mirthful, amatory, Legends and gests, and charm of magic weaving. Bedfellows, while I couch beneath the blue, Smile, breathe upon my song : I dream of Love and you. 86 HEATH-FLOWER. Heath-flower, you are a comely beggar maiden : Ruddy your cheeks, and brown your sturdy members; Fair as the girl who lit these blackened embers, And braves our windy heath in wild Decembers, Her ankles bare and apron faggot-laden : King Gorse with all his gold and spears may woo,— Cophetua loves you not, sweet Heath, as I love you. Yet not for me a life like yours ; but rather The bees' life, vagrant, poised on blossoms, clinging, Cloyed with their fragrance, tossed by zephyrs, swing- ing Rapturous, honey-laden, moaning, singing, — That I may bear at nightfall all I gather To Love, who keeps in golden hive the clue To every winged heart who filches sweets from you. But fickle and fanged are all those tawny people, — Fickle and fanged, like yon rough carle who shook you, Wooed you, and won your kisses, then forsook you ; Virgins beware of such base lovers. — Look you ! Streamward he flies. The Loosestrife, like a steeple, The rogue will climb, as lads are wont to do ; And ring the purple bells, and think no more of you. Hard by the copse where pipes yon rosy linnet Two sisters dwelt, for whom two lords went pining : Sweet Eglantine, a love with thorny lining ; Sweet Woodbine, trustful, pale, the ever-twining, — HEATH-FLOWER. 87 Pull flower, you pluck her roots, the heart within it. Heath-blossom, well Miss Woodbine's steps you knew : The prudent Eglantine was never fond of you. But now no more our Woodbine haunts the thicket, Her blossoms, begged for life, were worn an hour ; My lady Eglantine in yonder bower, Queen Rose, engrafted, bore many a rosy flower : Weep, Honeysuckle, o'er the poor man's wicket, A charm to make the lordly lover true, '^Qr-keep all cottage wenches fresh and free as you. Miss Harebell here ! — a maid of gentle breeding, Clad in her silk blue gown, and hosen slender ! Fie on you, gipsy flowers ! a thing so tender Kidnapped among you ! May the gods defend her ! Romany girl, for this your rough proceeding, Pout as you will, my blossom, till you rue I vow to love Miss Harebell more than I love you. But where is Hyacinth, — ancient woodland dweller? Gone, a blue film of smoke, from hazel cover ; You, too, Anemone, — your days are over ; And, yellow Primrose, yours, my sunglint lover. The Cuckoo-pint was once our fortune-teller : Her hooded face burnt red when storms would brew ; But if you found her pale, Heath-blossom, well for you ! In those days Speedwell flung her tiny tunic Athwart the path to speed the lovers' journey ; 88 HEATH-FLOWER. Then Kate would shriek because her rose was thorny Or, throwing cleavers, Ned commence a tourney ; Then learned Tom called parish pillars ' runic,' And Jane smelt garlic, making much ado, Or praised the pretty flower, and gave it up to you. Then by the stream stout Kingcup, lusty miser, Of buttercups the monarch, held dominion ; And in his harem many a pearly pinion Of Lady-smock would flutter, — many a minion, Dove-like, surround each gilded prince or kaiser : For kings their gold and glory ; all day through, Heath-blossom, I will lie and dream of Love and you. There, too, dwelt Water-lily, once a Naiad, Laving her naked limbs with tresses streaming ; Next May beside her pool I'll lie a-dreaming, Until I see her ivory shoulders gleaming. And now, who knows, but likewise soon a Dryad May rise from your sweet bosom, born anew, And breathe upon my songs, and make them fair as you ? For you are fair, although of different metal From those proud blossoms brooding by the river : Grand spirits, theirs ! Their lush leaves sing and quiver, Wrung by each plaint the wandering winds deliver : Such souls may root beneath Time's flood, each petal ■r ' HEATH-FLOWER. 89 Spread like a wing, and taking deeper hue Than any pink or purple, Heath-flower, known to you. Witness the Water-flag, — well christened Iris, Heaven's harbinger : for when in sedgy shallows One morn I found her, and the winged swallows Dipped, and the dewy webs, and tasselled sallows Flashed in the sunlight, — lo, from heavenly eyries, Apparelled in golden haze, Love's angels flew, And made the earth a place too fair for me or you ! P - ■* ■s ^-Wherefore I take you, flowers, as from Love's bosom : Man's rede is harsh ; you tell a brighter story : In you the Hidden Love uncloaks her glory ; Who, when the Fate's cut threads, brown, flaxen, hoary, May haply knot them round some risen blossom. Hence, comrades, while I dwell beneath the blue, Smile, breathe upon my songs : I dream of Love and you. 90 IV. SOLDANELLA. {The flower of this name, Soldanella Alpina, first herald of Spring in the high alps, makes way through the snow as if by its otvn warmth.) The Hermit of the Wood. Soldanella. HERMIT. What wilt thou with me, maiden ? Little wins In amorous dalliance or delicious sins Frail womankind of me, a ruined tower Wind-rifted, no warm habitable bower ; A moment of accumulated woes Made monumental ; one whom earth in throes Raised as a mountain, whose devoted front, A nation's bulwark, bore the impact and brunt Of all the blasts and buffetings of Fate ; For such beholdest thou ; and that ingrate, The nation, battening on my toil's repast, Whom I preserved, behold ; for me they cast, Exiled, to this bleak vestibule of death. soldanella. I love the kiss of Boreas ; his rude breath, Cold as my lost beloved's, wins my blood SOLDANELLA. 9 1 To blushes, and I foot the frozen wood To gather fuel, and (for gamesome Spring Tarries) to pasture these thy goats, and bring Meal for thy bakehouse, trip the happy vale Each sunrise, and the frore sweet air inhale. HERMIT. Truly in vigils oft mine eyes have praised, Most rathe of roses, her whose kirtle, raised j Abouf the dimpled knee, bears o'er the snow --'The faggots wherewithal my rafters glow ; t, Yea, praised with clinging glances, yet till now Speechless these nine weeks, careful of my vow No more with man or maiden to converse ; Which I but break to bid thee fly my curse, And brave no more a couchant lion's cage. SOLDANELLA. Nay, but I fly not, nor the leonine rage Fear, though it plough deep furrows in my heart ; For reft of me thy soul would too depart Its rugged habitation ; since thy hand, Maugre its might, doth little understand To feed thy lips, O Hermit of the wood ! HERMIT. Well mayst thou mock the might that once subdued A world, but now droops impotent to tame One virgin ! Yet if no voluptuous aim 92 SOLDANELLA. Hath sped thee here, but thou fall immolate By rigour of Love as I by wrath of Fate On this cold altar of ashen solitude, Still, though I may not curse thee, it is good Thou shouldst depart, and in yon happier plain, If there he dwell, seek thy beloved again, Or, if Death bind him, sojourn by his tomb. SOLDANELLA. He dwells not yonder, nor was death his doom ; Neither will I repair to seek him now ; Yet should he seek me, and his love avow, Him loving through the loveless world I follow. HERMIT. Stranger, thou lovest not ! As well the swallow Shall linger all the winter in the north As thou beneath my frown, who mayst go forth Into the summer of thy leman's smile. Natheless, if such vain colloquy beguile A girl's heart, somewhat of thy lover tell. SOLDANELLA. When last he smiled on me, my love did dwell Where the three lions ward the tranquil wave. HERMIT. Ah ! Was he then of those base folk who drave The great duke into exile ? SOLDANELLA. 93 SOLDANELLA. Yea, for lo, My hero was the doge's fellest foe. HERMIT. Then name no more the recreant knave to me. SOLDANELLA. peaceful hermit, wherefore not to thee ? '"^~ HERMIT. •-Knowest thou, wanton, whom thou dost behold? . . 1 am the Duke ! SOLDANELLA. I know, and yet am bold, — The woman's way, — aware the proudest king Discrowned is but a fangless, futile thing : The nations leagued against him — Thirst, Hunger, and Cold ; and of his foes the worst — Those factions in his narrowed government, Pride, his old paramour, and Malcontent, The new one, who debar him from domains Of passionate pleasance, towers, and shining plains, And all Love's heritage : O happier far These than the realms he lost ! For while one star Glows in eve's brow, while yet new dawns array The ebon arch of night with azure day, While Earth, mailed sleeper, wakes at kiss of Spring 94 SOLDANELLA. With laugh of leafy brake and whirr of wing, To blush of bloom and harvest, — all Love's heirs Are princes, and the mortal who despairs Builds his own dungeon and secretes the key. HERMIT. So say ye, glib-mouthed, mocking Vanity ? Beware ! For lo, the madness comes apace ! Walled round with silence, long I fought disgrace, But in the deadly grapple now grow weak. Speech hast thou wrenched from me : shall I not wreak On thee eternal silence ? What art thou ? A glittering snake coiled round an April bough, Her venom masked with fragrance ! Haply he Thou braggest of suborned thee treacherously To watch, and in good time betray his foe. SOLDANELLA. Fiercely thou risest ; and the fitful glow Flung from the embers clothes thy shape in dread. So once an eagle in a flame of red, — Shot from the savage dying eyes of day, — Swooped, and a small warm trembling bird, his prey, Fell in my lap for succour. Such am I ; But such a lap beneath my soul doth lie Odorous, the lap of Love : so, Eagle, strike ! I fear thee not. Thy frown and smile alike My roots sustain. O thou Implacable, Think not to affray me ! I will serve thee still ! SOLDANELLA. 95 HERMIT. Truly thy hardihood is wondrous great ; Nor less thy vision, keen to penetrate That iron crust of wrongs which binds the world, And see beneath the broad soft wings unfurled Old fables prate of. As for me, I trace In Fate's cold eyes, clenched teeth, and cruel face, No smile. But, if thou art forsooth so wise, Speak ! Tell what joy a man shall have who dies Biting, for fruit of all good labours done, ''Dust and the venom spat by each vile one .He lived to serve ? This, maiden Wisdom, say, And thou by grace of me shalt live — one day ! SOLDANELLA. Such joy he hath, O Hermit, as the lark, Who from the clod mounts up, nor waits to mark What praise he wins, but to the Great Sun's call Answers like dew; for though unthanked he fall Midway, yet doubtless on his life's brave song His soul shall mount to Heav'n, and all his wrong Rest like a cloud beneath : such joy he hath ! HERMIT. Thou liest, girl ! Not so, but as the bath God takes Who laves Himself in human woe His joy is ; and as God with one fierce blow Hath paid my life's hard service, thus I pay 96 SOLDANELLA. Thee who served me ; avenging in one day On God's best work the wrong it was his joy To lay on me, as ill-used slaves destroy Their tyrants' treasure ; then, wrapt round with Hate, In black clouds charioted, the ebon gate My blasted soul shall pass, — by thee in death Dove-convoyed to that kingdom where each breath Is righteous hate of God's unrighteousness : So will I slay thee, and, in slaying, bless, Not curse thee. SOLDANELLA. Lost ! O king ! My king ! All lost ! Shall dews of love quench madness ? Nay ! Love's cost Wins only tears ! Ah, like a swift gazelle, Soft Love upleapeth, deeming all is well ; Fool ! Fate hath fostered thee in life's fair bounds, As deer in parks, to flesh the Hunter's hounds ! Woe numbed my lord, but " Love's great warmth," I said, " Like living blood in frozen limbs, thought dead, Stirs in his soul, and though his lips but move To utter groans, yet is it well ; for love Conquers ! " And so I toyed with two-edged speech To rouse him, and I said " He shall beseech The love I die to lavish." Hapless maid ! In longed-for sport of love, all unafraid, I cried, " Pursue ! " But lo, his lip's award Followed not : only madness, and a sword ! SOLDANELLA. 97 HERMIT. Of me thou pratest now. Afraid to die, This other love thou wouldst unshamed deny ? Or shall a maid's lust caper like a mob's From one lord to the next, and cheers or sobs Dance wanton in the wake ? SOLDANELLA. O noble Duke, ** Mock* not in this last morning, nor rebuke • The l&ve that called thee noblest son of Earth • To thee my soul gave all her virgin worth, Thee only, finding else no paragon With that fair image of a man which shone Apparelled in all my dreams with haze of gold. HERMIT. Oho ! Ye merry gods, who love to mould Your lies of woman's flesh and make them fair, Hearken ! In Venice dwells her love, and there Stood foremost of my foes : but me she loved, Me only ! SOLDANELLA. Truly, since my heart approved The Duke's foe in the Duke. For I am she He smiled on, when amid the howling sea Of those who cried, "The war wins Venice wealth ! H 98 SOLDANELLA. I heard him answer, " Never came of stealth True weal, nor shall the state I bled for fight To wrench a prize from Liberty and Right, Nor Venice crave more weal than to be Just ! " Yea, I am that unknown who thereat thrust Her painful way through all the yelping press, And kissed and clasped thy feet in wild caress, Until men trampled her, and from a swoon She woke to find thee exiled ; whom full soon She followed hither, and unloved, forlorn, Have tended since. . . Alack that I was born ! HERMIT. Thy tale is wondrous, stranger ! Who art thou To set white sail and weak unweathered prow Abreast the deep in search of beacons bright, — Souls of just men to anchor by, despite The storms which gird at Justice ? SOLDANELLA. Ask me not, But strike, O madman ! Let not sorrow blot Love's sunlight ; if the earth be dark, then death Is surely bright. Heed not my smock : beneath Throbbeth no craven heart. O sword, my bliss ! I'll dream thou art my hero's longed-for kiss ! SOLDANELLA. 99 HERMIT. Breast of a woman ! How the ruthless sword Falters before that hallowed ivory ward ! SOLDANELLA. Jesu ! The Eagle hath a ring-dove's voice ! HERMIT. f The mist rolls back ! O heart, be glad ! Rejoice ! """This stranger, strange no more, but mate of me, ■ Sweet fearless fellow of my lone destiny, Who fronts all ill below and all above, And lives or dies for that sole good of Love, This slave shall grow my sovereign, I her slave ! There is no Phlegethon, no gulf, no grave, So dread as that mad height man climbs in pride Whence no peak higher shows ! — Self-deified By sense of virtue sterner than his peers', His worship weds its shadow, and uprears A brood of sallow doubts, and sick disdains, Which torture, madden, goad him, till his pains Close in the chasm despair ! Pray heav'n it grant Ever thy feet a hill, thy heart a want, Thy soul a soul more noble to revere ! SOLDANELLA. Praised be the saints, and Love the vanquisher ! The Furies fly ! He falls upon my breast ! 100 SOLDANELLA. HERMIT. I said, " This summer fly is like the rest : Death's cloak will brush the silver from her wings ! " Wherefore I conjured Death, and lo, he flings No veil on her ; but like a star she glows At eve's first kiss ; and, as the shadows close About her path, her beauties brightlier shine ! SOLDANELLA. O golden hour ! This king of earth is mine ! HERMIT. No king but thrall of thee ! For I have said, " Men have no righteousness ; their days are sped Pursuing lusts and trampling each his kind. God is less just ; His vasty mill doth grind Diamonds with dross ; He guerdons wrong with weal, And lashes noble souls, refined to feel The ruthless scourge : God, man and beast alike, — Yea beasts, who howling o'er their victims strike The shuddering keynote of the spheral song, — Clothed round in ravening cruelty and wrong, Jibe with wry mouths at Justice ; I alone Smote with my sword to kindle from a stone The flame of Right — and snapt the sword in twain." Thus did I musing, maddened, long remain Lonely above the world, an evil god Proclaiming all things evil, — sky and sod. My Flower hath sprung, and clod and cloud are good. SOLDANELLA. IOI Her star athwart Time's dark tumultuous brood Beams, an Aurora calming tumbled seas Whereon my soul was tossed, and found no ease Until this hour ; but, ever urged alone With stress of loveless Duty, still did groan ; Like these rock solitudes with ice encased : Rigid, austere, and desolate, a waste Populous with moaning winds and massy clouds : Comfortless comrades, nodding ghostly shrouds, , HuTtlmg in dismal vales, where pines are torn, ' And Sfibw gales blind the blinking eyes of morn : "A fruitless waste, where never grass or wheat Sang, or one blossom kissed the traveller's feet. SOLDANELLA. Nay, for flowers peep already through the snow : I gathered these to-day : where'er they blow Yon ermine cloak about the mountain's breast, Pierced with their warmth, reveals the mossy vest Above the mighty heart. I pray thee speak No ill of this dear land of rock and peak ! These pigmy prophet-flowers sang in mine ear : " Not winter evermore, — not all the year Ice pendants on the pines, black, gaunt, and bowed With flaky manna kneaded by bluff cloud And boisterous hurricane, — not limels crost With white mark of the pestilence of frost, — Not in the passes eddying drifts and wind To scourge the temples and the eyesight blind, — 102 SOLDANELLA. Not clogged and muffled feet and dole of heart, But soon the warm sun-solace, and a start, Momently sweet, of myriad panting things, Chimes of sweet shaken bells and blossomings The insects hear, and drowsed with odours drone Vagrant, or swayed on grasses, tossed and blown Beneath the sailing clouds. . ." Ah, faint and low, Hear we not now Spring's chariot o'er the snow ? Hark to the whirling wheels and galloping feet ? She comes ! She comes ! The savage blasts retreat. HERMIT. I hear the gush and hurry of many rills Born of the melting snow. SOLDANELLA. The assembled hills Find voice with thee : their snowfields melt and brim A million channels. HERMIT. Oh, these eyes were dim ! Cold Earth I saw, not Loveliness the blossom. Now let me clasp mine April to my bosom ! Closer ! ah, closer ! SOLDANELLA. Stay ! My flowers are there ! Fie ! would he crush you, little flowers, nor spare ' SOLDANELLA. IO3 One frail fringed tunic ? — Look how every bell Droops ! HERMIT. Like her lashes : oft I marked them well. Tears clung there ; brave she looked, though flushed and shamed, — But what are these in shepherd language named ? SOLDANELLA. I know not. HERMIT. Tell me thy own name, maiden, then. SOLDANELLA. They call me Soldanella. HERMIT. So let men Name these, for hither they have climbed to bloom Beneath the frowning summit's bastioned gloom, And prank with emerald lawns the winter snow ; As thou didst climb, and, shadowed by my woe, Melt my cold armour, thaw my blank despair, And fill the space with warmth and fragrant air. For life were naught but one bleak mountain range, Sunless and lashed with wild tempestuous change, Whose pinnacles interrogate a sky Thunderous with dark oracular reply ; 104 SOLDANELLA. Nor in man's soul had there been any lake To glass the overarching heavens, which ache With infinite tenderness, nor any hope In lack of that one clue whereby we grope, That gleam in darkness of the light above, That snow environed blossom, Woman's Love. 105 SAINT VERONICA. ( Veronica Chanuedrys : the common Speedwell.) Veronica,' Speedwell, eyelet of the hedge, Maiden whose mantle print is of the sky, Yon rebel lover, lightly passing by, -•Recked not you flung your raiment for a pledge , That X«ove shall yet prevail ; nor knew he trod — Blue heaven above him, drops of heaven below — Miniatures Mother Earth would fain bestow, Warm from her breast, of that one smile of God : Types of that blue entablature above The pillars of this desecrated fane ; Tears out of heaven to ease Prometheus' pain ; Circlets of azure woven in looms of Love. But I, my Speedwell, — seeing your tiny plaid Wrought with like woof and legend, — have I missed The meaning of that ancient herbalist Who named you from the Galilean maid ? Hers was the print of Him whose countenance Mirrored the azure — Him who, first of men, Dared name the Power that flings the dice of pain Prometheus' judge and lord of Fate and Chance, " Father ! " — O marvel ! — Him who set at naught Rome, at whose frontier beat a baffled world, 106 SAINT VERONICA. Who reared his cross above her eagles furled, Who conquered all her legions with a Thought ! To Him the fainting maiden's feet were led : She scarce came nigh Him 'mid the adoring press, Touched but his raiment, moaned her long distress : " Woman, thy faith hath made thee whole," He said. — Once more they throng, but curse the healer now : His soul, a shining heaven, with hell at bay, Cries, " Lord, forgive ! they know not what they say ! " The woman weeps to see his sanguined brow. He bears his cross : they deem the thing a play. Blinded, He staggers ; blood obscures his sight. They spit, they goad Him : who shall help his plight ? Who come betwixt the wolves' teeth and the prey ? Helpless at last He falls, the brow unstanched ; They howl their joy, they froth their venomed hate : No voice, no visage seems compassionate. None ? Nay, behold ! A woman, tearful, blanched, Braves the ranked cohorts, breaks the serried line, Lays her white kerchief on his bleeding face, Dries, cools his brow, revives Him with the grace Of woman's love for which the godlike pine. Speechless He thanks her, mute a promise makes ; She only knows his look the deed approves, — Jesus despairs not while one woman loves : He passes glad ; not now his God forsakes. J, * '■ SAINT VERONICA. IO7 She with the many mingles, weeping sore, Deaf to the hooting crowd, the obscene jest, Clasping the kerchief closely to her breast, Her keepsake when the Master is no more. — No more ? Alas, O blue soft turtle dove ! O crested lark, whose songs no longer wake The Master dreaming by Capernaum's lake, Dreaming of faith and brotherhood and love ! O .sacrificial Bird imbrued with gore ! *Who singest in the human jackal's den "-'Of heavenly kingdoms in the hearts of men, Is this thy song's end ? Wilt thou sing no more ? Back to Capernaum, past the Vale of Tears, The kerchief in her breast to assuage her woes ; Past Shiloh, Bethel, back the maiden goes : An impress on the wimple fold appears ! Faint like a film of smoke at first, the lines Watered with weeping, ever wax more bold ; Until at length, O wondrous to be told ! Forth from the weft the face of Jesus shines ! The portrait breathes ; the soul of Christ is there, Blown on the fabric, as when masters limn ; She gazes long, her heart communes with Him : Radiant He looks, as last He looked on her. She reads his promise, knows her deed's reward : " Take to thy bosom this my blood, and lo, 108 SAINT VERONICA. Within thy breast my lineaments shall grow." She reads his look, and knows her living Lord. So, gazing ever, dragged at last to Rome, Her country fallen, her friends the tyrant's prey, She healed an emperor with the weft, they say : Then, homeless, she who succoured Christ, went home.- So runs the tale. Yet still the tyrants wait Pride-sick, unhealed ; and still beneath their rod Men bleed unholpen by the face of God, — By Love aggrieved, or Love compassionate. Unhealed we wait, my Speedwell, whom they name Veronica, namesake of the woman blest With Love's true image ; (Speedwell, have I guessed Your title's meaning ?) — yet while blossoms fall, And strew in spring the narrow lanes of life With replicas of Love's true azure tinct, Still may we hope our mortal lives are linked Across this stubble waste of woe and strife, These steeps which hourly hear an Orpheus wail, These rocks resounding with Prometheus' groan, To some Great Kindly Life which moulds our own, By whom our ills are weighed, our sorrows known, Who rules that good shall prosper, evil fail, Life conquer Death, and Love at last prevail. 109 - VI. VIOLET. Small fragrant print of April's feet ; - Dream in the dewy grass, more sweet Than virgin visions mavis weaves ~At dawn beneath the sunlit eaves, Secret as passion unconfest, Within the dreaming maiden's breast, Tinct with her veins delicious hue, And, like her lashes, touched with dew Violet, — kneeling near your shrine, Starred with the golden celandine, Like sunflakes on a coverlet Which golden dreams of love beget, — I, feeling past your petal's hem Along your cool and slender stem, Pluck your unravished bloom betimes, And lay it here among my rhymes. no VII. SPRING DELAYED. O why do you tarry so long, Spring ? The almond has budded and blown ; The lark will grow tired of her song, Spring, The yaffel laugh turn to a moan. The fans of the alders unfurl, Spring ; The osiers grow silky and sleek, — More gold than the locks of a girl, Spring, More soft than the down on her cheek. They wither and droop while you linger ; The marybuds open and close ; The frost, with the touch of his finger, Has numbed the red lips of the rose. Come waft o'er the waves of our seas, Spring ! We sigh for the sound of your feet ! Come couch in our buttercup leas, Spring ! No glades in the world are so sweet, A * SPRING DELAYED. Ill No meadows so green in the South, Spring ! Yet why are you lingering there ? The bloom and the laugh on your mouth, Spring, The sun in the threads of your hair. You tarry, and Winter lies whining, A mendicant, naked and gray, In dead leaves and snow-drifts reclining, Gaunt, palsied, and plashed with the clay ; And only your coming delivers Our porch from the curse of the crone : You enter, he mumbles and shivers, And stretches lank limbs, and is gone ! And kneedeep in kingcup and clover We wander, and dream, while you sing The song of a bride to her lover : For what but a bride are you, Spring ? — A wench in warm virginal vesture, A blush in a shimmer of blonde, Light-footed, and lissom of gesture, Swan-bosomed, capricious, and fond : Nay, sister of youth and of strife, Spring ! The spirit that lurks in the clod Of Love and of Beauty and Life, Spring ! The breath and the raiment of God ! 112 VIII. SPRING ARRIVED. We will carol all the day In the coming of the may ; For the Winter goeth by With a sorry churlish sigh, And the Springtide cometh in With a very merry din Of the birdlets in the groves — Little gossips, with their loves ; " O the merry, merry Spring ! " All those feathered fellows sing : Now they hover on the wing, Now on budding branches swing, Now the dewbells from their breasts Shake, and hie them to their nests. Then when morning breaks again, Clouds recumbent on the plain Lift, and loiter by confines Of the black embattled pines ; And the Sun-god from his car Hurls his golden arrows far : Every ray, a Cupid's dart, Shall transfix a flow'ret's heart ; SPRING ARRIVED. 113 And ere many days are sped All those faery people wed. Foremost in the jolly rout Come the giants, tall and stout, One by one in bridal march, Chestnut, sycamore, and larch, Lime and elm, and silver birch, Brawny beech left in the lurch. Last, those ancient sturdy folk, - * .. Curved ash and crooked oak : ♦Who, in vernal robes of green, Join the merry marriage scene. Now through fields and wildernesses See, in countless bridal dresses, Every flower at Hymen's feast, From the greatest to the least : Pimpernels, and black-eyed poppies, Primrose peeping from the coppice, Arum cowled — a one-eyed Phorkys, Glossy kingcup, mottled orchis, Thistles — amazons in armour, Sabred foe of thrifty farmer, Cowslip coy, majestic mullein, Mallow mutinous and sullen, Purple loosestrife minaretted, Soft forget-me-not the petted, And her comely jealous sister Spit-fire bugloss (no one kist her), All ablush with poet's praises 1 114 SPRING ARRIVED. Pretty commoners the daisies, Madcap roses — ruddy, vagrant, Iris lappeted, and fragrant Thyme, and mint, and marshland myrtle, - Every flower that dons a kirtle. Little pipers, jocund all, Pipe your loudest madrigal, Bleating lambs and lowing cattle, Streams and freshets, join your prattle, Plaint of wind and surge of sea Chime exultant symphony ; For beneath the sapphire span, Flaming heralds in the van, Lo, the great high priest rides in, And the festal hours begin. " O the merry, merry Spring ! " Loud the choir is carolling ; While those capuchins the bees, Humming drowsy liturgies, Bear the bridegrooms' wedding pledges To their fellows in the hedges. Gold, and cherished, are their dowers, All those married faery flowers ; Who, ere Autumn leaves grow sere, Ere the crisp ice coats the mere, Ere the soil with frost is bound, — Sow a new Spring in the ground. Cometh now the final wonder : Flash of lightning, peal of thunder ! SPRING ARRIVED. 115 Through an arch of colours blended, O'er the dewy earth suspended In a shower of hailstone rice Goes the pageant in a trice. u6 IX. THE GARLAND. How shall I deck thee, dearest ? — Shall I twine This coralled bryony wreath about thy brow ? And for thy girdle pluck this pendent bough Of caprifole, or yon pink eglantine ? When dawn among the roses first did shine, One rose looked nearly fair enough, I vow, To blush amid thy bosom's snow : but now No floweret's blush seems fit to mate with thine. Yet if those fade, beloved, behold I bear Some weeds which grew to blossom at thy kiss This tendrilled wreath of ever watchful care, This chaplet of my changeless trust, and this Red amaranthine rose of Love to wear And blend immortal fragrance with our bliss. 11/ NOTES. •i Ket the Tanner. 1 Page 21, line 12. — Italian mercenaries at first, German afterwards. The hanging of one Italian seems to be the only act of violence done in cold blood with which Holinshed can definitely charge the in- gerits^ but he adds that, being masters of the city, "These un- Kflie persons were so farre stept into all kinds of outrage that when ,it ra'inea they would kenell up themselves in the churches." ' Page 24, line 12. — " ' Shall we hold the plough ourselves, plaie the carter, and labour the ground with our owne hands ? ' These and such like words, tasting altogither of mercie and compassion in this noble earle [Warwick] did quench the desire . . to see the whole multitude [17,000] executed." — Holinshed. The Park. 3 Page 54-58. — The Park, of which the author here renders faith- fully his infantile impressions, is that of the Earl of Essex, called Cassiobury Park, in Hertfordshire. The so-called Temple of Pan, and the Chalet, no doubt still exist. Like many others who carry with them, through the sordid life of the great city, a fragrant memory of meadow and river bank, the author owes an incalculable debt of gratitude to a landlord, whom no selfishness nor the resentment ef any trivial injury to tree or shrub has blinded to that plain duty of a Christian gentleman not to withhold from the use of his fellow creatures one acre of land save such as may be fenced for cultivation or required for his reasonable privacy. Love's Advent. 1 Page 60-62. — Fresh from one of those monster workshops which launch our battleships, a friend informs the author that daily, on an Il8 NOTES. average, five "operative hands," or 1,500 each year, out of about 6,000, are carried, crushed and mangled, to the mercy of the surgeon's knife, or of some suburban wilderness of tombs, often the only playground of the offspring of their loves. Indeed, he himself had his arm entangled and crushed in the machinery, and was lifted up and whirled round, shattering with his sentient body many yards of glass. In another instance he witnessed, unable to offer help, a workman wedged, head and neck, in iron, while a huge blade slowly sawed him asunder. These things are a parable of modern life, and the doom of laceration or death meted out to each of these labourers on an average once in four or five years, is but a trifle compared with the injury done to the human species by those luxuries, and the resultant jealousies, whose diabolic spawn we behold in the armaments of Europe. Toiling for ten or twelve hours each day in hideous and unwholesome factories, our millions corrupt and enfeeble their man- hood, waging a vain battle against the anguish of exhausted nerves with drugged intoxicants, a poison to the lives of the sad women in the sunless cities and their gutter-bred offspring, in whose slack sinews tremble the hopes of our race. Three hundred years ago, when labour-saving machines were hardly thought of, Sir Thomas More wrote that six hours daily work of each citizen was "not only enough but also to muche for the stoore and abundaunce of all thinges that be requisite, either for the necessitie or commoditie of life : " and the rest of the day should remain for art, music, and "wholsome communication." And so it might be now, but all activity is directed to the rivalries of purse-pride and the lust of unlovely luxuries ; whence man's in- genuity becomes his worst curse, and the triumph of labour-saving steam and iron is to drive a vast Juggernaut Car over the yoked necks of the many, that the favoured of fortune may sit uneasily atop. Is the human understanding capable of no wiser direction of its energies ? Can the intellect of Europe find no road, or no beginning of a road, out of this toppling Babel to the Eden of fellowship and equal felicity among the green meadows and beneath the sunlight and the holy stars ? NOTES. 119 St. Thomas in India. 3 Page 70, lines 17 and 18. — Dius and Xanthicus are months of the Macedonian year, corresponding nearly to October and April. G Page 68-75. — Renan, in " Marc Aurele," dismisses this ancient legend with the observation, "tout ce que les Manicheens racont- erent des mfssions de St. Thomas dans lTnde est fabuleux." St. Augustine, mindful of his old Manichoean heresy, bears witness to the acceptance of these writings as sacred scriptures among that sect ; and himself gives at least so much credence to the narrative as to be greatly r\erci. ; ed concerning the incident of the black dog. For the 'Apostle^o he observes, was struck but lightly, with the palm of the Rand: ?.nd yet he caused the offender's whole body to be torn in /pieces : and this in the name of Him who had bidden turn both cheeks to the smiter ! " Quid hoc videri crudelius potest ? " asks the saint. Alas that we must reply, A thousand acts done since in the same revered Name, and excused by the same specious argument : "Ut et Apostolus per hunc timorem commendaretur ignotis, et illi [to wit, the unhappy victim] post hanc vitam quandoque finiendam in seternum consuleretur." To us, indeed, the black dog himself is even more interesting than the Apostolic revenge, of which he was the instrument. Our uninstructed imagination sees, in that mysterious hound, a beast of the same breed as the black poodle who yelped and gyrated in Faust's study; a dark phantom of the human soul astray in Syria or India, as in Germany centuries afterwards ; a Kerberos amenable to no " muzzling order " ; — quelled, and that hardly, by the cake given to Psyche of the god Eros. If such, indeed, were the dog conjured by St. Thomas, well may the incident scandalize the pious authors both of the " Confessions " and of the " Aurea Legenda " ! To the conversions thus begun, the Church of St. Thomas, still extant at Travancore in Southern India, attributes her origin even to this day. Unhappily, however, a history dating back to the sixth century and not to the first, and a Nestorian rather than a direct Apostolic origin, are, it seems, all that modern scholarship will allow to these staunch comrades of our faith. Encircled for at least twelve centuries by hostile religions, obsti- 120 NOTES. nately protestant of the sway of Rome, planted in primitive times in the far south-east, even as our own church was long ago planted in the far north-west — how pleasant if we might believe that this Indian church now under our protection received its first eucharist fresh from the lips of Christ through the Apostle Thomas, just as of old it was believed that St. Joseph of Arimathea, bringing the Sangraal to Glastonbury, laid the foundations of the Christian Church in Eng- land ! Perhaps, however, of the whole of this Apocryphal scripture, the passage most pregnant of suggestion is the song concerning the human soul, whereof, unhappily, our rhyme is able to convey only the faintest echo. This unique relic of Gnosticism is omitted alto- gether in the " Aurea Legenda" version. And truly it would seem less appropriate to the "Golden Legend" of the pious Dominican, Jacobus de Voragine, than to the "Golden Ass" of the Platonic romancer Apuleius, whose still lovelier tale of the Psyche seems to have been an African, as this was a Syrian, hybrid, both from the same seedling, reared in Africa, indigenous perhaps to half the world. Our rhyme traverses none of the probabilities when it calls the song, put in the mouth of the Galilean apostle, a "Galilean stave," for the Syrian influence was there notoriously predominant. But it seems likely that the actual author was Bar-Daisan, of Edessa, who was a contemporary of Apuleius. Is it not significant of the temper of that age which has fixed for two thousand years the dominant religion of the world, that while the Edessan Gnostic sang the bridals of the Daughter of Light, the Carthaginian Platonist told of the nuptials of the Sun-god's daughter, each symbolizing that re- demption of the human soul which the triumphant Christian Church was striving practically to accomplish ? Of the Gnostic or Mani- chaean symbolism of the twelve /Eons, the seven groomsmen (who, in the words of the original, gird the soul as a wall), the bridesmaids, and the thirty-two choristers, it would be tedious here to discourse. But surely in this song there are manifest traces also of that Buddhist influence on which Baur and Neander lay stress ? And what could be more probable than that Syria, lying midway between Athens, Judcea, and the East, should focus in its religious traditions severally the Hellenic, the Semitic, and the Oriental cults? Psyche, ap- NOTES. 121 parelled for her bridals in a robe woven of flowers, her attendants banqueting on the food which allays all hunger and desire, a palace in the heavens reared out of good deeds wrought among the poor : are we not here at the cross-roads from Plato, Sakya-Muni, and Christ ? These reflections give to the neglected and apocryphal Acts of St. Thomas an interest far above that which our rhymes in them- selves deserve ; especially at an epoch when, nearly two thousand years after that'triumph of the Church of which we have spoken, the West and the East meet once more at the same cross-roads, when the intellect of Europe, nourished on the nectar of classicism, and still drinking from the sacramental chalice of Christ, can no longer neglect that opiate of the Orient whose spell was so potent on the author- of.^ ' Parsifal." For, by whatever cobbler of fables (to quote the phrasepf St. Augustine) our story may have been originated or preserved, the fact remains that it possesses an antiquity only inferior to the authentic Gospels themselves, and that it stands out almost as a solitary landmark showing where, in no matter how crude a con- venticle, three continents of religious thought converged : a con- venticle prophetic, despite all its leaky roofings and overgrown altar-stones, of that great palace, that kingdom of heaven " built in the hearts of men," where the worships of the world shall be merged in one, and the Daughter of Light, man's soul, her robes woven of the flowers of art from many Springs, shall step forth redeemed after her long labours, to her marriage with the higher Eros of Divine Love. CHISWICK PRESS :— CHARLES WHITTINCHAM AND CO. TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON. ^ ♦ UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 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