^ OF 3**0, VOL. I. — PART II. 5/340 //.— MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. MY SISTER'S SLEEP. She fell asleep on Christmas Eve . • At length the long-ungranted shade Of weary eyelids overweigh'd The pain nought else might yet relieve. Our mother, who had leaned all day Over the bed from chime to chime, Then raised herself for the first time, And as she sat her down, did pray. Her little work-table was spread With work to finish. For the glare Made by her candle, she had care To work some distance from the bed. Without, there was a cold moon up, Of winter radiance sheer and thin ; The hollow halo it was in Was like an icy crystal cup. Through the small room, with subtle sound Of flame, by vents the fireshine drove And reddened. In its dim alcove The mirror shed a clearness round. I had been sitting up some nights, And my tired mind felt weak and blank ; Like a sharp strengthening wine it drank The stillness and the broken lights. MY SISTER'S SLEET. Twelve struck. That sound, by dwindling Heard in each hour, crept off; and then The ruffled silence spread again, Like water that a pebble stirs. Our mother rose from where she sat : Her needles, as she laid them down, Met lightly, and her silken gown Settled : no other noise than that. " Glory unto the Newly Born ! " So, as said angels, she did say ; Because we were in Christmas Day, Though it would still be long till npra. Just then in the room over us There was a pushing back of chairs, As some who had sat unawares So late, now heard the hour, and rose. With anxious softly-stepping haste Our mother went where Margaret lay, Fearing the sounds o'erhead — should they Have broken her long watched-for rest! She stopped an instant, calm, and turned ; But suddenly turned back again ; And all her features seemed in pain With woe, and her eyes gazed and } r earned. For my part, I but hid my face, And held my breath, and spoke no word : There was none spoken ; but I heard The silence for a little space. MY SISTER'S SLEEP. 231 Our mother bowed herself and wept : And both my arms fell, and I said, "God knows I knew that she was dead." And there, all white, my sister slept. Then kneeling, upon Christmas morn A little after twelve o'clock, We said, ere the first quarter struck, " Christ's blessing on the newly born !" THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. The blessed damozel leaned out From the gold bar of Heaven ; Her eyes were deeper than the depth Of waters stilled at even ; She had three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seven. Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, No wrought flowers did adorn, But a white rose of Mary's gift, For service meetly worn ; Her hair that lay along her back Was yellow like ripe corn. Herseemed she scarce had been a day One of God's choristers ; The wonder was not yet quite gone From that still look of hers ; Albeit, to them she left, her day Had counted as ten years. (To one, it is ten years of years. . . . Yet now, and in this place, Surely she leaned o'er me — her hair Fell all about my face. . . . Nothing : the autumn-fall of leaves. The whole year sets apace.) THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. 233 It was the rampart of God's house That she was standing on ; By God built over the sheer depth The which is Space begun ; So high, that looking downward thence She scarce could see the sun. It lies in Heaven, across the flood Of ether, as a bridge. Beneath, the tides of day and night With flame and darkness ridge The void, as low as where this earth Spins like a fretful midge. Around her, lovers, newly met 'Mid deathles.s love's acclaims, Spoke evermore among themselves Their heart-remembered names ; And the souls mounting up to God Went by her like thin flames. And still she bowed herself and stooped . Out of the circling charm ; Until her bosom must have made The bar she leaned on warm, And the lilies lay as if asleep Along her bended arm. From the fixed place of Heaven she saw Time like a pulse shake fierce Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove Within the gulf to pierce Its path ; and now she spoke as when The stars sang in their spheres. THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. The sun was gone now; the curled moon Was like a little feather Fluttering far down the gulf; and now She spoke through the still weather. Her voice was like the voice the stars Had when they sang together. (Ah sweet ! Even now, in that bird's song, Strove not her accents there, Fain to be hearkened ? When those bells Possessed the mid-day air, Strove not her steps to reach my side Down all the echoing stair ?) " I wish that he were come to me, For he will come," she said. " Have I not prayed in Heaven ? — on earth, Lord, Lord, has he not pray'd ? Are not two prayers a perfect strength? And shall I feel afraid ? " When round his head the aureole clings, And he is clothed in white, I'll take his hand and go with him To the deep wells of light ; As unto a stream we will step down, And bathe there in God's sight. " We two will stand beside that shrine, Occult, withheld, untrod, ■ Whose lamps are stirred continually With prayer sent up to God ; And see our old prayers, granted, melt Each like a little cloud. THE BLESSED DAMOZEL, " We two will lie i' the shadow of That living mystic tree Within whose secret growth the Dove Is sometimes felt to be, While every leaf that His plumes touch Saith His Name audibly. " And I myself will teach to him, I myself, lying so, The songs I sing here ; which his voice Shall pause in, hushed and slow, And find some knowledge at each pause, Or some new thing to know." (Alas ! we two, we two, thou say'st ! Yea, one wast thou with me That once of old. But shall God lift To endless unity The soul whose likeness with thy soul Was but its love for thee ?) "We two," she said, "will seek the groves Where the lady Mary is, With her five handmaidens, whose names Are five sweet symphonies, Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, Margaret and Rosalys. "Circlewise sit they, with bound locks And foreheads garlanded ; Into the fine cloth white like flame Weaving the golden thread, To fashion the birth-robes for them Who are just born, being dead. THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. u He shall fear, haply, and be dumb . Then will I lay my cheek To his, and tell about our love, Not once abashed or weak : And the dear Mother will approve My pride, and let me speak. " Herself shall bring us, hand in hand, To Him round whom all souls Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads Bowed with their aureoles : And angels meeting us shall sing To their citherns and citoles. " There will I ask of Christ the Lord Thus much for him and me : — ■ Only to live as once on earth With Love, — only to be, As then awhile, for ever now Together, I and he." She gazed and listened and then said, Less sad of speech than mild, — " All this is when he comes." She ceased. > The light thrilled towards her, fill'd With angels in strong level flight. Her eyes prayed, and she smil'd. (I saw her smile.) But soon their path Was vague in distant spheres : And then she cast her arms along The golden barriers, And laid her face between her hands, And wept. (I heard her tears.) 237 AT THE SUN-RISE IN 1848: God said, Let there be light ; and there was light. Then heard we sounds as though the Earth did sing And the Earth's angel cried upon the wing : We saw priests fall together and turn white : And covered in the dust from the sun's sight, A king was spied, and yet another king. We said : " The round world keeps its balancing ; On this globe, they and we are opposite, — If it is day with us, with them 'tis night. Still, Man, in thy just pride, remember this : — Thou hadst not made that thy sons' sons shall ask What the word king may mean in their day's task, But for the light that led : and if light is, It is because God said, Let there be light. AUTUMN SONG. Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf How the heart feels a languid grief Laid on it for a covering, And how sleep seems a goodly thing In Autumn at the fall of the leaf? And how the swift beat of the brain Falters because it is in vain, In Autumn at the fall of the leaf Knowest thou not ? and how the chief Of joys seems — not to suffer pain ? Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf How the soul feels like a dried sheaf Bound up at length for harvesting, And how death seems a comely thing In Autumn at the fall of the leaf? THE LADY'S LAMENT. Never happy any more ! Aye, turn the saying o'er and o'er, It says but what it said before, And heart and life are just as sore. The wet leaves blow aslant the floor ^In the rain through the open door. No, no more. Never happy any more ! The eyes are weary and give o'er, But still the soul weeps as before. And always must each one deplore Each once, nor bear what others bore ? This is now as it was of yore. No, no more. Never happy any more ! r Is it not but a sorry lore ^That says, " Take strength, the worst is o'er " ? Shall the stars seem as heretofore ? The day wears on more and more — While I was weeping the day wore. No, no more. Never happy any more ! In the cold behind the door That was the dial striking four : One for joy the past hours bore, Two for hope and will cast o'er, One for the naked dark before. No, no more. THE LADY'S LAMENT. 239 Never happy any more ! _ Put the light out, shut the door, / Sweep the wet leaves from the floor, f Even thus Fate's hand has swept her floor, Even thus Love's hand has shut the door Through which his warm feet passed of yore, ^hall it be opened any more ? No, no, no more. 240 THE PORTRAIT. This is her picture as she was : It seems a thing to wonder on, As though mine image in the glass Should tarry when myself am gone. *— 4- gaze until she seems to stir, — ■ Until mine eyes almost aver That now, even now, the sweet lips part To breathe the words of the sweet heart : — And yet the earth is over her. Alas ! even such the thin-drawn ray That makes the prison-depths more rude, — The drip of water night and day Giving a tongue to solitude. , Yet only this, of love's whole prize, Remains ; save what in mournful guise Takes counsel with my soul alone, — Save what is secret and unknown, Below the earth, above the skies. In painting her I shrined her face 'Mid mystic trees, where light falls in Hardly at all ; a covert place Where you might think to find a din Of doubtful talk, and a live flame Wandering, and many a shape whose name Not itself knoweth, and old dew, And your own footsteps meeting you, And all things going as they came. THE PORTRAIT. A deep dim wood ; and there she stands As in that wood that day : for so Was the still movement of her hands And such the pure line's gracious flow. And passing fair the type must seem, Unknown the presence and the dream. Tis she : though of herself, alas ! Less than her shadow on the grass Or than her image in the stream. That day we met there, I and she One with the other all alone ; And we were blithe ; yet memory Saddens those hours, as when the moon Looks upon daylight. And with her I stooped to drink the spring-water, Athirst where other waters sprang : And where the echo is, she sang, — My soul another echo there. But when that hour my soul won strength For words w_hqse sil ence_ wastes and kills, Dull raindrops smote us, and at length Thundered the heat within the hills. That eve I spoke those words again Beside the pelted window-pane ; And there she hearkened what I said, With under-glances that surveyed The empty pastures blind with rain. Next day the memories of these things, Like leaves through which a bird has flown. Still vibrated with Love's warm wings ; Till I must make them all my own And paint this picture. So, 'twixt ease Of talk and sweet long silences, She stood among the plants in bloom At windows of a summer room, To feign the shadow of the trees. 16 THE PORTRAIT. And as I wrought, while all above And all around was fragrant air, In the sick burthen of my love It seemed each sun-thrilled blossom there Beat like a heart among the leaves. O heart that never beats nor heaves, In that one darkness lying still, What now to thee my love's great will Or the fine web the sunshine weaves ? For now doth daylight disavow Those days — nought left to see or hear. Only in solemn whispers now At night-time these things reach mine ear ; When the leaf-shadows at a breath Shrink in the road, and all the heath, Forest and water, far and wide, In limpid starlight glorified, Lie like the mystery of death. Last night at last I could have slept, And yet delayed my sleep till dawn, Still wandering. Then it was I wept : For unawares I came upon Those glades where once she walked with me • And as I stood there suddenly, All wan with traversing the night, Upon the desolate verge of light Yearned loud the iron-bosomed sea. Even so, where Heaven holds breath and hears The beating heart of Love's own breast- Where round the secret of all spheres All angels lay their wings to rest, — How shall my soul stand rapt and awed, When, by the new birth borne abroad Throughout the music of the suns, It enters in her soul at once And knows the silence there for God I THE PORTRAIT. Here with her face doth memory sit Meanwhile, and wait the day's decline, Till other eyes shall look from it, Eyes of the spirit's Palestine, Even than the old gaze tenderer : While hopes and aims long lost with her Stand round her image side by side, Like tombs of pilgrims that have died About the Holy Sepulchre. 844 AVE. Mother of the Fair Delight, Thou handmaid perfect in God's sight, Now sitting fourth beside the Three, Thyself a woman-Trinity, — Being a daughter born to God, Mother of Christ from stall to rood, And wife unto the Holy Ghost : — Oh when our need is uttermost, Think that to such as death may strike Thou once wert sister sisterlike ! Thou headstone of humanity, Groundstone of the great Mystery, Fashioned like us, yet more than we ! Mind'st thou not (when June's heavy breath Warmed the long days in Nazareth,) That eve thou didst go forth to give Thy flowers some drink that they might live One faint night more amid the sands? Far off the trees were as pale wands Against the fervid sky : the sea Sighed further off eternally As human sorrow sighs in sleep. Then suddenly the awe grew deep, As of a day to which all days Were footsteps in God's secret ways : Until a folding sense, like prayer, Which is, as God is, everywhere, Gathered about thee ; and a voice Spake to thee without any noise, AVE. 245 Being of the silence : — " Hail," it said, " Thou that art highly favoured ; The Lord is with thee here and now ; Blessed among all women thou." Ah ! knew'st thou of the end, when first That Babe was on thy bosom nurs'd ? — Or when He tottered round thy knee Did thy great sorrow dawn on thee ? — And through His boyhood, year by year Eating with Him the Passover, Didst thou discern confusedly That holier sacrament, when He, The bitter cup about to quaff, Should break the bread and eat thereof? — Or came not yet the knowledge, even Till on some day forecast in Heaven His feet passed through thy door to press Upon His Father's business ? — Or still was God's high secret kept ? Nay, but I think the whisper crept Like growth through childhood. Work and play, Things common to the course of day, Awed thee with meanings unfulfill'd ; And all through girlhood, something still'd Thy senses like the birth of light, When thou hast trimmed thy lamp at night Or washed thy garments in the stream ; To whose white bed had come the dream That He was thine and thou wast His Who feeds among the field-lilies. O solemn shadow of the end In that wise spirit long contain'd ! O awful end ! and those unsaid Long years when It was Finished ! AVE. Mind'st thou not (when the twilight gone Left darkness in the house of John,) Between the naked window-bars That spacious vigil of the stars ? — For thou, a watcher even as they, Wouldst rise from where throughout the day Thou wroughtest raiment for His poor; And, finding the fixed terms endure Of day and night which never brought Sounds of His coming chariot, Wouldst lift through cloud-waste unexplor'd Those eyes which said, " How long, O Lord ? " Then that disciple whom He loved, Well heeding, haply would be moved To ask thy blessing in His name ; *^nd that one thought in both, the same Though silent, then would clasp ye round To weep together, — tears long bound, Sick tears of patience, dumb and slow. Yet, " Surely I come quickly," — so He said, from life and death gone home. Amen : even so, Lord Jesus, come ! But oh ! what human tongue can speak That day when Michael came * to break From the tir'd spirit, like a veil, Its covenant with Gabriel Endured at length unto the end ? What human thought can apprehend That mystery of motherhood When thy Beloved at length renew'd The sweet communion severed, — His left hand underneath thine head And His right hand embracing thee ? — Lo ! He was thine, and this is He ! * A Church legend of the Blessed Virgin's death. AVE. Soul, is it Faith, or Love, or Hope, That lets me see her standing up Where the light of the Throne is bright ? Unto the left, unto the right, The cherubim, succinct, conjoint, Float inward to a golden point, And from between the seraphim The glory issues for a hymn. O Mary Mother, be not loth To listen, — thou whom the stars clothe, Who seest and mayst not be seen ! Hear us at last, O Mary Queen ! Into our shadow bend thy face, Bowing thee from the secret place O Mary Virgin, full of grace 1 2 4 S THE CARD-DEALER. Co jld you not drink her gaze like wine ? Yet though its splendour swoon Ir t j the siience languidly As a tune into a tune, Those eyes unravel the coiled night And know the stars at noon. 1 h 5 gold that's heaped beside her hand, In truth rich prize it were ; And rich the dreams that wreathe her brows With magic stillness there ; ^And he were rich who should unwind That woven golden hair. Anund her, where she sits, the dance Now breathes its eager heat ; And not more lightly or more true Fall there the dancers' feet Than fall her cards on the bright board As 'twere a heart that beat. Her fingers let them softly through, Smooth polished silent things ; And each one as it falls reflects In swift light-shadowings, Blood-red and purple, green and blue, The great eyes of her rings. THE CARD-DEALER. Whom plays she with ? With thee, who Iov'st Those gems upon her hand ; With me, who search her secret brows ; With all men, bless'd or bann'd. We play together, she and we, Within a vain strange land : A land without any order, — Day even as night, (one saith,) — Where who lieth down ariseth not Nor the sleeper awakeneth ; A land of darkness as darkness itself And of the shadow of death. What be her cards, you ask ? Even these : — ■ The heart, that doth but crave More, having fed ; the diamond, Skilled to make base seem brave ; The club, for smiting in the dark ; The spade, to dig a grave. And do }^ou ask what game she plays ? With me 'tis lost or won ; With thee it is plajdng still ; with him It is not well begun ; But 'tis a game she plays with all Beneath the sway o' the sun. Thou seest the card that falls, — she knows The card that followeth : Her game in thy tongue is called Life, As ebbs thy daily breath : When she shall speak, thou'lt learn her tongue And know she calls it Death. 2 5° WORLD'S WORTH. Tis of the Father Hilary. He strove, but could not pray ; so took The steep-coiled stair, where his feet shook A sad blind echo. Ever up He toiled. 'Twas a sick sway of air That autumn noon within the stair, As dizzy as a turning cup. His brain benumbed him, void and thin ; He shut his eyes and felt it spin ; The obscure deafness hemmed him in. He said : " O world, what world for me ? " He leaned unto the balcony Where the chime keeps the night and day ; It hurt his brain, he could not pray. He had his face upon the stone : Deep 'twixt the narrow shafts, his eye Passed all the roofs to the stark sky, Swept with no wing, with wind alone. Close to his feet the sky did shake With wind in pools that the rains make : The ripple set his eyes to ache. He said : " O world, what world for me ?" WORLD'S WORTH. He stood within the mystery Girding God's blessed Eucharist : The organ and the chaunt had ceas'd. The last words paused against his ear Said from the altar : drawn round him The gathering rest was dumb and dim. And now the sacring-bell rang clear And ceased ; and all was awe, — the breath Of God in man that warranteth The inmost utmost things of faith. He said : " O God, my world in Thee ! " 252 ON REFUSAL OF AID BETWEEN NATIONS. Not that the earth is changing, O my God ! Nor that the seasons totter in their walk, — Not that the virulent ill of act and talk Seethes ever as a winepress ever trod, — Not therefore are we certain that the rod Weighs in thine hand to smite thy world; though now Beneath thine hand so many nations bow, So many kings : — not therefore, O my God ! — But because Man is parcelled out in men To-day ; because, for any wrongful blow No man not stricken asks, " I would be told Why thou dost thus;" but his heart whispers then, " He is he, I am I." By this we know That our earth falls asunder, being old. ON THE VITA NUOVA OF DANTE. As he that loves oft looks on the dear form And guesses how it grew to womanhood, And gladly would have watched the beauties bud And the mild fire of precious life wax warm : So I, long bound within the threefold charm^. Of Dante's love sublimed to heavenly mood, Had marvelled, touching his Beatitude, How grew such presence from man's shameful swarm. At length within this book I found pourtrayed Newborn that Paradisal Love of his, And simple like a child ; with whose clear aid I understood. To such a child as this, Christ, charging well His chosen ones, forbade Offence : " for lo ! of such my kingdom is." 253 SONG AND MUSIC. O leave your hand where it lies cool Upon the eyes whose lids are hot : Its rosy shade is bountiful Of silence, and assuages thought. O lay your lips against your hand And let me feel your breath through it, While through the sense your song shall fit The soul to understand. The music lives upon my brain Between your hands within mine eyes ; It stirs your lifted throat like pain, An aching pulse of melodies. Lean nearer, let the music pause : The soul may better understand Your music, shadowed in your hand, Now while the song withdraws. 254 THE SEA-LIMITS. Consider the sea's listless chime : Time's self it is, made audible, — The murmur of the earth's own shell. Secret continuance sublime Is the sea's end : our sight may pass No furlong further. Since time was, This sound hath told the lapse of time. No quiet, which is death's, — it hath The mournfulness of ancient life, Enduring always at dull strife. As the world's heart of rest and wrath, Its painful pulse is in the sands. Last utterly, the whole sky stands, Grey and not known, along its path. Listen alone beside the sea, Listen alone among the woods ; Those voices of twin solitudes Shall have one sound alike to thee : Hark where the murmurs of thronged men Surge and sink back and surge again, — Still the one voice of wave and tree. Gather a shell from the strown beach And listen at its lips : they sigh The same desire and mystery, The echo of the whole sea's speech. And all mankind is thus at heart Not anything but what thou art : And Earth, Sea, Man, are all in each. 255 A TRIP TO PARIS AND BELGIUM, i. LONDON TO FOLKESTONE. A constant keeping-past of shaken trees, And a bewildered glitter of loose road ; Banks of bright growth, with single blades atop Against white sky : and wires — a constant chain- That seem to draw the clouds along with them (Things which one stoops against the light to see Through the low window ; shaking by at rest, Or fierce like water as the swiftness grows) ; And, seen through fences or a bridge far off, Trees that in moving keep their intervals Still one 'twixt bar and bar ; and then at times Long reaches of green level, where one cow, Feeding among her fellows that feed on, Lifts her slow neck, and gazes for the sound. Fields mown in ridges ; and close garden-crops Of the earth's increase ; and a constant sky Still with clear trees that let you see the wind ; And snatches of the engine-smoke, by fits Tossed to the wind against the landscape, where Rooks stooping heave their wings upon the day. Brick walls we pass between, passed so at once That for the suddenness I cannot know Or what, or where begun, or where at end. Sometimes a station in grey quiet ; whence, With a short gathered champing of pent sound, We are let out upon the air again. Pauses of water soon, at intervals, That has the sky in it ; — the reflexes 256 A TRIP TO PARIS AND BELGIUM. O' the trees move towards the bank as we go by, Leaving the water's surface plain. I now Lie back and close my eyes a space ; for they Smart from the open forwardness of thought Fronting the wind. ***** I did not scribble more, Be certain, after this ; but yawned, and read, And nearly dozed a little, I believe ; Till, stretching up against the carriage-back, I was roused altogether, and looked out To where the pale sea brooded murmuring. n. BOULOGNE TO AMIENS AND PARIS. Strong extreme speed, that the brain hurries with, Further than trees, and hedges, and green grass Whitened by distance, — further than small pools Held among fields and gardens, further than Haystacks, and wind-mill-sails, and roofs and herds, — ■ The sea's last margin ceases at the sun. The sea has left us, but the sun remains. Sometimes the country spreads aloof in tracts Smooth from the harvest ; sometimes sky and land Are shut from the square space the window leaves By a dense crowd of trees, stem behind stem Passing across each other as we pass : Sometimes tall poplar-wands stand white, their heads Outmeasuring the distant hills. Sometimes The ground has a deep greenness ; sometimes brown In stubble ; and sometimes no ground at all, For the close strength of crops that stand unreaped. The water-plots are sometimes all the sun's, — Sometimes quite green through shadows filling them, Or islanded with growths of reeds, — or else Masked in grey dust like the wide face o' the fields. A TRIP TO PARIS AND BELGIUM. And still the swiftness lasts ; that to our speed The trees seem shaken like a press of spears. There is some count of us : — folks travelling capped, Priesthood, and lank hard-featured soldiery, Females (no women), blouses, Hunt, and I. We are delayed at Amiens. The steam Snorts, chafes, and bridles, like three hundred horse, And flings its dusky mane upon the air. Our company is thinned, and lamps alight. But still there are the folks in travelling-caps, No priesthood now, but always soldiery, And babies to make up for show in noise ; Females (no women), blouses, Hunt, and I. Our windows at one side are shut for warmth ; Upon the other side, a leaden sky, Hung in blank glare, makes all the country dim, Which too seems bald and meagre, — be it truth, Or of the waxing darkness. Here and there The shade takes light, where in thin patches stand The unstirred dregs of water. in. THE PARIS RAILWAY-STATION. In France, (to baffle thieves and murderers) A journey takes two days of passport work At least. The plan's sometimes a tedious one, But bears its fruit. Because, the other day, In passing by the Morgue, we saw a man (The thing is common, and we never should Have known of it, only we passed that way) 17 258 A TRIP TO PARIS AND BELGIUM. Who had been stabbed and tumbled in the Seine, Where he had stayed some days. The face was black, And, like a negro's, swollen ; all the flesh Had furred, and broken into a green mould. Now, very likely, he who did the job Was standing among those who stood with us, To look upon the corpse. You fancy him — Smoking an early pipe, and watching, as An artist, the effect of his last work. This always if it had not struck him that 'Twere best to leave while yet the body took Its crust of rot beneath the Seine. It may : But, if it did not, he can now remain Without much fear. Only, if he should want To travel, and have not his passport yet, (Deep dogs these French police !) he may be caught. Therefore you see (lest, being murderers, We should not have the sense to go before The thing were known, or to stay afterwards) There is good reason why — having resolved To start for Belgium — we were kept three days To learn about the passports first, then do As we had learned. This notwithstanding, in The fulness of the time 'tis come to pass. IV. REACHING BRUSSELS. There is small change of country ; but the sun Is out, and it seems shame this were not said. For upon all the grass the warmth has caught ; And betwixt distant whitened poplar-stems Makes greener darkness ; and in dells of trees Shows spaces of a verdure that was hid ; A TRIP TO PARIS AND BELGIUM. 259. And the sky has its blue floated with white, And crossed with falls of the sun's glory aslant To lay upon the waters of the world ; And from the road men stand with shaded eyes To look ; and flowers in gardens have grown strong ; And our own shadows here within the coach Are brighter ; and all colour has more bloom. So, after the sore torments of the route ; — Toothache, and headache, and the ache of wind, And huddled sleep, and smarting wakefulness, And night, and day, and hunger sick at food, And twenty-fold relays, and packages To be unlocked, and passports to be found, And heavy well-kept landscape ; — we were glad Because we entered Brussels in the sun. v. ANTWERP TO GHENT. We are upon the Scheldt. We know we move Because there is a floating at our eyes Whatso they seek ; and because all the things Which on our outset were distinct and large Are smaller and much weaker and quite grey, And at last gone from us. No motion else. We are upon the road. The thin swift moon Runs with the running clouds that are the sky, And with the running water runs — at whiles Weak 'neath the film and heavy growth of reeds. The country swims with motion. Time itself Is consciously beside us, and perceived. Our speed is such the sparks our engine leaves Are burning after the whole train has passed. A TRIP TO PARIS AND BELGIUM. The darkness is a tumult. We tear on, The roll behind us and the cry before, Constantly, in a lull of intense speed And thunder. Any other sound is known Merely by sight. The shrubs, the trees your eye Scans for their growth, are far along in haze. The sky has lost its clouds, and lies away Oppressively at calm : the moon has failed : Our speed has set the wind against us. Now Our engine's heat is fiercer, and flings up Great glares alongside. Wind and steam and speed And clamour and the night. We are in Ghent. 261 THE STAIRCASE OF NOTRE DAME, PARIS. As one who, groping in a narrow stair, Hath a strong sound of bells upon his ears, Which, being at a distance off, appears Quite close to him because of the pent air : So with this France. She stumbles file and square Darkling and without space for breath : each one Who hears the thunder says : " It shall anon Be in among her ranks to scatter her." This may be ; and it may be that the storm Is spent in rain upon the unscathed seas, Or wasteth other countries ere it die : Till she, — having climbed always through the swarm Of darkness and of hurtling sound, — from these Shall step forth on the light in a still sky. PLACE DE LA BASTILLE, PARIS. How dear the sky has been above this place ! Small treasures of this sky that we see here Seen weak through prison-bars from year to year ; Eyed with a painful prayer upon God's grace To save, and tears that stayed along the face Lifted at sunset. Yea, how passing dear, Those nights when through the bars a wind left clear The heaven, and moonlight soothed the limpid space ! So was it, till one night the secret kept Safe in low vault and stealthy corridor Was blown abroad on gospel-tongues of flame. O ways of God, mysterious evermore ! How many on this spot have cursed and wept That all might stand here now and own Thy Name. 2 Its crown, a brow-contracting load ; Its planted feet which trust the sod : . . . (So grew the image as I trod :) O Nineveh, was this thy God, — Thine also, mighty Nineveh ? 272 THE CHURCH-PORCH. Sister, first shake we off the dust we have Upon our feet, lest it defile the stones Inscriptured, covering their sacred bones Who lie i' the aisles which keep the names they gave, Their trust abiding round them in the grave ; Whom painters paint for visible orisons, And to whom sculptors pray in stone and bronze ; Their voices echo still like a spent wave. Without here, the church-bells are but a tune, And on the carven church-door this hot noon Lays all its heavy sunshine here without : But having entered in, we shall find there Silence, and sudden dimness, and deep prayer, And faces of crowned angels all about. THE MIRROR. She knew it not : — most perfect pain To learn : this too she knew not. Strife For me, calm hers, as from the first. 'Twas but another bubble burst Upon the curdling draught of life, — My silent patience mine again. As who, of forms that crowd unknown Within a distant mirror's shade, Deems such an one himself, and makes Some sign - but when the image shakes No whit, he finds his thought betray'd, And must seek elsewhere for his own. 273 A YOUNG FIR-WOOD. These little firs to-day are things To clasp into a giant's cap, Or fans to suit his lady's lap. From many winters many springs Shall cherish them in strength and sap Till they be marked upon the map, A wood for the wind's wanderings. All seed is in the sower's hands : And what at first was trained to spread Its shelter for some single head, — Yea, even such fellowship of wands, — May hide the sunset, and the shade Of its great multitude be laid Upon the earth and elder sands. DURING MUSIC. O cool unto the sense of pain That last night's sleep could not destroy ; O warm unto the sense of joy, That dreams its life within the brain. What though I lean o'er thee to scan The written music cramped and stiff; — ■ 'Tis dark to me, as hieroglyph On those weird bulks Egyptian. But as from those, dumb now and strange, A glory wanders on the earth, Even so thy tones can call a birth From these, to shake my soul with change. O swift, as in melodious haste Float o'er the keys thy fingers small ; O soft, as is the rise and fall Which stirs that shade within thy breast. 18 274 STRATTON WATER. " O have you seen the Stratton flood That's great with rain to-day ? It runs beneath your wall, Lord Sands, Full of the new-mown hay. "I led your hounds to Hutton bank To bathe at early morn : They got their bath by Borrowbrake Above the standing corn." Out from the castle-stair Lord Sands Looked up the western lea ; The rook was grieving on her nest, The flood was round her tree. Over the castle-wall Lord Sands Looked down the eastern hill : The stakes swam free among the boats, The flood was rising still. u What's yonder far below that lies So white against the slope ? " ** O it's a sail o' your bonny barks The waters have washed up." " But I have never a sail so white, And the water's not yet there." " O it's the swans o' your bonn}' lake The rising flood doth scare." ■STRATTON WATER. "The swans they would not hold so still, So high they would not win." " O it's Joyce my wife has spread her smock And fears to fetch it in." " Nay, knave, it's neither sail nor swans, Nor aught that you can say ; For though your wife might leave her smock, Herself she'd bring away." Lord Sands has passed the turret-stair, The court, and yard, and all ; The kine were in the byre that day, The nags were in the stall. Lord Sands has won the weltering slope Whereon the white shape lay : The clouds were still above the hill, And the shape was still as they. Oh pleasant is the gaze of life And sad is death's blind head ; j But awful are the living eyes In the face of one thought dead ! " In God's name, Janet, is it me Thy ghost has come to seek ? " " Nay, wait another hour, Lord Sands,— Be sure my ghost shall speak." A moment stood he as a stone, Then grovelled to his knee. " O Janet, O my love, my love, Rise up and come with me ! " " O once before you bade me come, And it's here you have brought me ! STRATTON WATER. " O many's the sweet word, Lord Sands, You've spoken oft to me ; But all that I have from you to-day Is the rain on my body. " And many's the good gift, Lord Sands, You've promised oft to me ; But the gift of yours I keep to-day Is the babe in my body. " O it's not in any earthly bed That first my babe I'll see ; For I have brought my body here That the flood may cover me." His face was close against her face, His hands of hers were fain : O her wet cheeks were hot with tears, Her wet hands cold with rain. " They told me you were dead, Janet, — How could I guess the lie ? " "They told me you were false, Lord Sands, What could I do but die ? " " Now keep you well, my brother Giles, — Through you I deemed her dead ! As wan as your towers seem to-day, To-morrow they'll be red. " Look down, look down, my false mother, That bade me not to grieve : You'll look up when our marriage fires Are lit to-morrow eve : " O more than one and more than two The sorrow of this shall see : But it's to-morrow, love, for them, — To-day's for thee and me." STRATTON WATER. He's drawn her face between his hands And her pale mouth to his : No bird that was so still that day Chirps sweeter than his kiss. The flood was creeping round their feet. " O Janet, come away ! The hall is warm for the marriage-rite, The bed for the birthday." u Nay, but I hear your mother cry, ' Go bring this bride to bed ! And would she christen her babe unborn, So wet she comes to wed ? ' " I'll be your wife to cross your door And meet your mother's e'e. We plighted troth to wed i' the kirk, And it's there you'll wed with me." He's ta'en her by the short girdle And by the dripping sleeve : " Go fetch Sir Jock my mother's priest, — You'll ask of him no leave. " O it's one half-hour to reach the kirk And one for the marriage-rite ; And kirk and castle and castle-lands Shall be our babe's to-night." " The flood's in the kirkj'ard, Lord Sands, And round the belfry-stair." " I bade you fetch the priest," he said, " Myself shall bring him there. " It's for the lilt of wedding bells We'll have the hail to pour, And for the clink of bridle-reins The plashing of the oar." STRATTON WATER. Beneath them on the nether hill A boat was floating wide : Lord Sands swam out and caught the oars And rowed to the hill-side. He's wrapped her in a green mantle And set her softly in ; Her hair was wet upon her face, Her face was grey and thin ; And " Oh ! " she said, " lie still, my babe, It's out you must not win ! " But woe's my heart for Father John As hard as he might pray, There seemed no help but Noah's ark Or Jonah's fish that day. The first strokes that the oars struck Were over the broad leas ; The next strokes that the oars struck They pushed beneath the trees ; The last stroke that the oars struck, The good boat's head was met, And there the gate of the kirkyard Stood like a ferry-gate. He's set his hand upon the bar And lightly leaped within : He's lifted her to his left shoulder, Her knees beside his chin. The graves lay deep beneath the flood Under the rain alone ; And when the foot-stone made him slip, He held by the head-stone. STRATTON WATER. The empty boat thrawed i' the wind, Against the postern tied. " Hold still, you've brought my love with me, You shall take back my bride." But woe's my heart for Father John And the saints he clamoured to ! There's never a saint but Christopher Might hale such buttocks through ! And " Oh ! " she said, " on men's shoulders I well had thought to wend, And well to travel with a priest, But not to have cared or ken'd. " And oh ! " she said, " it's well this way That I thought to have fared, — Not to have lighted at the kirk But stopped in the kirkyard. " For it's oh and oh I prayed to God, Whose rest I hoped to win, That when to-night at your board-head You'd bid the feast begin, This water past your window-sill Might bear my body in." Now make the white bed warm and soft And greet the merry morn. The night the mother should have died, The young son shall be born. 280 WELLINGTON'S FUNERAL. 1M1 November 1852. " Victory ! " So once more the cry must be. Duteous mourning we fulfil In God's name ; but by God's will, Doubt not, the last word is still " Victory ! " Funeral, In the music round this pall, Solemn grief yields earth to earth ; But what tones of solemn mirth In the pageant of new birth Rise and fall ? For indeed, If our eyes were opened, Who shall say what escort floats Here, which breath nor gleam denotes, — Fiery horses, chariots Fire-footed ? Trumpeter, Even thy call he may not hear ; Long-known voice for ever past, Till with one more trumpet-blast God's assuring word at last Reach his ear. WELLINGTON'S FUNERAL. Multitude, Hold j^our breath in reverent mood : For while earth's whole kindred stand Mute even thus on either hand, This soul's labour shall be scann'd And found good. Cherubim, Lift ye not even now your hymn ? Lo ! once lent for human lack, Michael's sword is rendered back. Thrills not now the starry track, Seraphim ? Gabriel, Since the gift of thine " All hail ! " Out of Heaven no time hath brought Gift with fuller blessing fraught Than the peace which this man wrought Passing well. Be no word Raised of bloodshed Christ-abhorr'd. Say : u 'Twas thus in His decrees Who Himself, the Prince of Peace, For His harvest's high increase Sent a sword." Veterans, He by whom the neck of France Then was given unto your heel, Timely sought, may lend as well To your sons his terrible Countenance. WELLINGTON'S FUNERAL. Waterloo ! As the last grave must renew, Ere fresh death, the banshee-strain, — - So methinks upon thy plain Falls some presage in the rain, In the dew. And O thou, Watching with an exile's brow Unappeased, o'er death's dumb flood : — Lo ! the saving strength of God In some new heart's English blood Slumbers now. Emperor, Is this all thy work was for ? — Thus to see thy self-sought aim, Yea thy titles, yea thy name, In another's shame, to shame Bandied o'er ? * Wellington, Thy great work is but begun. With quick seed his end is rife Whose long tale of conquering strife Shows no triumph like his life Lost and won. * Date of the Coup d'Etat : 2nd December 1851. a83 PENUMBRA. I did not look upon her eyes, (Though scarcely seen, with no surprise, 'Mid many eyes a single look,) Because they should not gaze rebuke, At night, from stars in sky and brook. I did not take her by the hand, (Though little was to understand From touch of hand all friends might take,) Because it should not prove a flake Burnt in my palm to boil and ache. I did not listen to her voice, (Though none had noted, where at choice All might rejoice in listening,) Because no such a thing should cling In the wood's moan at evening. I did not cross her shadow once, (Though from the hollow west the sun's Last shadow runs along so far,) Because in June it should not bar My ways, at noon when fevers are. They told me she was sad that day, (Though wherefore tell what love's soothsay, Sooner than they, did register ?) And my heart leapt and wepi to her, And yet I did not speak ncr stir. PENUMBRA. So shall the tongues of the sea's foam (Though many voices therewith come From drowned hope's home to cry to me,) Bewail one hour the more, when sea And wind are one with memory. 2*5 ON THE SITE OF A MULBERRY-TREE; Planted by Wm. Shakspeare; felled by the Rev. F. Gastrell. This tree, here fall'n, no common birth or death Shared with its kind. The world's enfranchised son, Who found the trees of Life and Knowledge one, Here set it, frailer than his laurel-wreath. Shall not the wretch whose hand it fell beneath Rank also singly — the supreme unhung ? Lo ! Sheppard, Turpin, pleading with black tongue This viler thiefs unsuffocated breath ! We'll search thy glossary, Shakspeare ! whence almost, And whence alone, some name shall be reveal'd For this deaf drudge, to whom no length of ears Sufficed to catch the music of the spheres ; Whose soul is carrion now, — too mean to yield Some Starveling's ninth allotment of a ghost. ON CERTAIN ELIZABETHAN REVIVALS. O ruff-embastioned vast Elizabeth, Bush to these bushel-bellied casks of wine, Home-growth, 'tis true, but rank as turpentine — What would we with such skittle-plays at death ? Say, must we watch these brawlers' brandished lathe, Or to their reeking wit our ears incline, Because all Castaly flowed crystalline In gentle Shakspeare's modulated breath ? What ! must our drama with the rat-pit vie, Nor the scene close while one is left to kill ? Shall this be poetry ? And thou — thou man Of blood, thou cannibalic Caliban, What shall be said of thee ? A poet ?— Fie ! " An honourable murderer, if you will." 2S6 ENGLISH MAY. Would God your health were as this month of May Should be, were this not England, — and your face Abroad, to give the gracious sunshine grace And laugh beneath the budding hawthorn-spray. But here the hedgerows pine from green to grey While yet May's lyre is tuning, and her song Is weak in shade that should in sun be strong ; And your pulse springs not to so faint a lay. If in my life be breath of Italy, Would God that I might yield it all to you ! So, when such grafted warmth had burgeoned through The languor of your Maytime's hawthorn-tree, My spirit at rest should walk unseen and see The garland of your beauty bloom anew. BEAUTY AND THE BIRD. She fluted with her mouth as when one sips, And gently waved her golden head, inclin'd Outside his cage close to the window-blind ; Till her fond bird, with little turns and dips, Piped low to her of sweet companionships. And when he made an end, some seed took she And fed him from her tongue, which rosily Peeped as a piercing bud between her lips. And like the child in Chaucer, on whose tongue The Blessed Mary laid, when he was dead, A grain, — who straightway praised her name in song : Even so, when she, a little lightly red, Now turned on me and laughed, I heard the throng Of inner voices praise her golden head. 28 7 A MATCH WITH THE MOON. Weary already, weary miles to-night I walked for bed : and so, to get some ease, I dogged the flying moon with similes. And like a wisp she doubled on my sight In ponds ; and caught in tree-tops like a kite ; And in a globe of film all liquorish Swam full-faced like a silly silver fish ; — ■ Last like a bubble shot the welkin's height Where my road turned, and got behind me, and sent My wizened shadow craning round at me, And jeered," So, step the measure, — one two three ! " — And if I faced on her, looked innocent. But just at parting, halfway down a dell, She kissed me for good-night. So you'll not tell. LOVE'S NOCTURN. Master of the murmuring courts Where the shapes of sleep convene !— Lo ! my spirit here exhorts All the powers of thy demesne For their aid to woo my queen. What reports Yield thy jealous courts unseen ? Vaporous, unaccountable, Dreamworld lies forlorn of light, Hollow like a breathing shell. Ah ! that from all dreams I might Choose one dream and guide its flight ! I know well What her sleep should tell to-night. There the dreams are multitudes : Some that will not wait for sleep, Deep within the August woods ; Some that hum while rest may steep Weary labour laid a-heap ; Interludes, Some, of grievous moods that weep. Poets' fancies all are there : There the elf-girls flood with wings Valleys full of plaintive air ; There breathe perfumes ; there in rings Whirl the foam-bewildered springs ; Siren there Winds her dizzy hair and sings. LOVE'S NOCTURE. Thence the one dream mutually Dreamed in bridal unison, Less than waking ecstasy ; Half-formed visions that make moan In the house of birth alone ; And what we At death's wicket see, unknown. But for mine own sleep, it lies In one gracious form's control, Fair with honourable eyes, Lamps of a translucent soul : O their glance is loftiest dole, Sweet and wise, Wherein Love descries his goal. Reft of her, my dreams are all Clammy trance that fears the sky : Changing footpaths shift and fall ; From polluted coverts nigh, Miserable phantoms sigh ; Quakes the pall, And the funeral goes by. Master, is it soothly said That, as echoes of man's speech Far in secret clefts are made, So do all men's bodies reach Shadows o'er thy sunken beach, — Shape or shade In those halls pourtrayed of each ? Ah ! might I, by thy good grace Groping in the windy stair, (Darkness and the breath of space Like loud waters everywhere,) Meeting mine own image there Face to face, Send it from that place to her ! 19 LOVE'S NOCTURN. Nay, not I ; but oh ! do thou, Master, from thy shadowkind Call my body's phantom now : Bid it bear its face declin'd Till its flight her slumbers find, And her brow Feel its presence bow like wind. Where in groves the gracile Spring Trembles, with mute orison Confidently strengthening, Water's voice and wind's as one Shed an echo in the sun. Soft as Spring, Master, bid it sing and moan. Song shall tell how glad and strong Is the night she soothes alway ; Moan shall grieve with that parched tongi Of the brazen hours of day : Sounds as of the springtide they, Moan and song, While the chill months long for May. Not the prayers which with all leave The world's fluent woes prefer, — Not the praise the world doth give, Dulcet fulsome whisperer ; — Let it yield my love to her, And achieve Strength that shall not grieve or err. Wheresoe'er my dreams befall, Both at night-watch, (let it say,) And where round the sundial The reluctant hours of day, Heartless, hopeless of their way, Rest and call ; — There her glance doth fall and stay. LOVE'S NO C TURN. Suddenly her face is there : So do mounting vapours wreathe Subtle-scented transports where The black firwood sets its teeth. Part the boughs and look beneath, — Lilies share Secret waters there, and breathe. Master, bid my shadow bend Whispering thus till birth of light, Lest new shapes that sleep may send Scatter all its work to flight ; — Master, master of the night, Bid it spend Speech, song, prayer, and end aright. Yet, ah me ! if at her head There another phantom lean Murmuring o'er the fragrant bed, — Ah ! and if my spirit's queen Smile those alien prayers between, — Ah ! poor shade ! Shall it strive, or fade unseen ? How should love's own messenger Strive with love and be love's foe ? Master, nay ! If thus, in her, Sleep a wedded heart should show, — Silent let mine image go, Its old share Of thy spell-bound air to know. Like a vapour wan and mute, Like a flame, so let it pass ; One low sigh across her lute. One dull breath against her glass ; And to my sad soul, alas ! One salute Cold as when death's foot shall pass. LOVE'S NOCTURN. Then, too, let all hopes of mine, All vain hopes by night and day, Slowly at thy summoning sign Rise up pallid and obey. Dreams, if this is thus, were they : — Be they thine, And to dreamworld pine away. Yet from old time, life, not death, Master, in thy rule is rife : Lo ! through thee, with mingling breath, Adam woke beside his wife. O Love bring me so, for strife, Force and faith, Bring me so not death but life ! Yea, to Love himself is pour'd This frail song of hope and fear. Thou art Love, of one accord With kind Sleep to bring her near, Still-eyed, deep-eyed, ah how dear ! Master, Lord, In her name implor'd, O hear ! 293 FIRST LOVE REMEMBERED, Peace in her chamber, wheresoe'er It be, a holy place : The thought still brings my soul such grace As morning meadows wear. Whether it still be small and light, A maid's who dreams alone, As from her orchard-gate the moon Its ceiling showed at night : Or whether, in a shadow dense As nuptial hymns invoke, Innocent maidenhood awoke To married innocence : There still the thanks unheard await The unconscious gift bequeathed : For there my soul this hour has breathed An air inviolate. 294 PLIGHTED PROMISE. In a soft-complexioned sky, Fleeting rose and kindling grey, Have you seen Aurora fly At the break of day ? So my maiden, so my plighted may Blushing cheek and gleaming eye Lifts to look my way. Where the inmost leaf is stirred With the heart-beat of the grove, Have you heard a hidden bird Cast her note above ? So my lady, so my lovely love, Echoing Cupid's prompted word, Makes a tune thereof. Have you seen, at heaven's mid-height, In the moon-rack's ebb and tide, Venus leap forth burning white, Dian pale and hide ? So my bright breast-jewel, so my bride, One sweet night, when fear takes flight, Shall leap against my side. 395 SUDDEN LIGHT. I have been here before, But when or how I cannot tell : I know the grass beyond the door, The sweet keen smell, The sighing sound, the lights around the shore. You have been mine before, — How long ago I may not know : But just when at that swallow's soar Your neck turned so, Some veil did fall, — I knew it all of yore. Has this been thus before ? And shall not thus time's eddying flight Still with our lives our love restore In death's despite, And day and night yield one delight once more ? 296 A NEW-YEAR'S BURDEN. Along the grass sweet airs are blown Our way this day in Spring. Of all the songs that we have known Now which one shall we sing ? Not that, my love, ah no ! — Not this, my love ? why, so ! — Yet both were ours, but hours will come and go. The grove is all a pale frail mist, The new year sucks the sun. Of all the kisses that we kissed Now which shall be the one ? Not that, my love, ah no ! — Not this, my love ? — heigh-ho For all the sweets that all the winds can blow ! The branches cross above our eyes, The skies are in a net : And what's the thing beneath the skies We two would most forget? Not birth, my love, no, no, — ■ Not death, my love, no, no,- — The love once ours, but ours long hours ago. 297 EVEN SO. So it is, my dear. All such things touch secret strings For heavy hearts to hear. So it is, my dear. Very like indeed : Sea and sky, afar, on high, Sand and strewn seaweed, — Very like indeed. But the sea stands spread As one wall with the flat skies, Where the lean black craft like flies Seem well-nigh stagnated, Soon to drop off dead. Seemed it so to us When I was thine and thou wast mine, And all these things were thus, But all our world in us ? Could we be so now ? Not if all beneath heaven's pall Lay dead but I and thou, Could we be so now ! 298 THE WOODSPURGE. The wind flapped loose, the wind was still, Shaken out dead from tree and hill : I had walked on at the wind's will, — I sat now, for the wind was still. Between my knees my forehead was, — My lips, drawn in, said not Alas ! My hair was over in the grass, My naked ears heard the day pass. My eyes, wide open, had the run Of some ten weeds to fix upon ; Among those few, out of the sun, The woodspurge flowered, three cups in one. From perfect grief there need not be Wisdom or even memory : One thing then learnt remains to me, — The woodspurge has a cup of three. THE HONEYSUCKLE. I plucked a honeysuckle where The hedge on high is quick with thorn, And climbing for the prize, was torn, And fouled my feet in quag-water ; And by the thorns and by the wind The blossom that I took was thinn'd, And yet I found it sweet and fair. Thence to a richer growth I came, Where, nursed in mellow intercourse, The honeysuckles sprang by scores, Not harried like my single stem, All virgin lamps of scent and dew. So from my hand that first I threw, Yet plucked not any more of them. 299 DANTIS TENEBRiE. (In Memory of my Father.) And didst thou know indeed, when at the font Together with thy name thou gav'st me his, That also on thy son must Beatrice Decline her eyes according to her wont, Accepting me to be of those that haunt The vale of magical dark mysteries Where to the hills her poet's foot-track lies And wisdom's living fountain to his chaunt Trembles in music ? This is that steep land Where he that holds his journey stands at gaze Tow'rd sunset, when the clouds like a new height Seem piled to climb. These things I understand : For here, where day still soothes my lifted face, On thy bowed head, my father, fell the night. WORDS ON THE WINDOW-PANE.* Dm she in summer write it, or in spring, Or with this wail of autumn at her ears, Or in some winter left among old years Scratched it through tettered cark ? A certain thing That round her heart the frost was hardening, Not to be thawed of tears, which on this pane Channelled the rime, perchance, in fevered rain, For false man's sake and love's most bitter sting. Howbeit, between this last word and the next Unwritten, subtly seasoned was the smart, And here at least the grace to weep : if she, Rather, midway in her disconsolate text, Rebelled not, loathing from the trodden heart That thing which she had found man's love to be. * For a woman's fragmentary inscription. 3GO AN OLD SONG ENDED. " How should I your true love know From another one ? " " By his cockle-hat and staff And his sandal-shoon. 1 ' " And what signs have told you now That he hastens home ?" " Lo ! the spring is nearly gone, He is nearly come." " For a token is there nought, Say, that he should bring?" " He will bear a ring I gave And another ring." " How may I, when he shall ask, Tell him who lies there ? " " Nay, but leave my face unveiled And unbound my hair." " Can you say to me some word I shall say to him ? " "Say I'm looking in his eyes Though my eyes are dim." 3d THE SONG OF THE BOWER. Say, is it day, is it dusk in thy bower, Thou whom I long for, who longest for me ? Oh ! be it light, be it night, 'tis Love's hour, Love's that is fettered as Love's that is free. Free Love has leaped to that innermost chamber, Oh ! the last time, and the hundred before : Fettered Love, motionless, can but remember, Yet something that sighs from him passes the door. Nay, but my heart when it flies to thy bower, What does it find there that knows it again ? There it must droop like a shower-beaten flower, Red at the rent core and dark with the rain. Ah ! yet what shelter is still shed above it,— What waters still image its leaves torn apart ? Thy soul is the shade that clings round it to love it, And tears are its mirror deep down in thy heart. What were my prize, could I enter thy bower, This day, to-morrow, at eve or at morn ? Large lovely arms and a neck like a tower, Bosom then heaving that now lies forlorn. Kindled with love-breath, (the sun's kiss is colder !) Thy sweetness all near me, so distant to-day ; My hand round thy neck and thy hand on my shoulder My mouth to thy mouth as the world melts away. What is it keeps me afar from thy bower, — My spirit, my body, so fain to be there ? Waters engulfing or fires that devour ? — Earth heaped against me or death in the air ? THE SONG OF THE BOWER. Nay, but in day-dreams, for terror, for pity, The trees wave their heads with an omen to tell ; Nay, but in night-dreams, throughout the dark city, The hours, clashed together, lose count in the bell. Shall I not one day remember thy bower, One day when all days^are one day to me ? — Thinking, " I stirred not, and yet had the power ! " — Yearning, " Ah God, if again it might be ! " Peace, peace ! such a small lamp illumes, on this highway, So dimly so few steps in front of my feet, — Yet shows me that her way is parted from my way. . . . Out of sight, beyond light, at what goal may we meet ? DAWN ON THE NIGHT-JOURNEY. Till dawn the wind drove round me. It is past And still, and leaves the air to lisp of bird, And to the quiet that is almost heard Of the new-risen day, as yet bound fast In the first warmth of sunrise. When the last Of the sun's hours to-day shall be fulfilled, There shall another breath of time be stilled For me, which now is to my senses cast As much beyond me as eternity, Unknown, kept secret. On the newborn air The moth quivers in silence. It is vast, Yea, even beyond the hills upon the sea, The day whose end shall give this hour as sheer As chaos to the irrevocable Past. 3«4 A LITTLE WHILE. A little while a little love The hour yet bears for thee and me Who have not drawn the veil to see If still our heaven be lit above. Thou merely, at the day's last sigh, Hast felt thy soul prolong the tone ; And I have heard the night-wind cry And deemed its speech mine own. A little while a little love The scattering autumn hoards for us Whose bower is not yet ruinous Nor quite unleaved our songless grove. Only across the shaken boughs We hear the flood-tides seek the sea, And deep in both our hearts they rouse One wail for thee and me. A little while a little love May yet be ours who have not said The word it makes our eyes afraid To know that each is thinking of. Not yet the end : be our lips dumb In smiles a little season yet : I'll tell thee, when the end is come, How we may best forget. 305 TROY TOWN. Heavenborn Helen, Sparta's queen, (O Troy Town !) Had two breasts of heavenly sheen, The sun and moon of the heart's desire : All Love's lordship lay between. (O Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire f) Helen knelt at Venus' shrine, (O Troy Town f) Saying, "A little gift is mine, A little gift for a heart's desire. Hear me speak and make me a sign ] (O Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire f) " Look, I bring thee a carven cup ; (O Troy Town !) See it here as I hold it up, — Shaped it is to the heart's desire, Fit to fill when the gods would sup. (O Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire /) " It was moulded like my breast ; (O Troy Town!) He that sees it may not rest, Rest at all for his heart's desire. O give ear to my heart's behest ! (O Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire /) TROY TOWN. " See my breast, how like it is ; (O Troy Town!) See it bare for the air to kiss ! Is the cup to thy heart's desire ? O for the breast, O make it his ! (O Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire /) u Yea, for my bosom here I sue ; (O Troy Town /) Thou must give it where 'tis due, Give it there to the heart's desire. Whom do I give my bosom to ? (O Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire f) " Each twin breast is an apple sweet. (O Troy Town !) Once an apple stirred the beat Of thy heart with the heart's desire :— Say, who brought it then to thy feet ? (O Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire f) "They that claimed it then were three (O Troy Town !) For thy sake two hearts did he Make forlorn of the heart's desire. Do for him as he did for thee ! (O Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire /) " Mine are apples grown to the south, (O Troy Town /) Grown to taste in the days of drouth, Taste and waste to the heart's desire : Mine are apples meet for his mouth." (O Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire /) TROY TOWN. Venus looked on Helen's gift, (O Troy Town f) Looked and smiled with subtle drift, Saw the work of her heart's desire : — - " There thou kneel'st for Love to lift 1 " (O Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire /) Venus looked in Helen's face, (O Troy Town /) Knew far off an hour and place, And fire lit from the heart's desire ; Laughed and said, " Thy gift hath grace ! " (O Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire !) Cupid looked on Helen's breast, (O Troy Town f) Saw the heart within its nest, Saw the flame of the heart's desire, — ■ Marked his arrow's burning crest. (O Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire /) Cupid took another dart, (O Troy Town!) Fledged it for another heart, Winged the shaft with the heart's desire, Drew the string and said, " Depart ! " (,0 Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire /) Paris turned upon his bed, (O Troy Town /) Turned upon his bed and said, Dead at heart with the heart's desire — " Oh to clasp her golden head ! " (O Troy's down, Tall Troy's on fire I) 3 oS EDEN BOWER. It was Lilith the wife of Adam : (Sing Eden Bower/) Not a drop of her blood was human, But she was made like a soft sweet woman. Lilith stood on the skirts of Eden ; (Alas the hour!) She was the first that thence was driven ; With her was hell and with Eve was heaven. In the ear of the Snake said Lilith : — (Sing Eden Bower !) " To thee I come when the rest is over ; A snake was I when thou wast my lover. " I was the fairest snake in Eden : (Alas the hour!) By the earth's will, new form and feature Made me a wife for the earth's new creature. " Take me thou as I come from Adam : (Sing Eden Bower /) Once again shall my love subdue thee ; The past is past and I am come to thee. " O but Adam was thrall to Lilith ! (Alas the hour !) All the threads of my hair are golden, And there in a net his heart was holden. EDEN BOWER. 309 " O and Lilith was queen of Adam ! (Sing Eden Bower !) All the day and the night together My breath could shake his soul like a feather. " What great joys had Adam and Lilith ! — (Alas the hour !) Sweet close rings of the serpent's twining, As heart in heart lay sighing and pining. " What bright babes had Lilith and Adam !- (Sing Eden Bower !) Shapes that coiled in the woods and waters, Glittering sons and radiant daughters. " O thou God, the Lord God of Eden ! (Alas the hour !) Say, was this fair body for no man, That of Adam's flesh thou mak'st him a woman ? " O thou Snake, the King-snake of Eden ! (Sing Eden Bower !) God's strong will our necks are under, But thou and I may cleave it in sunder. " Help, sweet Snake, sweet lover of Lilith ! (Alas the hour !) And let God learn how I loved and hated Man in the image of God created. " Help me once against Eve and Adam ! (Sing Eden Bower!) Help me once for this one endeavour, And then my love shall be thine for ever ! " Strong is God, the fell foe of Lilith : (Alas the hour!) Nought in heaven or earth may affright Him ; But join thou with me and we will smite Him. EDEN BOWER. " Strong is God, the great God of Eden : (Sing Eden Bower !) Over all He made He hath power ; But lend me thou thy shape for an hour ! " Lend thy shape for the love of Lilith ! (Alas the hour!) Look, my mouth and my cheek are ruddy, And thou art cold, and fire is my body. "Lend thy shape for the hate of Adam ! (Sing Eden Bower t) That he may wail my joy that forsook him, And curse the day when the bride-sleep took him. " Lend thy shape for the shame of Eden ! (Alas the hour!) Is not the foe-God weak as the foeman When love grows hate in the heart of a woman ? " Wouldst thou know the heart's hope of Lilith ? (Sing Eden Bower !) -* Then bring thou close thine head till it glisten Along my breast, and lip me and listen. " Am I sweet, O sweet Snake of Eden ? (Alas the hour /) Then ope thine ear to my warm mouth's cooing And learn what deed remains for our doing. " Thou didst hear when God said to Adam : — (Sing Eden Bower /) ' Of all this wealth I have made thee warden ; Thou'rt free to eat of the trees of the garden : " ' Only of one tree eat not in Eden ; (Alas the hour /) All save one I give to thy freewill, — The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and EviL' EDEN BOWER. u O my love, come nearer to Lilith ! {Sing Eden Bower!) In thy sweet folds bind me and bend me, And let me feel the shape thou shalt lend me " In thy shape I'll go back to Eden (Alas the hour t) In these coils that Tree will I grapple, And stretch this crowned head forth by the apple. " Lo, Eve bends to the breath of Lilith ! {Sing Eden Bower /) O how then shall my heart desire All her blood as food to its fire ! " Lo, Eve bends to the words of Lilith ! — (Alas the hour/) ' Nay, this Tree's fruit, — why should ye hate it, Or Death be born the day that ye ate it ? u ' Nay, but on that great day in Eden, (Sing Eden Bower!) By the help that in this wise Tree is, God knows well ye shall be as He is.' " Then Eve shall eat and give unto Adam ; (Alas the hour !) And then they both shall know they are naked, And their hearts ache as my heart hath ached. " Ay, let them hide 'mid the trees of Eden, (Sing Eden Bower !) As in the cool of the day in the garden God shall walk without pity or pardon. " Hear, thou Eve, the man's heart in Adam ! (Alas the hour !) Of his brave words hark to the bravest : — ' This the woman gave that thou gavest.' EDEN BOWER. u Hear Eve speak, yea list to her, Lilith ! (Sing Eden Bower/) Feast thine heart with words that shall sate it — ' This the serpent gave and I ate it.' " O proud Eve, cling close to thine Adam, (Alas the hour!) Driven forth as the beasts of his naming By the sword that for ever is flaming. u Know, thy path is known unto Lilith ! (Sing Eden Bower /) While the blithe birds sang at thy wedding, There her tears grew thorns for thy treading. " O my love, thou Love-snake of Eden ! (Alas the hour/) to-day and the day to come after ! Loose me, love, — give breath to my laughter. " O bright Snake, the Death-worm of Adam ! (Sing Eden Bower/) Wreathe thy neck with my hair's bright tether, And wear my gold and thy gold together ! " On that day on the skirts of Eden, (Alas the hour/) In thy shape shall I glide back to thee, And in my shape for an instant view thee. " But when thou'rt thou and Lilith is Lilith, (Sing Eden Bower /) In what bliss past hearing or seeing Shall each one drink of the other's being ! "With cries of 'Eve!' and 'Eden!' and 'Adam!' (Alas the hour/) How shall we mingle our love's caresses, 1 in thy coils, and thou in my tresses ! EDEN BOWER. 3*3 " With those names, ye echoes of Eden, (Sing Eden Bower !) Fire shall cry from my heart that burneth, — ' Dust he is and to dust returneth ! ' " Yet to-day, thou master of Lilith, — (Alas the hour!) Wrap me round in the form I'll borrow And let me tell thee of sweet to-morrow. " In the planted garden eastward in Eden, (Sing Eden Bower !) Where the river goes forth to water the garden, The springs shall dry and the soil shall harden. " Yea, where the bride-sleep fell upon Adam, (Alas the hour !) None shall hear when the storm-wind whistles Through roses choked among thorns and thistles. " Yea, beside the east-gate of Eden, (Sing Eden Bower /) Where God joined them and none might sever, The sword turns this way and that for ever. " What of Adam cast out of Eden ? (Alas the hour /) Lo ! with care like a shadow shaken, He tills the hard earth whence he was taken. " What of Eve too, cast out of Eden ? (Sing Eden Bower!) Nay, but she, the bride of God's giving, Must yet be mother of all men living. " Lo, God's grace, by the grace of Lilith ! (Alas the hour!) To Eve's womb, from our sweet to-morrow, God shall greatly multiply sorrow. EDEN BOWER. " Fold me fast, O God-snake of Eden ! (Sing Eden Bower!) What more prize than love to impel thee ? Grip and lip my limbs as I tell thee ! " Lo ! two babes for Eve and for Adam ! {Alas the hour!) Lo ! sweet Snake, the travail and treasure, — Two men-children born for their pleasure ! " The first is Cain and the second Abel : {Sing Eden Bower!) The soul of one shall be made thy brother, And thy tongue shall lap the blood of the other." {Alas the hour!) 3^5 LOVE-LILY. Between the hands, between the brows, Between the lips of Love-Lily, A spirit is born whose birth endows My blood with fire to burn through me ; Who breathes upon my gazing eyes, Who laughs and murmurs in mine ear, At whose least touch my colour flies, And whom my life grows faint to hear. Within the voice, within the heart, Within the mind of Love-Lily, A spirit is born who lifts apart His tremulous wings and looks at me ; Who on my mouth his finger lays, And shows, while whispering lutes confer, That Eden of Love's watered ways Whose winds and spirits worship her. Brows, hands, and lips, heart, mind, and voice, Kisses and words of Love-Lily, — Oh ! bid me with your joy rejoice Till riotous longing rest in me ! Ah ! let not hope be still distraught, But find in her its gracious goal, Whose speech Truth knows not from her thought Nor Love her body from her soul. 3i6 SUNSET WINGS. To-night this sunset spreads two golden wing? Cleaving the western sky ; Winged too with wind it is, and winnowings Of birds ; as if the day's last hour in rings Of strenuous flight must die. Sun-steeped in fire, the homeward pinions sway Above the dovecote-tops ; And clouds of starlings, ere they rest with day, Sink, clamorous like mill-waters, at wild play, By turns in every copse : Each tree heart-deep the wrangling rout receives, — Save for the whirr within, You could not tell the starlings from the leaves ; Then one great puff of wings, and the swarm heaves Away with all its din. Even thus Hope's hours, in ever-eddying flight, To many a refuge tend ; With the first light she laughed, and the last light Glows round her still ; who natheless in the night At length must make an end. And now the mustering rooks innumerable Together sail and soar, While for the day's death, like a tolling knell, Unto the heart they seem to cry, Farewell, No more, farewell, no more ! Hope not plumed, as 'twere a fiery dart ? And oh ! thou dying day, Even as thou goest must she too depart, And Sorrow fold such pinions on the heart As will not fly away ? 3i7 THE CLOUD CONFINES. The day is dark and the night To him that would search their heart ; No lips of cloud that will part Nor morning song in the light : Only, gazing alone, To him wild shadows are shown, Deep under deep unknown And height above unknown height. Still we say as we go, — " Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know, That shall we know one day." The Past is over and fled ; Named new, we name it the old ; Thereof some tale hath been told, But no word comes from the dead ; Whether at all they be, Or whether as bond or free, Or whether they too were we, Or by what spell they have sped. Still we say as we go, — " Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know, That shall we know one day." What of the heart of hate That beats in thy breast, O Time ? — ■ Red strife from the furthest prime, And anguish of fierce debate; THE CLOUD CONFINES. War that shatters her slain, And peace that grinds them as grain, And eyes fixed ever in vain On the pitiless eyes of Fate. Still we say as we go, — " Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know, That shall we know one day." What of the heart of love That bleeds in thy breast, O Man ?— Thy kisses snatched 'neath the ban Of fangs that mock them above ; Thy bells prolonged unto knells, Thy hope that a breath dispels, Thy bitter forlorn farewells And the empty echoes thereof? Still we say as we go, — " Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know, That shall we know one day." The sky leans dumb on the sea, Aweary with all its wings ; And oh ! the, song the sea sings Is dark everlastingly. Our past is clean forgot, Our present is and is not, Our future's a sealed seedplot, And what betwixt them are we ? — We who say as we go, — " Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know, That shall we know one day." 3 r 9 DOWN STREAM. Between Holmscote and Hurstcote The river-reaches wind, The whispering trees accept the breeze, The ripple's cool and kind : With love low-whispered 'twixt the shores, With rippling laughters gay, With white arms bared to ply the oars, On last year's first of May. Between Holmscote and Hurstcote The river's brimmed with rain, Through close-met banks and parted banks Now near, now far again : With parting tears caressed to smiles, With meeting promised soon, With every sweet vow that beguiles, On last year's first of June. Between Holmscote and Hurstcote The river's flecked with foam, 'Neath shuddering clouds that hang in shrouds And lost winds wild for home : With infant wailings at the breast, With homeless steps astray, With wanderings shuddering tow'rds one rest On this year's first of May. Between Holmscote and Hurstcote The summer river flows With doubled flight of moons by night And lilies' deep repose : DOWN STREAM. With lo ! beneath the moon's white stare A white face not the moon, With lilies meshed in tangled hair, On this year's first of June. Between Holmscote and Hurstcote A troth was given and riven, From heart's trust grew one life to two, Two lost lives cry to Heaven : With banks spread calm to meet the sky, With meadows newly mowed, The harvest-paths of glad July, The sweet school-children's road. 321 THREE SHADOWS. I looked and saw your eyes In the shadow of your hair As a traveller sees the stream In the shadow of the wood ; And I said, "My faint heart sighs Ah me ! to linger there, To drink deep and to dream In that sweet solitude." I looked and saw your heart In the shadow of your eyes, As a seeker sees the gold In the shadow of the stream ; And I said, " Ah me ! what art Should win the immortal prize, Whose want must make life cold And Heaven a hollow dream ? " I looked and saw your love In the shadow of your heart, As a diver sees the pearl In the shadow of the sea ; And I murmured, not above My breath, but all apart, — " Ah ! you can love, true girl, And is your love for me ? " 322 A DEATH-PARTING. Leaves and rain and the days of the year, (Wafer-willow and wellaway,) All these fall, and my soul gives ear, And she is hence who once was here. (With a wind blown night and day.) Ah ! but now, for a secret sign, (The willow's wan and the water white,) In the held breath of the day's decline Her very face seemed pressed to mine. With a wind blown day and night.) O love, of my death my life is fain ; (The willows wave on the water-way,) Your cheek and mine are cold in the rain, But warm they'll be when we meet again. ( With a wind blown night and day. ) Mists are heaved and cover the sky ; (The willoivs ivail in the waning light,) O loose your lips, leave space for a sigh, — They seal my soul, I cannot die. (With a wind blown day and night.) Leaves and rain and the days of the year, (Watrr-willow and wellaway,) All still fall, and I still give ear, And she is hence, and I am here. ( With a wind blown night and day.) 323 SPRING. Soft-littered is the new-year's lambing-fold, And in the hollowed haystack at its side The shepherd lies o' nights now, wakeful-eyed At the ewes' travailing call through the dark cold. The young rooks cheep 'mid the thick caw o' the old : And near unpeopled stream-sides, on the ground, By her Spring cry the moorhen's nest is found, Where the drained flood-lands flaunt their marigold. Chill are the gusts to which the pastures cower, And chill the current where the young reeds stand As green and close as the young wheat on land : Yet here the cuckoo and the cuckoo-flower Plight to the heart Spring's perfect imminent hour Whose breath shall soothe you like your dear one's hand. UNTIMELY LOST. Oliver Madox Brown. Born 1855 ; Died r874. Upon the landscape of his coming life A youth high-gifted gazed, and found it fair : The heights of work, the floods of praise, were there. What friendships, what desires, what love, what wife ? — All things to come. The fanned springtide was rife With imminent solstice ; and the ardent air Had summer sweets and autumn fires to bear ; — Heart's ease full-pulsed with perfect stiength for strife. A mist has risen : we see the youth no more : Does he see on and strive on ? And may we Late-tottering world-worn hence, find his to be The young strong hand which helps us up that shore ? Or, echoing the No More with Nevermore, Must Night be ours and his ? We hope : and he ? 3^4 PARTED PRESENCE. Love, I speak to your heart, Your heart that is always here. Oh draw me deep to its sphere, Though you and I are apart ; And yield, by the spirit's art, Each distant gift that is dear. O love, my love, you are here ! Your eyes are afar to-day, Yet, love, look now in mine eyes. Two hearts sent forth may despise All dead things by the way. All between is decay, Dead hours and this hour that dies O love, look deep in mine eyes ! Your hands to-day are not here, Yet lay them, love, in my hands. The hourglass sheds its sands All day for the dead hours' bier ; But now, as two hearts draw near, This hour like a flower expands. O love, your hands in my hands ! Your voice is not on the air, Yet, love, I can hear your voice : It bids my heart to rejoice As knowing your heart is there, — A music sweet to declare The truth of your steadfast choice. O love, how sweet is your voice ! PARTED PRESENCE. To-day your lips are afar, Yet draw my lips to them, love. Around, beneath, and above, Is frost to bind and to bar; But where I am and you are, Desire and the fire thereof. O kiss me, kiss me, my love ! Your heart is never away, But ever with mine, for ever, For ever without endeavour, To-morrow, love, as to-day ; Two blent hearts never astray, Two souls no power may sever, Together, O my love, for ever ! 326 SPHERAL CHANGE. In tnis new shade of Death, the show Passes me still of form and face ; Some bent, some gazing as they go, Some swiftly, some at a dull pace, Not one that speaks in any case. If only one might speak ! — the one Who never waits till I come near ; But always seated all alone As listening to the sunken air, Is gone before I come to her. O dearest ! while we lived and died A living death in every day, Some hours we still were side by side, When where I was you too might stay And rest and need not go away. O nearest, furthest ! Can there be At length some hard-earned heart-won home, Where, — exile changed for sanctuary, — Our lot may fill indeed its sum, And you may wait and I may come ? 6-7 ALAS, SO LONG! Ah ! dear one, we were young so long, It seemed that youth would never go, For skies and trees were ever in song And water in singing flow In the days we never again shall know. Alas, so long ! Ah ! then was it all Spring weather ? Nay, but we were young and together. Ah ! dear one, I've been old so long, It seems that age is loth to part, Though days and years have never a song, And oh ! have they still the art That warmed the pulses of heart to heart ? Alas, so long ! Ah ! then was it all Spring weather ? Nay, but we were young and together. Ah ! dear one, you've been dead so long, — How long until we meet again, Where hours may never lose their song Nor flowers forget the rain In glad noonlight that never shall wane ? Alas, so long ! Ah ! shall it be then Spring weather, And ah 1 shall we be young together ? 328 INSOMNIA. Thin are the night-skirts left behind By daybreak hours that onward creepy And thin, alas ! the shred of sleep That wavers with the spirit's wind : But in half-dreams that shift and roll And still remember and forget, My soul this hour has drawn your soul A little nearer yet. Our lives, most dear, are never near, Our thoughts are never far apart, Though all that draws us heart to heart Seems fainter now and now more clear. To-night Love claims his full control, And with desire and with regret My soul this hour has drawn your soul A little nearer yet. Is there a home where heavy earth Melts to bright air that breathes no pain, Where water leaves no thirst again And springing fire is Love's new birth ? If faith long bound to one true goal May there at length its hope beget, My soul that hour shall draw your soul For ever nearer yet. 329 POSSESSION. There is a cloud above the sunset hill, That wends and makes no stay, For its goal lies beyond the fiery west ; A lingering breath no calm can chase away, The onward labour of the wind's last will ; A flying foam that overleaps the crest Of the top wave : and in possession still A further reach of longing ; though at rest From all the yearning years, Together in the bosom of that day Ye cling, and with your kisses drink your tears. 33° CHIMES. Honey-flowers to the honey-comb And the honey-bee's from home. A honey-comb and a honey-flower, And the bee shall have his hour. A honeyed heart for the honey-comb, And the humming bee flies home. A heavy heart in the honey-flower, And the bee has had his hour. II. A honey cell's in the honeysuckle, And the honey-bee knows it well. The honey-comb has a heart of honey, And the humming bee's so bonny. A honey-flower's the honeysuckle, And the bee's in the honey-bell. The honeysuckle is sucked of honey, And the bee is heavy and bonny. CHIMES, lit. r>rown shell first for the butterfly And a bright wing by and by. Butterfly, good-bye to your shell, And, bright wings, speed you well. Bright lamplight for the butterfly And a burnt wing by and by. Butterfly, alas for your shell, And, bright wings, fare you well. IV. Lost love-labour and lullaby, And lowly let love lie. Lost love-morrow and love-fellow And love's life lying low. Lovelor labour and life laid by And lowly let love lie. Late love-longing and life-sorrow And love's life lying low. v. Beauty's body and benison With a bosom-flower new blown. Bitter beauty and blessing bann'd With a breast to burn and brand. Beauty's bower in the dust o'erblowu With a bare white breast of bone. Barren beauty and bower of sand With a blast on either hand. CHIMES. VI. Buried bars in the breakwater And bubble of the brimming weir. Body's blood in the breakwater And a buried body's bier. Buried bones in the breakwater And bubble of the brawling weir. Bitter tears in the breakwater And a breaking heart to bear. VII. Hollow heaven and the hurricane And hurry of the heavy rain. Hurried clouds in the hollow heaven And a heavy rain hard-driven. The heavy rain it hurries amain And heaven and the hurricane. Hurrying wind o'er the heaven's hollow And the heavy rain to follow. 333 ADIEU. Waving whispering trees, What do you say to the breeze And what says the breeze to you ? 'Mid passing souls ill at ease, Moving murmuring trees, Would ye ever wave an Adieu ? Tossing turbulent seas, Winds that wrestle with these, Echo heard in the shell, — 'Mid fleeting life ill at ease, Restless ravening seas, — Would the echo sigh Farewell ? Surging sumptuous skies, For ever a new surprise, Clouds eternally new, — Is every flake that flies, Widening wandering skies, For a sign — Farewell, Adieu ? Sinking suffering heart That know'st how weary thou art, — Soul so fain for a flight, — Aye, spread your wings to depart, Sad soul and sorrowing heart, — Adieu, Farewell, Good-night. 334 SOOTHSAY. Let no man ask thee of anything Not yearborn between Spring and Spring. More of all worlds than he can know, Each day the single sun doth show. A trustier gloss than thou canst give From all wise scrolls demonstrative, The sea doth sigh and the wind sing. Let no man awe thee on any height Of earthly kingship's mouldering might. The dust his heel holds meet for thy brow Hath all of it been what both are now ; And thou and he may plague together A beggar's eyes in some dusty weather When none that is now knows sound or si Crave thou no dower of earthly things Unworthy Hope's imaginings. To have brought true birth of Song to be And to have won hearts to Poesy, Or anywhere in the sun or rain To have loved and been beloved again, Is loftiest reach of Hope's bright wings. The wild waifs cast up by the sea Are diverse ever seasonably. Even so the soul-tides still may land A different drift upon the sand. But one the sea is evermore : And one be still, 'twixt shore and shore, As the sea's life, thy soul in thee. SOOTHS A V. Say, hast thou pride ? How then may fit Thy mood with flatterers' silk-spun wit ? Haply the sweet voice lifts thy crest, A breeze of fame made manifest. Nay, but then chaf'st at flattery ? Pause : Be sure thy wrath is not because It makes thee feel thou lovest it Let thy soul strive that still the same Be early friendship's sacred flame. The affinities have strongest part In youth, and draw men heart to heart : As life wears on and finds no rest, The individual in each breast Is tyrannous to sunder them. In the life-drama's stern cue-call, A friend's a part well-prized by all : And if thou meet an enemy, What art thou that none such should be ? Even so : but if the two parts run Into each other and grow one, Then comes the curtain's cue to fall. Whate'er by other's need is claimed More than by thine, — to him unblamed Resign it : and if he should hold What more than he thou lack'st, bread, gold, Or any good whereby we live, — To thee such substance let him give Freely : nor he nor thou be shamed. Strive that thy works prove equal : lest That work which thou hast done the best Should come to be to thee at length (Even as to envy seems the strength Of others) hateful and abhorr'd, — Thine own above thyself made lord, — Of self-rebuke the bitterest. SOOTHSAY. Unto the man of yearning thought And aspiration, to , do nought Is in itself almost an act, — Being chasm-fire and cataract Of the soul's utter depths unseal'd. Yet woe to thee if once thou yield Unto the act of doing nought ! How callous seems beyond revoke The clock with its last listless stroke ! How much too late at length ! — to trace The hour on its forewarning face, The thing thou hast not dared to do ! . . . Behold, this may be thus ! Ere true It prove, arise and bear thy yoke. Let lore of all Theology Be to thy soul what it can be : But know, — the Power that fashions man Measured not out thy little span For thee to take the meting-rod In turn, and so approve on God Thy science of Theometry. To God at best, to Chance at worst, Give thanks for good things, last as first. But windstrown blossom is that good Whose apple is not gratitude. Even if no prayer uplift thy face, Let the sweet right to render grace As thy soul's cherished child be nurs'd. Didst ever say, " Lo, I forget " ? Such thought was to remember yet. As in a gravegarth, count to see The monuments of memory. Be this thy soul's appointed scope : — Gaze onward without claim to hope, Nor, gazing backward, court regret. 337 FIVE ENGLISH POETS. J. THOMAS CHATTERTON. With Shakspeare's manhood at a boy's wild heart, — > Through Hamlet's doubt to Shakspeare near allied, And kin to Milton through his Satan's pride, — At Death's sole door he stooped, and craved a dart ; And to the dear new bower of England's art, — Even to that shrine Time else had deified, The unuttered heart that soared against his side, — Drove the fell point, and smote life's seals apart. Thy nested home-loves, noble Chatterton ; The angel-trodden stair thy soul could trace Up Redclifie's spire ; and in the world's armed space Thy gallant sword-play : — these to many an one Are sweet for ever ; as thy grave unknown And love-dream of thine unrecorded face. 22 33« FIVE ENGLISH POETS. II. WILLIAM BLAKE. (TO FREDERICK SHIELDS, ON HIS SKETCH OF BLAKe's WORK-ROOM AND DEATH-ROOM, 3 FOUNTAIN COURT, STRAND.) This is the place. Even here the dauntless soul, The unflinching hand, wrought on ; till in that nook, As on that very bed, his life partook New birth, and passed. Yon river's dusky shoal, Whereto the close-built coiling lanes unroll, Faced his work-window, whence his eyes would stare, Thought-wandering, unto nought that met them there, But to the unfettered irreversible goal. This cupboard, Holy of Holies, held the cloud Of his soul writ and limned ; this other one, His true wife's charge, full oft to their abode Yielded for daily bread the martyr's stone, Ere yet their food might be that Bread alone, The words now home-speech of the mouth of God. III. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. His Soul fared forth (as from the deep home-grove The father-songster plies the hour- long quest), To feed his soul-brood hungering in the nest ; But his warm Heart, the mother-bird, above Their callow fledgling progeny still hove With tented roof of wings and fostering breast Till the Soul fed the soul-brood. Richly blest From Heaven their growth, whose food was Human Love. Yet ah ! Like desert pools that show the stars Once in long leagues, — even such the scarce-snatched hours Which deepening pain left to his lordliest powers : — Heaven lost through spider-trammelled prison-bars. Six years, from sixty saved ! Yet kindling skies Own them, a beacon to our centuries. FIVE ENGLISH POETS. 339 IV. JOHN KEATS. The weltering London ways where children weep And girls whom none call maidens laugh, — strange road Miring his outward steps, who inly trode The bright Castalian brink and Latinos' steep : — Even such his life's cross-paths ; till deathly deep He toiled through sands of Lethe ; and long pain, Weary with labour spurned and love found vain, In dead Rome's sheltering shadow wrapped his sleep. O pang-dowered Poet, whose reverberant lips And heart-strung lyre awoke the Moon's eclipse, — Thou whom the daisies glory in growing o'er, — Their fragrance clings around thy name, not writ But rumour'd in water, while the fame of it Along Time's flood goes echoing evermore. V. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. (inscription for the couch, still preserved, ON which he passed the last night of his life.) 'Twixt those twin worlds, — the world of Sleep, which gave No dream to warn, — the tidal world of Death, Which the earth's sea, as the earth, replenisheth, — - Shelley, Song's orient sun, to breast the wave, Rose from this couch that morn. Ah ! did he brave Only the sea ? — or did man's deed of hell Engulph his bark 'mid mists impenetrable ? . . . No eye discerned, nor any power might save. When that mist cleared, O Shelley ! what dread veil Was rent for thee, to whom far-darkling Truth Reigned sovereign guide through thy brief ageless youth ? Was the Truth thy Truth, Shelley ?— Hush ! All-Hail, Past doubt, thou gav'st it ; and in Truth's bright sphere Art first of praisers, being most praised here. 340 TO PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON, INCITING ME TO POETIC WORK. Sweet Poet, thou of whom these years that roll Must one day yet the burdened birthright learn, And by the darkness of thine eyes discern How piercing was the sight within thy soul ; — Gifted apart, thou goest to the great goal, A cloud-bound radiant spirit, strong to earn, Light-reft, that prize for which fond myriads yearn Vainly light-blest, — the Seer's aureole. And doth thine ear, divinely dowered to catch All spheral sounds in thy song blent so well, Still hearken for my voice's slumbering spell With wistful love ? Ah ! let the Muse now snatch My wreath for thy young brows, and bend to watch Thy veiled transfiguring sense's miracle. TIBER, NILE, AND THAMES. The head and hands of murdered Cicero, Above his seat high in the Forum hung, Drew jeers and burning tears. When on the rung Of a swift-mounted ladder, all aglow, Fulvia, Mark Antony's shameless wife, with show Of foot firm-poised and gleaming arm upflung, Bade her sharp needle pierce that god-like tongue Whose speech fed Rome even as the Tiber's flow. And thou, Cleopatra's Needle, that hadst thrid Great skirts of Time ere she and Antony hid Dead hope! — hast thou too reached, surviving death, A city of sweet speech scorned, — on whose chill stone Keats withered, Coleridge pined, and Chatterton, Breadless, with poison froze the God-fired breath ? RALEIGH'S CELL IN THE TOWER. Here writ was the World's History by his hand Whose steps knew all the earth ; albeit his world In these few piteous paces then was furl'd. Here daily, hourly, have his proud feet spann'd This smaller speck than the receding land Had ever shown his ships ; what time he hurl'd Abroad o'er new-found regions spiced and pearl'd His country's high dominion and command. Here dwelt two spheres. The vast terrestrial zone His spirit traversed ; and that spirit was Itself the zone celestial, round whose birth The planets played within the zodiac's girth ; Till hence, through unjust death unfeared, did pass His spirit to the only land unknown. WINTER. How large that thrush looks on the bare thorn-tree ! A swarm of such, three little months ago, Had hidden in the leaves and let none know Save by the outburst of their minstrelsy. A white flake here and there — a snow-lily Of last night's frost — our naked flower-beds hold; And for a rose-flower on the darkling mould The hungry redbreast gleams. No bloom, no bee. The current shudders to its ice-bound sedge : Nipped in their bath, the stark reeds one by one Flash each its clinging diamond in the sun : 'Neath winds which for this winter's sovereign pledge Shall curb great king-masts to the ocean's edge And leave memorial forest-kings o'erthrown. 342 THE LAST THREE FROM TRAFALGAR AT THE ANNIVERSARY BANQUET, 2 1ST OCTOBER 1 8 "J*. In grappled ships around The Victory, Three boys did England's Duty with stout cheer, While one dread truth was kept from every ear, More dire than deafening fire that churned the sea : For in the flag-ship's weltering cockpit, he Who was the Battle's Heart without a peer, He who had seen all fearful sights save Fear, Was passing from all life save Victory. And round the old memorial board to-day, Three greybeards — each a warworn British Tar — View through the mist of years that hour afar : Who soon shall greet, 'mid memories of fierce fray, The impassioned soul which on its radiant way Soared through the fiery cloud of Trafalgar. CZAR ALEXANDER THE SECOND. (13TH MARCH 1 88 1.) From him did forty million serfs, endow'd Each with six feet of death-due soil, receive Rich freeborn lifelong land, whereon to sheave Their country's harvest. These to-day aloud Demand of Heaven a Father's blood, — sore bow'd With tears and thrilled with wrath ; who, while they grieve, On every guilty head would fain achieve All torment by his edicts disallow'd. He stayed the knout's red-ravening fangs ; and first Of Russian traitors, his own murderers go White to the tomb. While he, — laid foully low With limbs red-rent, with festering brain which erst Willed kingly freedom, — 'gainst the deed accurst To God bears witness of his people's woe. 313 II L — SONNE TS ON PICTURES. FOR AN ANNUNCIATION, EARLY GERMAN. The lilies stand before her like a screen Through which, upon this warm and solemn day, God surely hears. For there she kneels to pray Who wafts our prayers to God — Mary the Queen. She was Faith's Present, parting what had been From what began with her, and is for aye. On either hand, God's twofold system lay : With meek bowed face a Virgin prayed between. So prays she, and the Dove flies in to her, And she has turned. At the low porch is one , Who looks as though deep awe made him to smile. Heavy with heat, the plants yield shadow there ; S The loud flies cross each other in the sun ; [_ And the aisled pillars meet the poplar-aisle. 344 FOR OUR LADY OF THE ROCKS BY LEONARDO DA VINCI. Mother, is this the darkness of the end,' The Shadow of Death ? and is that outer sea Infinite imminent Eternity ? And does the death-pang by man's seed sustained In Time's each instant cause thy face to bend Its silent prayer upon the Son, while He Blesses the dead with His hand silently To His long day which hours no more offend ? Mother of grace, the pass is difficult, Keen as these rocks, and the bewildered souls Throng it like echoes, blindly shuddering through. Thy name, O Lord, each spirit's voice extols, Whose peace abides in the dark avenue Amid the bitterness of things occult. FOR A VENETIAN PASTORAL BY GIORGIONE. (In the Louvre.) • Water, for anguish of the solstice : — nay, But dip the vessel slowly, — nay, but lean And hark how at its verge the wave sighs in Reluctant. Hush ! beyond all depth away The heat lies silent at the brink of day : Now the hand trails upon the viol-string That sobs, and the brown faces cease to sing, Sad with the whole of pleasure. Whither stray Her eyes now, from whose mouth the slim pipes creep And leave it pouting, while the shadowed grass Is cool against her naked side ? Let be : — Say nothing now unto her lest she weep, Nor name this ever. Be it as it was,— Life touching lips with Immortality. 346 FOR AN ALLEGORICAL DANCE OF WOMEN BY ANDREA MANTEGNA. (In the Louvre.) Scarcely, I think ; yet it indeed may be The meaning reached him, when this music rang Clear through his frame, a sweet possessive pang, And he beheld these rocks and that ridged sea. But I believe that, leaning tow'rds them, he Just felt their hair carried across his face As each girl passed him ; nor gave ear to trace How many feet ; nor bent assuredly His eyes from the blind fixedness of thought To know the dancers. It is bitter glad Even unto tears. Its meaning filleth it, A secret of the wells of Life : to wit : — The heart's each pulse shall keep the sense it had With all, though the mind's labour run to nought. 347 FOR RUGGIERO AND ANGELICA BY INGRES. I. A remote sky, prolonged to the sea's brim : One rock-point standing buffeted alone, Vexed at its base with a foul beast unknown, Hell-birth of geomaunt and teraphim : A knight, and a winged creature bearing him, Reared at the rock : a woman fettered there, Leaning into the hollow with loose hair And throat let back and heartsick trail of limb. The sky is harsh, and the sea shrewd and salt : Under his lord the griffin-horse ramps blind With rigid wings and tail. The spear's lithe stem Thrills in the roaring of those jaws : behind, That evil length of body chafes at fault. She does not hear nor see — she knows of them. ii. Clench thine eyes now, — 'tis the last instant, girl : Draw in thy senses, set thy knees, and take One breath for all : thy life is keen awake, — Thou mayst not swoon. Was that the scattered whirl Of its foam drenched thee ? — or the waves that curl And split, bleak spray wherein thy temples ache ? Or was it his the champion's blood to flake Thy flesh ? — or thine own blood's anointing, girl ? Now, silence : for the sea's is #uch a sound As irks not silence ; and except the sea, All now is still. Now the dead thing doth cease To writhe, and drifts. He turns to her : and she, Cast from the jaws of Death, remains there, bound, Again a woman in her nakedness. 343 FOR A VIRGIN AND CHILD BY HANS MEMMELINCK. (In the Academy of Bruges.) Mystery : God, man's life, born into man Of woman. There abideth on her brow The ended pang of knowledge, the which now Is calm assured. Since first her task began She hath known all. What more of anguish than Endurance oft hath lived through, the whole space Through night till day, passed weak upon her face While the heard lapse of darkness slowly ran ? All hath been told her touching her dear Son, And all shall be accomplished. Where He sits Even now, a babe, He holds the symbol fruit Perfect and chosen. Until* God permits, His soul's elect still have the absolute Harsh nether darkness, and make painful moan. 349 FOR A MARRIAGE OF ST. CATHERINE BY THE SAME. (In the Hospital of St. John at Bruges.) Mystery : Catherine the bride of Christ. She kneels, and on her hand the holy Child Now sets the ring. Her life is hushed and mild, Laid in God's knowledge — ever unenticed From God, and in the end thus fitly priced. Awe, and the music that is near her, wrought Of angels, have possessed her eyes in thought : Her utter joy is hers, and hath sufficed. There is a pause while Mary Virgin turns The leaf, and reads. With eyes on the spread book, That damsel at her knees reads after her. John whom He loved, and John His harbinger Listen and watch. Whereon soe'er thou look, The light is starred in gems and the gold burns. 350 FOR THE WINE OF CIRCE BY EDWARD BURNE JONES. Dusk-haired and gold-robed o'er the golden wine She stoops, wherein, distilled of death and shame, Sink the black drops; while, lit with fragrant flame, Round her spread board the golden sunflowers shine. Doth Helios here with Hecate combine (O Circe, thou their votaress ?) to proclaim For these thy guests all rapture in Love's name, Till pitiless Night give Day the countersign ? Lords of their hour, they come. And by her knee Those cowering beasts, their equals heretofore, Wait ; who with them in new equality To-night shall echo back the sea's dull roar With a vain wail from passion's tide-strown shore Where the dishevelled seaweed hates the sea, 35i FOR THE HOLY FAMILY BY MICHELANGELO. {In the National Gallery.*) Turn not the prophet's page, O Son ! He knew All that Thou hast to suffer, and hath writ. Not yet Thine hour of knowledge. Infinite The sorrows that Thy manhood's lot must rue And dire acquaintance of Thy grief. That clue The spirits of Thy mournful ministerings Seek through yon scroll in silence. For these things The angels have desired to look into. Still before Eden waves the fiery sword, — Her Tree of Life unransomed : whose sad Tree Of Knowledge yet to growth of Calvary Must yield its Tempter, — Hell the earliest dead Of Earth resign, — and yet, O Son and Lord, The seed o' the woman bruise the serpent's head. * In this picture the Virgin Mother is seen withholding from the Child Saviour the prophetic writings in which His sufferings are foretold. Angelic figures beside them examine a scroll, 3J2 FOR SPRING BY SANDRO BOTTICELLI. (In the Accademia oj Florence.) What masque of what old wind- withered New- Year Honours this Lady ? * Flora, wanton-eyed For birth, and with all flowrets prankt and pied : Aurora, Zephyrus, with mutual cheer Of clasp and kiss : the Graces circling near, 'Neath bower-linked arch of white arms glorified : And with those feathered feet which hovering glide O'er Spring's brief bloom, Hermes the harbinger. Birth-bare, not death-bare yet, the young stems stand This Lady's temple-columns : o'er her head Love wings his shaft. What mystery here is read Of homage or of hope ? But how command Dead Springs to answer ? And how question here These mummers of that wind-withered New- Year ? * The same lady, here surrounded by the masque of Spring, is evidently the subject of a portrait by Botticelli formerly in the Pourtales collection in Paris. This portrait is inscribed " Smeralda Bandinelli." I 353 IV.— SONNETS AND VERSES FOR ROSSETTFS OWN WORKS OF ART. MARY'S GIRLHOOD. {For a Picture.) i. This is that blessed Mary, pre-elect God's Virgin. Gone is a great while, and she Dwelt young in Nazareth of Galilee. Unto God's will she brought devout respect, Profound simplicity of intellect, And supreme patience. From her mother's knee Faithful and hopeful ; wise in charity ; Strong in grave peace ; in pity circumspect. 3o held she through her girlhood ; as it were An angel-watered lily, that near God Grows and is quiet. Till, one dawn at home She woke in her white bed, and had no fear At all, — yet wept till sunshine, and felt awed : Because the fulness of the time was come. 23 354 MARY'S GIRLHOOD. II. These are the symbols. On that cloth of red I' the centre is the Tripoint : perfect each, Except the second of its points, to teach That Christ is not yet born. The books — whose head Is golden Charity, as Paul hath said — Those virtues are wherein the soul is rich : Therefore on them the lily standeth, which Is Innocence, being interpreted. The seven-thorn'd briar and the palm seven-leaved Are her great sorrow and her great reward. Until the end be full, the Holy One Abides without. She soon shall have achieved Her perfect purity : yea, God the Lord Shall soon vouchsafe His Son to be her Son. 335 THE PASSOVER IN THE HOLY FAMILY. {For a Drawing. *) Here meet together the prefiguring day And day prefigured. " Eating, thou shalt stand, Feet shod, loins girt, thy road-staff in thine hand, With blood-stained door and lintel," — did God say By Moses' mouth in ages passed away. And now, where this poor household doth comprise At Paschal-Feast two kindred families, — Lo ! the slain lamb confronts the Lamb to slay. The pyre is piled. What agony's crown attained, What shadow of Death the Boy's fair brow subdues Who holds that blood wherewith the porch is stained By Zachary the priest ? John binds the shoes He deemed himself not worthy to unloose ; And Mary culls the bitter herbs ordained. * The scene is in the house-porch, where Christ holds a bowl of blood from which Zacharias is sprinkling the posts and lintel. Joseph has brought the lamb and Elizabeth lights the pyre. The shoes which John fastens and the bitter herbs which Mary is gathering form part of the ritual. 356 MARY MAGDALENE AT THE DOOR OF SIMON THE PHARISEE. (For a Drawing.*) " Why wilt thou cast the roses from thine hair ? Nay, be thou all a rose, — wreath, lips, and cheek. Nay, not this house, — that banquet-house we seek ; See how they kiss and enter ; come thou there. This delicate day of love we two will share Till at our ear love's whispering night shall speak. What, sweet one, — hold'st thou still the foolish freak? Nay, when I kiss thy feet they'll leave the stair." " Oh loose me ! Seest thou not my Bridegroom's face » That draws me to Him ? For His feet my kiss, My hair, my tears He craves to-day : — and oh I What words can tell what other day and place Shall see me clasp those blood-stained feet of His ? He needs me, calls me, loves me : let me go I " * In the drawing Mary has left a procession of revellers, and is ascending by a sudden impulse the steps of the house where she s«ies Christ. Her lover has followed her, and is trying to turn her back. 357 MICHAEL SCOTT'S WOOING. (For a Drawing.) Rose-sheathed beside the rosebud tongue Lurks the young adder's tooth ; Milk-mild from new-born hemlock-bluth The earliest drops are wrung : And sweet the flower of his first youth When Michael Scott was young. ASPECTA MEDUSA. (For a Drawing.) Andromeda, by Perseus saved and wed, Hankered each day to see the Gorgon's head : Till o'er a fount he held it, bade her lean, And mirrored in the wave was safely seen That death she lived by. Let not thine eyes know Any forbidden thing itself, although It once should save as well as kill : but be Its shadow upon life enough for thee. 5,3 CASSANDRA. (For a Drawing.*) Rend, rend thine hair, Cassandra : he will go. Yea, rend thy garments, wring thine hands, and cry From Troy still towered to the unreddened sky. See, all but she that bore thee mock thy woe : — He most whom that fair woman arms, with show Of wrath on her bent brows ; for in this place This hour thou bad'st all men in Helen's face The ravished ravishing prize of Death to know. What eyes, what ears hath sweet Andromache, Save for her Hector's form and step ; as tear On tear make salt the warm last kiss he gave He goes. Cassandra's words beat heavily Like crows above his crest, and at his ear Ring hollow in the shield that shall not save. * The subject shows Cassandra prophesying among her kindred, as Hector leaves them for his last battle. They are on the platform of a fortress, from which the Trojan troops are marching out. Helen is arming Paris ; Priam soothes Hecuba ; and Andromache holds the child to her bosom. 359 n. " O Hector, gone, gone, gone ! O Hector, thee Two chariots wait, in Troy long bless'd and curs'd ; And Grecian spear and Phrygian sand athirst Crave from thy veins the blood of victory. Lo ! long upon our hearth the brand had we, Lit for the roof-tree's ruin : and to-day The ground-stone quits the wall, — the wind hath way, — And higher and higher the wings of fire are free. O Paris, Paris ! O thou burning brand, Thou beacon of the sea whence Venus rose, Lighting thy race to shipwreck ! Even that hand Wherewith she took thine apple let her close Within thy curls at last, and while Troy glows Lift thee her trophy to the sea and land." 36o VENUS VERTICORDIA. (For a Picture.) She hath the apple in her hand for thee, Yet almost in her heart would hold it back ; She muses, with her eyes upon the track Of that which in thy spirit they can see. Haply, " Behold, he is at peace," saith she ; " Alas ! the apple for his lips, — the dart That follows its brief sweetness to his heart,— The wandering of his feet perpetually ! " A little space her glance is still and coy , But if she give the fruit that works her spell, Those eyes shall flame as for her Phrygian boy. Then shall her bird's strained throat the woe foretell, And her far seas moan as a single shell, And through her dark grove stnke the light of Troy, PANDORA. (For a Picture.) What of the end, Pandora ? Was it thine, The deed that set these fiery pinions free ? Ah ! wherefore did the Olympian consistory In its own likeness make thee half divine ? Was it that Juno's brow might stand a sign For ever ? and the mien of Pallas be A deadly thing? and that all men might see In Venus' eyes the gaze of Proserpine ? What of the end ? These beat their wings at will, The ill-born things, the good things turned to ill, — Powers of the impassioned hours prohibited. Aye, clench the casket now ! Whither they go Thou mayst not dare to think : nor canst thou know If Hope still pent there be alive or dead. 361 A SEA-SPELL, (For a Picture.) Her lute hangs shadowed in the apple-tree, While flashing fingers weave the sweet-strung spell Between its chords ; and as the wild notes swell, The sea-bird for those branches leaves the sea. But to what sound her listening ear stoops she ? What netherworld gulf-whispers doth she hear, In answering echoes from what planisphere, Along the wind, along the estuary ? She sinks into her spell : and when full soon Her lips move and she soars into her song, What creatures of the midmost main shall throng In furrowed surf-clouds to the summoning rune : Till he, the fated mariner, hears her cry, And up her rock, bare-breasted, comes to die ? ASTARTE SYRIACA. (For a Picture.) Mystery : lo ! betwixt the sun and moon Astarte of the Syrians : Venus Queen Ere Aphrodite was. In silver sheen Her twofold girdle clasps the infinite boon Of bliss whereof the heaven and earth commune : And from her neck's inclining flower-stem lean Love-freighted lips and absolute eyes that wean The pulse of hearts to the spheres' dominant tune. Torch-bearing, her sweet ministers compel All thrones of light beyond the sky and sea The witnesses of Beauty's face to be : That face, of Love's all-penetrative spell Amulet, talisman, and oracle, — Betwixt the sun and moon a mystery, 3 G ~ MNEMOSYNE. (For a Picture.) Thou fill'st from the winged chalice of the soul Thy lamp, O Memory, fire-winged to its goal. FIAMMETTA. (For a Picture.) Behold Fiammetta, shown in Vision here. Gloom-girt 'mid Spring-flushed apple-growth shestands; And as she sways the branches with her hands, Along her arm the sundered bloom falls sheer, In separate petals shed, each like a tear ; While from the quivering bough the bird expands His wings. And lo ! thy spirit understands T-ife shaken and shower'd and flown, and Death drawn near. All stirs with change. Her garments beat the air : The angel circling round her aureole . Shimmers in flight against the tree's grey bole : While she, with reassuring eyes most fair, A presage and a promise stands ; as 'twere On Death's dark storm the rainbow of the Soul. &3 "FOUND." {For a Picture.') " There is a budding morrow in midnight : "— So sang our Keats, our English nightingale. And here, as lamps across the bridge turn pale In London's smokeless resurrection-light, Dark breaks to dawn. But o'er the deadly blight Of Love deflowered and sorrow of none avail, Which makes this man gasp and this woman quail, Can day from darkness ever again take flight ? Ah ! gave not these two hearts their mutual pledge, Under one mantle sheltered 'neath the hedge In gloaming courtship ? And, O God ! to-day He only knows he holds her ; — but what part Can life now take ? She cries in her locked heart, — " Leave me — I do not know you — go away ! " 364 THE DAY-DREAM. {For a Picture.) The thronged boughs of the shadowy sycamore Still bear young leaflets half the summer through ; From when the robin 'gainst the unhidden blue Perched dark, till now, deep in the leafy core, The embowered throstle's urgent wood-notes soar Through summer silence. Still the leaves come new; Yet never rosy-sheathed as those which drew Their spiral tongues from spring-buds heretofore. Within the branching shade of Reverie Dreams even may spring till autumn ; yet none be Like woman's budding dajr-dream spirit-fann'd. Lo ! tow'rd deep skies, not deeper than her look, She dreams; till now on her forgotten book Drops the forgotten blossom from her hand. .—POEMS IN ITALIAN (OR ITALIAN AND ENGLISH), FRENCH AND LATIN. 3 65 GIOVENTU E SIGNORfA. fl giovine il signore, Ed ama molte cose, — ■ I canti, le rose, La forza e l'amore. Quel che piu vuole Ancor non osa : Ahi piu che il sole, , Piu ch' ogni ros: 1 , La cara cosa, Donna a gioire. giovine il signore, Ed ama quelle ccse Che ardor dispose In cuore all' amore. Be'la fanciulla, Guardalo in vise ; Non mancar nullr, Motto o sorriso ; Ma viso a viso Guarda a gradire. giovine il signore, Ed ama tutte cose, Vezzose, giojose, Tenenti all' amore. 3G7 YOUTH AND LORDSHIP. {Italian Street- Song.) My young lord's the lover Of earth and sky above, Of youth's sway and youth's plaj% Of songs and flowers and love. Yet for love's desire Green youth lacks the daring ; Though one dream of fire, All his hours ensnaring, Burns the boy past bearing— The dream that girls inspire. My young lord's the lover Of every burning thought That Love's will, that Love's skill Within his breast has wrought. Lovely girl, look on him Soft as music's measure ; Yield him, when you've won him, Joys and toys at pleasure ; But to win your treasure, Softly look upon him. My young lord's the lover Of every tender grace That woman, to woo man, Can wear in form or face. GIOVENTU E SIGNORtA. Prendilo in braccio Adesso o mai ; Per piii mi taccio, Che tu lo sai ; Bacialo e l'avrai, Ma non lo dire. k giovine il signore, Ed ama ben le cose Che Amor nascose, Che mostragli Amore. Deh trionfando Non fame pruova ; Ahime ! che quando Gioja piii giova, Allor si trova Presso al finire. fi giovine il signore, Ed ama tante cose, Le rose, le spose, Quante gli dona Amore. YOUTH AND LORDSHIP. Take him to your, bosom Now, girl, or never ; Let not your new blossom Of sweet kisses sever ; Only guard for ever Your boast within your bosom. My young lord's the lover Of every secret thing, Love-hidden, love-bidden This day to banqueting. Lovely girl, with vaunting Never tempt to-morrow : From all shapes enehanting Any joy can borrow, Still the spectre Sorrow Rises up for haunting. And now my lord's the lover Of ah ! so many a sweet, — Of roses, of spouses, As many as love may greet. 370 PROSERPINA. (PER UN QUADRO.) Lungi e la luce che in sti questo muro Rifrange appena, un breve istante scorta Del rio palazzo alia soprana porta. Lungi quei fiori d'Enna, O lido oscuro, Dal frutto tuo fatal che omai m'e duro. Lungi quel cielo dal tartareo manto Che qui mi cuopre : e lungi ahi lungi ahi quanto Le notti che saran dai di che furo. Lungi da me mi sento ; e ognor sognando Cerco e ricerco, e resto ascoltatrice ; E qualche cuore a qualche anima dice, (Di cui mi giunge il suon da quando in quando. Continuamente insieme sospirando,) — " Oime per te, Proserpina infelice ! " LA RICORDANZA. Maggior dolore e ben la Ricordanza, O nell' amaro inferno amena stanza ? 37i PROSERPINA. {For a Picture.) Afar away the light that brings cold cheer Unto this wall, — one instant and no more Admitted at my distant palace-door. Afar the flowers of Enna from this drear Dire fruit, which, tasted once, must thrall me here. Afar those skies from this Tartarean grey That chills me : and afar, how far away, The nights that shall be from the days that were. Afar from mine own self I seem, and wing Strange ways in thought, and listen for a sign : And still some heart unto some soul doth pine, (Whose sounds mine inner sense is fain to bring, Continually together murmuring,) — " Woe's me for thee, unhappy Proserpine ! " MEMORY. Is Memory most of miseries miserable, Or the one flower of ease in bitterest hell ? 372 LA BELLA MANO. (PER UN QUADRO.) O bella Mano, che ti lavi e piaci In quel medesmo tuo puro elemento Donde la Dea dell' amoroso avvento Nacque, (e dall' onda s'infuocar le faci Di mille inispegnibili fornaci) : — Come a Venere a te 1'oro e l'argento Offron gli Amori ; e ognun riguarda attento La bocca che sorride e te che taci. In dolce modo dove onor t' invii Vattene adorna, e porta insiem fra tante Di Venere e di vergine sembiante ; Umilemente in luoghi onesti e pii Bianca e soave ognora ; infin che sii, O Mano, mansueta in man d'amante. Con manto d'oro, collana, ed anelli, Le piace aver con quelli Non altro che una rosa ai suoi capelli. Robe d'or, mais rien ne veut Qu' une rose a ses cheveux. 373 LA BELLA MANO. {For a Picture.) O lovely hand, that thy sweet self dost lave In that thy pure and proper element, Whence erst the Lady of Love's high advent Was born, and endless fires sprang from the wave : — Even as her Loves to her their offerings gave, For thee the jewelled gifts they bear ; while each Looks to those lips, of music-measured speech The fount, and of more bliss than man may crave. In royal wise ring-girt and bracelet-spann'd, A flower of Venus' own virginity, Go shine among thy sisterly sweet band ; In maiden-minded converse delicately Evermore white and soft ; until thou be, O hand ! heart-handsel'd in a lover's hand. With golden mantle, rings, and necklace fair, It likes her best to wear Only a rose within her golden hair. A golden robe, yet will she wear Only a rose in her golden hair. 374 BARCAROLA. Per carita, Mostrami amore : Mi punge il cuore, Ma non si sa Dove e amore. Che mi fa La bella eta, Se non si sa Come amera ? Ahi me solingo ! II cuor mi stringo ! Non piu ramingo, Per carita J Per carita, Mostrami il cielo : Tutto e un velo, E non si sa Dove e il cielo. Se si sta Cos! cola, Non si sa Se non si va. Ahi me lontano ! Tutto e in vano ! Prendimi in mano, Per carita ! 375 BARCAROLA. Oltre tomba Qualche cosa ? E che ne dici ? Saremo felici ? Terra mai posa, E mar rimbomba. BAMBINO FACIATO. A Pippo Pipistrello Farfalla la fanciulla : " O vedi quanto e bello Ridendo in questa culla ! E noi l'abbiamo fatto, Noi due insiem d 'un tratto, E senza noi fia nulla." 376 THOM.E FIDES. "Digitum tuum, Thoma, Infer, et vide manus ! Manum tuam, Thoma, After, et mitte in latus." " Dominus et Deus, Deus," dixit, " Et Dominus meus. " Quia me vidisti, Thoma, credidisti. Beati qui non viderunt, Thoma, et crediderunt.' " Dominus et Deus, Deus," dixit, "Et Dominus meus." 377 VI.— VERSICLES AND FRAGMENTS. THE ORCHARD-PIT. Piled deep below the screening apple-branch They lie with bitter apples in their hands : And some are only ancient bones that blanch, And some had ships that last year's wind did launch, And some were yesterday the lords of lands. In the soft dell, among the apple-trees, High up above the hidden pit she stands, And there for ever sings, who gave to these, That lie below, her magic hour of ease, And those her apples holden in their hands. This in my dreams is shown me ; and her hair Crosses my lips and draws my burning breath ; Her song spreads golden wings upon the air, Life's eyes are gleaming from her forehead fair, And from her breasts the ravishing eyes of Death. Men say to me that sleep hath many dreams, Yet I knew never but this dream alone : There, from a dried-up channel, once the stream's, The glen slopes up ; even such in sleep it seems As to my waking sight the place well known. ***** My love I call her, and she loves me well : But I love her as in the maelstrom's cup The whirled stone loves the leaf inseparable That clings to it round all the circling swell, And that the same last eddy swallows up. 37* VERSICLES AND FRAGMENTS. TO ART. I loved thee ere I loved a woman, Love. ON BURNS. In whomsoe'er, since Poesy began, A Poet most of all men we may scan, Burns of all poets is the most a Man. FIN DI MAGGIO. Oh ! May sits crowned with hawthorn-flower, And is Love's month, they say ; And Love's the fruit that is ripened best By ladies' eyes in May. And the Sibyl, you know. I saw her with my own eyes at Cumae, hanging in a jar ; and, when the boys asked her, " What would you, Sibyl?" she answered, "I would die." — Petronius. " I saw the Sibyl at Cumae " (One said) " with mine own eye. She hung in a cage, and read her rune To all the passers-by. Said the boys, ' What wouldst thou, Sibyl ? ' She answered, ' I would die.' " As balmy as the breath of her you love When deep between her breasts it comes to you. VERSICLES AND FRAGMENTS. 379 " Was it a friend or foe that spread these lies ? " " Nay, who but infants question in such wise ? 'Twas one of my most intimate enemies." At her step the water-hen Springs from her nook, and skimming the clear stream, Ripples its waters in a sinuous curve, And dives again in safety. Would God I knew there were a God to thank When thanks rise in me ! I shut myself in with my soul, And the shapes come eddying forth. If I could die like the British Queen Who faced the Roman war, Or hang in a cage for my country's sake Like Black Bess of Dunbar ! She bound her green sleeve on my helm, Sweet pledge of love's sweet meed : Warm was her bared arm round my neck As well she bade me speed ; And her kiss clings still between my lips, Heart's beat and strength at need. VERSICLES AND FRAGMENTS. Where is the man whose soul has never waked To sudden pity of the poor torn past ? As much as in a hundred years, she's dead : Yet is to-day the day on which she died. Who shall say what is said in me, With all that I might have been dead in me ? PROSE. I.— STORIES AND SCHEMES OF POEMS. 3*3 HAND AND SOUL. Rivolsimi in quel lato La onde venia la voce, E parvemi una luce Che lucea quanto Stella : La mia menta era quella. Bonaggiunta Urbiciani (1250). Before any knowledge of painting was brought to Florence, there were already painters in Lucca, and Pisa, and Arezzo, who feared God and loved the art. The workmen from Greece, whose trade it was to sell their own works in Italy and teach Italians to imitate them, had already found in rivals of the soil a skill that could forestall their lessons and cheapen their labours, more years than is supposed before the art came at all into Florence. The pre-eminence to which Cimabue was raised at once by his contemporaries, and which he still retains to a wide extent even in the modern mind, is to be accounted for, partly by the circumstances under which he arose, and partly by that extraordinary pwpose of fortune born with the lives of some few, and through which it is not a little thing for any who went before, if they are even remembered as the shadows of the coming of such an one, and the voices which prepared his way in the wilderness. It is thus, almost exclusively, that the painters of whom I speak are now known. They have left little, and but little heed is taken of that which men hold to have been surpassed ; it is gone like time gone, — a track of dust and dead leaves that merely led to the fountain. Nevertheless, of very late years and in very rare 384 STORIES, AND SCHEMES OF POEMS. instances, some signs of a better understanding have become manifest. A case in point is that of the triptych and two cruciform pictures at Dresden, by Chiaro di Messer Bello dell' Erma, to which the eloquent pamphlet of Dr. Aemmster has at length succeeded in attracting the students. There is another still more solemn and beautiful work, now proved to be by the same hand, in the Pitti gallery at Florence. It is the one to which my narrative will relate. This Chiaro dell' Erma was a young man of very honourable family in Arezzo ; where, conceiving art almost for himself, and loving it deeply, he endeavoured from early boyhood towards the imitation of any objects offered in nature. The extreme longing after a visible embodiment of his thoughts strengthened as his years increased, more even than his sinews or the blood of his life ; until he would feel faint in sunsets and at the sight of stately persons. When he had lived nineteen years, he heard of the famous Giunta Pisano ; and, feeling much of admiration, with perhaps a little of that envy which youth always feels until it has learned to measure success by time and opportunity, he determined that he would seek out Giunta, and, if possible, become his pupil. Having arrived in Pisa, he clothed himself in humble apparel, being unwilling that any other thing than the desire he had for knowledge should be his plea with the great painter ; and then, leaving his baggage at a house of entertainment, he took his way along the street, asking whom he met for the lodging of Giunta. It soon chanced that one of that city, conceiving him to be a stranger and poor, took him into his house and refreshed him ; afterwards directing him on his way. When he was brought to speech of Giunta, he said merely that he was a student, and that nothing in the world was so much at his heart as to become that which HAND AND SOUL. 3^5 he had heard told of him with whom he was speaking. He was received with courtesy and consideration, and soon stood among the works of the famous artist. But the forms he saw there were lifeless and incomplete ; and a sudden exultation possessed him as he said within himself, " I am the master of this man." The blood came at first into his face, but the next moment he was quite pale and fell to trembling. He was able, however, to conceal his emotion ; speaking very little to Giunta, but when he took his leave, thanking him respectfully. After this, Chiaro's first resolve was, that he would work out thoroughly some one of his thoughts, and let the world know him. But the lesson which he had now learned, of how small a greatness might win fame, and how little there was to strive against, served to make him torpid, and rendered his exertions less continual. Also Pisa was a larger and more luxurious city than Arezzo ; and when, in his walks, he saw the great gardens laid out for pleasure, and the beautiful women who passed to and fro, and heard the music that was in the groves of the city at evening, he was taken with wonder that he had never claimed his share of the inheritance of those years in which his youth was cast. And women loved Chiaro ; for, in despite of the burthen of study, he was well-favoured and very manly in his walking ; and, seeing his face in front, there was a glory upon it, as upon the face of one who feels a light round his hair. So he put thought from him, and partook of his life. But, one night, being in a certain company of ladies, a gentleman that was there with him began to speak of the paintings of a youth named Bonaventura, which he had seen in Lucca ; adding that Giunta Pisano might now look for a rival. When Chiaro heard this, the lamps shook before him and the music beat in his ear s. He rose up, alleging a sudden sickness, and went out of that house with his teeth set. And, being again within his room, he wrote up over the door the name of 25 386 STORIES, AND SCHEMES OF POEMS. Bonaventura, that it might stop him when he would go out. He now took to work diligently, not returning to Arezzo, but remaining in Pisa, that no day more might be lost ; only living entirely to himself. Sometimes, after nightfall, he would walk abroad in the most solitary places he could find ; hardly feeling the ground under him, because of the thoughts of the day which held him in fever. The lodging Chiaro had chosen was in a house that looked upon gardens fast by the Church of San Petronio. It was here, and at this time, that he painted the Dresden pictures ; as also, in all likelihood, the one — inferior in merit, but certainly his — which is now at Munich. For the most part he was calm and regular in his manner of study ; though often he would remain at work through the whole of a day, not resting once so long as the light lasted ; flushed, and with the hair from his face. Or, at times, when he could not paint, he would sit for hours in thought of all the greatness the , world had known from of old ; until he was weak with 1 yearning, like one who gazes upon a path of stars. He continued in this patient endeavour for about three years, at the end of which his name was spoken through- out all Tuscany. As his fame waxed, he began to be employed, besides easel-pictures, upon wall-paintings ; but I believe that no traces remain to us of any of these latter. He is said to have painted in the Duomo ; and D'Agincourt mentions having seen some portions of a picture by him which originally had its place above the high altar in the Church of the Certosa ; but which, at the time he saw it, being very dilapidated, had been hewn out of the wall, and was preserved in the stores of the convent. Before the period of Dr. Aemmster's researches, however, it had been entirely destroyed. Chiaro was now famous. It was for the race of fame that he had girded up his loins ; and he had not paused until fame was reached ; yet now, in taking breath, he HAND AND SOUL. 3S7 found that the weight was still at his heart. The years of his labour had fallen from him, and his life was still in its first painful desire. With all that Chiaro had done during these three years, and even before with the studies of his early youth, there had always been a feeling of worship and : service. It was the peace-offering that he made to God and to his own soul for the eager selfishness of his aim . r There was earth, indeed, upon the hem of his raiment ; I but th is was of the heaven, heavenly . He had seasons when he could endure to think of no other feature of his hope than this. Sometimes it had even seemed to him to behold that day when his mistress — his mystical lady / Ivccc < lj 1 _ (now hardly in her ninth year, but whose smile at meeting had a lready lighted on his sou l,) — even she, his own graci ous Italian Art — should pass, through t he su n that nev er set s, into the shadow of the tree of life, and be seen of G od and found good : and then it had seemed toTnrnTThat fie, with many who, since his coming, had joined the band of whom he was one (for, in his dream, the body he had worn on earth had been dead an hundred years), were permitted to gather round the Lb lessed maid en, and to worship with her through all ages and ages of ages, saying, Holy, holy, holy. This [thing he had seen with the eyes of his spirit ; and in 1 this thing had trusted, believing that it would surely ijciane__tQ_p_asa. But now, (being at length led to inquire closely into himself,) even as, in the pursuit of fame, the unrest abiding after attainment had proved to him that he had misinterpreted the craving of his own spirit — so also, now that he would willingly have fallen back on devo- tion^e became aware that much of that reverence v- which he had mistaken for faith had been no more than v the worship of beauty^ Therefore, after certain days passed in perplexity, Chiaro said within himself, "My Hife and my will are yet before me : I will take another I aim to my life." 3 88 STORIES, AND SCHEMES OE FOE MS. From that moment Chiaro set a watch on his soul, and put his hand to no other works but only to such as had for their end the presentment of some moral greatness that should influence the beholder : and to this end, he multiplied abstractions, and forgot the beauty and passion of the world. So the people ceased to throng about his pictures as heretofore ; and, when they were carried through town and town to their destination, they were no longer delayed by the crowds eager to gaze and admire ; and no prayers or offerings were brought to them on their path, as to his Madonnas, and his Saints, and his Holy Children, wrought for the sake of the life he saw in the faces that he loved. Only the critical audience remained to him ; and these, in default of more worthy matter, would have turned their scrutiny on a puppet or a mantle. Meanwhile, he had no more of fever upon him ; but was calm and pale each day in all that he did and in his goings in and out. The works he produced at this time have perished-Gn all likelihood, not unjustlyT) It is said (and we may easily believe it), that, though more laboured than his former pictures, they were cold and unemphatic ; bearing marked out upon them the me asure of thatj Kmndaryjo_jjyhich_thev were made to conform. And the weight was still close at Chiaro's heart : but he held in his breath, never resting (for he was afraid), and would not know it. Now it happened, within these days, that there fell a great feast in Pisa, for holy matters : and each man left his occupation ; and all the guilds and companies of the city were got together for games and rejoicings. And there were scarcely any that stayed in the houses, except ladies who lay or sat along their balconies between open windows which let the breeze beat through the rooms and over the spread tables from end to end. And the golden cloths that their arms lay upon drew all eyes upward to see their beauty ; and the day was long ; and every hour of the day was bright with the sun. HAND AND SOUL, 389 So Chiaro's model, when he awoke that morning on the hot pavement of the Piazza Nunziata, and saw the hurry of people that passed him, got up and went along with them ; and Chiaro waited for him in vain. For the whole of that morning, the music was in Chiaro's room from the Church close at hand ; and he could hear the sounds that the crowd made in the streets ; hushed only at long intervals while the pro- cessions for the feast-day chanted in going under his windows. Also, more than once, there was a high clamour from the meeting of factious persons : for the ladies of both leagues were looking down ; and he who encountered his enemy could not choose but draw upon him. Chiaro waited a long time idle ; and then knew that his model was gone elsewhere. When at his work, he was blind and deaf to all else ; but he feared sloth : for then his stealthy thoughts would begin to beat round and round him, seeking a point for attack. He now rose, therefore, and went to the window. It was within a short space of noon ; and underneath him a throng of people was coming out through the porch of San Petronio. The two greatest houses of the feud in Pisa had filled the church for that mass. The first to leave had been the Gherghiotti ; who, stopping on the threshold, had fallen back in ranks along each side of the archway : so that now, in passing outward, the Marotoli had to walk between two files of men whom they hated, and whose fathers had hated theirs. All the chiefs were there and their whole adherence; and each knew the name of each. Every man of the Marotoli, as he came forth and saw his foes, laid back his hood and gazed about him, to show the badge upon the close cap that held his hair. And of the Gherghiotti there were some who tightened their girdles ; and some shrilled and threw up their wrists scornfully, as who flies a falcon ; for that was the crest of their house. On the walls within the entry were a number of tall 39Q STORIES, AND SCHEMES OF POEMS. narrow pictures, presenting a moral allegory of Peace, which Chiaro had painted that year for the Church. The Gherghiotti stood with their backs to these frescoes ; and among them Golzo Ninuccio, the youngest noble of the faction, called by the people Golaghiotta, for his debased life. This youth had remained for some while talking listlessly to his fellows, though with his sleepy sunken eyes fixed on them who passed : but now, seeing that no man jostled another, he drew the long silver shoe off his foot and struck the dust out of it on the cloak of him who was going by, asking him how far the tides rose at Viderza. And he said so because it was three months since, at that place, the Gherghiotti had beaten the Marotoli to the sands, and held them there while the sea came in ; whereby many had been drowned. And, when he had spoken, at once the whole archway was dazzling with the light of confused swords ; and they who had left turned back ; and they who were still behind made haste to come forth ; and there was so fmuch blood cast up the walls on a sudden, that it ran /in long streams down Chiaro's paintings. Chiaro turned himself from the window ; for the light felt dry between his lids, and he could not look. He sat down, and heard the noise of contention driven out of the church-porch and a great way through the streets ; and soon there was a deep murmur that heaved and waxed from the other side of the city, where those of both parties were gathering to join in the tumult. Chiaro sat with his face in his open hands. Once again he had wished to set his foot on a place that looked green and fertile ; and once again it seemed to him that the thin rank mask was about to spread away, and that this time the chill of the water must leave leprosy in his flesh. The light still swam in his head, and bewildered him at first ; but when he knew his thoughts, they were these : — P u Fame failed me : faith failed me : and now this also, the hope that I nourished in this my generation of HAND AND SOUL. 391 men, — shall pass from me, and leave my feet and my hands groping. Yet because of this are my feet become slow and my hands thin. I am as one who, through the whole night, holding his way diligently, hath smitten the steel unto the flint, to lead some whom he knew darkling ; who hath kept his eyes always on the sparks that himself made, lest they should fail ; and who, towards dawn, turning to bid them that he had guided God speed, sees the wet grass untrodden except of his own feet. I am as the last hour of the da} 7 , whose chimes are a perfect number ; whom the next followeth not, nor light ensueth from him ; but in the same dark- ness is the old order begun afresh. Men say, ' This is not God nor man ; he is not as we are, neither above us : let him sit beneath us, for we are many.' Where I write Peace, in that spot is the drawing of swords, and there men's footprints are red. When I would sow, another harvest is ripe. Nay, it is much worse with me than thus much. Am I not as a cloth drawn before the light, that the looker may not be blinded ? but which sheweth thereby the grain of its own coarseness, so that the light seems defiled, and men say, ' We will not walk by it.' Wherefore through me they shall be doubly accursed, seeing that through me they reject the light. May one be a devil and not know it ? " As Chiaro was in these thoughts, the fever encroached slowly on his veins, till he could sit no longer and would have risen ; but suddenly he found awe within him, and held his head bowed, without stirring. The warmth of the air was not shaken ; but there seemed a pulse in the light, and a living freshness, lik e r ain. The silence was a painful music, that made the blood ache in his temples ; and he lifted his face and his deep eyes. A woman was present in his room, clad to the hands and feet with a green and grey raiment, fashioned to that time. It seemed that the first thoughts he had ever known were given him as at first from her eyes, and he knew her hair to be the golden veil through which he 392 STORIES, AND SCHEMES OF POEMS. beheld his dreams. Though her hands were joined, her face was not lifted, but set forward ; and though the gaze was auster e, yet her mouth was supreme in gentle- ness.. And as he looked, Chiaro's spirit appeared abashed of its own intimate presence, and his lips shook with the thrill of tears ; it seemed such a bitter while till the spirit might be indeed alone. She did not move closer towards him, but he felt her to be as much with him as his breath. He was like one who, scaling a great steepness, hears his own voice echoed in some place much higher than he can see, and the name of which is not known to him. As the woman stood, her speech was with Chiaro : not, as it were, from her mouth or in his ears ; but distinctly between them. /L " I am an image, Chiar ^^oXj^nje_gwn__Sjo ul within thee. See me, and know me as I am. Thou sayest that fame has failed thee, and faith failed thee ; but because at least thou hast not laid thy life unto riches, therefore, though thus late, I am suffered to come into thy knowledge. Fame sufficed not, for that thou didst seek fame : seek thine own conscience (not thy mind's conscience, but thine heart's), and all shall approve and suffice. For Fame, in noble soils, is a fruit of the Spring : but not therefore should it be said : ' Lo ! my garden that I planted is barren : the crocus is here, but the lily is dead in the dry ground, and shall not lift the earth that covers it : therefore I will fling my garden together, and give it unto the builders.' Take heed rather that thou trouble not the wise secret earth ; for in the mould that thou throwest up shall the first tender growth lie to waste ; which else had been made strong in its season. Yea, and even if the year fall past in all its months, and the soil be indeed, to thee, peevish and incapable, and though thou indeed gather all thy harvest, and it suffice for others, and thou remain vexed with emptiness ; and others drink of thy streams, and the drouth rasp thy throat ; — let it be enough that these HAND AND SOUL, 393 have found the feast good, and thanked the giver : remembering that, when the winter is striven through, there is another j^ear, whose wind is meek, and whose sun fulfilleth all." While he heard, Chiaro went slowly on his knees. It was not to her that spoke, for t he speech seemed within him and his own . The air brooded in sunshine, and though the turmoil was great outside, the air within was at peace. But when he looked in her eyes, he wept. And she came to him, and cast her hair over him, and took her hands about his forehead, and spoke again : — " Thou hast said," she continued, gently, " that faith failed thee. This cannot be. Either thou hadst it not, or thou hast it. But who bade thee strike the point betwixt love and faith ? Wouldst thou sift the warm breeze from the sun that quickens it ? Who bade thee turn upon God and say : ' Behold, my offering is of earth, and not worthy : Thy fire comes not upon it ; therefore, though I slay not my brother whom Thou acceptest, I will depart before Thou smite me.' Why shouldstjho u rise up and tell God He is riot content ? Had He, of His warrant, certified so to thee - ? Be hot nice to seek out division ; but possess thy love in sufficiency : assuredly this is faith, for the heart must believe first. What He hath set in thine heart to do, that do thou ; and even though thou do it without thought of Him, it shall be well done; it is this sacrifice that He asketh of thee, and His flame is upon it for a sign. Think not of Him ; but of His love and thy love. For God is no morbid exactor : He hath no hand to bow beneath, nor a foot, that thou shouldst kiss it." And Chiaro held silence, and wept into her hair which covered his face ; and the salt tears that he shed ran through her hair upon his lips ; and he tasted the bitter- ness of shame. Then the fair woman, that was his soul, spoke again to him, saying : " And for this thy last purpose, and for those unprofit- 394 STORIES, AND SCHEMES OF POEMS. able truths of thy teaching, —thine heart hath already put them away, and it needs not that I lay my bidding upon thee. How is it that thou, a man, wouldst say coldly to the mind what God hath said to the heart warmly ? Thy will was honest and wholesome ; but look well lest this also be folly, — to say, ' I, in doing this, do strengthen God among men.' When at any time hath He cried unto thee, saying, ' My son, lend Me thy shoulder, for I fall ' ? Deemest thou that the men who enter God's temple in malice, to the provoking of blood, and neither for His love nor for His wrath will abate their purpose, — shall afterwards stand, with thee in the porch midway between Him and themselves, to give ear unto thy thin voice, which merely the fall of their visors can drown, and to see thy hands, stretched feebly, tremble among their swords ? Give thou to God no more than He asketh of thee ; but to man also, that which is man's. In all that thou doest, work from thine own heart, simply ; for his heart is as thine, when thine is wise and humble ; and he shall have understanding of thee. One drop of rain is as another, and the sun's prism in all : and shalt thou not be as he, whose lives are the breath of One ? Only by making thyself his equal can he learn to hold communion with thee, and at last own thee above him. Not till thou lean over the water shalt thou see thine image therein : stand erect, and it shall slope from thy feet and be lost. Know that there is but this means whereby thou mayst serve God /with man : — Set thine hand and thy soul to serve man 'with God." And when she that spoke had said these words within Chiaro's spirit, she left his side quietly, and stood up as he had first seen her : with her fingers laid together, and her eyes steadfast, and with the breadth of her long dress covering her feet on the floor. And, speaking again, she said : — "Chiaro, servant of God, take now thine Art unto thee, and paint me thus, as I am, to know me : weak, as HAND AND SOUL. 395 I am, and in the weeds of this time ; only with eyes which seek out labour, and with a faith, not learned, yet jealous of prayer. Do this ; so shall thy soul stand before thee always, and perplex thee no more." And Chiaro did as she bade him. While he worked, his face grew solemn with knowledge : and before the shadows had turned, his work was done. Having finished, he lay back where he sat, and was asleep imme- diately : for the growth of that strong sunset was heavy about him, and he felt weak and haggard ; like one just come out of a dusk, hollow country, bewildered with echoes, where he had lost himself, and who has not slept for many days and nights. And when she saw him lie back, the beautiful woman came to him, and sat at his head, gazing, and quieted his sleep with her voice. The tumult of the factions had endured all that day through all Pisa, though Chiaro had not heard it : and the last service of that feast was a mass sung at mid- night from the windows of all the churches for the many dead who la}' about the city, and who had to be buried before morning, because of the extreme heat. In the spring of 1847, I was at Florence. Such as were there at the same time with myself — those, at least, to whom Art is something, — will certainly recollect how many rooms of the Pitti Gallery were closed through that season, in order that some of the pictures they contained might be examined and repaired without the necessity of removal. The hall, the staircases, and the vast central suite of apartments, were the only accessible portions ; and in these such paintings as they could admit from the sealed penetralia were profanely huddled together, without respect of dates, schools, or persons. I fear that, through this interdict, I may have missed seeing many of the best pictures. I do not mean only the most talked of: for these, as they were restored, 396 STORIES, AND SCHEMES OF POEMS. generally found their way somehow into the open rooms, owing to the clamours raised by the students; and I remember how old Ercoli's, the curator's, spectacles used to be mirrored in the reclaimed surface, as he leaned mysteriously over these works with some of the visitors, to scrutinize and elucidate. One picture that I saw that spring, I shall not easily forget. It was among those, I believe, brought from the other rooms, and had been hung, obviously out of all chronology, immediately beneath that head by Raphael so long known as the Berrettino, and now said to be the portrait of Cecco Ciulli. /— The picture I speak of is a small one, and represents / merely the figure of a woman, clad to the hands and feet with a jgre en and greyj ~aiiii£rit. chaste and early in its fashion, but exceedingly simple. She is standing : her hands are held together lightly, and her eyes set ear- . nestly open. The face and hands in this picture, though wrought with great delicacy, have the appearance of being painted at once, in a single sitting : the drapery is unfinished. As soon as I saw the figure, it drew an awe upon me, like water in shadow. I shall not attempt to describe it more than I have already done ; for the most absorbing wonder of it was its iityality. You (knew that figure, when painted, had been seen ; yet it [was not a thing to be seen of men. This language will appear ridiculous to such as have never looked on the work ; and it may be even to some among those who have. On examining it closely, I perceived in one corner of the canvas the words Manus Animam pinxit , and the date 12^. I turned to my Catalogue, but that was useless, for the pictures were all displaced. I then stepped up to the Cavaliere Ercoli, who was in the room at the moment, and asked him regarding the subject and authorship of the painting. He treated the matter, I thought, some- what slightingly, and said that he could show me the HAND AND SOUL. 397 reference in the Catalogue, which he had compiled. This, when found, was not of much value, as it merely said, " Schizzo d'autore incerto," adding the inscription.* I could willingly have prolonged my inquiry, in the hope that it might somehow lead to some result ; but I had disturbed the curator from certain yards of Guido, and he was not communicative. I went back, therefore, and stood before the picture till it grew dusk. The next day I was there again ; but this time a circle of students was round the spot, all copying the Berrettino. I contrived, however, to find a place whence I could see my picture, and where I seemed to be in nobody's way. For some minutes I remained undis- turbed ; and then I heard, in an English voice : " Might I beg of you, sir, to stand a little more to this side, as you interrupt my view ? " I felt vexed, for, standing where he asked me, a glare struck on the picture from the windows, and I could not see it. However, the request was reasonably made, and from a countryman ; so I complied, and turning away, stood by his easel. I knew it was not worth while ; yet I referred in some way to the work underneath the one he was copying. He did not laugh, but he smiled as we do in England. " Very odd, is it not ? " said he. The other students near us were all continental ; and seeing an Englishman select an Englishman to speak with, conceived,! suppose, that he could understand no language but his own. The}' had evidently been noticing the interest which the little picture appeared to excite in me. * I should here sa3', that in the latest catalogues (owing, as in cases before mentioned, to the zeal and enthusiasm of Dr. Aemm- ster), this, and several other pictures, have been more competently entered. The work in question is now placed in the Sala Sessa- gona, a room I did not see — under the number 161. It is described fas " .Figu ra mistica di Chiaro dell' Erma ," and there is a brief \jotice of the author appended. 398 STORIES, AND SCHEMES Oh POEMS. One of them, an Italian, said something to another who stood next to him. He spoke with a Genoese accent, and I lost the sense in the villanous dialect. "Che so?" replied the other, lifting his eyebrows towards the figure ; " roba mistica : 'st' Inglesi son matti sul misticismo : somiglia alle nebbie di la. Li fa pensare alia patria, " La notte, vuoi dire," said a third. There was a general laugh. My compatriot was evidently a novice in the language, and did not take in what was said. I remained silent, being amused. " Et toi done ? " said he who had quoted Dante, turning to a student, whose birthplace was unmistakable, even had he been addressed in any other language : " que dis-tu de ce genre-la ? " " Moi ? " returned the Frenchman, standing back from his easel, and looking at me and at the figure, quite politely, though with an evident reservation : " Je dis, mon cher, que c'est une speciality dont je me fiche pas My reader thinks possibly that the French student was right. ' e intenerisce il core Lo di ch' han detto ai dolci amici adio.' " 399 SAINT AGNES OF INTERCESSION. "In all my life," said my uncle in his customary voice, made up of goodness and trusting simplicity, and a spice of piety withal, which, an't pleased your worship, made it sound the sweeter, — " In all my life," quoth my uncle Toby, " I have never heard a stranger story than one which was told me by a sergeant in Maclure's regiment, and which, with your permission, Doctor, I will relate." " No stranger, brother Toby," said my father testily, " than a certain tale to be found in Slawkenbergius (being the eighth of his third Decad), and called by him the History of an Icelandish Nose." "Nor than the golden legend of Saint Anschankus of Lithuania," added Dr. Slop, " who, being troubled digestively while delivering his discourse ' de Sanctis sanctorum,' was tempted b} r the Devil in imagine vasis in contumeliam, — which is to say, — in the form of a vessel unto dishonour." Now Excentrio, as one mocking, sayeth, etc., etc. — Tristram Shandy. Among my earliest recollections, none is stronger than that of my father standing before the fire when he came home in the London winter evenings, and singing to us in his sweet, generous tones : sometimes ancient English ditties, — such songs as one might translate from the birds, and the brooks might set to music ; sometimes those with which foreign travel had familiarized his youth, — among them the great tunes which have rung the world's changes since '89. I used to sit on the hearth-rug, listening to him, and look between his knees into the fire till it burned my face, while the sights swarming up in it seemed changed and changed with the music : till the music and the fire and my heart burned together, and I would take paper and pencil, and try in some childish way to fix the shapes that rose within me. For my hope, even then, was to be a painter. STORIES, AND SCHEMES OF POEMS. The first book I remember to have read, of my own accord, was an old-fashioned work on Art, which my mother had, — Hamilton's " English Conoscente." It was a kind of continental tour, — sufficiently Della-Cruscan, from what I can recall of it, — and contained notices of pictures which the author had seen abroad, with engrav- ings after some of them. These were in the English fashion of that day, executed in stipple and printed with red ink ; tasteless enough, no doubt, but I yearned to- wards them and would toil over them for days. One especially possessed for me a strong and indefinable fcharm : it was a Saint Agnes in glory, by Bucciolo d'Orli LAngiolieri. This plate I could copy from the first with much more success than I could any of the others ; indeed, it was mainly my love of the figure, and a desire to obtain some knowledge regarding it, which impelled me, by one magnanimous effort upon the " Conoscente," to master in a few days more of the difficult art of reading than my mother's laborious inculcations had accomplished till then. However, what I managed to spell and puzzle out related chiefly to the executive qualities of the picture, which could be little understood by a mere child ; of the artist himself, or the meaning of his work, the author of the book appeared to know scarcely any- thing. As I became older, my boyish impulse towards art grew into a vital passion ; till at last my father took me from school and permitted me my own bent of study. There is no need that I should dwell much upon the next few years of my life. The beginnings of Art, entered on at all seriously, present an alternation of extremes : — on the one hand, the most bewildering phases of mental endeavour, on the other, a toil rigidly exact and dealing often with trifles. What was then . the precise shape of the cloud within my tabernacle, I could scarcely say now ; or whether through so thick a veil I could be sure of its presence there at all. And as to which statue at the Museum I drew most or learned SAINT AGNES OF INTERCESSION. 401 least from, — or which Professor at the Academy " set " the model in the worst taste, — these are things which no one need care to know. I may say, briefly, that I was wayward enough in the pursuit, if not in the purpose ; that I cared even too little for what could be taught me by others ; and that my original designs greatly outnumbered my school-drawings. In most cases where study (such study, at least, as involves any practical elements) has benumbed that subtle transition which brings youth out of boyhood, there comes a point, after some time, when the mind loses its suppleness and is riveted merely by the con- tinuance of the mechanical effort. It is then that the constrained senses gradually assume their utmost ten- sion, and any urgent impression from without will suffice to scatter the charm. The student looks up : the film of their own fixedness drops at once from before his eyes, and for the first time he sees his life in the face. In my nineteenth year, I might say that, between one path of Art and another, I worked hard. One afternoon I was returning, after an unprofitable morning, from a class which I attended. The day was one of those oppressive lulls in autumn, when application, unless under sustained excitement, is all but impossible, — when the perceptions seem curdled and the brain full of sand. On ascending the stairs to my room, I heard voices there, and when I entered, found my sister Catharine, with another young lady, busily turning over my sketches and papers, as if in search of something. Catharine laughed, and introduced her companion as Miss Mary Arden. There might have been a little malice in the laugh, for I remembered to have heard the lady's name before, and to have then made in fun some teasing inquiries about her, as one will of one's sisters' friends. I bowed for the introduction, and stood re- buked. She had her back to the window, and I could not well see her features at the moment; but I made sure 26 402 STORIES, AND SCHEMES OF POEMS. she was very beautiful, from her tranquil body and the way that she held her hands. Catharine told me they had been looking together for a book of hers which I had had by me for some time, and which she had promised to Miss Arden. I joined in the search, the book was found, and soon after they left my room. I had come in utterly spiritless; but now I fell to and worked well for several hours. In the evening, Miss Arden remained with our family circle till rather late : till she left I did not return to my room, nor, when there, was my work resumed that night. I had thought her more beautiful than at first. After that, every time I saw her, her beauty seemed to grow on my sight by gazing, as the stars do in water. It was some time before I ceased to think of her beauty alone ; and even then it was still of her that I thought. For about a year my studies somewhat lost their hold 'upon me, and when that year was upon its close, she ~ Miss Arden's station in life, though not lofty, was one of more ease than my own, but the earnestness of her attachment to me had deterred her parents from placing any obstacles in the way of our union. All the more, therefore, did I now long to obtain at once such a posi- tion as should secure me from reproaching myself with any sacrifice made by her for my sake : and I now set to work with all the energy of which I was capable, upon a picture of some labour, involving various aspects of study. The subject was a modern one, and indeed it has often seemed to me that all work, to be truly worthy, should be wrought out of the age itself, as well as out of the soul of its producer, which must needs be a soul of the age. At this picture I laboured constantly and unwearidly, my days and my nights ; and Mary sat to me for the principal female figure. The exhibition to which I sent it opened a few weeks before the comple- tion of my twenty-first year. Naturally enough, I was there on the opening day. SAINT AGNES OF INTERCESSION. 403 My picture, I knew, had been accepted, but I was ignorant of a matter perhaps still more important, — its situation on the walls. On that now depended its success; on its success the fulfilment of my most cherished hopes might almost be said to depend. That is not the least curious feature of life as evolved in society, — which, where the average strength and the average mind are equal, as in this world, becomes to each life another name for destiny, — when a man, having endured labour, gives its fruits into the hands of other men, that they may do their work between him and mankind : confiding it to them, unknown, without seek- ing knowledge of them ; to them, who have probably done in likewise before him, without appeal to the sympathy of kindred experience : submitting to them his naked soul, himself, blind and unseen : and with no thought of retaliation, when, it may be, by their judg- ment, more than one year, from his dubious threescore and ten, drops alongside, unprofitable, leaving its baffled labour for its successors to recommence. There is perhaps no proof more complete how sluggish and little arrogant, in aggregate life, is the sense of individuality. I dare say something like this may have been passing in my mind as I entered the lobby of the exhibition, though the principle, with me as with others, was sub- servient to its application ; my thoughts, in fact, starting from and tending towards myself and my own picture. The kind of uncertainty in which I then was is rather a nervous affair ; and when, as I shouldered my way through the press, I heard my name spoken close behind me, I believe that I could have wished the speaker further off without being particular as to distance. I could not well, however, do otherwise than look round, and on doing so, recognised in him who had addressed me a gentleman to whom I had been introduced over- night at the house of a friend, and to whose remarks on the Corn question and the National Debt I had listened with a wish for deliverance somewhat akin to that which STORIES, AND SCHEMES OF POEMS. I now felt ; the more so, perhaps, that my distaste was coupled with surprise ; his name having been for some time familiar to me as that of a writer of poetry. As soon as we were rid of the crush, we spoke and shook hands ; and I said, to conceal my chagrin, some platitudes as to Poetry being present to support her sister Art in the hour of trial. " Oh just so, thank you," said he ; " have you any- thing here ?" While he spoke, it suddenly struck me that my friend, the night before, had informed me this gentleman was a critic as well as a poet. And indeed, for the hippopota- mus-fronted man, with his splay limbs and wading gait, it seemed the more congenial vocation of the two. In a moment, the instinctive antagonism wedged itself between the artist and the reviewer, and I avoided his question. He had taken my arm, and we were now in the gallery together. My companion's scrutiny was limited almost entirely to the " line," but my own glance wandered furtively among the suburbs and outskirts of the ceiling, as a misgiving possessed me that I might have a per- sonal interest in those unenviable "high places" of art. Works, which at another time would have absorbed my whole attention, could now obtain from me but a restless and hurried examination : still I dared not institute an open search for my own, lest thereby I should reveal to my companion its presence in some dismal condemned corner which might otherwise escape his notice. Had I procured my catalogue, I might at least have known in which room to look ; but I had omitted to do so, thinking thereby to know my fate the sooner, and never anticipating so vexatious an obstacle to my search. Meanwhile I must answer his questions, listen to his criticism, observe and discuss. After nearly an hour of this work, we were not through the first room. My thoughts were already bewildered, and my face burning with excitement By the time we reached the second room, the crowd SAINT AGNES OF INTERCESSION. 405 was more dense than ever, and the heat more and more oppressive. A glance round the walls could reveal but little of the consecrated " line," before all parts of which the backs were clustered more or less thickly ; except, perhaps, where at intervals hung the work of some venerable member, whose glory was departed from him. The seats in the middle of the room were, for the most part, empty as yet : here and there only an unenthusi- astic lady had been left by her party, and sat in stately unruffled toilet, her eye ranging apathetically over the upper portion of the walls, where the gilt frames were packed together in desolate parade. Over these my gaze also passed uneasily, but without encountering the object of its solicitude. In this room my friend the critic came upon a picture, conspicuously hung, which interested him prodigiously, and on which he seemed determined to have my opinion. It was one of those tender and tearful works, those " labours of love," since familiar to all print-shop flaneurs, — in which the wax doll is made to occupy a position in Art which it can never have contemplated in the days of its humble origin. The silks heaved and swayed in front of this picture the whole day long. All that we could do was to stand behind, and catch a glimpse of it now and then, through the whispering bonnets, whose " curtains " brushed our faces continu- ally. I hardly knew what to say, but my companion was lavish of his admiration, and began to give symp- toms of the gushing of the poet-soul. It appeared that he had already seen the picture in the studio, and being but little satisfied with my monosyllables, was at great pains to convince me. While he chattered, I trembled with rage and impatience. "You must be tired," said he at last; "so am I; let us rest a little." He led the way to a seat. I was his slave, bound hand and foot : I followed him. The crisis now proceeded rapidly. When seated, he took from his pocket some papers, one of which he 406 STORIES, AND SCHEMES OF POEMS. handed to me. Who does not know the dainty action of a poet fingering MS. ? The knowledge forms a portion of those wondrous instincts implanted in us for self- preservation. I was past resistance, however, and took the paper submissively. " They are some verses/' he said, " suggested by the picture you have just seen. I mean to print them in our next number, as being the only species of criticism adequate to such a work." I read the poem twice over, for after the first reading I found I had not attended to a word of it, and was ashamed to give it him back. The repetition was not, however, much more successful, as regarded comprehen- sion, — a fact which I have since believed (having seen it again) may have been dependent upon other causes besides my distracted thoughts. The poem, now in- cluded among the works of its author, runs as follows : — " O thou who art not as I am, Yet knowest all that I must be, — O thou who livest certainly Full of deep meekness like a lamb Close laid for warmth under its dam, On pastures bare towards the sea : — "Look on me, for my soul is bleak, Nor owns its labour in the years, Because of the deep pain of tears : It hath not found and will not seek, Lest that indeed remain to speak Which, passing, it believes it hears. "Like ranks in calm unipotence Swayed past, compact and regular, Time's purposes and portents are : Yet the soul sleeps, while in the sense The graven brows of Consequence Lie sunk, as in blind wells the star. " O gaze along the wind-strewn path That curves distinct upon the road To the dim purple-hushed abode. SAINT AGNES OF INTERCESSION. 407 Lo ! autumntide and aftermath ! Remember that the year has wrath If the ungarnered wheat corrode. " It is not that the fears are sore Or that the evil pride repels : But there where the heart's knowledge dwells The heart is gnawed within the core, Nor loves the perfume from that shore Faint with bloom-pulvered asphodels." Having atoned for non-attention by a second perusal, whose only result was non-comprehension, I thought I had done my duty towards this performance, which I accordingly folded up and returned to its author. He asked, in so many words, my opinion of it. " I think," replied I coolly, " that when a poet strikes out for himself a new path in style, he should first be quite convinced that it possesses sufficient advantages to counterbalance the contempt which the swarm of his imitators will bring upon poetry." My ambiguity was successful. I could see him take the compliment to himself, and inhale it like a scent, while a slow broad smile covered his face. It was much as if, at some meeting, on a speech being made com- plimentary to the chairman, one of the waiters should elbow that personage aside, plant his knuckles on the table, and proceed to return thanks. And indeed, I believe my gentleman was about to do so in due form, but my thoughts, which had been unable to resist some enjoyment of his conceit, now suddenly reverted to their one dominant theme ; and rising at once, in an indignant spleen at being thus harassed and beset, I declared that I must leave him, and hurry through the rest of the gallery by myself, for that I had an impending appointment. He rose also. As we were shaking hands, a part of the " line " opposite to where we stood was left bare by a lapse in the crowd. "There seems to be an odd-looking picture," said my companion. I looked in the same direction : the press 4o8 STOJilES, AND SCHEMES OF POEMS. was closing again ; I caught only a glimpse of the canvas, but that sufficed : it was my own picture, on the line ! For a moment my head swam with me. He walked towards the place, and I followed him. I did not at first hear well what he said of the picture ; but when I did, I found he was abusing it. He called it quaint, crude, even grotesque ; and certainly the uncompromising adherence to nature as then present before me, which I had attempted throughout, gave it, in the exhibition, a more curious and unique appearance than I could have anticipated. Of course only a very few minutes elapsed before my companion turned to the catalogue for the artist's name. " They thought the thing good," he drawled as he ran his eye down the pages, "or it wouldn't be on the line. 605, 606 or else the fellow has interest some- where. 630, what the deuce am I thinking of? 613, 613, 613 Here it is Why," he exclaimed, short of breath with astonishment, " the picture is yours ! " " Well, it seems so," said I, looking over his shoulder ; I suppose they're likely to know." " And so you wanted to get away before we came to it. And so the picture is yours ! " " Likely to remain so too," I replied laughing, " if every one thinks as well of it as you do." " Oh ! mind you," he exclaimed, " you must not be offended : one always finds fault first : I am sure to congratulate you." The surprise he was in made him speak rather loud, so that people were beginning to nudge each other, and whisper that I was the painter. I therefore repeated hurriedly that I really must go, or I should miss my appointment. " Stay a minute," ejaculated my friend the critic ; " I am trying to think what the style of your picture is like. It is like the works of a very early man that I saw in Italy. Angioloni, Angellini, Angiolieri, — that was the SA INT A GNES OF INTER CESSION. 409 name, — Bucciuolo Angiolieri. He always turned the toes in. The head of your woman there " (and he pointed to the figure painted from Mary) " is exactly like a St. Agnes of his at Bologna." A flash seemed to strike before my eyes as he spoke. The name mentioned was a part of my first recollections; and the picture he spoke of. . . . Yes, indeed, there in the face of my betrothed bride, I beheld the once familiar features of the St. Agnes, forgotten since child- hood ! I gazed fixedly on the work of my own hands ■ and thought turned in my brain like a wheel. When I looked again towards my companion, I could see that he was wondering at my evident abstraction. I did not explain, but abruptly bidding him good-bye, hastened out of the exhibition. As I walked homewards, the cloud was still about me, and the street seemed to pass me like a shadow. My life had been, as it were, drawn by, and the child and the man brought together. How had I not at once recognized, in her I loved, the dream of my childhood ? Yet, doubtless, the sympathy of relation, though uncon- scious, must have had its influence. The fact of the likeness was a mere casualty, however singular ; but that which had cast the shadow of a man's love in the path of the child, and left the seed at his heart to work its growth blindly in darkness, was surely much more than chance. Immediately on reaching home, I made inquiries of my mother concerning my old friend the " English Conoscente " ; but learned, to my disappointment, that she had long since missed the book, and had never recovered it. I felt vexed in the extreme. The joy with which the news of my picture was hailed at home may readily be imagined. There was one, however, to whom it may have been more welcome even than to my own household : to her, as to myself, it was hope seen nearer. I could scarcely have assigned a reason why I refrained from mentioning to her, or to 410 STORIES, AND SCHEMES OF POEMS. any one, the strange point of resemblance which I had been led to perceive ; but from some unaccountable reluctance I kept it to myself at the time. The matter was detailed in the journal of the worthy poet-critic who had made the discovery ; such scraps of research being much too scarce not to be worked to their utmost ; it may be too that my precipitate retreat had left him in the belief of my being a convicted plagiarist. I do not think, however, that either Mary's family or my own saw the paper ; and indeed it was much too aesthetic to permit itself many readers. Meanwhile, my picture was obtaining that amount of notice, favourable with unfavourable, which constitutes success, and was not long in finding a purchaser. My way seemed clearing before me. Still, I could not "prevent my mind from dwelling on the curious incident connected with the painting, and which, by constant brooding upon it, had begun to assume, in my idea, almost the character of a mystery. The coincidence was the more singular that my work, being in subject, costume, and accessories, English, and of the present period, could scarcely have been expected to suggest so striking an affinity in style to the productions of one of the earliest Italian painters. The gentleman who purchased my picture had com- missioned me at the same time for another. I had always entertained a great wish to visit Italy, but now a still stronger impulse than before drew me thither. All substantial record having been lost, I could hardly persuade myself that the idol of my childhood, and the worship I had rendered it, was not all an unreal dream ; and every day the longing possessed me more strongly to look with my own eyes upon the veritable St. Agnes. Not holding myself free to marry as yet, I therefore determined (having it now within my power) that I would seek Italy at once, and remain there while I painted my next picture. Nor could even the thought of leaving Mary deter me from this resolution. SAINT A GNES OF INTERCESSION. 41 1 On the day I quitted England, Mary's father again placed her hand in mine, and renewed his promise ; but our own hearts were a covenant between us. From this point, my narrative will proceed more rapidly to its issue. Some lives of men are as the sea is, continually vexed and trampled with winds. Others are, as it were, left on the beach. There the wave is long in reaching its tide-mark, where it abides but a moment ; afterwards, for the rest of that day, the water is shifted back more or less slowly ; the sand it has filled hardens ; and hourly the wind drives lower till nightfall. To dwell here on my travels any further than in so much as they concern the thread of my story, would be superfluous. The first place where I established myself, on arriving in the Papal States, was Bologna, since it was there, as I well remembered, that the St. Agnes of Bucciuolo Angiolieri was said to be. I soon became convinced, however, after ransacking the galleries and private collections, that I had been misinformed. The great Clementine is for the most part a dismal wilderness of Bolognese Art, " where nothing is that hath life," being rendered only the more ghastly by the "life-in- death " of Guido and the Caracci ; and the private collectors seem to emulate the Clementine. From Bologna I removed to Rome, where I stayed only for a month, and proceeded thence into Tuscany. Here, in the painter's native province, after all, I thought the picture was most likely to be found ; as is generally the case with artists who have produced com- paratively few works, and whose fame is not of the highest order of all. Having visited Siena and Arezzo, I took up my abode in Florence. Here, however, seeing the necessity of getting to work at once, I commenced my next picture, devoting to it a certain number of hours each day ; the rest of my time being chiefly spent among the galleries, where I continued my search. The St. Agnes still eluded me ; but in the Pitti and elsewhere, 4 I2 STORIES, AND SCHEMES OF POEMS. I met with several works of Bucciuolo ; in all of which I thought, in fact, that I could myself recognize, despite the wide difference both of subject and occasional treat- ment, a certain mental approximation, not easily defined, to the style of my own productions. The peculiarities of feeling and manner which had attracted my boyish admiration had evidently sunk deep, and maintained, though hitherto unperceived, their influence over me. I had been at Florence for about three months, and my picture was progressing, though slowly enough ; moreover, the other idea which engrossed me was losing its energy, by the recurrence of defeat, so that I now determined on leaving the thing mainly to chance, and went here and there, during the hours when I was not at work, seeing what was to see. One day, however, being in a bookseller's shop, I came upon some numbers of a new Dictionary of Works of Art, then in course of publication, where it was stated that a painting of St. Agnes, by Bucciuolo Angiolieri, was in the possession of the Academy of Perugia. This then, doubtless, was the work I wished to see ; and when in the Roman States, I must already have passed upon my search through the town which contained it. In how many books had I rummaged for the information which chance had at length thrown in my way ! I was almost inclined to be provoked with so inglorious a success. All my interest in the pursuit, however, revived at once, and I immediately commenced taking measures for retracing my steps to Perugia. Before doing so I despatched a long letter to Mary, with whom I kept up a correspond- ence, telling her where to direct her next missive, but without informing her as to the motive of my abrupt removal, although in my letter I dwelt at some length, among other topics, on those works of Bucciuolo which I had met with at Florence. I arrived at Perugia late in the evening, and to see the gallery before the next morning was out of the question. I passed a most restless night. The same one thought SAINT AGNES OF INTERCESSION. 413 had been more or less with me during the whole of my journey, and would not leave me now until my wish was satisfied. The next day proved to be one on which the pictures were not visible ; so that on hastening to the Academy in the morning, I was again disappointed. Upon the second day, had they refused me admittance, I believe I should have resorted to desperate measures. The doors however were at last wide open. Having put the swarm of guides to rout, I set my feet on the threshold ; and such is the power of one absorbing idea, long suffered to dwell on the mind, that as I entered I felt my heart choke me as if with some vague apprehension. «■ This portion of my story which the reader has already gone through is so unromantic and easy of belief, that I fear the startling circumstances which remain to be told will jar upon him all the more by contrast as a clumsy fabrication. My course, however, must be to speak on, relating' to the best of my memory things in which the memory is not likely to have failed ; and reserving at least my own inward knowledge that all the events of this narrative (however unequal the measure of credit they may obtain) have been equally, with myself, matters of personal experience. The Academy of Perugia is, in its little sphere, one of the high places of privilege ; and the first room, the Council Chamber, full of rickety arm chairs, is hung with the presentation pictures of the members, a collec- tion of indigenous grandeurs of the school of David. I purchased a catalogue of an old woman who was knitting in one corner, and proceeded to turn the leaves with nervous anxiety. Having found that the Florentine pictures were in the last room, I commenced hurrying across the rest of the gallery as fast as the polish of the waxed boards would permit. There was no visitor besides myself in the rooms, which were full of Roman, Bolognese, and Perugian handiwork : one or two students only, who had set up their easels before some master- 4 I4 STORIES, AND SCHEMES OF POEMS. piece of the " advanced " style, stared round in wonder at my irreverent haste. As I walked, I continued my search in the catalogue ; so that, by the time I reached the Florentine room, I had found the number, and walked, with a beating heart, straight up to the picture. The picture is about half the size of life; it represents a beautiful woman, seated, in the costume of the painter's time, richly adorned with jewels; she holds a palm branch, and a lamb nestles to herieet. The glory round her head is a device pricked without colour on the gold background, which is full of the faces of angels. The countenance was the one known to me, by a feeble reflex, in childhood ; it was also the exact portrait of Mary, feature by feature. I had been absent from her for more than five months, and it was like seeing her 'again. As I looked, my whole life seemed to crowd about me, and to stun me like a pulse in my head. For some time I stood lost in astonishment, admiration, perplexity, helpless of conjecture, and an almost painful sense of love. I had seen that in the catalogue there was some account of the picture ; and now, after a long while, I removed my eyes, dizzy with gazing and with thought, from the face, and read in Italian as follows : "No. 212. St. Agnes, with a glory of angels. By Bucciuolo Angiolieri. " Bertuccio, Buccio, or Bucciuolo d'Orli Angiolieri, a native of Cignana in the Florentine territory, was born in 1405 and died in 1460. He was the friend, and has been described as the pupil, of Benozzo Gozzoli ; which latter statement is not likely to be correct, since their ages were nearly the same, as are also the dates of their earliest known pictures. " He is said by some to have been the first to introduce a perfectly nude figure in a devotional subject (the St. Sebastian now at Florence) ; an opinion which Professor Ehrenhaupt has called in question, by fixing the date of SAINT AGNES OF INTERCESSION. 415 the five anonymous frescoes in the Church of Sant' Andrea d'Oltr 'arno, which contain several nude figures, at a period antecedent to that in which he flourished. His works are to be met with at Florence, at Lucca, and in one or two cities of Germany. The present picture, though ostensibry representing St. Agnes, is the por- trait of Blanzifiore dall 'Ambra, a lady to whom the painter was deeply attached, and who died early. The circumstances connected by tradition with the painting of this picture are of a peculiarly melancholy nature. " It appears that, in the vicissitudes of faction, the lady's family were exiled from Florence, and took refuge at Lucca ; where some of them were delivered by treachery to their enemies and put to death. These accumulated misfortunes (not the least among which was the separa- tion from her lover, who, on account of his own ties and connections, could not quit Florence), preyed fatally on the mind and health of Blanzifiore; and before many months had passed, she was declared to be beyond medicinal aid. No sooner did she learn this, than her first thought was of the misery which her death would occasion her lover ; and she insisted on his being sum- moned immediately from Florence, that they might at least see each other once again upon earth. When, on his arrival, she witnessed his anguish at thus losing her for ever, Blanzifiore declared that she would rise at once from her bed, and that Bucciuolo should paint her por- trait before she died ; for so, she said, there should still remain something to him whereby to have her in memory. In this will she persisted against all remon- strance occasioned by the fears of her friends ; and for two days, though in a dying state, she sat with wonder- ful energy to her lover : clad in her most sumptuous attire, and arrayed with all her jewels : her two sisters remaining constantly at her side, to sustain her and supply restoratives. On the third day, while Bucciuolo was still at work, she died without moving. " After her death, Bucciuolo finished the portrait, and 416 STORIES, AND SCHEMES OF POEMS. added to it the attributes of St. Agnes, in honour of her purity. He kept it always near him during his lifetime ; and, in dying, bequeathed it to the Church of Santa Agncse dei Lavoranti, where he was buried at her side. During all the years of his life, after the death of Blan- zifiore, he remained at Lucca : where some of his works are still to be found. " The present picture has been copied many times, but never competently engraved ; and was among those con- veyed to Paris by Bonaparte, in the days of his omnipo- tence." The feeling of wonder which attained bewilderment, as I proceeded with this notice, was yet less strong than an intense penetrating sympathy excited in me by the unhappy narrative, which I could not easily have accounted for, but which so overcame me that, as I finished, the tears stung my eyes. I remained for some time leaning upon the bar which separated me from the picture, till at last my mind settled to more definite thought. But thought here only served to confound. A woman had then lived four hundred years since, of whom that picture was the portrait ; and my own eyes bore me witness that it was also the surpassingly per- fect resemblance of a woman now living and breathing, — of my own affianced bride ! While I stood, these things grew and grew upon my mind, till my thoughts seemed to hustle about me like pent-up air. The catalogue was still open in my hand ; and now, as my eyes wandered, in aimless distraction, over the page, they were arrested by these words: " No. 231. Portrait of Bucciuolo Angiolieri painted by himself." At first my bewildered perceptions scarcely attached a meaning to the words ; yet, owing no doubt to the direction of my thoughts, my eye dwelt upon them, and continued to peruse them over and over, until at last their purport flashed upon me. At the same instant that it did so, I turned round and glanced rapidly over the walls for the number : it was at the other end of the SAINT AGNES OF INTERCESSION. 417 room. A trembling suspense, with something almost of involuntary awe, was upon me as I ran towards the spot ; the picture was hung low ; I stooped over the rail to look closely at it, and was face to face with myself ! I can recall my feeling at that moment, only as one of the most lively and exquisite fear. It was "myself, of nearly the same age as mine was then, but perhaps a little older. The hair and beard were of my colour, trimmed in an antique fashion ; and the dress belonged to the early part of the fifteenth cen- tury. In the background was a portion of the city of Florence. One of the upper corners contained this inscription : — ALBERTUS* ORLITIS ANGELERIUS Ipsum ipse ^ETAT. SU;£ XXIV. That it was my portrait, — that the St. Agnes was the N portrait of Mary, — and that both had been painted by myself four hundred years ago, — this now rose up dis- V tinctly before me as the one and only solution of so ) startling a mystery, and as being, in fact, that result / round which, or some portion of which, my soul had been blindly hovering, uncertain of itself. The tremen- dous experience of that moment, the like of which has never, perhaps, been known to any other man, must remain undescribed ; since the description, read calmly at common leisure, could seem but fantastic raving. I was as one who, coming after a wilderness to some city dead since the first world, should find among the tombs a human body in his own exact image, embalmed ; having the blackened coin still within its lips, and the jars still at its side, in honour of gods whose very names are abolished. After the first incapable pause, during which I stood rooted to the spot, I could no longer endure to look on * Alberto, Albert uccio, Bertuccio, Buccio, Bucciuolo. 27 418 STORIES, AND SCHEMES OF POEMS. the picture, and turning away, fled back through the rooms and into the street. I reached it with the sweat springing on my forehead, and my face felt pale and cold in the sun. As I hurried homewards, amid all the chaos of my ideas, I had clearly resolved on one thing, — namely, that I would leave Perugia that night on my return to Eng- land. I had passports which would carry me as far as the confines of Italy; and when there I counted on somehow getting them signed at once by the requisite authorities, so as to pursue my journey without delay. On entering my room in the hotel where I had put up, I found a letter from Mary lying on the table. I was too much agitated with conflicting thoughts to open it at once ; and therefore allowed it to remain till my pertur- bation should in some measure have subsided. I drew the blinds before my windows, and covered my face to think ; my forehead was still damp between my hands. At least an hour must have elapsed in that tumult of the spirit which leaves no impression behind, before I opened the letter. It was an answer to the one which I had posted before leaving Florence. After many questions and much news of home, there was a paragraph which ran thus : — " The account you give me of the works of Bucciuolo Angiolieri interested me greatly. I am surprised never to have heard you mention him before, as he appears to find so much favour with you. But perhaps he was un- known to you till now. How I wish I could stand by your side before his pictures, to enjoy them with you and hear you interpret their beauties ! I assure you that what you say about them is so vivid, and shows so much insight into all the meanings of the painter, that, while reading, I could scarcely divest myself of the impression that you were describing some of your own works." As I finished the last sentence, the paper fell from my hands. A solemn passage of Scripture had been running in my mind ; and as I again lay back and hid my now SAINT AGNES OF INTERCESSION. burning and fevered face, I repeated it aloud : — " How unsearchable are Thy judgments, and Thy ways past finding out ! " As I have said, my intention was to set out from Perugia that same night ; but on making inquiry, I found that it would be impossible to do so before the morning, as there was no conveyance till then. Post- horses, indeed, I might have had, but of this my re- sources would not permit me to think. That was a troubled and gloomy evening for me. I wrote, as well as my disturbed state would allow me, a short letter to my mother, and one to Mary, to apprise them of my return ; after which, I went early to bed, and, contrary to my expectations, was soon asleep. That night I had a dream, which has remained as clear and whole in my memory as the events of the day : and so strange were those events — so apart from the rest of my life till then, — that I could sometimes almost persuade myself that my__dream of that night also was not without a mystic reality. I dreamt that I was in London, at the exhibition where my picture had been ; but in the place of my picture, which I could not see, there hung the St. Agnes of Perugia. A crowd was before it; and I heard several say that it was against the rules to hang that picture, for that the painter (naming me) was dead. At this, a woman who was there began to weep : I looked at her and perceived it to be Mary. She had her arm in that of a man who appeared to wear a masquerade dress ; his back was towards me, and he was busily writing on some tablets ; but on peering over his shoulder, I saw that his pencil left no mark where it passed, which he did not seem to perceive, however, going on as before. I spoke to Mary, but she continued crying and did not look up. I then touched her companion on the shoulder ; but finding that he paid no attention, I shook him and told him to resign that lady's arm to me, as she was my bride. He then turned round suddenly, and showed me 4 20 STORIES, AND SCHEMES OF POEMS. /my own face with the hair and beard quaintly cut, as in \he portrait of Bucciuolo. After looking mournfully at me, he said, " Not mine, friend, but neither thine : " and while he spoke, his face fell in like a dead face. Mean- time, every one seemed pale and uneasy, and they began to whisper in knots ; and all at once I found opposite me the critic I met at the gallery, who was saying some- thing I could not understand, but so fast that he panted and kept wiping his forehead. Then my dream changed. I was going upstairs to my room at home, where I thought Mary was waiting to sit for her portrait The staircase was quite dark ; and as I went up, the voices of several persons I knew passed by me, as if they were descending ; and sometimes my own among them. I had reached the top, and was feeling for the handle of the door, when it was opened suddenly by an angel ; and looking in, I saw, not Mary, but a woman whose face was hidden with white light, and who had a lamb beside her that was bleating aloud. She knelt in the middle of the room, and I heard her say several times: " O Lord, it is more than he can bear. Spare him, O Lord, for her sake whom he consecrated to me." After this, music came out of heaven, and I thought to have heard speech ; but instead, there was silence that woke me. This dream must have occurred repeatedly in the course of the night, for I remember waking up in perfect darkness, overpowered with fear, and crying out in the words which I had heard spoken by the woman ; and when I woke in the morning, it was from the same dream, and the same words were on my lips. During the two days passed at Perugia, I had not had time to think of the picture I was engaged upon, which had therefore remained in its packing-case, as had also the rest of my baggage. I was thus in readiness to start without further preliminaries. My mind was so con- fused and disturbed that I have but a faint recollection of that morning ; to the agitating events of the previous SAINT AGNES OF INTERCESSION. 421 day, my dream had now added, in spite of myself, a vague foreboding of calamity. No obstacle occurred throughout the course of my journey, which was, even at that recent date, a longer one than it is now. The whole time, with me, was occupied by one haunting and despotic idea : it accom- panied me all day on the road ; and if we paused at night it either held me awake or drove all rest from my sleep. It is owing to this, I suppose, that the wretched mode of conveyance, the evil roads, the evil weather, the evil inns, the harassings of petty authorities, and all those annoyances which are set as close as milestones all over the Continent, remain in my memory only with a general sense of discomfort. Moreover, on the day when I left Perugia I had felt the seeds of fever already in my veins ; and during the journey this oppression kept constantly on the increase. I was obliged, however, carefully to conceal it, since the panic of the cholera was again in Europe, and any sign of illness would have caused me to be left at once on the road. By the night of my arrival in London, I felt that I was truly and seriously ill ; and, indeed, during the last part of the journey, physical suffering had for the first time succeeded in partially distracting my thought from the thing which possessed it. The first inquiries I made of my family were regarding Mary. I learned that she at least was still in good health, and anxiously looking for my arrival ; that she would have been there, indeed, but that I had not been expected till a day later. This was a weight taken from my heart. After scarcely more than an hour passed among my family, I repaired to my bed ; both body and mind had at length a perfect craving for rest. My mother, immediately on my arrival, had noticed my flushed and haggard appearance ; but when questioned by her I attributed this to the fatigues of travelling. In spite of my extreme need of sleep, and the wish I felt for it, I believe that I slept but little that night. 422 STORIES, AND SCHEMES OF POEMS. I am not certain, however, for I can only remember that as soon as I lay down my head began to whirl till I seemed to be lifted out of my bed ; but whether this were in waking or a part of some distempered dream, I cannot determine. This, however, is the last thing I can [recall. The next morning I was in a raging fever, which 'lasted for five weeks. Health and consciousness came back to me by degrees, as light and air towards the outlet of a long vault. At length, one day, I sat up in bed for the first time. My head felt light in the pillows ; and the sunshine that warmed the room made my blood creep refreshingly. My father and mother were both with me. As sense had deserted my mind, so had it returned, in the form of one constant thought. But this was now grown peremptory, absolute, uncompromising, and seemed to cry within me for speech, till silence became a torment. To-day, therefore, feeling for the first time, since my gradual recovery, enough of strength for the effort, I resolved that 1 would at last tell the whole to my parents. Having first warned them of the extra- ordinary nature of the disclosure I was about to make, I accordingly began. Before I had gone far with my story, however, my mother fell back in her seat, sobbing violently ; then rose, and running up to me, kissed me many times, still sobbing and calling me her poor boy. She then left the room. I looked towards my father, and saw that he had turned away his face. In a few moments he rose also without looking at me, and went out as my mother had done. I could not quite account for this, but was so weary of doubt and conjecture, that I was content to attribute it to the feelings excited by my narration and the pity for all those troubles which the events I spoke of had brought upon me. It may appear strange, but I believe it to have been the fact, that the startling and portentous reality which those events had for me, while it left me fully prepared for wonder and perturbation on the part SAINT AGNES OF INTERCESSION. 423 of my hearers, prevented the idea from even occurring to me that, as far as belief went, there could be more hesitation in another's than in my own. It was not long before my father returned. On my questioning him as to the cause of my mother's excite- ment, he made no explicit answer, but begged to hear the remainder of what I had to disclose. I went on, therefore, and told my tale to the end. When I had finished, my father again appeared deeply affected ; but soon recovering himself, endeavoured, by reasoning, to persuade me either that the circumstances I had described had no foundation save in my own diseased fancy, or else that at the time of their occurrence incipient illness had caused me to magnify very ordinary events into marvels and omens. Finding that I still persisted in my conviction of their actuality, he then informed me that the matters I had related were already known to himself and to my mother through the disjointed ravings of my long delirium, in which I had dwelt on the same theme incessantly ; and that their grief, which I had remarked, was occasioned by hearing me discourse thus connectedly on the same wild and unreal subject, after they had hoped me to be on the road to recovery. To convince me that this could merely be the effect of prolonged illness, he led me to remark that I had never till then alluded to the topic, either by word or in any of my letters, although, by my account, the chain of coincidences had already begun before I left England. Lastly, he implored me most earnestly at once to resist and dispel this fantastic brain sickness, lest the same idea, allowed to retain possession of my mind, might end, — as he dreaded to think that it indeed might, — by endangering my reason. My father's last words struck me like a stone in the mouth ; there was no longer any answer that I could make. I was very weak at the time, and I believe I lay down in my bed and sobbed. I remember it was on that day that it seemed to me of no use to see Mary 424 STORIES, AND SCHEMES OF POEMS. again, or, indeed, to strive again after any aim I had had, and that for the first time I wished to die; and then it was that there came distinctly, such as it may never have come to any other man, the unutterable suspicion of the vanity of death. From that day until I was able to leave my bed, I never in any way alluded to the same terrible subject ; but I feared my father's eye as though I had been indeed a madman. It is a wonder that I did not really lose my senses. I lived in a continual panic lest I should again speak of that matter unconsciously, and used to repeat inwardly, for hours together, words enjoining myself to silence. Several friends of the family, who had made constant inquiries during my illness, now wished to see me ; but this I strictly refused, being in fear that my incubus might get the better of me, and that I might suddenly implore them to say if they had any recollection of a former existence. Even a voice or a whistle from the street would set me wondering whether that man also had lived before, and if so, why I alone should be cursed with this awful knowledge. It was useless even to seek relief in books ; for the name of any historical character occurring at once disturbed my fevered mind with conjectures as to what name its possessor now bore, who he was, and in what country his lot was cast. For another week after that day I was confined to my room, and then at last I might go forth. Latterly, I had scarcely spoken to any one, but I do not think that either my father or my mother imagined I had forgotten. It was on a Sunday that I left the house for the first time. Some person must have been buried at the neighbouring church very early that morning, for I recollect that the first thing I heard upon waking was the funeral bell. I had had, during the night, but a restless throbbing kind of sleep ; and I suppose it was my excited nerves which made me wait with a feeling of ominous dread through the long pauses of the tolling, unbroken as they SAINT AGNES OF INTERCESSION. were by any sound from the silent Sunday streets, except the twitter of birds about the housetops. The last knell had long ceased, and I had been lying for some time in bitter reverie, when the bells began to ring for church. I cannot express the sudden refreshing joy which filled me at that moment. I rose from my bed, and kneeling down, prayed while the sound lasted. On joining my parents at breakfast, I made my mother repeat to me once more how many times Mary had called during my illness, and all that she had said and done. They told me that she would probably be there that morning ; but my impatience would not permit me to wait ; I must go and seek her mj'self at once. Often already, said my parents, she had wished and begged to see me, but they had feared for my strength. This was in my thoughts as I left the house ; and when, shutting the door behind me, I stood once again in the living sunshine, it seemed as if her love burst around me like music. I set out hastily in the well-known direction of Mary's house. While I walked through the crowded streets, the sense of reality grew upon me at every step, and for the first time during some months I felt a man among; men. Any artist or thoughtful man whatsoever, whose J life has passed in a large city, can scarcety fail, in course I of time, to have some association connecting each spot / continually passed and repassed with the labours of his \ own mind. In the woods and fields every place has its I proper spell and mystery, and needs no consecration from thought ; but wherever in the daily walk through the thronged and jarring city, the soul has read some knowledge from life, or laboured towards some birth within its own silence, there abides the glory of that hour, and the cloud rests there before an unseen taber- nacle. And thus now, with myself, old trains of thought! and the conceptions of former years came back as I passed from one swarming resort to another, and seemed, by contrast, to wake my spirit from its wild and fantastic 426 STORIES, AND SCHEMES OF POEMS. broodings to a consciousness of something like actual existence ; as the mere reflections of objects, sunk in the vague pathless water, appear almost to strengthen it into substance. ****** 427 THE ORCHARD PIT. Men tell me that sleep has many dreams ; but all my life I have dreamt one dream alone. I see a glen whose sides slope upward from the deep bed of a dried-up stream, and either slope is covered with wild apple-trees. In the largest tree, within the fork whence the limbs divide, a fair, golden-haired woman stands and sings, with one white arm stretched along a branch of the tree, and with the other holding forth a bright red apple, as if to some one coming down the slope. Below her feet the trees grow more and more tangled, and stretch from both sides across the deep pit x below : arid the pitJsiull oXthe bodies of men. , They lie in heaps beneath the screen of boughs, with hjjr_aj^lejf_j3itten in their hands; and some are no more than ancient bones now, and some seem dead but yesterday. She stands over them in the glen, and sings for ever, and offers her apple still. This dream shows me no strange place. I know the"\ glen, and have known it from childhood, and heard many / tales of those who have died there by the Siren's spell. / I pass there often now, and look at it as one might look at a place chosen for one's grave. I see nothing, but I know that it meajis_death_ibxjne. The apple-trees are like others, and have childish memories connected with them, though I was taught to shun the place. -v No man sees the woman but once, and then no other/ is near; and no man sees that man again. One day, in hunting, my dogs tracked the deer to that dell, and he fled and crouched under that tree, but the dogs would not go near him. And when I approached, he looked in my eyes as if to say, " Here you shall die, 428 STORIES, AND SCHEMES OF POEMS. and will you here give death ? " And his eyes seemed the eyes of my soul, and I called off the dogs, who were glad to follow me, and we left the deer to fly. I know that I must go there and hear the song and take the apple. I join with the young knights in their games ; and have led our vassals and fought well. But all seems to me a dream, except what only I among them all shall see. Yet who knows ? Is there one among them doomed like myself, and who is silent, like me ? We shall not meet in the dell, for each man goes there alone : but in the pit we shall meet each other, and perhaps know. Each man who is the Siren's choice dreams the same dream, and always of some familiar spot wherever he lives in the world, and it is there that he finds her when his time comes. But when he sinks in the pit, it is the whole pomp of her dead gathered through the world that awaits him there ; for all attend her to grace her triumph. Have they any souls out of those bodies ? Or are the bodies still the house of the soul, the Siren's prey till the day of judgment ? \We were ten brothers. One is gone there already.! One day we looked for his return from a bj2rji£r_fora_y, and his men came home without him, saying that he had told them he went to seek his love who would come to meet him by another road. But anon his love met them, asking for him ; and they sought him vainly all that day. But in the night his love rose from a dream ; and she went to the edge of the Siren's dell, and there lay his helmet and his sword. And her they sought in the morning, and there she lay dead. None has ever told this thing to my love, my sweet love who is affianced -to me. ' One day at table my love offered me an apple. And as I took it she laughed, and said, " Do not eat, it is the fruit of the Siren's dell." And I laughed and ate : and at the heart of the apple was a red stain like a woman's mouth ; and as I bit it I could feel a kiss upon my lips. THE ORCHARD PIT. 429 The same evening I walked with my love by that place, and she would needs have me sit with her under the apple-tree in which the Siren is said to stand. Then she stood in the hollow fork of the tree, and plucked an apple, and stretched it to me and would have sung : but at that moment she cried out, and leaped from the tree into my arms, and said that the leaves were whispering ,/ other words to her, and my name among them. She threw the apple to the bottom of the dell, and fol- lowed it with her eyes, to see how far it would fall, till it was hidden by the tangled boughs. And as we still looked, a little snake crept up through them. She would needs go with me afterwards to pray in the church, where my ancestors and hers are buried ; and she looked round on the effigies, and said, " How long will it be before we lie here carved together ? " And I thought I heard the wind in the apple trees that seemed ^ to whisper, " How long ? " And late that night, when all were asleep, I went back to the dell, and said in my turn, " How long ? " And for a moment I seemed to see a hand and apple stretched from the middle of the tree where my love had stood. And then it was gone : and I plucked the apples and bit them, and cast them in the pit, and said, " Come." I speak of my love, and she loves me well ; but I love \ her only as the stone whirling down the rapids loves I the dead leaf that travels with it and clings to it, and that the same eddy will swallow up. Last night, at last, I dreamed how the end will come, and now I know it is near. I not only saw, in sleep, the lifelong pageant of the glen, but I took my part in it at last, and learned for certain why that dream was mine. I seemed to be walking with my love among the hills that lead downward to the glen : and still she said, " It is late ; " but the wind was glenwards, and said, " Hither." And still she said, " Home grows far ; " but the rooks flew glenwards, and said, " Hither." And still she said, " Come back ; " but the sun had set, and the moon 430 STORIES, AND SCHEMES OF POEMS. laboured towards the glen, and said, " Hither." And my heart said in me, " Aye, thither at last." Then we stood on the margin of the slope, with the apple-trees beneath us ; and the moon bade the clouds fall from her, and sat in her throne like the sun at noon-day : and none of the apple-trees were bare now, though autumn was far worn, but fruit and blossom covered them together. And they were too thick to see through clearly ; but looking far down I saw a white hand holding forth an apple, and heard the first notes of the Siren's song. Then my love clung to me and wept; but I began to struggle down the slope through the thick wall of bough and fruit and blossom, scattering them as the storm scatters the dead leaves ; for that one apple only would my heart have. And my love snatched at me as I went ; but the branches I thrust away sprang back on my path, and tore her hands and face : and the last I knew of her was the lifting of her hands to heaven as she cried aloud above me, while I still forced my way downwards. And now the Siren's song rose clearer as I went. At first she sang, " Come to Love ; " and of the sweetness of Love she said many things. And next she sang, " Come to Life ;" and Life was sweet in her song. But long before I reached her, she knew that all her will was mine : and then her voice rose softer than ever, and her words were, " Come to Death ; " and Death's name in her mouth was the very swoon of all sweetest things that be. And then my path cleared ; and she stood over against me in the fork of the tree 1 knew so well, blazing now like a lamp beneath the moon. And one kiss I had of her mouth, as I took the apple from her hand. But while I bit it, my brain whirled and my foot stumbled ; and I felt my crashing fall through the tangled boughs beneath her feet, and saw the dead white faces that welcomed me in the pit. And so I woke cold in my bed : but it still seemed that I lay indeed at last among those who shall be my mates for ever, and could feel the apple still in my hand. 43i THE DOOM OF THE SIRENS. A LYRICAL TRAGEDY. Act L — Scene i. Hermitage near the Sirens' Rock. A Christianized Prince, flying from persecution in the latter days of the Roman Empire, is driven that way by stress of weather (having with him his wife and infant child), and succeeds in taking refuge in the Hermitage. The Hermit relates to him the legend of the Sirens, and how they are among the Pagan powers not yet subdued but still acting as demons against the human race. The spell upon them is that their power cannot be destroyed until one of them shall yield to human love and become enamoured of some one among her intended victims. The Hermit has, therefore, established himself hard by to pray for travellers in danger, and, if possible, to warn them off in time, and he implores the Prince to pursue his voyage by some other course. The Prince, however, says that he shall not be able to do so, and trusts in Heaven and in his love for his wife to guard him against danger. He dwells on his being a Christian, and there- fore beyond the power of Pagan demons, who had as yet destroyed only those unprotected by true faith. The storm having subsided (this scene occurs the morning after he had taken refuge), the Prince and his family re- embark, leaving the Hermit praying for their safety. Scene 2. The ship arrives at the Sirens' Rock, amid the songs of the three Sirens, Thelxiope, Thelxinoe, and Ligeia. The first offers wealth, the second greatness and triumph over his enemies, the third (Ligeia) offers her love. Here a chorus in which the three contend and the wife STORIES, AND SCHEMES OF POEMS. strives against them. The Prince gradually, in spite of his efforts, succumbs to Ligeia and climbs the rock, his wife following him. Here the choral contention is con- tinued, the Prince clinging to Ligeia, rapt by her spells into the belief that it is the time of his first love and that he is surrounded by the scenes of that time. At last he dies in her arms, as she sings, under her poisonous breath, calling her as he dies by his wife's name, and shrinking from his wife without recognition. The Queen makes a prayer begging God to make him know her. During this he dies, and Ligeia then says, " He knows us now ; woman, take back your dead ! " The Queen pronounces a despairing curse against Ligeia, praying that she may yet love and be hated and so destroy herself and her sisters. The Queen then flings herself in madness from the rock into the sea. Scene 3. _^ The Hermit puts out in a boat to where the Prince's ship is still lying, and takes the infant to his Hermitage. He soliloquizes over him, saying how, if the faith prevails in his father's kingdom, he will take him in due time to occupy the throne, but how otherwise the youth shall stay with himself to serve him as an acolyte, and so escape the storms of human passion more baneful than those of the sea. Twenty-one years elapse between Acts I. and II. Act II.— Scene i. At the court of the Byzantine Prince. The courtiers are conversing about the approaching marriage of the young Prince, now come to the throne. One of them relates particulars respecting his being brought there as a boy by the Hermit, who revealed the secret of his father's and mother's death only to a trusted counsellor, the father of the girl he is now about to marry. They also refer to the troubles of the time when the former THE DOOM OF THE SIRENS. 433 Prince had to fly from his kingdom on account of his faith, and recall to each other the progress of events since, and the establishment of Christianity in the country, after which the young Prince was brought back by the Hermit, and seated on his father's throne. Allu- sions are made to various omens and portents appearing to bear on the mysterious death of the Prince's father and mother, and on. the vengeance still to be taken for it. Scene 2. A grove, formerly sacred to an Oracle. The Prince and his betrothed meet here and speak of their love and approaching nuptials, which are to take place the next / day. They are both, however, troubled by dreams they' have had and which they relate to each other at length. These bear fantastically on the- death of the Prince's parents, but without clearly revealing anything, though seeming to prognosticate misfortunes still unaccomplished, and a fatal issue to their love. The Prince connects these things with the events of his early boyhood, which he dimly remembers in the hermitage by the Sirens' Rock, before the Hermit brought him to his kingdom; and he confesses to his betrothed the gloomy uncertainty with which his mind is clouded. However, they try to forget all forebodings and dwell on the happiness in store for them. They sing to each other and together, but their songs seem to find an ominous burden in the echoes of the sacred grove, and they part at last, saddened in spite of themselves. The Prince goes, leaving the lady, who says that she will stay there till her maidens join her. Being left alone, she suddenly hears a voice calling her, and finds that it comes from the Oracle of the grove, whose shrine is forgotten and almost overgrown. She' s forces the tangled growth aside and enters the precincts. Scene 3. The Shrine of the Oracle. Here the Oracle speaks to her ; at first in dark sentences, but at length more 28 434 STORIES, AND SCHEMES OF POEMS. explicitly, as to a great task awaiting her lover, without accomplishing which he must not hope for love or peace. It speaks of the evil powers which caused his parents' death, and are doomed themselves to annihilation by the just vengeance transmitted to him. It then tells her clearly how it is the heavenly will that the Prince shall < only wed if he survives the vengeance due for his parents' | death, but that he had been chosen now to fulfil the doom of the Sirens, and must at once accomplish his mission. Finally the Oracle announces that its function has been so far renewed for the last time that it may be compelled to denounce its fellow powers of Paganism ; but that *^ — now its voice is silent for ever. At the end of this scene the Bride's maidens come to meet her, and find her bewildered and in tears, but cannot learn the cause from her. Scene 4. The Bridal Chamber on the morning after the nuptials. The scene opens with a reveillee sung outside. The Prince and Princess are together, and he is speaking to her of his love and their future happiness ; but after a time, in the midst of their endearments, he begins to "•^.perceive that she is disturbed and anxious, and presses her to tell him the cause. She at last informs him with tears of her conference with the Oracle on their last meeting in the grove. This (as she tells him) she had not the courage to reveal to him before their wedding, as, if obeyed, it must tear him from her arms, perhaps never to return ; and she had then resolved to suppress 1 the terrible secret at any risk to herself ; but on the bridal night, while she lay in his arms, the Hermit, now , a saint in heaven, had appeared to her in a dream, with (a wrathful aspect. He had told her how by his means the Prince had been preserved in infancy; had reproached her with her silence as to the charge she had received ; and had told her that if she did not now make known to her husband the will of Heaven, some fatal mischance THE DOOM OF THE SIRENS. 435 would soon separate them for ever. All this she now tells him with many tears and with bitter upbraidings of the cruel fate which compelled her to avoid the certain wrath threatened to him by sending him on a mission of such terrible uncertainty. Before telling all this she had consented to speak only on his promising to grant the first favour she should afterwards ask for herself; and she now tells him that this favour is the permission to accompany him on his voyage. He endeavours in vain to dissuade her from this, and at last consents to it. Act III. — Scene I, The hermitage near the Sirens' Rock, as in Act I. Arrival of the Prince, accompanied by his Bride, who is prevailed on by him to remain in prayer at the hermitage while he pursues his journey to the rock. Before they part, a paper is found written, by which they learn that the Hermit had died there a year and a day before, and \ that he named the day of their present arrival as the one on which his hermitage would again be tenanted, and yet on which its appointed use would cease. Scene 2. The Sirens' Rock. The Sirens have been warned by the Qy_il pow ers to whom they are jtributary that this day is a slgnaT^^n^ToTTheim ' They are uncertain whether for good or ill, but are possessed by a spirit of baneful exultation, and in their songs alternate from one to the other wild tales of their triumphs in past times and the renowned victims who have succumbed to them. As they reach the name of the Christian Prince and his wife who died by their means, a vessel comes in view, but almost before their songs have been directed towards it, they are surprised to see it make straight for the rock, and the occupant resolutely disembark and commence the ascent. As he nears them, they exchange scornful prophecies of his ruin between the pauses of their song ; but gradually Ligeia, who has at first begged him of her sisters as her special prey, finds herself 436 STORIES, AND SCHEMES OF POEMS. strangely overpowered by emotions she does not under- stand, and by the time he reaches the summit of the rock and stands before them, she is alternately beseech- ing him for his love and her sisters for his life. A long chorus here occurs : Ligeia yielding to the agony of her passion, while the Prince repulses and reviles her, and the other Sirens wail and curse, warning her of the im- pending doom. The Prince tells Ligeia of his parentage and mission, but she still madly craves for his love, and holds forth to him such promises of infernal sovereignty as her gods afford, if he will yield to her passion. He, meanwhile, though proof against her lures and loathing her in his heart, is physically absorbed into the death- agony of the expiring spell ; and when, at his last word of reprobation, the curse seizes her and her sisters, and they dash themselves headlong from the rock, he also succumbs to the doom, calling with his last breath on his Bride to come to him. Throughout the scene the prayers of the Bride are fitfully wafted from the hermitage between the pauses of the Sirens' songs and the deadly chorus of love and hate. Scene 3. Within the hermitage, the Bride still praying. The scene to commence with a few lines of prayer, after which the Spirit of the Prince appears, calling the Bride to come to him, in the same words with which the last scene ended. She then discourses to him, saying many things in gradually increasing ecstasy of love, he all the time speaking to her at intervals, only the same words as before. She ends by answering him in his own words, calling him to come to her, and so dies. In case of representation — supposing the hermitage and rock to be visible on the stage at the same time — the conclusion might be that at the moment of the Prince's death, when he calls to his Bride, she breaks off her prayers ; answering him in the same words, and dies. Scene 3 would thus be dispensed with. 437 THE CUP OF WATER. The young King of a country is hunting on a day with a young Knight, his friend ; when, feeling thirsty, he stops at a Forester's cottage, and the Forester's daughter brings him a cup of water to drink. Both of them are equally enamoured at once of her unequalled beauty. The King, however, has been affianced from boyhood to a Princess, worthy of all love, and whom he has always believed he loved until undeceived by his new absorbing passion; but the Knight, resolved to sacrifice all other considerations to his love, goes again to the Forester's cottage and asks his daughter's hand. He finds that the girl has fixed her thoughts on the King, whose rank she does not know. On hearing it she tells her suitor humbly that she must die if such be her fate, but cannot love another. The Knight goes to the King to tell him all and beg his help ; and the two friends then come to an explanation. Ultimately the King goes to the girl and pleads his friend's cause, not disguising his own passion, but saying that as he sacrifices himself to honour, so should she, at his prayer, accept a noble man whom he loves better than all men and whom she will love too. This she does at last ; and the King makes his friend an Earl and gives him a grant of the forest and surround- ing country as a marriage gift, with the annexed condition, that the Earl's wife shall bring the King a cup of water at the same spot on every anniversary of their first meeting when he rides a-hunting with her husband. At no other time will he see her, loving her too much. He weds the Princess, and thus two years pass, the condition being always fulfilled. But before the third anniversary 438 STORIES, AND SCHEMES OF POEMS. the lady dies in childbirth, leaving a daughter. The King's life wears on, and still he and his friend pursue their practice of hunting on that day, for sixteen years. When the anniversary comes round for the sixteenth time since the lady's death, the Earl tells his daughter, who has grown to her mother's perfect likeness (but whom the King has never seen), to meet them on the old spot with the cup of water, as her mother first did when of the same age. The King, on seeing her, is deeply moved ; but on her being presented to him by the Earl, he is about to take the cup from her hand, when he is aware of a second figure in her exact likeness, but dressed in peasant's clothes, who steps to her side as he bends from his horse to take the cup, looks in his face with solemn words of love and welcome, and kisses him on the mouth. He falls forward on his horse's neck, and is lifted up dead. 439 MICHAEL SCOTT'S WOOING. Michael Scott and a friend, both young and dissolute, are returning from a carouse, by moonlight, along a wild sea-coast during a groundswell. As they come within view of a small house on the rocky shore, his companion taunts Michael Scott as to his known passion for the maiden Janet who dwells there with her father, and as to the failure of the snares he has laid for her. Scott is goaded to great irritation, and as they near the point of the sands overlooked by the cottage, he turns round on his friend and declares that the maiden shall come out to him then and there at his summons. The friend still taunts and banters him, saying that wine has heated his brain ; but Scott stands quite still, muttering, and regard- ing the cottage with a gesture of command. After he has done so for some time, the door opens softly, and Janet comes running down the rock. As she approaches, she nearly rushes into Michael Scott's arms, but instead, swerves aside, runs swiftly by him, and plunges into the surging waves. With a shriek Michael plunges after her, and strikes out this side and that, and lashes his way among the billows, between the rising and sinking breakers ; but all in vain, no sign appears of her. After some time spent in this way he returns almost exhausted to the sands, and passing without answer by his appalled and questioning friend, he climbs the rock to the door of the cottage, which is now closed. Janet's father answers his loud knocking, and to him he says, " Slay me, for your daughter has drowned herself this hour in yonder sea, and by my means." The father at first suspects some stratagem, but finally deems him mad, and says, " You rave, — my daughter is at rest in her 44Q STORIES, AND SCHEMES OF POEMS. bed." " Go seek her there," answers Michael Scott. The father goes up to his daughter's chamber, and re- turning very pale, signs to Michael to follow him. Together they climb the stair, and find Janet half lying and half kneeling, turned violently round, as if, in the act of rising from her bed, she had again thrown herself backward and clasped the feet of a crucifix at her bed- head ; so she lies dead. Michael Scott rushes from the house, and returning maddened to the seashore, is with difficulty restrained from suicide by his friend. At last he stands like stone for a while, and then, as if repeating an inner whisper, he describes the maiden's last struggle with her heart. He says how she loved him but would not sin ; how hearing in her sleep his appeal from the shore she almost yielded, and the embodied image of her longing came rushing out to him ; but how in the last instant she turned back for refuge to Christ, and her soul was wrung from her by the struggle of her heart. " And as I speak," he says, " the fiend who whispers this concerning her says also in my ear how surely I am lost." 441 THE PALIMPSEST. (subject for tale or humorous poem.) The jealousies of two rival Scholars, a classical and a theological one, respecting a palimpsest. The classical one takes years to decipher his Pagan author, while the Theologian considers the only value of the scroll to con- sist in the Early Father on the surface, whom he is to edit in due course. The Theologian is in bad health, and expects to die before the Classic has finished. This drives him to desperation, and impels him at last to murder his rival ; who in dying shows him in triumph the scroll, from which the Early Father has been completely erased by acids, leaving a fair MS. of the Pagan poet. 442 THE PHILTRE. A woman, intensely enamoured of a man who does not love her, makes use of a philtre to secure his love. In this she succeeds; but it also acts gradually upon his life. She attempts to avert this by destroying the whole effect of the philtre, but finds this is not permitted her ; and he dies in her arms, deeply loving her and deeply loved by her, while she is conscious of being the cause of his death. As he yields his last breath in a kiss, she knows that his spirit now hates her. 443 II.— LITERARY PAPERS. WILLIAM BLAKE. Blake felt his way in drawing, notwithstanding his love of a " bold determinate outline," and did not get this at once. Copyists and plagiarists do that, but not original artists, as it is common to suppose : they find a difficulty in developing the first idea. Blake drew a rough, dotted line with pencil, then with ink; then colour, filling in cautiously, carefully. At the same time he attached very great importance to "first lines," and was wont to affirm — "First thoughts are best in art,; second thoughts in other matters." He held that nature should be learned by heart, and remembered by the painter, as the poet remembers language. " To learn the language of art, Copy for ever I is my rule," said he. But he never painted his pictures from models. " Models are difficult — enslave one — efface from one's mind a conception or reminiscence which was better." This last axiom is open to much more discussion than can be given it here. From Fuseli, that often reported declaration of his, "Nature puts me out," seems but another expression of the same wilful arrogance and want of delicate shades, whether of character or style, which we find in that painter's works. Nevertheless a sentence should here be spared to say that England would do well to preserve some remnant of Fuseli's work before it is irremediably obliterated. His oil pictures are, for the most part, 444 LITERARY PAPERS. monstrously overloaded in bulk as in style, and not less overloaded in mere slimy pigment. But his sketches in water-wash and pencil or pen-and-ink should yet be formed, ere too late, into a precious national collection, including as they do many specimens than which not the greatest Italian masters could show greater proofs of mastery. Blake's natural tendencies were, in many respects, far different from Fuseli's ; and it is deeply to be regretted that an antagonism, which became more and more personal as well as artistic, to the petty practice of the art of his day, — joined no doubt to inevitable sympathy with this very Fuseli, fighting in great measure the same battle with himself for the high against the low, — should have led to Blake's adopting and unreservedly following the dogma above given as regards the living model. Poverty, and consequent difficulty of models at com- mand, must have had something to do with it too. ^The truth on this point is, that no imaginative artist can fully express his own tone of mind without sometimes in his life working untrammelled by present reference to nature ; and, indeed, that the first conception of every serious work must be wrought into something like complete form, as a preparatory design, without such aid, before having recourse to it in the carrying-out of the work. But it is equally or still more imperative that immediate study of nature should pervade the whole completed work. Tenderness, the constant unison of wonder and familiarity so mysteriously allied in nature, the sense of fulness and abundance such as we feel in a field, not because we pry into it all, but because it is all there : these are the inestimable prizes to be secured only by such study in the painter's every picture^ And all this Blake, as thoroughly as any painter,,- was gifted to have attained, as we may see especially in his works of that smallest size where memory and genius may really almost stand in lieu of immediate consultation of nature. But the larger his works are, the further he WILLIAM BLAKE. 445 departs from this lovely impression of natural truth ; and when we read the above maxim, we know why. How- ever, the principle was not one about which he had no misgiving, for very fluctuating if not quite conflicting opinions on this point might be quoted from his writings. No special consideration has yet been entered on here of Blake's claim as a colourist, but it is desirable that this should be done now in winding up the subject, both because his place in this respect among painters is very peculiar, and also on account of the many misleading things he wrote regarding colour, carried away at the moment, after his fiery fashion, by the predominance he wished to give to other qualities in some argument in hand. Another reason why his characteristics in this respect need to be dwelt upon is that certainly his most original and prismatic system of colour, — in which tints laid on side by side, each in its utmost force, are made by masterly treatment to produce a startling and novel effect of truth, — must be viewed as being, more decid- edly than the system of any other painter, the fore- runner of a style of execution now characterizing a whole new section of the English School, and making itself admitted as actually involving some positive additions to the resources of the art. Some of the out-door pictures of this class, studied as they are with a closeness of imitation perhaps unprecedented, have nevertheless no slight essential affinity to Blake's way of representing natural scenes, though the smallness of scale in these latter, and the spiritual quality which always mingles with their trutrTto nature, may render the parallel less apparent than it otherwise would be. In Blake's colour- ing of landscape, a subtle and exquisite reality forms quite as strong an element as does ideal grandeur ; whether we find him dealing with the pastoral sweetness of drinking cattle at a stream, their hides and fleeces all glorified by sunset with magic rainbow hues ; or reveal- ing to us, in a flash of creative genius, some parted sky and beaten sea full of portentous expectation. One 446 LITERARY PAPERS. unfailing sign of his true brotherhood with all the great colourists is the lovingly wrought and realistic flesh- painting which is constantly to be met with in the midst of his most extraordinary effects. For pure realism, too, though secured in a few touches as only greatness can, let us turn to the dingy London street, all snow-clad and smoke-spotted, through which the little black Chimney- sweeper wends his way in the Songs of Experience. Certainly an unaccountable perversity of colour may now and then be apparent, as where in the same series, the tiger is painted in fantastic streaks of red, green, blue, and yellow, while a tree stem at his side tanta- lizingly supplies the tint which one might venture to think his due, and is perfect tiger-colour ! I am sure however that such vagaries, curious enough no doubt, are not common with Blake, as the above is the only striking instance I can recall in his published work. But, perhaps, a few occasional bewilderments may be allowed to a system of colour which is often suddenly called upon to help in embodying such conceptions as painter never before dreamed of : some old skeleton folded together in the dark bowels of earth or rock, dis- coloured with metallic stain and vegetable mould ; some symbolic human birth of crowned flowers at dawn, amid rosy light and the joyful opening of all things. Even a presentment of the most abstract truths of natural science is not only attempted by this new painter, but actually effected by legitimate pictorial ways ; and we are somehow shown, in figurative yet not wholly unreal shapes and hues, the mingling of organic substances, the gradual development and perpetual transfusion of life. The reader who wishes to study Blake as a colourist has a means of doing so, thorough in kind though limited in extent, by going to the Print Room at the British Museum (which is accessible to any one who takes the proper course to gain admission), and there examining certain of Blake's hand-coloured prints, bound in WILLIAM BLAKE. 447 volumes. All those in the collection are not equally valuable, since the various copies of Blake's own colour- ing differ extremely in finish and richness. The Museum copy of the Songs of Innocence and Experience is rather a poor one, though it will serve to judge of the book ; and some others of his works are there represented by copies which, I feel convinced, are not coloured by Blake's hand at all, but got up more or less in his manner, and brought into the market after his death. But two volumes here — the Song of Los, and especially the smaller of the two collections of odd plates from his different works, which is labelled Designs by W. Blake, and numbered inside the fly-leaf 5240 — afford specimens of his colouring, perhaps equal to any that could be seen. The tinting in the Song of Los is not, throughout, of one order of value; but no finer example of Blake's power in rendering poetic effects of landscape could be found than that almost miraculous expression of the glow and freedom of au in closing sunset, in a plate where a youth and maiden, lightly embraced, are racing along a saddened low-lit hill, against an open sky of blazing and changing wonder. But in the volume of collected designs I have specified, almost every plate (or more properly water-colour drawing, as the printed groundwork in such specimens is completely overlaid) shows Blake's colour to advantage, and some in its very fullest force. See, for instance, in plate 8, the deep, unfathomable, green sea churning a broken foam as white as milk against that sky which is all blue and gold and blood-veined heart of fire ; while from sea to sky one locked and motionless face gazes, as it might seem, for ever. Or, in plate 9, the fair tongues and threads of liquid flame deepening to the redness of blood, lapping round the flesh-tints of a human figure which bathes and swims in the furnace. Or plate 12, which, like the other two, really embodies some of the wild ideas in Urisen, but might seem to be Aurora guiding the new- born day, as a child, through a soft-complexioned sky of 44« LITERARY PAPERS. fleeting rose and tingling grey, such as only dawn and dreams can show us. Or, for pure delightfulness, intri- cate colour, and a kind of Shakespearean sympathy with all forms of life and growth, as in the Midsummer Nig/it's Dream, let the gazer, having this precious book once in his hands, linger long over plates 10, 16, 22, and 23, If they be for him, he will be joyful more and more the longer he looks, and will gain back in that time some things as he first knew them, not encumbered behind the days of his life ; things too delicate for memory or years since forgotten ; the momentary sense of spring in winter-sunshine, the long sunsets long ago, and falling fires on many distant hills. The inequality in value, to which I have alluded, between various copies of the same design as coloured by Blake, may be tested by comparing the book con- taining the plates alluded to above, with the copies of Urizcn and the Book of Thel, also in the Print Room, some of whose contents are the same as in this collected volume. The immense difference dependent on greater finish in the book I have described, and indeed some- times involving the introduction of entirely new features into the design, will thus be at once apparent. In these highly-wrought specimens, the colour has a half floating and half granulated character which is most curious and puzzling, seeming dependent on the use of some peculiar means, either in vehicle, or by some kind of pressure or stamping which had the result of blending the trans- parent and body tints in a manner not easily described. The actual printing from the plate bearing the design was as I have said, and feel convinced, confined to the first impression in monochrome. But this perplexing quality of execution reaches its climax in some of Blake's "oil-colour printed" and hand-finished designs, such as several large ones now in the possession of Captain Butts, the grandson of Blake's friend and patron. One of these, the Newton, consists in a great part of rock covered with fossil substance or lichen of some WILLIAM BLAKE. 449 kind, the treatment of which is as endlessly varied and intricate as a photograph from a piece of seaweed would be. It cannot possibly be all handwork, and yet I can conceive no mechanical process, short of photography, which is really capable of explaining it. It is no less than a complete mystery, well worthy of any amount of inquiry, if a clue could only be found from which to commence. In nearly all Blake's works of this solidly painted kind, it is greatly to be lamented that the harmony of tints is continually impaired by the blacken- ing of the bad white pigment, and perhaps red lead also, which has been used, — an injury which must probably go still further in course of time. Of the process by which the designs last alluded to were produced, the following explanation has been fur- nished by Mr. Tatham. It is interesting, and I have no doubt correct as regards the groundwork, but certainly it quite falls short of accounting for the perplexing intricacy of such portions as the rock-background of the Newton. " Blake, when he wanted to make his prints in oil " (writes my informant), " took a common thick millboard, and drew, in some strong ink or colour, his design upon it strong and thick: He then painted upon that in such oil colours and in such a state of fusion that they would blur well. He painted roughly and quickly, so that no colour would have time to dry. He then took a print of that on paper, and this impression he coloured up in water-colours, repainting his outline on the millboard when he wanted to take another print. This plan he had recourse to, because he could vary slightly each impression ; and each having a sort of accidental look, he could branch out so as to make each one different. The accidental look they had was very enticing." Objections might be raised to this account as to the apparent impracticability of painting in water- colours over oil ; but I do not believe it would be found so, if the oil colour were merely stamped as described, and left to dry thoroughly into the paper. 29 450 LITERARY PAPERS. In concluding a biography which has for its subject a life so prone to new paths as was that of William Blake, it may be well to allude, however briefly, to those succeeding British artists who have shown unmistakably something of his influence in their works. Foremost among these comes a very great though as yet imper- fectly acknowledged name, — that of David Scott of Edin- burgh, a man whom Blake himself would have delighted to honour, and to whose high appreciation of Blake the motto on the title-page of the present book bears witness. Another proof of this is to be found in a MS. note in a copy of The Grave which belonged to Scott ; which note I shall here transcribe. I may premise that the apparent preference given to The Grave qver Blake's other works seems to me almost to argue in the writer an imperfect acquaintance with the Job. " These, of any series of designs which art has pro- duced " (writes the Scottish painter), " are the most purely elevated in their relation and sentiment. It would be long to discriminate the position they hold in this respect, and at the same time the disregard in which they may be held by some who judge of them in a material relation ; while the great beauty which they possess will at once be apparent to others who can appreciate their style in its immaterial connection. But the sum of the whole in my mind is this : that these designs reach the intellectual or infinite, in an abstract significance, more entirely unmixed with inferior ele- ments and local conventions than any others ; that they are the result of high intelligence, of thought, and of a progress of art through many styles and stages of different times, produced through a bright generalizing and transcendental mind. " The errors or defects of Blake's mere science in form, and his proneness to overdo some of its best fea- tures into weakness, are less perceptible in these than in others of his works. What was a disappointment to him was a benefit to the work, — that it was etched by WILLIAM BLAKE. 451 another, who was able to render it in a style thoroughly consistent, (but which Blake has the originality of having pointed out, in his series from Young, though he did not properly effect it,) and to pass over those solecisms which would have interrupted its impression, in a way that, to the apprehender of these, need scarcely give offence, and hides them from the discovery of others. They are etched with most appropriate and consummate ability." David Scott, 1844. In the list of subscribers appended to Blake's Grave, we find the name of " Mr. Robert Scott, Edinburgh." This was the engraver, father of David Scott, to whom, therefore, this book (published in 1808, one year after his birth) must have come as an early association and influence. That such was the case is often traceable in his works, varied as they are in their grand range of subject, and even treatment. And it is singular that the clear perception of Blake's weak side, evident in the second paragraph of the note, did not save its writer from falling into defects exactly similar in that peculiar class of his works in which he most resembles Blake. It must be noticed, however, that these are chiefly among his earlier productions (such as the Monograms of Man, the picture of Discord, etc.), or else among the sketches left imperfect; while the note dates only five years before his untimely death at the age of forty- two. This is not a place where any attempt can be made at estimating the true position of David Scott. Such a task will need, and some day doubtless find, ample limit and opportunity. It is fortunate that an unusually full and excellent biographical record of him already exists in the Memoir from the hand of a brother no less allied to him by mental and artistic powers than by ties of blood ; but what is needed is that his works should be collected and competently placed before the world. An opportunity in this direction was afforded by the International Exhibition of 1862 ; but the two noble works of his which were there were so unpardon- 452 LITERARY PAPERS. ably ill-placed (and that where so much was well seen which was «ot worth the seeing) that the chance was completely missed. David Scott will one day be ac- knowledged as the painter most nearly fulfilling the highest requirements for historic art, both as a thinker and a colourist (in spite of the great claims in many respects of Etty and Maclise), who had come among us from the time of Hogarth to his own. In saying this it is necessary to add distinctly (for the sake of objectors who have raised, or may raise, their voices), that it is not only or even chiefly on his intellectual eminence that the statement is based, but also on the great qualities of colour and powers of solid execution displayed in his finest works, which are to be found among those deriving their subjects from history. Another painter, ranking far below David Scott, but still not to be forgotten where British poetic art is the theme, was Theodore von Hoist, an Englishman, though of German extraction ; in many of whose most charac- teristic works the influence of Blake, as well as of Fuseli, has probably been felt. But Hoist was far from possessing anything like the depth of thought or high aims which distinguished Blake. At the same time, his native sense of beauty and colour in the more ideal walks of art was originally beyond that of any among his contemporaries, except Etty and Scott. He may be best described, perhaps, to the many who do not know his works, as being, in some sort, the Edgar Poe of painting ; but lacking, probably, even the continuity of closely studied work in the midst of irregularities which distinguished the weird American poet, and has enabled him to leave behind some things which cannot be soon forgotten. Hoist, on the contrary, it is to be feared, has hardly transmitted such complete record of his naturally great gifts as can secure their rescue from oblivion. It would be very desirable that an account of him and his works should be written by some one best able to do so among those still living who must have known him. WILLIAM BLAKE. 453 It is a tribute due to an artist who, however imperfect his self-expression during a short and fitful career, forms certainly one of the few connecting links between the early and sound period of English colour and method in painting, and that revival of which so many signs have, in late years, been apparent. At present, much of what he did is doubtless in danger of being lost altogether. Specimens from his hand existed in the late Northwick collection, now dispersed ; and some years since I saw a most beautiful work by him — a female head or half figure — among the pictures at Stafford House. But Hoist's sketches and designs on paper (a legion past numbering) were, for the most part, more expressive of his full powers than his pictures, which were too often merely sketches enlarged without reference to nature. Of these, a very extensive collection was possessed by the late Serjeant Ralph Thomas. What has become of them ? Amongst Hoist's pictures, the best are nearly always those partaking of the fantastic or supernatural, which, however dubious a ground to take in art, was the true bent of his genius. A notable instance of his com- parative weakness in subjects of pure dignity may be found in what has been pronounced his best work, and was probably about the most " successful " at the time of its production ; that is, the Raising of Jairus's Daughter, which was once in the gallery at the Pantheon in Oxford Street. Probably the fullest account of Hoist is to be found in the sufficiently brief notice of him which appeared in the Art Journal (or Art Union, as then called). Of any affinity in spirit to Blake which might be found existing in the works of some living artists, it is not necessary to speak here ; yet allusion should be made to one still alive and honoured in other ways, who early in life produced a series of Biblical designs seldom equalled for imaginative impression, and perhaps more decidedly like Blake's works, though quite free from plagiarism, than anything else that could be cited. I allude to One 454 LITERARY PAPERS. Hundred Copper-plate Engravings from original drawings by Isaac Taylor, junior, calculated to ornament all quarto and octavo editions of the Bible. London : Allan Bell &• Co., Warwick Square. 1834. Strange as it may appear, I believe I am right in stating that these were produced in youth by the late venerable author of the Natural History of Enthusiasm, and many other works. How he came to do them, or why he did no more, I have no means of recording. They are very small and very unattractively engraved, sometimes by the artist and sometimes by others. In simplicity, dignity, and original thought, probably in general neglect at the time, and certainly in complete disregard ever since, they bear a close affinity to the mass of Blake's works, and may fairly be supposed to have been, in some measure, inspired by the study of them. The Witch of Endor, The Plague Stayed, The Death of Samson, and many others are, in spirit, even well worthy of his hand, and from him, at least, would not have missed the admiration they deserve. Having spoken so far of Blake's influence as a painter, I should be glad if I could point out that the simplicity and purity of his style as a lyrical poet had also exercised some sway. But, indeed, he is so far removed from ordinary apprehensions in most of his poems, or more or less in all, and they have been so little spread abroad, that it will be impossible to attribute to them any decided place among the impulses which have directed the extra- ordinary mass of poetry, displaying power of one or another kind, which has been brought before us, from his day to our own. Perhaps some infusion of his modest and genuine beauties might add a charm even to the most gifted works of our present rather redundant time. One grand poem which was, till lately, on the same footing as his own (or even a still more obscure one) as regards popular recognition, and which shares, though on a more perfect scale than he ever realized in poetry, the exalted and primeval, if not the subtly WILLIAM BLAKE. 455 etherealized, qualities of his poetic art, may be found in Charles Wells's scriptural drama of Joseph and his Brethren, published in 1824 under the assumed name of Howard. This work affords, perhaps, the solitary in- stance, within our period, of poetry of the very first class falling quite unrecognized and remaining so for a long space of years. In the first edition of this Life of Blake it was prophesied that Wells's time would " assuredly still come." In 1876 Joseph and his Brethren was repub- lished under the auspices of Mr. Swinburne, and with an introduction from his pen. Charles Wells lived to see this new phoenix form of the genius of his youth, but died in 1878. The work is attainable now, and need not here be dwelt on at any length. In what may be called the Anglo-Hebraic order of aphoristic truth, Shakspeare, Blake, and Wells are nearly akin ; nor could any fourth poet be named so absolutely in the same connection, though from the Shakspearean point of view alone the "marvellous," nay miraculous, Chatter- ton must also be included. It may be noted that Wells's admirable prose Stories after Nature (1822) have not yet been republished. A very singular example of the closest and most abso- lute resemblance to Blake's poetry may be met with (if only one could meet with it) in a phantasmal sort of little book, published, or perhaps not published but only printed, some years since, and entitled Improvisations of the Spirit. It bears no author's name, but was written by Dr. J. J. Garth Wilkinson, the highly-gifted editor of Swedenborg's writings, and author of a Life of him : to whom we owe a reprint of the poems in Blake's Songs of Innocence and Experience. These im- provisations profess to be written under precisely the same kind of spiritual guidance, amounting to abnegation of personal effort in the writer, which Blake supposed to have presided over the production of his Jerusalem, etc. The little book has passed into the general (and in all other cases richly-deserved) limbo of the modern " spiri- 456 LITERARY PAPERS. tualist " muse. It is a very thick little book, however unsubstantial its origin ; and contains, amid much that is disjointed or hopelessly obscure (but then why be the polisher of poems for which a ghost, and not even your own ghost, is alone responsible ?) many passages and indeed whole compositions of a remote and charming beauty, or sometimes of a grotesque figurative relation to things of another sphere, which are startlingly akin to Blake's writings, — could pass, in fact, for no one's but his. Professing as they do the same new kind of authorship, they might afford plenty of material for comparison and bewildered speculation, if such were in any request. Considering the interval of seventeen years which has now elapsed since the first publication of this Life, it may be well to refer briefly to such studies connected with Blake as have since appeared. This is not the place where any attempt could be made to appraise the thanks due for such a work as Mr. Swinburne's Critical - Essay on Blake. The task chiefly undertaken in it — that of exploring and expounding the system of thought and personal mythology which pervades Blake's Pro- phetic Books — has been fulfilled, not by piecework or analysis, but by creative intuition. The fiat of Form and Light has gone forth, and as far as such a chaos could respond it has responded. To the volume itself, and to that only, can any reader be referred for its store of intellectual wealth and reach of eloquent dominion. Next among Blake labours of love let me here refer to Mr. James Smetham's deeply sympathetic and assimila- tive study (in the form of a review article on the present Life) published in the London Quarterly Review for January 1869. As this article is reprinted in our present Vol. II., no further tribute to its delicacy and force needs to be made here : it speaks for itself. But some personal mention, however slight, should here exist as due to its author, a painter and designer of our own day who is, in many signal respects, very closely WILLIAM BLAKE. 457 akin to Blake ; more so, probably, than any other living artist could be said to be. James Smetham's work — generally of small or moderate size — ranges from Gospel subjects, of the subtlest imaginative and mental insight, and sometimes of the grandest colouring, through Old Testament compositions and through poetic and pastoral themes of every kind, to a special imaginative form of landscape. In all these he partakes greatly of Blake's immediate spirit, being also often nearly allied by land- scape intensity to Samuel Palmer, — in youth, the noble disciple of Blake. Mr. Smetham's works are very numerous, and, as other exclusive things have come to be, will some day be known in a wide circle. Space is altogether wanting to make more than this passing men- tion here of them and of their producer, who shares, in a remarkable manner, Blake's mental beauties and his formative shortcomings, and possesses besides an indi- vidual invention which often claims equality with the great exceptional master himself. Mr. W. B. Scott's two valuable contributions to Blake records — his Catalogue Raisonne of the Exhibition of Blake's Works, as held at the Burlington Fine Arts Club in 1876, and his Etchings from Blake's Works, with Descriptive Text — are both duly specified in the General Catalogues, existing in our Vol. II. We will say briefly here that no man living has a better right to write of Blake or to engrave his work than Mr. Scott, whose work of both kinds is now too well known to call for recognition. Last but not least, the richly condensed and representative essay prefixed by Mr. W. M. Rossetti to his edition (in the Aldine series) of Blake's Poetical Works demands from all sides — as its writer has, from all sides, discerned and declared Blake — the highest commendation we can here briefly offer. The reader has now reached the threshold of the Second Volume of this work, in which he will be for- tunate enough to be communicating directly with Blake's own mind, in a series of writings in prose and verse, 45S LITERARY PAPERS. many of them here first published. Now perhaps no poet ever courted a public with more apparent need for some smoothing of the way, or mild fore- warning, from within, from without, or indeed from any region whence a helping heaven and four bountiful winds might be pleased to waft it, than does Blake in many of the " emanations " contained in this our Second Volume. Yet, on the other hand, there is the plain truth that such aid will be not at all needed by those whom these writings will impress, and almost certainly lost upon those whom they will not. On the whole, I have thought it best to preface each class of these Selections with a few short remarks, but neither to encumber with many words their sure effect in the right circles, nor to do battle with their destiny in the wrong. Only it may be specified here, that whenever any pieces occurring in Blake's written note-books appeared of a nature on the privacy of which he might have relied in writing them, these have been passed by, in the task of selection. At the same time, all has been included which seemed capable in any way of extending our knowledge of Blake as a poet and writer, in the manner he himself might have wished. Mere obscurity or remoteness from usual ways of thought was, as we know, no bar to publication with him ; therefore, in all cases where such qualities, even seeming to myself excessive, are found in conjunction with the lyrical power and beauty of expression so peculiar to Blake's style as a poet (and this, let us not forget, startlingly in advance of the time at which he wrote), I have thought it better to include the compositions so qualified. On the other hand, my MS. researches have often furnished me with poems which I treasure most highly, and which I cannot doubt will dwell in many memories as they do in mine. But, as regards the varying claims of these selections, it should be borne in mind that an attempt is made in the present volume to produce, after a long period of neglect, as complete a record as might be of WILLIAM BLAKE. 459 Blake and his works ; and that, while any who can here find anything to love will be the poet-painter's welcome guests, still such a feast is spread first of all for those who can know at a glance that it is theirs and was meant for them ; who can meet their host's eye with sympathy and recognition, even when he offers them the new strange fruits grown for himself in far-off gardens where he has dwelt alone, or pours for them the wines which he has learned to love in lands where they^never travelled. From the Poetical Sketches. [Printed in 1 783. Written 1768-77. cet. II— 20.] There is no need for many further critical remarks on these selections from the Poetical Sketches, which have already been spoken of in Chap. VI. of the Life. Among the lyrical pieces here chosen, it would be difficult to award a distinct preference. These Songs are certainly among the small class of modern times which recall the best period of English song writing, whose rarest treasures lie scattered among the plays of our Elizabethan dramatists. They deserve no less than very high admi- ration in a quite positive sense, which cannot be even qualified by the slight, hasty, or juvenile imperfections of execution to be met with in some of them, though by no means in all. On the other hand, if we view them comparatively ; in relation to Blake's youth when he wrote them, or the poetic epoch in which they were produced ; it would be hardly possible to overrate their astonishing merit. The same return to the diction and high feeling of a greater age is to be found in the un- finished play of Edward the Third, from which some fragments are included here. In the original edition, however, these are marred by frequent imperfections in the metre (partly real and partly dependent on careless printing), which I have thought it best to remove, as I 460 LITERARY PAPERS. found it possible to do so without once, in the slightest degree, affecting the originality of the text. The same has been done in a few similar instances elsewhere. The poem of Blind-man's Buff stands in curious contrast with the rest, as an effort in another manner, and, though less excellent, is not without interest. Besides what is here given, there are attempts in the very modern-antique style of ballad prevalent at the time, and in Ossianic prose, but all naturally very inferior, and probably earlier. It is singular that, for formed style and purely literary qualities, Blake perhaps never afterwards equalled the best things in this youthful volume, though he often did so in melody and feeling, and more than did so in depth of thought. Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience. [Engraved 1789.] Here again but little need be added to what has already been said in the Life respecting the Songs of Innocence and Experience. The first series is incom- parably the more beautiful of the two, being indeed almost flawless in essential respects ; while in the second series, the five years intervening between the two had proved sufficient for obscurity and the darker mental phases of Blake's writings to set in and greatly mar its poetic value. This contrast is more especially evident in those pieces whose subjects tally in one and the other series. For instance, there can be no comparison between the first Chimney Sweeper, which touches with such perfect simplicity the true pathetic chord of its subject, and the second, tinged somewhat with the commonplaces, if also with the truths, of social discon- tent. However, very perfect and noble examples of Blake's metaphysical poetry occur among the Songs of Experience, such as Christian Forbearance, and The Human Abstract. One piece, the second Cradle Song, WILLIAM BLAKE. 461 I have myself introduced from the MS. Note-book often referred to, since there can be no doubt that it was written to match with the first, and it has quite sufficient beauty to give it a right to its natural place. A few alterations and additions in other poems have been made from the same source. Ideas of Good and Evil. In the MS. Note-book, to which frequent reference has been made in the Life, a page stands inscribed with the heading given above. It seems uncertain how much of the book's contents such title may have been meant to include ; but it is now adopted here as a not inappro- priate summarizing endorsement for the precious section which here follows. In doing so, Mr. Swinburne's example (in his Essay on Blake) has been followed, as regards pieces drawn from the Note-book. The contents of the present section are derived partly from the Note-book in question, and partly from another small autograph collection of different matter, somewhat more fairly copied. The poems have been reclaimed, as regards the first-mentioned source, from as chaotic a mass as could well be imagined ; amid which it has sometimes been necessary either to omit, transpose, or combine, so as to render available what was very seldom found in a final state. And even in the pieces drawn from the second source specified above, means of the same kind have occasionally been resorted to, where they seemed to lessen obscurity or avoid redundance. But with all this, there is nothing throughout that is not faithfully Blake's own. One piece in this series {The Two Songs) may be regarded as a different version of The Human Abstract, occurring in the Songs of Experience. This new form is certainly the finer one, I think, by reason of its personified v character, which adds greatly to the force of the impres- sion produced. It is, indeed, one of the finest things 462 LITERARY PAPERS. Blake ever did, really belonging, by its vivid complete- ness, to the order of perfect short poems, — never a very large band, even when the best poets are ransacked to recruit it. Others among the longer poems of this section, which are, each in its own way, truly admirable, are Broken Love, Mary, and Auguries of Innocence. It is but too probable that the piece called Broken Love has a recondite bearing on the bewilderments of Blake's special mythology. But besides a soul suffering in such limbo, this poem has a recognizable body penetrated with human passion. From this point of view, never, perhaps, have the agony and perversity of sundered affection been more powerfully (however singularly) expressed than here. The speaker is one whose soul has been intensified by pain to be his only world, among the scenes, figures, and events of which he moves as in a new state of being. The emotions have been quickened and isolated by con- flicting torment, till each is a separate companion. There is his " spectre," the jealous pride which scents in the snow the footsteps of the beloved rejected woman, but is a wild beast to guard his way from reaching her ; his " emanation " which silently weeps within him, for has not he also sinned ? So they wander together in " a fathomless and boundless deep," the morn full of tempests and the night of tears. Let her weep, he says, not for his sins only, but for her own ; nay, he will cast his sins upon her shoulders too ; they shall be more and more till she come to him again. Also this woe of his can array itself in stately imagery. He can count separately how many of his soul's affections the knife she stabbed it with has slain, how many yet mourn over the tombs which he has built for these : he can tell too of some that still watch around his bed, bright sometimes with ecstatic passion of melancholy and crowning his mournful head with vine. All these living forgive her transgres- sions : when will she look upon them, that the dead may live again ? Has she not pity to give for pardon ? nay, WILLIAM BLAKE. 463 does he not need her pardon too ? He cannot seek her, but oh ! if she would return. Surely her place is ready for her, and bread and wine of forgiveness of sins. The Crystal Cabinet and the Mental Traveller belong to a truly mystical order of poetry. The former is a lovely piece of lyrical writing, but certainly has not the clearness of crystal. Yet the meaning of such among Blake's compositions as this is may sometimes be missed chiefly through seeking for a sense more re- condite than was really meant. A rather intricate interpretation was attempted here in the first edition of these Selections. Mr. W. M. Rossetti has probably since found the true one in his simple sentence : " This poem seems to me to represent, under a very ideal form, the phenomena of gestation and birth " (see the Aldine edition of Blake's Poems, page 174). The singular stanza commencing "Another England there I saw," etc., may thus be taken to indicate quaintly that the un- developed creature, half sentient and half conscious, has a world of its own akin in some wise to the country of its birth. The Mental Traveller seemed at first a hopeless riddle ; and the editor of these Selections must confess to having been on the point of omitting it, in spite of its high poetic beauty, as incomprehensible. He is again indebted to his brother for the clear-sighted, and no doubt correct, exposition which is now printed with it, and brings its full value to light. The poem of Mary appears to be, on one side, an allegory of the poetic or spiritual mind moving unre- cognized and reviled among its fellows; and this view of it is corroborated when we find Blake applying to himself two lines almost identically taken from it, in the last of the Letters to Mr. Butts printed in the Life. But the literal meaning may be accepted, too, as a hardly extreme expression of the rancour and envy so constantly attending pre-eminent beauty in women. A most noble, though surpassingly quaint example of 4 G 4 LITERARY PAPERS. Blake's loving sympathy with all forms of created life, as well as of the kind of oracular power which he possessed of giving vigorous expression to abstract or social truths, will be found in the Auguries of Innocence. It is a somewhat tangled skein of thought, but stored throughout with the riches of simple wisdom. Quaintness reaches its climax in William Bond, which may be regarded as a kind of glorified street-ballad. One point that requires to be noted is that the term " fairies " is evidently used to indicate passionate emo- tions, while " angels " are spirits of cold coercion. The close of the ballad is very beautiful. It is not long since there seemed to dawn on the present writer a mean- ing in this ballad not discovered before. Should we not connect it with the lines In a Myrtle Shade the meaning of which is obvious to all knowers of Blake as bearing on marriage ? And may not " William Bond " thus be William Blake, the bondman of the " lovely myrtle tree " ? It is known that the shadow of jealousy, far from unfounded, fell on poor Catherine Blake's married life at one moment, and it has been stated that this jealousy culminated in a terrible and difficult crisis. We ourselves can well imagine that this ballad is but a literal relation, with such emotional actors, of some transfiguring trance and passion of mutual tears from which Blake arose no longer " bond " to his myrtle-tree, but with that love, purged of all drossier element, whose last death-bed accent was, " Kate, you have ever been an angel to me ! " The ballad of William Bond has great spiritual beauties, whatever its meaning; and it is one of only two examples, in this form, occurring among Blake's lyrics. The other is called Long John Brown and Little Mary Bell, and perhaps the reader may be sufficiently surprised without it. The shorter poems, and even the fragments, afford many instances of that exquisite metrical gift and Tight- ness in point of form which constitute Blake's special WILLIAM BLAKE. 465 glory among his contemporaries, even more eminently perhaps than the grander command of mental resources which is also his. Such qualities of pure perfection in writing verse as he perpetually without effort displayed are to be met with among those elder poets whom he loved, and such again are now looked upon as the peculiar trophies of a school which has arisen since his time ; but he alone (let it be repeated and remembered ; possessed them then, and possessed them in clear com- pleteness. Colour and metre, these are the true patents of nobility in painting and poetry, taking precedence of all intellectual claims ; and it is by virtue of these, first of all, that Blake holds, in both arts, a rank which cannot be taken from him. Of the Epigrams on Art, which conclude this section, a few are really pointed, others amusingly irascible, — all more or less a sort of nonsense verses, and not even pretending to be much else. To enter into their reckless spirit of doggrel, it is almost necessary to see the original note-book in which they occur, which continually testifies, by sudden exclamatory entries, to the curious degree of boyish impulse which was one of Blake's characteristics. It is not improbable that such names as Rembrandt, Rubens, Correggio, Reynolds, may have met the reader's eye before in a very different sort of context from that which surrounds them in the surprising poetry of this their brother artist ; and certainly they are made to do service here as scarecrows to the crops of a rather jealous husbandman. And for all that, I have my strong suspi- cions that the same amount of disparagement of them uttered to instead of by our good Blake, would have elicited, on his side, a somewhat different estimate. These phials of his wrath, however, have no poison, but merely some laughing gas in them ; so now that we are setting the laboratory a little in order, let these, too, come down from their dusty upper shelf. 30 466 LITERARY PAPERS. Prose Writings. Of the prose writings which now follow, the only ones already in print are the Descriptive Catalogue and the Sibylline Leaves. To the former of these, the Public Address, which here succeeds it, forms a fitting and most interesting pendant. It has been compiled from a very confused mass of MS. notes ; but its purpose is unmis- takable as having been intended as an accompaniment to the engraving of Chaucer's Pilgrims. Both the Catalogue and Address abound in critical passages on painting and poetry, which must be ranked without reserve among the very best things ever said on either subject. Such inestimable qualities afford quite sufficient ground whereon to claim indulgence for eccentricities which are here and there laughably excessive, but which never fail to have a personal, even where they have no critical, value. As evidence of the writer's many moods, these pieces of prose are much best left unmutilated : let us, therefore, risk misconstruction in some quarters. There are others where even the whimsical onslaughts on names no less great than those which the writer most highly honoured, and assertions as to this or that component quality of art being everything or nothing as it served the fiery plea in hand, will be discerned as the impatient extremes of a man who had his own work to do, which was of one kind, as he thought, against another ; and who mainly did it too, in spite of that injustice without which no extremes might ever have been chargeable against him. And let us remember that, after all, having greatness in him, his practice of art included all great aims, whether they were such as his antagonistic moods railed against or no. The Vision of the Last Judgment is almost as much a manifesto of opinion as either the Catalogue or Address. But its work is in a wider field, and one which, where it stretches beyond our own clear view, may not neces- WILLIAM BLAKE. 467 sarily therefore have been a lost road to Blake himself. Certainly its grandeur and the sudden great things greatly said in it, as in all Blake's prose, constitute it an addition to our opportunities of communing with him, and one which we may prize highly. The constant decisive words in which Blake alludes, throughout these writings, to the plagiarisms of his con- temporaries, are painful to read, and will be wished away ; but, still, it will be worth thinking whether their being said, or the need of their being said, is the greater cause for complaint. Justice, looking through surface accomplishments, greater nicety and even greater occa- sional judiciousness of execution, in the men whom Blake compares with himself, still perceives these words of his to be true. In each style of the art of a period, and more especially in the poetic style, there is often some one central initiatory man, to whom personally, if not to the care of the world, it is important that his creative power should be held to be his own, and that his ideas and slowly perfected materials should not be caught up before he has them ready for his own use. Yet, con- sciously or unconsciously, such an one's treasures and possessions are, time after time, while he still lives and needs them, sent forth to the world by others in forms from which he cannot perhaps again clearly claim what is his own, but which render the material useless to him henceforward. Hardly wonderful, after all, if for once an impetuous man of this kind is found raising the hue and cry, careless whether people heed him or no. It is no small provocation, be sure, when the gazers hoot you as outstripped in your race, and you know all the time that the man ahead, whom they shout for, is only a flying thief. The Inventions to the Book of Job. These Inventions to the Book of Job, which may be regarded as the works of Blake's own hand in which he 4 r»S LITERARY PAPERS. most unreservedly competes with others— belonging as they do in style to the accepted category of engraved designs — consist of twenty-one subjects on a considerably smaller scale than those in The Grave, each highly wrought in light and shade, and each surrounded by a border of allusive design and inscription, executed in a slighter style than the subject itself. Perhaps this may fairly be pronounced, on the whole, the most remark- able series of prints on a scriptural theme which has appeared since the days of Albert Diirer and Rembrandt, widely differing too from either. Except The Grave, these designs must be known to a larger circle than any other series by Blake ; and yet they are by no means so familiar as to render unneces- sary such imperfect reproduction of their intricate beau- ties as the scheme of this work made possible, or even the still more shadowy presentment of verbal description. The first among them shows us the patriarch Job worshiping among his family under a mighty oak, surrounded by feeding flocks, range behind range, as far as the distant homestead, in a landscape glorified by setting sun and rising moon. " Thus did Job continually," the leading motto tells us. In the second plate we see the same persons grouped, still full of happiness and thanksgiving. But this is that day when the sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan came also among them ; and above the happy group we see what they do not see, and know that power is given to Satan over all that Job has. Then in the two next subjects come the workings of that power ; the house falling on the slain feasters, and the messengers hurrying one after another to the lonely parents, still with fresh tidings of ruin. The fifth is a wonderful design. Job and his wife still sit side by side, the closer for their misery, and still, out of the little left to them, give alms to those poorer than themselves. The angels of their love and resignation are ever with them on either side ; but above, again, the unseen Heaven lies WILLIAM BLAKE. 469 open. There sits throned that Almighty figure, filled now with inexpressible pity, almost with compunction. Around Him His angels shrink away in horror ; for now the fires which clothe them — the very fires of God — are compressed in the hand of Satan into a phial for the devoted head of Job himself. Job is to be tried to the utmost ; only his life is withheld from the tormentor. How this is wrought, and how Job's friends come to visit him in his desolation, are the subjects which follow ; and then, in the eighth design, Job at last lifts up his voice, with arms uplifted too, among his crouching, shuddering friends, and curses the day when he was born. The next, again, is among the grandest of the series. Eliphaz the Temanite is telling Job of the thing which was secretly brought to him in the visions of the night ; and above we are shown the matter of his words, the spirit which passed before his face ; all blended in a wondrous partition of light, cloud, and mist of light. After this, Job kneels up and prays his re- proachful friends to have pity on him, for the hand of God has touched him. And next — most terrible of all — we see embodied the accusations of torment which Job brings against his Maker : a theme hard to dwell upon, and which needs to be viewed in the awful spirit in which Blake conceived it. But in the following subject there comes at last some sign of soothing change. The sky, till now full of sunset and surging cloud, in which the stones of the ruined home looked as if they were still burning, has here given birth to the large peaceful stars, and under them the young Elihu begins to speak : " Lo ! all these things worketh God oftentimes with man, to bring forth his soul from the pit." The expression of Job, as he sits with folded arms, beginning to be recon- ciled, is full of delicate familiar nature; while the look of the three unmerciful friends, in their turn reproved, has something in it almost humorous. And then the Lord answers Job out of the whirlwind, dreadful in its resistless force, but full also of awakening life, and rich 470 LITERARY PAPERS. with lovely clinging spray. Under its influence, Job and his wife kneel and listen, with faces to which the blessing of thankfulness has almost returned. In the next sub- ject it shines forth fully present again, for now God Himself is speaking of His own omnipotence and right of judgment — of that day of creation " when the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy." All that He says is brought before us, surround- ing His own glorified Image ; while below, the hearers kneel rapt and ecstatic. This is a design which never has been surpassed in the whole range of Christian art. Very grand too is the next, where we see Behemoth, chief of the ways of God, and Leviathan, king over the children of pride. The sixteenth plate, to which we now come, is a proof of the clear dramatic sense with which Blake conceived the series as a whole. It is introduced in order to show us the defeat of Satan in his contest against Job's uprightness. Here, again, is the throned Creator among His angels, and beneath Him the Evil One falls with tremendous plummet-force ; Hell naked before His face, and Destruction without a cover- ing. Job with his friends are present as awe-struck witnesses. In the design which follows, He who has chastened and consoled Job and his wife is seen to be- stow His blessing on them ; while the three friends, against whom " His wrath is kindled," cover their faces with fear and trembling. And now comes the acceptance of Job, who prays for his friends before an altar, from which a heart-shaped body of flame shoots upward into the sun itself; the background showing a distant evening light through broad tree-stems — the most peaceful sight in the world. Then Job's kindred return to him : " every one also gave him a piece of money and every one an earring of gold." Next he is seen relating his trials and mercies to the new daughters who were born to him — no women so fair in the land. And, lastly, the series culminates in a scene of music and rapturous joy, which, contrasted with the calm thanksgiving of the opening WILLIAM BLAKE. 47i design, gloriously embodies the words of its text, " So the Lord blessed the latter end of Job more than the beginning." In these three last designs, I would specially direct attention to the exquisite beauty of the lemale figures. Nothing proves more thoroughly how free was the spiritualism of Blake's art from any ascetic tinge. These women are given to us no less noble in body than in soul ; large-eyed, and large-armed also ; such as a man may love with all his life. The angels (and especially those in plate 14, "When the morning stars sang together,") may be equally cited as proofs of the same great distinctive quality. These are no flimsy, filmy creatures, drowsing on feather-bed wings, or smothered in draperies. Here the utmost amount of vital power is the heavenly glory they dis- play ; faces, bodies, and wings, all living and springing fire. And that the ascetic tendency, here happily absent, is not the inseparable penalty to be paid for a love of the Gothic forms of beauty, is evident enough, when we see those forms everywhere rightly mingling with the artist's conceptions, as the natural breath of sacred art. With the true daring of genius, he has even introduced a Gothic cathedral in the background of the worshiping group in plate I j as the shape in which the very soul of worship is now for ever embodied for us. It is probably with the fine intention of symbolizing the unshaken piety of Job under heavy affliction that a similar building is still seen pointing its spires heavenward in the fourth plate, where the messengers of ruin follow close at one an- other's heels. We may, perhaps, even conjecture that the shapeless buildings, like rude pagan cairns, which are scattered over those scenes of the drama which refer to the gradual darkening of Job's soul, have been intro- duced as forms suggestive of error and the shutting out of hope. Everywhere throughout the series we meet with evidences of Gothic feeling. Such are the recessed settle and screen of trees in plate 2, much in the spirit 472 LITERARY PAPERS. of Orcagna; the decorative character of the stars in plate 12; the Leviathan and Behemoth in plate 15, grouped so as to recall a mediaeval medallion or wood- carving ; the trees, drawn always as they might be carved in the woodwork of an old church. Further instances of the same kind may be found in the curious sort of painted chamber, showing the themes of his discourse, in which Job addresses his daughters in plate 20 ; and in the soaring trumpets of plate 21, which might well be one of the rich conceptions of Luca della Robbia. Nothing has yet been said of the borders of illustrative design and inscription which surround each subject in the Job. These are slight in manner, but always thought- ful and appropriate, and often very beautiful. Where Satan obtains power over Job, we see a terrible serpent twined round tree-stems among winding fires, while angels weep, but may not quench them. Fungi spring under baleful dews, while Job prays that the night may be solitary, and the day perish wherein he was born. Trees stand and bow like ghosts, with bristling hair of branches, round the spirit which passes before the face of Eliphaz. Fine examples also are the prostrate rain- beaten tree in plate 13 ; and, in the next olate, the map of the days of creation. In plate 18 (the sacrifice and acceptance of Job), Blake's palette and brushes are ex- pressively introduced in the border, lying, as it were, on an altar-step beside the signature of his name. That which possesses the greatest charm is perhaps the border to plate 2. Here, at the base, are sheepfolds watched by shepherds ; up the sides is a trellis, on whose lower rings birds sit upon their nests, while angels, on the higher ones, worship round flame and cloud, till it arches at the summit into a sky full of the written words of God. Such defects as exist in these designs are of the kind usual with Blake, but far less frequent than in his more wilful works ; indeed, many among them are entirely free from any damaging peculiarities. Intensely mus- WILLIAM BLAKE. 473 cular figures, who surprise us by a sort of line round the throat, wrists, and ankles, but show no other sign of being draped, are certainly to be sometimes found here as elsewhere, but not many of them. The lifted arms and pointing arms in plates 7 and 10 are pieces of mannerism to be regretted, the latter even seeming a reminiscence of Macbeth's Witches by Fuseli : and a few other slight instances might, perhaps, be cited. But, on the whole, these are designs no less well and clearly considered, however highly imaginative, than the others in the small highest class of original engraved inventions, which comprises the works of Albert Durer, of Rembrandt, of Hogarth, of Turner, of Cruikshank in his best time, and some few others. Like all these they are incisive and richly toned to a degree which can only be attained in engraving by the original inventor, and have equally a style of execution all their own. In spirit and character they are no less independent, having more real affinity, perhaps, with Orcagna than with any other of the greatest men. In their unison of natural study with imagination, they remind one decidedly of him ; and also of Giotto, himself the author of a now almost destroyed series of frescoes from Job, in the Campo Santo at Pisa, which it would be interesting to compare, as far as possible, with these inventions of Blake. Jerusalem. Of the pictorial part of the Jerusalem much might be said which would merely be applicable to all Blake's works alike. One point perhaps somewhat distinctive about it is an extreme largeness and decorative character in the style of the drawings, which are mostly made up of a few massive forms, thrown together on a grand, equal scale. The beauty of the drawings varies much, according to the colour in which they are printed. One copy, possessed by Lord Houghton, is so incomparably 474 LITERARY PAPERS. superior, from this cause, to any other I have seen, that no one could know the work properly without having examined this copy. It is printed in a warm reddish brown, the exact colour of a very fine photograph ; and the broken blending of the deeper tones with the more tender shadows, — all sanded over with a sort of golden mist peculiar to Blake's mode of execution, — makes still more striking the resemblance to the then undiscovered " handling " of Nature herself. The extreme breadth of the forms throughout, when seen through the medium of this colour, shows sometimes, united with its grandeur, a suavity of line which is almost Venetian. The subjects are vague and mystic as the poem itself. Female figures lie among waves full of reflected stars : a strange human image, with a swan's head and wings, floats on water in a kneeling attitude, and drinks : lovers embrace in an open water-lily : an eagle-headed creature sits and contemplates the sun : serpent-women are coiled with serpents : Assyrian-looking, human-visaged lions are seen yoked to the plough or the chariot : rocks swallow or vomit forth human forms, or appear to amalgamate with them : angels cross each other over wheels of flame : and flames and hurrying figures wreathe and wind among the lines. Even such slight things as these rough inter- secting circles, each containing some hint of an angel, even these are made the unmistakable exponents of genius. Here and there some more familiar theme meets us, — the creation of Eve, or the Crucifixion ; and then the thread is lost again. The whole spirit of the designs might seem well symbolized in one of the finest among them, where we see a triple-headed and triple-crowned figure embedded in rocks, from whose breast is bursting a string of youths, each in turn born from the other's breast in one sinuous throe of mingled life, while the life of suns and planets dies and is born and rushes together around them. There is an ominous sentence in one of the letters of Blake to Mr. Butts, where, speaking of the Jerusalem, he WILLIAM BLAKE. 475 says, " the persons and machinery entirely new to the inhabitants of earth {some of the persons excepted)." The italics are mine, and alas ! to what wisp-led flounderings of research might they not lure a reckless adventurer. The mixture of the unaccountable with the familiar in nomenclature which occurs towards the close of a pre- ceding extract from the Jerusalem is puzzling enough in itself; but conjecture attains bewilderment when we realize that one of the names, "Scofield" (spelt, perhaps more properly, Scholfield, but pronounced no doubt as above), was that of the soldier who had brought a charge of sedition against Blake at Felpham. Whether the other English names given were in some way connected with the trial would be worth any practicable inquiries. When we consider the mystical connection in which this name of Scofield is used, a way seems opened into a more perplexed region of morbid analogy existing in Blake's brain than perhaps any other key could unlock. It is a minute point, yet a significant and amazing one. Further research discovers further references to " Sco- field," for instance, " Go thou to Skofield : Ask him if he is Bath or if he is Canterbury : Tell him to be no more dubious : demand explicit words : Tell him I will dash him into shivers where and at what time I please. Tell him, Hand and Skofield, they are ministers of evil To those I hate : for I can hate also as well as they." Again (not without Jack the Giant Killer to help) : — " Hark ! hear the giants of Albion cry at night, — We smell the blood of the English, we delight in their blood on our altars ; The living and the dead shall be ground in our crumbling mill, For bread of the sons of Albion, of the giants Hand and Skofield : Skofield and Cox are let loose upon the Saxons ; they accumu- late. A world in which man is, by his nature, the enemy of man." Again (and woe is the present editor !) : — ' ' These are the names of Albion's twelve sons and of his twelve daughters : — " 476 LITERARY PAPERS. (Then follows a long enumeration, — to each name certain counties attached) : — ■ " Skofield had Ely, Rutland, Cambridge, Huntingdon, Norfolk, Suffolk, Hertford, Essex, and his emanation is Guini- vere." (!!!) The first of the three above quotations seems meant really as a warning to Scholfield to be exact in evidence as to his place of birth or other belongings, and as to the " explicit words " used by Blake. Cox and Court- hope are Sussex names : can these be the " Kox " and "Kotope" of the poem, and names in some way con- nected, like Scholfield's, with the trial ? Is the wild, wild tale of Scofield exhausted here ? Alas no ! At leaf 5 1 of the Jerusalem occurs a certain design. In some, perhaps in all, copies of the Jeru- salem, as a whole, the names inscribed above the figures are not given, but at least three examples of water- colour drawings or highly-coloured reproductions of the plate exist, in which the names appear. Who " Vala " and " Hyle " may personify I do not pretend to conjecture, though dim surmises hurtle in the mind, which, like De Quincey in the catastrophe of the Spanish Nun, I shall keep to myself. These two seem, pretty clearly, to be prostrate at the discomfiture of Scofield, who is finally retiring fettered into his native element. As a historical picture, then, Blake felt it his duty to monumentalize this design with due in- scription. Two of the three hand-coloured versions, referred to above, are registered as Nos. 50 and 51 of the Catalogue in Vol. II., and the third version appears as No. 108 in the Burlington Catalogue. I may note another point bearing on the personal grudges shadowed in the Jerusalem. In Blake's Public Address he says : — " The manner in which my character has been blasted these thirty years, both as an artist and a man, may be seen, particularly in a Sunday paper called the Examiner, published in Beaufort's Buildings (we all WILLIAM BLAKE. 477 know that editors of newspapers trouble their heads very little about art and science, and that they are always paid for what they put in upon these ungracious subjects) ; and the manner in which I have rooted out the nest of villains will be seen in a poem concerning my three years' Herculean labours at Felpham, which I shall soon publish. Secret calumny and open profes- sions of friendship are common enough all the world over, but have never been so good an occasion of poetic imagery." Thus we are evidently to look (or sigh in vain) for some indication of Blake's wrath against the Examiner in the vast Jerusalem. It is true that the Examiner persecuted him, his publications and exhibi- tion, and that Leigh Hunt was prone to tell "good stories " of him ; and in some MS. doggrel of Blake's we meet with the line, "The Examiner whose very name is Hunt." But what form can the irate allegory be supposed to take in the Jerusalem ? Is it conceivable that that mysterious entity or non-entity, " Hand," whose name occurs sometimes in the poem, and of whom an inscribed spectrum is there given at full length, can be a hiero- glyph for Leigh Hunt ? Alas ! what is possible or impossible in such a connection ? 478 EBENEZER JONES. (from notes and queries, 1870.) I hope Mr. Gledstanes-Waugh may receive from other sources a more complete account than I can give of this remarkable poet, who affords nearly the most striking instance of neglected genius in our modern school of poetry. This is a more important fact about him than his being a Chartist, which however he was, at any rate for a time. I met him only once in my life, I believe in 1848, at which time he was about thirty, and would hardly talk on any subject but Chartism. His poems (the Studies of Sensation and Event) had been published some five years before my meeting him, and are full of vivid disorderly power. I was little more than a lad at the time I first chanced on them, but they struck me greatly, though I was not blind to their glaring defects and even to the ludicrous side of their wilful " newness " ; attempting, as they do, to deal recklessly with those almost inaccessible combinations in nature and feeling which only intense and oft-renewed effort may perhaps at last approach. For all this, these Studies should be, and one day will be, disinterred from the heaps of verse deservedly buried. Some years after meeting Jones, I was much pleased to hear the great poet Robert Browning speak in warm terms of the merit of his work ; and I have understood that Monckton Milnes (Lord Houghton) admired the Studies, and interested himself on their author's behalf. The only other recognition of this poet which I have observed is the appearance of a short but admirable lyric by him in the collection called Nightin- EBENEZER JONES. 479 gale Valley, edited by William Allingham. I believe that some of Jones's unpublished MSS. are still in the possession of his friend Mr. W. J. Linton, the eminent wood-engraver, now residing in New York, who could no doubt furnish more facts about him than any one else. It is fully time that attention should be called to this poet's name, which is a noteworthy one. It may not be out of place to mention here a much earlier and still more striking instance of poetic genius which has hitherto failed of due recognition. I allude to Charles J. Wells, the author of the blank verse scriptural drama of Joseph and his Brethren, published under the pseudonym of "Howard" in 1824, and of Stories after Nature (in prose, but of a highly poetic cast), published anonymously in 1822. This poet was a friend of Keats, who addressed to him one of the sonnets to be found in his works — "On receiving a present of roses." Wells's writings — youthful as they are — deserve to stand beside any poetry, even of that time, for original genius, and, I may add, for native structural power, though in this latter respect they bear marks of haste and neglect. Their time will come yet. 4&> THE STEALTHY SCHOOL OF CRITICISM. (FROM THE ATHENiEUM, 1 87 1.) Your paragraph, a fortnight ago, relating to the pseu- donymous authorship of an article, violently assailing myself and other writers of poetry, in the Contemporary Review for October last, reveals a species of critical masquerade which I have expressed in the heading given to this letter. Since then, Mr. Sidney Colvin's note, qualifying the report that he intends to " answer " that article, has appeared in your pages ; and my own view as to the absolute forfeit, under such conditions, of all claim to honourable reply, is precisely the same as Mr. Colvin's. For here a critical organ, professedly adopting the principle of open signature, would seem, in reality, to assert (by silent practice, however, not by enunciation,) that if the anonymous in criticism was — as itself originally inculcated — but an early caterpillar stage, the nominate too is found to be no better than a homely transitional chrysalis, and that the ultimate butterfly form for a critic who likes to sport in sunlight and yet to elude the grasp, is after all the pseudonymous. But, indeed, what I may call the " Siamese " aspect of 'the entertainment provided by the Review will elicit but one verdict. Yet I may, perhaps, as the individual chiefly attacked, be excused for asking your assistance now in giving a specific denial to specific charges which, if unrefuted, may still continue, in spite of their author's strategic fiasco, to serve his purpose against me to some extent. The primary accusation, on which this writer grounds THE STEALTHY SCHOOL OF CELTIC ISM. 481 all the rest, seems to be that others and myself " extol fleshliness as the distinct and supreme end of poetic and pictorial art ; aver that poetic expression is greater than poetic thought ; and, by inference, that the body is greater than the soul, and sound superior to sense." As my own writings are alone formally dealt with in the article, I shall confine my answer to myself ; and this must first take unavoidably the form of a challenge to prove so broad a statement. It is true, some frag- mentary pretence at proof is put in here and there throughout the attack, and thus far an opportunity is given of contesting the assertion. A Sonnet entitled Nuptial Sleep is quoted and abused at page 338 of the Review, and is there dwelt upon as a " whole poem," describing " merely animal sensations." It is no more a whole poem, in reality, than is any single stanza of any poem throughout the book. The poem, written chiefly in sonnets, and of which this is one sonnet-stanza, is entitled The House of Life ; and even in my first published instalment of the whole work (as contained in the volume under notice) ample evidence is included that no such passing phase of description as the one headed Nuptial Sleep could possibly be put forward by the author of The House of Life as his own representative view of the subject of love. In proof of this, I will direct attention^ (among the love-sonnets of this poem) to Nos. 2, 8, 1 1, 17, 28, and more especially 13, which, indeed, I had better print here. LOVE-SWEETNESS. "Sweet dimness of her loosened hair's downfall About thy face ; her sweet hands round thy head In gracious fostering union garlanded ; Her tremulous smiles ; her glances' sweet recall Of love ; her murmuring sighs memorial ; Her mouth's culled sweetness by thy kisses shed On cheeks and neck and eyelids, and so led Back to her mouth which answers there for all: — 3 1 4S2 LITERARY PAPERS. "What sweeter than these things, except the thing In lacking which all these would lose their sweet : — The confident heart's still fervour ; the swift beat And soft subsidence of the spirit's wing Then when it feels, in cloud-girt wayfaring, The breath of kindred plumes against its feet ? " Any reader may bring any artistic charge he pleases against the above sonnet ; but one charge it would be impossible to maintain against the writer of the series in which it occurs, and that is, the wish on his part to assert that the body is greater than the soul. For here all the passionate and just delights of the body are declared — somewhat figuratively, it is true, but unmis- ' takably — to be as naught if not ennobled by the concur- rence of the soul at all times. Moreover, nearly one half of this series of sonnets has nothing to do with love, but treats of quite other life-influences. I would defy any one to couple with fair quotation of Sonnets 29, 30, 31, 39, 40, 41, 43, or others, the slander that their author was not impressed, like all other thinking men, with the responsibilities and higher mysteries of life ; while Sonnets 35, 36, and 37, entitled The Choice, sum up the general view taken in a manner only to be evaded by conscious insincerity. Thus much for The House of Life, of which the sonnet Nuptial Sleep is I one stanza, embodying, for its small constituent share, a beauty of natural universal function, only to be repro- bated in art if dwelt on (as I have shown that it is not here) to the exclusion of those other highest things of which it is the harmonious concomitant. At page 342, an attempt is made to stigmatize four short quotations as being specially " my own property," that is, (for the context shows the meaning,) as being grossly sensual ; though all guiding reference to any precise page or poem in my book is avoided here. The first of these unspecified quotations is from the Last Confession; and is the description referring to the harlot's laugh, the hideous character of which, together THE STEALTHY SCHOOL OF CRITICISM. 483 with its real or imagined resemblance to the laugh heard soon afterwards from the lips of one long cherished as an ideal, is the immediate cause which makes the maddened hero of the poem a murderer. Assailants may say what they please ; but no poet or poetic reader will blame me for making the incident recorded in these seven lines as repulsive to the reader as it was to the hearer and beholder. Without this, the chain of motive and result would remain obviously incomplete. Observe also that these are but seven lines in a poem of some five hundred, not one other of which could be classed with them. A second quotation gives the last two lines only of the following sonnet, which is the first of four sonnets in The House of Life jointly entitled Willowwood : — " I sat with Love upon a woodside well, Leaning across the water, I and he ; Nor ever did he speak nor looked at me, But touched his lute wherein was audible The certain secret thing he had to tell : Only our mirrored eyes met silently In the low wave ; and that sound seemed to be The passionate voice I knew ; and my tears fell. " And at their fall, his eyes beneath grew hers ; And with his foot and with his wing-feathers He swept the spring that watered my heart's drouth. Then the dark ripples spread to waving hair, And as I stooped, her own lips rising there Bubbled with brimming kisses at my mouth." The critic has quoted (as I said) only the last two lines, and he has italicized the second as something unbearable and ridiculous. Of course the inference would be that this was really my own absurd bubble- and-squeak notion of an actual kiss. The reader will perceive at once, from the whole sonnet transcribed above, how untrue such an inference would be. The sonnet describes a dream or trance of divided love momentarily re-united by the longing fancy ; and in the imagery of the dream, the face of the beloved rises 4 8 4 LITERARY PAPERS. through deep dark waters to kiss the lover. Thus the phrase, " Bubbled with brimming kisses," etc., bears purely on the special symbolism employed, and from that point of view will be found, I believe, perfectly simple and just. A third quotation is from Eden Bower, and says, " What more prize than love to impel thee ? Grip and lip my limbs as I tell thee !" Here again no reference is given, and naturally the reader would suppose that a human embrace is described. The embrace, on the contrary, is that of a fabled snake- woman and a snake. It would be possible still, no doubt, to object on other grounds to this conception ; but the ground inferred and relied on for full effect by the critic is none the less an absolute misrepresentation. These three extracts, it will be admitted, are virtually, though not verbally, garbled with malicious intention ; and the same is the case, as I have shown, with the sonnet called Nuptial Sleep when purposely treated as a " whole poem." The last of the four quotations grouped by the critic as conclusive examples consists of two lines from > Jenny. Neither some thirteen years ago, when I wrote this poem, nor last year when I published it, did I fail to foresee impending charges of recklessness and aggressiveness, or to perceive that even some among those who could really read the poem, and acquit me on these grounds, might still hold that the thought in it had better have dispensed with the situation which serves it for framework. Nor did I omit to consider how far a treatment from without might here be possible. But the motive powers of art reverse the requirement of science, and demand first of all an inner standing-point. The heart of such a mystery as this must be plucked from the very world in which it beats or bleeds ; and the beauty and pity, the self-questionings and all-ques- tionings which it brings with it, can come with full force only from the mouth of one alive to its whole appeal, s THE STEALTHY SCHOOL OF CRLTICLSM. 485 such as the speaker put forward in the poem, — that is, of a young and thoughtful man of the world. To such a speaker, many half-cynical revulsions of feeling and reverie, and a recurrent presence of the impressions of beauty (however artificial) which first brought him with- in such a circle of influence, would be inevitable features of the dramatic relations portrayed. Here again I can give the lie, in hearing of honest readers, to the base or trivial ideas which my critic labours to connect with the poem. There is another little charge, however, which this minstrel in mufti brings against Jenny, namely, one of plagiarism from that very poetic self of his which the tutelary prose does but enshroud for the moment. This question can, fortunately, be settled with ease by others who have read my critic's poems ; and thus I need the less regret that, not happening myself to be in that position, I must be content to rank with those who cannot pretend to an opinion on the subject. It would be humiliating, need one come to serious detail, to have to refute such an accusation as that of " binding oneself by solemn league and covenant to extol fleshliness as the distinct and supreme end of poetic and pictorial art " ; and one cannot but feel that here every one will think it allowable merel}' to pass by with a smile the foolish fellow who has brought a charge thus framed against any reasonable man. Indeed, what I have said already is substantially enough to refute it, even did I not feel sure that a fair balance of my poetry must, of itself, do so in the eyes of every candid reader. I say nothing of my pictures ; but those who know them will laugh at the idea. That I may, nevertheless, take a wider view than some poets or critics, of how much, in the material conditions absolutely given to man to deal with as distinct from his spiritual aspira- tions, is admissible within the limits of Art, — this, I say, is possible enough ; nor do I wish to shrink from such responsibility. But to state that I do so to the ignoring or overshadowing of spiritual beauty, is an absolute 486 LITER AR Y PAPERS. falsehood, impossible to be put forward except in the indulgence of prejudice or rancour. I have selected, amid much railing on my critic's part, what seemed the most representative indictment against me, and have, so far, answered it. Its remaining clauses set forth how others and myself " aver that poetic ex- pression is greater than poetic thought . . . and sound superior to sense " — an accusation elsewhere, I observe, expressed by saying that we "wish to create form for its own sake." If writers of verse are to be listened to in such arraignment of each other, it might be quite com- petent to me to prove, from the w T orks of my friends in question, that no such thing is the case with them ; but my present function is to confine myself to my own defence. This, again, it is difficult to do quite seriously. It is no part of my undertaking to dispute the verdict of any "contemporary," however contemptuous or con- temptible, on my own measure of executive success ; but the accusation cited above is not against the poetic value of certain work, but against its primary and (by assumption) its admitted aim. And to this I must reply that so far, assuredly, not even Shakspeare himself could desire more arduous human tragedy for develop- ment in Art than belongs to the themes I venture to embody, however incalculably higher might be his power of dealing with them. What more in^piring_ioF-- poetic effort than the terrible Love turned to Hate, — perhaps the deadliest of all passion-woven complexities, — which is the theme of Sister Helen, and, in a more fantastic form, of Eden Bower — the surroundings of both poems being the mere machinery of a central universal meaning ? What, again, more so than the savage penalty exacted for a lost ideal, as expressed in the ~* Last Confession; — than the outraged love for man and burning compensations in art and memory of Dante at Verona; — than the baffling problems which the face of Jenny conjures up ; — or than the analysis