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 ' THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 Zbc Cantcrbuiv^ ipocts. 
 
 Edited i;y William Sharp. 
 
 SYDNEY DOBELL.
 
 » FOR FULL LIST OF THE VOLUMES IN THIS SERIES, 
 SEE CATALOGUE AT END OF BOOK.
 
 w, 
 
 HE POEMS OF SYDNEY 
 IJDOBELL: SELECTED, 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTORY 
 MEMOIR, BY MRS. DOBELL. 
 
 LONDON : 
 WALTER SCOTT, LIMITED, 
 
 PATIiRNOSTER SQUARE. 
 NEW YORK: 3 EAST FOURTEEN fil STREET.
 
 
 CONTENTS, 
 
 Introductory Memoir . 
 
 A Musing on a Victory 
 
 Isabel 
 
 From " The Roman " 
 
 Crazed 
 
 The Snowdrop in the Snow 
 
 The Harps of Heaven 
 
 Sonnets Written in 1S55 — 
 
 The Future 
 
 The Army Surgeon 
 
 Czar Nicholas 
 
 Home, in War-Time . 
 
 FAGB 
 
 vii 
 3 
 7 
 
 10 
 
 38 
 48 
 52 
 
 56 
 57 
 58 
 59 
 
 
 us 
 
 '-U
 
 IV 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Sonnets Written in i2>ss—contimced~- 
 
 Warning 
 
 America 
 
 America 
 
 The Common Grave 
 
 Esse et Posse 
 
 Good Night in War-Time 
 
 Lyrics from "England in Time of War"- 
 Desolate 
 
 The Market- Wife's Song 
 The Little Girl's Song 
 He is Safe 
 Lady Constance 
 The Milkmaid's Song 
 The German Legion 
 Woe is Me 
 
 The Young Man's Song 
 Dead-Maid's- Pool 
 The Sailor's Return 
 An Evening Dream 
 From " A Shower in ^Var-Time 
 A Hero's Grave
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Lyrics from "England in Time of War"— 
 continued — 
 
 
 l-AOE 
 
 In War-Time • - • ■ 
 
 121 
 
 Home, Wounded . • • • 
 
 126 
 
 A Nuptial Eve - • ■ • 
 
 136 
 
 Alone . • • • " 
 
 139 
 
 Farewell . • ■ ■ " 
 
 140 
 
 Sleeping and Waking . - ■ • 
 
 144 
 
 " He Loves and He Rides Away "' . 
 
 145 
 
 The Captain's Wife . ■ • • 
 
 151 
 
 Grass from the Battle-field 
 
 155 
 
 The Ghosts' Return . - • ■ 
 
 167 
 
 Afloat and Ashore . • • • 
 
 169 
 
 Daft Jean . • • • • 
 
 172 
 
 " When the Rain is on the Roof" 
 
 174 
 
 The Orphan's Song . - • • 
 
 182 
 
 Tommy's Dead 
 
 187 
 
 " She Touches a sad string of Soft Recail 
 
 191 
 
 From " Balder " ... 
 
 ■ 193 
 
 The Magyar's New-Year-Eve 
 
 . 275 
 
 Love . . . • • 
 
 . 278 
 
 An Autumn Mood 
 
 . 291
 
 VI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 On a Recently Finished Statue 
 
 296 
 
 The Convalescent to her Physician 
 
 297 
 
 On the Death of Mrs. Drowning . 
 
 298 
 
 To 1862 
 
 299 
 
 To 1862 ..... 
 
 300 
 
 A Queen's Speech 
 
 301 
 
 To a Friend in Bereavitment 
 
 302 
 
 John Bohun Martin 
 
 303 
 
 To Tochterchen 
 
 304 
 
 Fragment of a Sleei'-Song 
 
 305 
 
 Ballad ..... 
 
 307 
 
 Lord Robert .... 
 
 309 
 
 Fragment of Ballad 
 
 313 
 
 Snow-Drops .... 
 
 314 
 
 New Year's Eve .... 
 
 316 
 
 "->0' 
 
 ■£^
 
 3ntrot)uctoii> riDcmoir.
 
 3utrot)uctoii> riDeinoir. 
 
 YDNEY DOBELL was born at 
 Cranbrook, in Kent, on the 5th 
 of April 1824. He died at Barton 
 End House, Nailsworth, Glouces- 
 tershire, August 22nd, 1S74. 
 
 Though he lived into his fifly- 
 first year, his literary fame was 
 achieved before he was thirty, and his literary 
 labours well-nigh closed with his thirty-fifth. What 
 he has left of completed work is, therefore, the 
 product of comparative youth. But the mass of 
 memoranda contained in his note-books testifies to 
 the amount and to the importance of work planned 
 for that future of restored health to which he always 
 hopefully looked forward. 
 
 From both father and mother Sydney Dobell 
 
 [The biogi'aphical jiortion of this Introductory Note is 
 chiefly extracted from the Memorial Notice preceding the 
 collected edition of Sydney Dobell's Poems, edited by John 
 Nichol, M.A., Oxon, LL.D., in 1875.1
 
 viii INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. 
 
 inherited literary and speculative tastes. His 
 father, John Dobell, the descendant of a younger 
 branch of an old Sussex family, was the author of 
 a remarkable book, entitled " Man unfit to govern 
 Man." His mother, a woman of great force and 
 originality of character, between whom and Sydney, 
 her eldest-born, the attachment was of singular 
 intensity, was a daughter of Samuel Thompson, 
 well known in the earlier part of this century as a 
 leader of political reform in the city of London, and 
 as the founder of a "Church" intended to be on 
 the primitive Christian model. 
 
 Both parents had strong prepossessions in 
 favour of home education, and not one of their 
 ten children was sent to school or college. 
 
 In 1835 John Dobell removed with his family to 
 Cheltenham, where, till his death, he carried on the 
 business of a wine-merchant. From the time he 
 was twelve, Sydney was an energetic and indefatig- 
 able help to his father — a man of delicate health 
 and nervous temperament. At the same time, the 
 boy, with some assistance from tutors, pursued his 
 own studies with a zeal greatly in excess of his 
 physical strength. Later on, to these studies was 
 added that of the law, there being at that time 
 some idea of his qualifying for the bar. 
 
 His attempts at verse date from his fifth year ; 
 but after he had entered his teens these efforts v.-ere 
 ambitious. A number of his early pieces were 
 published in the local papers, he was encouraged 
 by the favourable notice of the poet Campbell, and 
 in his eighteenth year completed a drama entitled 
 " Napoleon."
 
 INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. ix 
 
 In the early summer of 1839 he became engaged 
 to Emily Fordham, daughter of George Fordham, 
 of Sandon-Bury, Cambridgeshire. The engage- 
 ment was, of course, a long one, and the enchanted 
 times of his youth were those seasons when, 
 visiting Miss Fordham's home, the old Manor- 
 House of the village, he left town and business 
 behind him, and plunged into the pure pleasures of 
 a thorough country life. 
 
 In 1844 he married, and, for the thirty years that 
 followed till his death, his wife was his inseparable 
 companion, intimately sharing his thoughts, hopes, 
 and aspirations. After his marriage — (and it is 
 well to note that the income on which the young 
 people began was very slender, and their installa- 
 tion of the most modest) — Sydney Dobell continued 
 for some years an active superintendence of his 
 father's business. 
 
 At the beginning of 1847 he was laid aside by 
 long and severe illness — rheumatic fever — from the 
 effects of which he never completely recovered, 
 though all his important literary work was done 
 afterwards. 
 
 In 1848 — his father having given up to him a 
 branch business lately established in Gloucester — 
 he went to live at the village of Hucclecote, two or 
 'three miles from that city, on the old Roman road ; 
 and here, in a little study, looking over fields and 
 orchards to the hills, great part of "The Roman '' 
 was written. Another change of residence was, 
 however, soon necessary, and, late in this same 
 year, he moved to Coxhorne House, Charlton
 
 X INTROD UCTOR V MEMOIR. 
 
 Kings, near Cheltenham — which house he held for 
 five years. 
 
 "The Roman" was the outcome of the poet's 
 enthusiasm for Italy and the Italian cause. This 
 enthusiasm always remained, among many modifi- 
 cations and changes of opinion, a link between his 
 earlier and later politics. One of the latest frag- 
 ments found in his handwriting, "Mentana,"* bears 
 witness to his undiminished and even passionate 
 sympathy with the Italian struggle. It breaks off 
 with these lines : — 
 
 " That Italy who, tho' she hath been hewu 
 In pieces, — as when the demons hew 
 An Angel, whose immortal substance, true 
 To his Eternal Image, is not slain, 
 I5ut from a thousand faleliions rears again. 
 Still undivided by division. 
 His everlasting beauty, whole and one,— 
 When sounds the trump at wliicli the nations i-ise 
 Sliall lift her unseamed body to the skies. 
 And in her flesh see God — " . . . 
 
 In 1850, with the publication of "The Roman" 
 — the success of which was rapid and unmistak- 
 able — a new phase of life seemed to open before 
 Sydney Dobell. The book, doubtless, owed some- 
 thing of its popularity to its subject. It is not too 
 much to say that, since Byron " woke one morning 
 to find himself famous," no young poet of this 
 century had achieved so great and so unexpected 
 a success. 
 
 If this sudden notoriety had no disturbing effect 
 upon him, it was not that he cared for none of these 
 
 * Page 419, Collected Edition.
 
 INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. xi 
 
 things. He greatly valued and desired power over 
 the minds of other men. But he was pre-eminently 
 one of those for whom this life is inseparable 
 from the life hereafter ; weighted, therefore, with 
 such a sense of deep and wide responsibilities as 
 precludes danger of any " intoxication of success." 
 For him, to use his own words, 
 
 " To-day 
 Washed Adam's feet and streams away 
 Far into yon Eternity." 
 
 It was about this time that he published in The 
 Palladium an article on " Currer Bell," which led 
 to an interesting correspondence between him and 
 Miss Bronte.* 
 
 In August of this year a visit to North Wales 
 afforded him his first experience of anything wild 
 or grand in nature, and, in the following year, 
 he made a tour in Switzerland. For evidence 
 of how he was impressed by the Alps and Alpine 
 valleys the reader can turn to the description of 
 Chamouni, extracted from " Balder," in the present 
 volume. 
 
 The earlier part of 1852 was spent at Malvern : 
 during his stay there he had some pleasant walks 
 and talks with Tennyson, Carlyle, and Dr. Westland 
 Marston, whose acquaintance he had previously 
 made. The later part of this year and the first 
 three months of 1853 were passed in London, where 
 he met, and had more or less intercourse with, Robert 
 
 * Tliis article, and the correspondence to which it gave rise, 
 is printed in The Life and Letters of Sydney Dohell.
 
 xii INTRO D UCTOR V MEMOIR. 
 
 Browning, Ruskin, Holman Hunt, Emmanuel 
 Deutsch, Mazzini, and other men of eminence in 
 literature or art. 
 
 In April he returned to Coxhorne, but only for a 
 brief rest. Coxhorne had to be given up. 
 " Balder " was finished in a cottage-lodging on 
 Amberley Hill, and soon after its completion he 
 went to Scotland, where the three next years were 
 spent ; the winters chiefly in Edinburgh, the 
 summers in various parts of the Highlands.* 
 
 At the close of 1853, "Balder," part ist, was 
 published. Of the scheme of this book its author 
 had written to a friend that he felt, at last, to have 
 found scope for all his powers. Standing, as it 
 does, alone, when, in the writer's mind, it was little 
 more than an introduction to the Great Epic he 
 hoped to write, it is not difificult to perceive why, 
 though containing his deepest thought and noblest 
 poetry, it failed to achieve popularity, or even to be 
 generally understood. The plan of the book was 
 unfortunate. It was pitched on too great a scale, 
 and demanded more than the energy of one life for 
 its accomplishment. 
 
 During the years passed in Scotland, he came into 
 contact with most of the best and brightest spirits 
 of the time and place, and formed many life-long 
 friendships. In 1855 he issued, in conjunction with 
 Alexander Smith, a small volume of sonnets on the 
 Crimean War, and, in 1856, stirred by the same 
 
 * It should, perhaps, be saiil, that these frequent changes of 
 residence had, almost invariabl)-, for their object, the search 
 of fresh advice or fresh treatment for his wife, always an 
 invalid.
 
 INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. xiii 
 
 theme, he published the collection of lyrics, entitled 
 " England in time of War." 
 
 Before finally leaving Edinburgh, in April 1857, 
 he delivered a lecture "On the Nature of Poetry" 
 at the Philosophical Institution. But his health 
 had now begun seriously to give way, and symp- 
 toms of chest delicacy made residence in a milder 
 climate desirable. The four following winters were 
 spent at Niton, in the Isle of Wight, the summers 
 in Gloucestershire, at Cleeve Tower, Birdlip, and 
 other beautiful and elevated spots among the 
 Cotswolds. 
 
 t- From this time, regular literary work being for- 
 bidden by his physicians, he found himself cut off 
 from his most cherished and congenial occupation. 
 It was characteristic of Sydney Dobell that he 
 immediately turned his energies into other channels 
 of usefulness. He had always wished to prove that a 
 poet might be a thoroughly capable " man of affairs," 
 and that the poetic or ideal faculty, rightly cultivated 
 and employed, should assist instead of impeding 
 practical life. It was one of the articles of his 
 creed, not merely that a good man of business may 
 be a gentleman, but that in order to be the one, in 
 any thorough sense of the word, he must be the 
 other. He now planned and superintended the 
 organisation of a new and ultimately extensive 
 branch of the business in which, for so many years 
 of his youth, he had actively taken part. In doing 
 this he was one of the first in England to introduce 
 and apply the system of Co-operation which has 
 since been widely extended. He held that every 
 mercantile firm should be a kind of Commonwealth, 
 
 b
 
 xiv INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. 
 
 in which the advancement of one ensures the 
 advancement of all, and his efforts were always 
 directed towards the realisation of this idea. 
 These years, therefore, during which he was 
 withheld from any continuous imaginative or 
 philosophical writing, were fruitful of good work 
 in other ways. All who knew Gloucester at that 
 time knew Sydney Dobell as, in every sense of the 
 word, a good citizen, warmly seconding every 
 movement for the promotion of the best interests 
 of the town. 
 
 With 1862 increased stress of ill-health made it 
 needful for him to spend the winters abroad — in 
 the south of France, in Italy, and in Spain — but 
 the summers of these years were still spent in 
 Gloucestershire. 
 
 His letters of this period show the vivid interest 
 with which ha studied the characteristic life, the 
 social and political aspects, of the countries he 
 visited. He acquired new languages rapidly, and 
 soon found it possible to converse easily with the 
 people among whom he was living. It is scarcely 
 necessary to say how well the author of " The 
 Roman" loved Italy, and he must have exulted 
 in seeing, as achieved facts, the freedom and unity 
 of which, in the enthusiasm of youth, he had 
 sung. For Spain he had a profound admira- 
 tion, and he always expressed the strongest faith 
 in some future revival of her ancient glories. Mean- 
 while there was no weakening of his concern 
 in all that affected his own country. In addition 
 to many smaller contributions, in prose and verse, 
 to various periodicals, he published, in 1865, a
 
 INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. xv 
 
 pamphlet on the then burning question of Parlia- 
 iTientary Reform— a pamphlet written in the spirit 
 of the Liberal-Conbervatism to which he latterly 
 adhered. In this he' advocated a system of 
 graduated sutTrage and plurality of votes in pro- 
 portion to the status and responsibilities of each 
 voter — a view to which the majority of our gieat 
 thinkers have inclined. 
 
 After 1866 the consequences of an accident met 
 with in Italy made further foreign travel impos- 
 sible. Rest from all brain-work was more and more 
 insisted on by his physicians as an absolutely 
 indispensable condition of recovery. But it need 
 hardly be said, that, in his, as in ail similar cases, 
 to live without breathing would have been as easy 
 as to live without strenuous thinking. Among 
 the writings of this time are many letters to the 
 current journals on various questions of the hour, 
 besides the pamphlet, " Consequential Damages," 
 suggested by the American difficulty, and the 
 " War Saga "— " England's Day." 
 
 In the summer of 1869, when trying a recently 
 purchased horse, the animal reared and fell over 
 with and on him. The indirect etiects of this 
 second accident were peculiarly disastrous, as he 
 was never again able to resume the constant out- 
 door exercise which had hitherto been the chief 
 means towards his restoration. 
 
 In 1 87 1 he went to live at Barton End House, in 
 a beautiful district above the Stroud Valley. 
 The last three years of his life were spent there, 
 under the almost constant pressure of disabling 
 illness. With the spring of 1874 came a train of
 
 xvi INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. 
 
 circumstances involving for him more than one 
 shock of peculiar pain, and necessitating mental 
 wear and tear of a kind for which he was absolutely 
 unfit : the constitution, which had gallantly struggled 
 through so much, was thus vanquished at last. 
 The illness, long held in abeyance, assumed an 
 acute form, and before the end of August he had 
 passed to his rest. 
 
 The story of a life thus prematurely closed, of 
 powers thus fettered from their due exercise, would 
 seem to be incomplete without some additional 
 detail as to the character of a man who, by those 
 who knew him best, was held to be greater than 
 any work he was permitted to complete. This 
 may be the more needful because, at the time of 
 the publication of " Balder," many of the critics 
 persisted in identifying its author with his morbid 
 and dreamy hero. This was a singularly perverse 
 mistake — for Sydney Dobell was one of the most 
 healthy-minded and sagaciously practical of men. 
 Far from being a cynic, or misanthrope, he "loved 
 his kind " in no mere theoretic sense, his instincts 
 were pre-eminently social, he encouraged every 
 opportunity of intercourse with his fellows of what- 
 ever class ; and whether it was a labourer breaking- 
 stones by the road-side, or a cultured fellow- 
 passenger on a journey, with whom occasion led to 
 some brief converse, he never departed from these 
 chance encounters without leaving an impression 
 of brightness and sympathetic kindliness not soon 
 to be forgotten. His sense of humour, of which 
 little or no trace appears in his writings, was
 
 INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. xvii 
 
 nevertheless always keen, and remained so to the 
 last. His almost boyish delight in hearing or tell- 
 ing a "good story" is remembered with something 
 of pathos by those who were with him in his later 
 days of hopeless illness. He was too genial, in 
 spite of his own simplicity of taste, to be an ascetic : 
 and " plain living and high thinking " did not 
 hinder him from exercising towards others a 
 refined and generous hospitality. His charities 
 might, without exaggeration, be called, in proportion 
 to his means, munificent. His practice accorded 
 with the theory expressed in " Balder" : — 
 
 " Charitable tliey 
 Who, be their having more or less, so have 
 That less is more than need, aiirt more is less 
 Thau the great heart's good- will." 
 
 Simple to the verge of austerity in his own life, 
 charity, in its various forms, was his one extrava- 
 gance. Not only of pecuniary aid, but of his 
 scanty leisure and scantier strength he was always 
 lavish. He was a most careful critic, keenly 
 perceiving defects of imagination or faults of style, 
 but at once penetrating with sometiines over- 
 generous recognition to the essential excellence of 
 book, picture, political creed, or popular enthusi- 
 asm. As to his political views, many dicta of 
 his so-called Toryism are now accepted by acknow- 
 ledged Liberals ; but his philosophy, political as 
 well as religious, started from a loftier standpoint 
 and took an ampler range than that commonly 
 appreciaied by the ordinary newspaper reader or 
 writer.
 
 xviii INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. 
 
 A thinker pre-eminently, he, nevertheless, keenly 
 relished all manly exercises and country sports — 
 seldom so valued by one whose resources are so 
 independent of them. He was loved to enthusiasm 
 by all children and young people with whom he 
 came in contact ; he had a rare power of not only 
 amusing, but of insensibly arousing and elevating 
 them. The gentleness of his counsel and the 
 kindness of his sympathy will not be forgotten 
 by those who were privileged to know him in this 
 relation. He was brilliant in conversation — having 
 at his command not only acute reasoning power, 
 but endless variety of unexpected illustration, and 
 it was to be noted that he was never niggardly 
 of his resources, but poured out of his treasures, 
 .lew and old, without weighing the importance of 
 the i-ccipienc Wnen his life had become limited 
 to a monotony that most men would have found 
 unbearable, he still breathed an atmosphere of 
 fresh and vital thought and feeling — of undimin- 
 ished interest in all that was transacting itself in 
 the outer world — of vivid sympathy in everything 
 affecting the welfare of his fellows. To the last 
 nothing could blunt the edge of his delight in the 
 natural loveliness surrounding him — the changing 
 phases of which he never tired of watching from 
 his windows, when he was no longer able to go out 
 doors. 
 
 Of the resources of the intellect so mysteriously 
 held back from what seemed its fitting work, 
 perhaps only a few, even of those who knew him 
 best, can judge ; but his life evidenced, as no words 
 or work could have done, the vitality of his faith.
 
 INTRO D UCTOR V MEMOIR. xi x 
 
 at once enlightened and deeply reverent — faith that 
 was never shaken by the temptations of the 
 intellect, nor weakened by years of disappointment 
 and deprivation. No pressure of suffering was 
 able to exhaust his cheerfulness, nor to wear out 
 the sweetness of his patience. In him innate 
 brightness and elasticity had been strengthened and 
 elevated by spiritual culture into something beyond 
 and above the result of mere temperament. To the 
 last moment of his conscious life he remained 
 bravely submissive, *' trusting not God the less for 
 an unanswered prayer." 
 
 Some critical estimate of Sydney Dobell as a 
 poet seems to be called for in introducing a 
 selection of his poems to a wider public. 
 
 " Mr. Dobell's true place among the English 
 poets of this century," says Professor Nichol, 
 " seems to us, in spite of manifest faults which 
 critics will variously estimate, to be a high and 
 permanent one. He belonged to the spasmodic* 
 school, with which he was, during his residence in 
 Edinburgh, topographically associated, in virtue of 
 defects shared with men indefinitely his inferiors. 
 Of these the chief were occasional violencies and 
 frequent involutions of expression, recalling the 
 conceits of Donne and others of the so-called 
 metaphysical school of the seventeenth century ; a 
 
 * This epithet " spasmodic, " originally applied by 
 Carlyle to Byron, was, afterwards, used by Professor 
 A ytouii to describe the school of younger poets among whom 
 Sydney Dobell, Philip Bailey, and Alexander Smith were 
 prominent.
 
 X X IN TROD UCTOR Y MEMOIR. 
 
 tantalising excess of metaphor, a deficient sense of 
 artistic proportion, and a weakness, latterly 
 outgrown, for outrt's ' fine things.' . . . Though 
 unequal, his verse at its best is in strength and 
 delicacy seldom surpassed by that of any of his 
 contemporaries ; his imagery, though redundant, 
 is remarkably clear and incisive. But the great 
 merit of his work is that it is steeped in that higher 
 atmosphere towards which it is the aim of all 
 enduring literature to raise our spirits. . . . 
 
 " ' Balder' is not likely to become popular in our 
 generation ; to most readers it will remain a 
 portent ; but, in spite of flagrant defects, it has 
 stamina for permanence, and will keep its place in 
 our literature as a mine for poets." 
 
 The following remarks are by Dr. Westland 
 Marston*: — 
 
 "... 'The Roman,' with its noble fervour of 
 tone and wealth of illustration, proved that we had 
 amongst us a new poet, whose genius was dedicated, 
 not chiefly to the expression of personal feeling, or 
 to the treatment of domestic themes, but to the 
 worship of liberty and the defence of a glorious but 
 enslaved country. The sympathy which, in the 
 first poem, he showed with the larger interests of 
 human life, is indeed discernible in all the more 
 important works that subsequently proceeded from 
 his pen. 
 
 " His patriotism and love of orderly freedom, are, 
 
 * Cliiefly extracted from a letter contributed to " The Life 
 and Letters of Sydney Dobell," published in 1878.
 
 INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. xxi 
 
 of course, obvious in ' England in time of War, 
 and in his 'Sonnets on the War.' In both, while 
 they present many phases of the experience of 
 individuals, the love of country and the hatred 
 of oppression may be recognised as pervading 
 motives. 
 
 " In ' Balder,' the ethical purpose of the poet is 
 less immediately apparent. Its influence, however, 
 is not the less real. Primarily, the poem was 
 designed to show the egotism of the intellect as 
 contrasted with that of the heart. . . . 
 
 "... I will not attempt to draw the line beyond 
 which analysis of human disease ceases to be 
 desirable in poetry. Of this poem of ' Balder ' it 
 may, at all events, be affirmed, that it enters into 
 and reveals states of being and suffering which, 
 however rare, are still real, and such as may, in 
 large measure, consist with noble qualities in the 
 persons delineated. Even those who protest most 
 strongly against the analysis of diseased conditions 
 of mind might surely find the highest claims to 
 admiration in the number of separate poems which 
 the plan of ' Balder ' allows it to enclose as in 
 a frame. Just, as in dealing with thoughts and 
 emotions, it was, perhaps, the speciality of the 
 writer to seize in them what is most subtle and 
 latent, to catch their most delicate nuances ; so, in 
 his treatment of external nature, nothing seems to 
 me so individual as his power to arrest and retain 
 (hose aspects which are the most elusive and 
 difficult of definition. Grandeur and breadth of 
 utterance, as all his readers know, lay easily within 
 his grasp when occasion called (or them, but
 
 xxii IN TROD UCTOR Y MEMOIR. 
 
 exquisite fineness of perception and expression was, 
 probably, his most characteristic faculty. 
 
 " Purely imaginative, far beyond the correctness of 
 mere literal painting, for instance, is his description 
 of Winter. Weird are the touches that give to the 
 stern season an almost supernatural personality : — 
 
 " ' More and more the observance 
 Of the astonished year is turned and turned 
 Upon the Solitary, and the leaves 
 Grow wan with conscience, and a-sudden fall 
 Liege at his feet, and all the naked trees 
 Mourn audibly, lifting appealing arms. 
 Which, when he knew, as a pale smoke that grows 
 Keeping its shape, he rose into the air 
 And froze it, and the broad land blanched with fear 
 And every breathless stream and river stopped. 
 And through him, walking white and like a ghost 
 With grim unfurnished limbs, the cold light passed 
 And cast no shade.' 
 
 "The exquisite description of the fairies is in the 
 vein of Shakespeare's description of ' Queen Mab,' 
 and it is hardly too much to say that it may mate 
 \vell with that triumph of delicate imagination. 
 The power of language to define the minute can 
 hardly have a better ilkistration than the lines : — 
 
 " 'The emerald wing 
 Of Slimmer beetle is a barge of state ; 
 Her cock-boat, red and black, the painted scale 
 Of lady-fly, aft in tlie fairy wake, 
 Towed by a film, and tossed perchance in storm, 
 When airy martlet, sipping of the pool, 
 Touches it to a ripple that stirs not 
 The lilies.
 
 INTROD UCTOR Y MEMOIR. xxiii 
 
 Neither liave fear 
 To scare them drawing nigh, nor with thy voice 
 To roll their thunder. Thy wide utterance 
 Is silence to the ears it enters not, 
 Eaising the attestation of a wind. 
 No more.' 
 
 " Of a bolder but not less profound conception is 
 the image that embodies the awfulness and the 
 immemorial existence of the Alps, and informs the 
 murmurs of Nature with a human burden : — 
 
 " ' Eound whose feet 
 Are wrapped the shaggy forests, and whose beards 
 Down from the great height unapproachable 
 Descend upon their breasts. There, being old, 
 All days and years they maunder on their thrones 
 IMountainous mutterings, or thro' the vale 
 Roll the long roar from startled side to side. 
 When wlioso lifting up his sudden voice, 
 A moment speaketh of his meditation 
 And thinks again.' 
 
 " J^ine is the whole passage — wonderfully fine the 
 use of the word ' sudden,' so expressive of the 
 abrupt ' roar ' which disturbs the subdued murmurs 
 or the awful silence of Nature. 
 
 "Of Sydney Dobell's power of description and 
 grandeur and subtle beauty of imagery the lines 
 quoted furnish sufficient evidence. His power not 
 only closely to observe nature, but, so to speak, to 
 humanise, so that its objects stand, in many 
 instances, as types of our states and feelings, may 
 be seen almost continuously. Thus the Ash Tree, 
 in 'Dead Maid's Pool,' while described with the 
 most minute and graphic touches as a natural
 
 xxiv INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. 
 
 object, may also be recognised as a symbol of 
 human desolation and remorse. Here is an extract 
 from it : — 
 
 " ' Thou art wizen aiul white, asli tree; 
 Other trees have gone on, 
 Have gathered and grown, 
 ITave hourgeoned and borne, 
 Thon hast wasted and worn. 
 
 Thy knots are all eyes ; 
 Every knot a dumb eye, 
 That has seen a sight 
 And heard a cry. 
 
 Thy leaves are dry : 
 
 The summer has not gone by 
 
 But they're withered and dead, 
 
 Like locks round a head 
 
 That is bald with a secret sin, 
 
 Tliat is scorched by a hell w^iUiin, 
 
 Thy skin 
 
 Is withereil and wan 
 
 Like a guilty man ; 
 
 It was ihin, 
 
 Aye, silken and thin, 
 
 It is honghed 
 
 And ploughed 
 
 Like a murderer's skin. 
 
 Tliou hast no shoots or wands, 
 
 All thy arms turn to the deep, 
 
 All thy twigs are crooked, 
 
 Twined and twisted, 
 
 Fingered and fisted. 
 
 Like one who liad looked 
 
 On wringing hands 
 
 Till his hands were wrung in his sleep.'
 
 INTROD UCTOR Y M EMOIR. xxv 
 
 " Let the reader, again, carefully peruse the lyric, 
 
 " ' In the Spring twilight, in the coloured twilight,' 
 
 and say if the exquisite description there of the 
 youth of the year do not intimately correspond to 
 the youth of man, with its opening receptivity to 
 beauty and delicate tenderness of emotion. And 
 here is a piece of grand description of the Mer de 
 Glace which can scarcely be excelled : — 
 
 " ' Cold crested tides 
 And cataracts more white than wintry foam 
 Eternally in act of the great leap 
 That never may be ta'en, these till the gorge 
 And rear upon tlie steep uplifted waves 
 Tmniovable, that proudly feign to go, — 
 And on the awful ramparts of the rock 
 Bind forward, as in motion.' — 
 
 " For his power over the supernatural, let the 
 reader turn not only to the ballad, 'Keilh of 
 Ravelston,' but, also, to a passage in ' liaider,' 
 beginning : — 
 
 " 'One can be brave 
 At noon, and with triumphant logic clear 
 The demonstrable air, but ne'ertheless 
 Sometimes at Hallow-e'en when, legends say, 
 The things tliat stir among tlie rustling trees 
 Are not ail mortal, and tlie sick wliite moon 
 Wanes o'er the season of the sheeted dcail, 
 We grow unreasonable and do quake 
 With more than the cold wind.' 
 
 " And here is an instance of that delicate and 
 suggestive perception which is a characterstic of 
 the writer : —
 
 XX vi INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR. 
 
 " ' Loveliness 
 Is precious for its essence ; time and space 
 Make it nor near, nor far, nor old, nor new, 
 Celestial uor terrestrial. Seven snowdrops 
 Sister the pleiads, the primrose is kin 
 To Hesper, Hesper to the world to come.' 
 
 " Of the writer's tendency, at times, to avoid set 
 and substantial description, and to furnish, in pre- 
 ference, hints to the imagination, many other proofs 
 might be cited. No poet, perhaps, has ever shown 
 more of that subtle instinct which teaches us that 
 at certain intense points of feeling (whether they 
 relate to external beauty or to human experience) 
 to realise strictly is to limit, to define sharply is to 
 degrade. Of work full of the highest suggestion, 
 but in some degree purposely indefinite, the poem 
 ' Dead Maid's Pool,' already referred to, is a special 
 example. The story of terror is not actually told, 
 but the germ from which it may be derived, with 
 the climate and atmosphere — so to speak — under 
 which it must inevitably, though gradually, shape 
 itself, is so presented to the mind as to lead irresist- 
 ibly to a ghastly inference far more powerful to the 
 imagination than would have been circumstantial 
 detail. 
 
 " With a mind that, on certain occasions, recoiled, 
 even to a fault, from realistic precision of state- 
 ment, it is not surprising that the poet should have 
 relied unusually upon implication to indicate 
 designs which he forbade himself to mark out with 
 formal directness.
 
 INTRO D UCTOR V MEMOIR. xxvii 
 
 "That the author of 'Balder' could not only be 
 realistic, but that in his realism he could make 
 tune serve his purpose to the utmost, will hardly be 
 doubted by those who have read his poems on 
 familiar subjects. The song of 'The Betsey-Jane,' 
 for instance, moves in a rhythm that has in it the 
 whistle of the wind and the buoyancy of the wave ; 
 while the ' Song of the Chasseur^ in its appropri- 
 ate variety of metre, is a wonderful identification of 
 sentiment with melody. The description of battle 
 in 'An Evening Dream,' though in a yet higher 
 strain, is equally successful as an example of emo- 
 tion cojiveyed by rhythm. The poems included in 
 the title, ' England in time of War,' express almost 
 every legitimate feeling which war can arouse — 
 patriotism, heroism, exultation, and suffering, while 
 the expression of those feelings is dramatically 
 modified by the individualities of the persons 
 represented, and even by their positions in life. 
 Dealingnovvwith the emotionsof a high-born woman, 
 now with those of a Scottish peasant or a market- 
 wife, or again with the vivacity of a French 
 chasseur^ or the tameless spirit of a British tar, or 
 with the weird solemnity of a haunted life, as in 
 'Keith of Ravelston ' — the width and impartiality 
 of his sympathy, and the thorough identification of 
 himself with his subject, are remarkably exhibited. 
 
 " Of the far greater number of these lays it may, I 
 think, be affirmed, that they are not more remark- 
 able for their dramatic character, their passion, 
 and their felicity of expression, than for a rhythm 
 happily conformed to their leading ideas and 
 sentiments. . .
 
 xxviii INTROD UCTOR V MEMOIR. 
 
 "... How many high qualities, rarely indeed 
 combined, were united in his generous nature : 
 the richest taste and judgment, with the widest 
 appreciation of what is best in various forms 
 of art ; earnestness of purpose, with spontaneous 
 humour ; fine adherence to convictions, with the 
 sweetest courtesy to opponents ; exquisite refine- 
 ment, with a sympathy that was never checked by 
 fastidious scruples. Prompt to recognise genius in 
 his contemporaries, liberal to all men, it is not too 
 much to say that he carried into letters the chivalry 
 that is the glory of arms. With an almost religious 
 reverence for the vocation of the Poet, the senti- 
 ment fiob/esse oblige seemed to influence his entire 
 conduct and to n\ake his life the illustration of his 
 ideal."
 
 SELECTIONS FRO.U 
 
 S^^ne^ Dobeirs poeine.
 
 IP c in 0. 
 
 A MUSING ON A VICTORY. 
 (1847.) 
 
 Down by the Sutlej shore, 
 
 Where sound the trumpet and the wild tum-tum, 
 
 At winter's eve did come 
 
 A gaunt old northern lion, at whose roar 
 
 The myriad howlers of thy wilds are dumb, 
 
 Blood-stained Ferozepore ! 
 
 In the rich Indian night, 
 
 And dreaming of his mate beyond the sea. 
 
 Toil-worn but grand to sight. 
 
 He made his lair, in might, 
 
 Beneath thy dark palm-tree, 
 
 And thou didst rouse him to the unequal fight — 
 
 And woe for thee ! 
 
 For some of that wild land 
 
 Had heard him in the desert where he lay;
 
 A MUSING ON A VICTOR Y. 
 
 And soon he snuffs upon their hurtling way, 
 The hunters — band by band ; 
 And up he gat him from the eastern sand 
 And leaped upon his prey. 
 
 Alas for man ! Alas for all thy dreams, 
 Thou great somnambulist, wherein, outlawed 
 From right and thought, thou workest out unawed 
 Thy grand fantastic fancies ! Thro' the flood. 
 The pestilence, the whirlwind, the dread plain 
 Of thunders — thro' the earthquake and the storm. 
 The deluge and the snows, the whirling ice 
 Of the wild glacier, every ghastly form 
 Of earth's most vexed vicissitudes of pain, — 
 Thro' worlds of fire and seas of mingled bloods 
 Thou rushest, dreadful as a maniac god ; 
 And only finding that thou wert not sane 
 When some great sorrow thunders at thy brain 
 And wakes thee trembling by a precipice. 
 
 Alas for thee, thou grey-haired man that still 
 
 Art sleeping, and canst hold thy grandchild high 
 
 That he may see the gorgeous wrong go by 
 
 Which slew his father ! And for thee, thou bright 
 
 Inheritress of summer-time and light, 
 
 Alas for thee, that thy young cheek is flush'd 
 
 With dreaming of the lion and the foe, 
 
 Tho' it had been yet paler than the snow 
 
 Upon the battle-hill, if once had gush'd. 
 
 But once before thee, even the feeblest flow 
 
 Of that life's blood that swept in floods below. 
 
 Alas ! that even thy beauty cannot break 
 
 The vampyre spell of such a war-dream's woe,—
 
 A xM USING ON A VICTORY. 
 
 Alas ! tho' waking might have been to know 
 Things which had made it sweeter not to wake. 
 
 Alas for man ! — poor hunchback — all so proud 
 And yet so conscious ; man that stalks divine 
 Because he feels so mortal, speaking loud 
 To drown the trembling whisper in his heart, 
 And wildly hurrying on from crowd to crowd, 
 In hope to shun the faithful shapes that start 
 ANlierever lake doth sleep or streamlet shine 
 In silent solitudes. When once in youth 
 Fresh from the spheres, and too severely wise, 
 Truth drew the face he longed yet feared to view, 
 Stung with the instinct that confessed it true 
 He dashed the tablets from her sacred hand ; 
 She drops her singing robes and leaves his land ; 
 And Fiction, decent in the garb of Truth, 
 ^Vhile lurking mischief lights her lambent eyes, 
 Seizes the fallen pencil, and with grave 
 Historic features paints the lies we crave. 
 
 So war became a welcome woe. The grass 
 
 Grows tear-bedewed upon a lonely grave, 
 
 And we plant sad flow'rs and sweet epitaphs, 
 
 And every grief of monumental stone, 
 
 Above a single woe ; but let men sleep 
 
 In thousands, and we choose their hideous heap 
 
 For Joy to hold his godless orgies on. 
 
 Is it that some strange law's unknown behest 
 
 Makes gladness of the greatest woes we have 
 
 And leaves us but to sorrow for the less ? 
 
 Even as in outward nature light's excess 
 
 Is blindness, and intensest motion rest ; 
 
 Or is it not— oh conscious heart declare — 
 
 That the vast pride of our o'erwrought despair
 
 A MUSING ON A VICl^ORV. 
 
 Seeing the infinite grief, and knowing yet 
 We have no tears to pay such deep distress, 
 Grown wild, repudiates the direful debt, 
 And in its very bankrupt madness laughs ? — 
 
 Yet when this Victory's fame shall pass, as grand 
 And griefless as a rich man's funeral, 
 Thro' nations that look on with spell-bound eye. 
 While echoing plaudits ring from land to land, 
 Alas ! will there be none among the good 
 And great and brave and free, to speak of all 
 The pale piled pestilence of flesh and blood, 
 The common cold corruption that doth lie 
 Festering beneath the pall ? 
 
 Alas ! when time has deified the thought 
 Of this day's desperate devilry, and men 
 (Who scorn to inherit virtue, but will ape [shape 
 "Their sires, and bless them, when they sin) shall 
 A graven image of the thought, and then 
 Fall down to worship it — will no one dare, 
 While nations kneel before the idol there. 
 To stand and tell them it is Juggernaut? 
 Alas for man ! if this new crime shall yield 
 To truth no harvest for the sighs it cost ; 
 If this crowned corpse, this pale ensceptred ghost 
 That stalks, Ferozepore, from thy red field 
 Robed as a king, shall all unchallenged pass 
 Down the proud scene of Time. Alas, alas ! 
 If there are some to weep and some to pray. 
 And none to bow their humbled heads and say, 
 Low sighing, — There hath been a mortal strife ; 
 And thirteen thousand murdered men lie there. 
 And day and night upon the tainted air 
 Blaspheme the Lord of Life.
 
 ISABEL. 
 (1847.) 
 
 In the most early morn 
 
 I rise from a damp pillow, tempest-tost, 
 
 To seek the sun with silent gaze forlorn, 
 
 And mourn for thee, my lost 
 
 Isabel. 
 
 That early hour I meet 
 
 The daily vigil of my life to keep, 
 
 Because there are no other lights so sweet, 
 
 Or shades so long and deep, 
 
 Isabel. 
 
 And best I think of thee 
 
 Beside the duskest shade and brightest SUO, 
 
 Whose mystic lot in life it was to be 
 
 Outshone, outwept by none, 
 
 Isabel. 
 
 Men said that thou wert fair : 
 
 There is no brightness in the heaven aboVe, 
 
 There is no balm upon the summer air 
 
 Like thy warm love, 
 
 Isabel.
 
 ISABEL. 
 
 Men saw that thou wert bright : 
 
 There is no wildness in the winds that blow, 
 
 There is no darkness in the winter's night 
 
 Like thy dark woe, 
 
 Isabel. 
 
 And yet thy path did miss 
 
 Men's footsteps : in their haunts thou hadst no joy ; 
 
 The thoughts of other worlds were thine in this ; 
 
 In thy sweet piety, and in thy bliss 
 
 And grief, for life too coy, 
 
 Isabel. 
 
 And so my heart's despair 
 
 Looks for thee ere the firstling smoke hath curled ; 
 
 Wliile the rapt earth is at her morning pray'r. 
 
 Ere yet she putteth on her workday air 
 
 And robes her for the world, 
 
 Isabel. 
 
 When the sun-burst is o'er. 
 
 My lonely way about the world I take, 
 
 Doing and saying much, and feeling more. 
 
 And all things for thy sake, 
 
 Isabel. 
 
 But never once I dare 
 
 To see thine image till the day be new. 
 
 And lip hath sullied not the unbreathed air. 
 
 And waking eyes are few, 
 
 Isabel. 
 
 Then that lost form appears 
 
 Wliich was a joy to few on earth but me :
 
 ISABEL. \ 
 
 In the young light I see thy guileless glee, 
 
 In the deep dews thy tears, 
 
 Isabel. 
 
 So with Promethean -loan 
 
 In widowhood renewed I learn to grieve ; 
 
 Blest with one only thought— that I alone 
 
 Can fade : that thou thro' years shalt still shine on 
 
 In beauty, as in beauty art thou gone. 
 
 Thou morn that knew no eve, 
 
 Isabel. 
 
 In beauty art thou gone ; , . , , 
 
 As some bright meteor gleams across the night. 
 Gazed on by all, but understood by none, 
 And dying by its own excess of light, 
 Isabel. 
 
 ^
 
 lo 
 
 From THE ROMAN. 
 
 opening Song. 
 
 Sing lowly, foot slowly, oh why should we chase 
 The hour that gives heaven to this earthly embrace? 
 To-morrow, to-morrow, is dreary and lonely ; 
 Then love as they love who would live to love only ! 
 Closer yet, eyes of jet, — breasts fair and sweet 1 
 No eyes flash like those eyes that flash as they meet ! 
 Weave brightly, wear lightly, the warm-woven chain, 
 Love on for to-night if we ne'er love again. 
 Fond youths I happy maidens ! we are not alone ! 
 Bright steps and sweet voices keep pace with our own. 
 Love-lorn Lusignuolo, the soft-sighing breeze. 
 The rose with the zephyr, the wind vnth the trees. 
 While Heaven, blushing pleasure, is full of love-notes, 
 Soft down the sweet measure the fairy world floats. 
 
 [VlTTORlo Santo (the Roman, disguised as a Monk) 
 speaks to the people.\ 
 
 I pray you listen how I loved my mother, 
 And you will weep with me. She loved me, nurst me, 
 And fed my soul with light. Morning and Even 
 Praying, I sent that soul into her eyes.
 
 From THE ROMAN. ll 
 
 And knew what Heaven was though I was a child. 
 I grew in stature, and she grew in goodness. 
 I was a grave child ; looking on her taught me 
 To love the beautiful : and I had thoughts 
 Of Paradise, when other men have hardly 
 Look'd out of doors on earth. (Alas 1 alas ! 
 That I h^ve also learn'd to look on earth 
 When other men see heaven.) I toil'd, but ever 
 As I became more holy, she seem'd holier ; 
 Even as when climbing mountain-tops the sky 
 Grows ampler, higher, purer as ye rise. 
 
 ■ • * 
 
 • • " 
 
 Her name is Rome. Look round, 
 And see those features which the sun himself 
 Can hardly leave for fondness. Look upon 
 Her mountain bosom, where the very sky 
 Beholds with passion : and with the last proud 
 Imperial sorrow of dejected empire, 
 She wraps the purple round her outraged breast, 
 And even in fetters cannot be a slave. 
 Look on the world's best glory and worst shame. 
 You cannot count her beauties or her chains, 
 You cannot know her pangs or her endurance. 
 You, whom propitious skies may hardly coax 
 To threescore years and ten. Your giant fathers 
 Call'd Atlas demigod. But what is she, 
 \Vho, worn with eighteen centuries of bondage, 
 Stands manacled before the world, and bears 
 Two hemispheres— innumerable wrongs. 
 Illimitable glories. Oh, thou heart 
 That art most tortured, look on her and say 
 If there be anything in earth or heaven. 
 In earth or heaven— now that Christ weeps no longer- 
 So most divinely sad.
 
 12 From THE ROMAN. 
 
 ViTTORIO Santo to Framesca. 
 
 There was a song that in my wanderings 
 
 I heard in other years. A wayward song 
 
 That caught the murmur of the waterfall, 
 
 By which I sang it. But no matter. 'Twill 
 
 P'ind its way where the brawny words of manhood 
 
 Might be too rude. I would, my poor disciple, 
 
 I had some foot more fit than an arm'd heel 
 
 To tread the dwelling of thy woman's soul. 
 
 And while we commune, daughter, — for alas, 
 
 A patriot militant has no to-morrows — 
 
 Hear this first lesson. It may be remember'd 
 
 When I am not. Stern duties need not speak 
 
 Sternly. He who stood firm before the thunder, 
 
 Worshipp'd the still small voice. Let the great world 
 
 That bears us — the all-preaching world — instruct thee 
 
 That teacheth every man, because her precepts 
 
 Are seen, not heard. Oh, worship her. Fear not 
 
 Whilst thou hast open eyes, and ears for all 
 
 The simplest words she saith. Deaf, blind, to these. 
 
 Despair. That worst incurable, perchance 
 
 Some voice may heal hereafter, but none here. 
 
 For before every man, the world of beauty, 
 
 Like a great artist, standeth day and night. 
 
 With patient hand retouching in the heart 
 
 God's defaced image. Reverence sights and sounds. 
 
 Daughter ; be sure the wind among the trees 
 
 Is whispering wisdom. 
 
 . . . Now assist me, lute. 
 
 There went an incense through the land one night. 
 Through the hush'd holy land, when tired men slept 
 The haughty sun of June had walk'd, long days. 
 Through the tall pastures which, like mendicants,
 
 Frojn THE ROMAN. 13 
 
 Hung their sere heads and sued for rain : and he 
 
 Had thrown them none. And now it was high haytime, 
 
 Through the sweet valley all her flowery wealth 
 
 At once lay low, at once ambrosial blood 
 
 Cried to the moonlight from a thousand fields. 
 
 And through the land the incense went that night, 
 
 Through the hush'd holy land when tired men slept. 
 
 It fell upon the sage ; who with his lamp 
 
 Put out the light of heaven. He felt it come 
 
 Sweetening the musty tomes, like the fair shape 
 
 Of that one blighted love, which from the past 
 
 Steals oft among his mouldering thoughts of wisdom. 
 
 And SHE came with it, borne on airs of youth ; 
 
 Old days sang round her, old memorial days. 
 
 She crown'd with tears, they dress'd in flowers, all 
 
 faded — 
 And the night-fragrance is a harmony 
 All through the old man's soul. Voices of eld, 
 The home, the church upon the village green, 
 Old thoughts that circle like the birds of Even 
 Round the grey spire. Soft sweet regrets, like sunset 
 Lighting old windows with gleams day had not. 
 Ghosts of dead years, whispering old silent names 
 Through grass-grown pathways, by halls mouldering now. 
 Childhood — the fragrance of forgotten fields ; 
 Manhood — the ?<«forgotten fields whose fragrance 
 Pass'd like a breath ; the time of buttercups. 
 The fluttering time of sweet forget-me-nots ; 
 The time of passion and the rose — the hay- time 
 Of that last summer of hope ! The old man weeps. 
 The old man weeps. 
 
 His aimless hands the joyless books put by ; 
 As one that dreams and fears to wake, the sage 
 With vacant eye stifles the trembling taper, 
 Lets in the moonlight — and for once is wise.
 
 14 From THE ROMAN. 
 
 There went an incense through the midnight land, 
 
 Through the hush'd holy land where tired men slept. 
 
 It fell upon a simple cottage child, 
 
 Laid where the lattice open'd on the sky, 
 
 And she look'd up and said, Those flowers the stars 
 
 Smelt sweet tg-night. God rest her ignorance ! 
 
 There went an incense through the land one night, 
 
 Through the hush'd holy land when tired men slept ; 
 
 It pass'd above a lonely vale, and fell 
 
 Upon a poet looking out for signs 
 
 In heaven and earth, and went into his soul. 
 
 And like a fluttering bird among sweet strings. 
 
 Made strange yliolian music wild and dim. 
 
 A haggard man, silent beneath the stars. 
 Stood with bare head, a hasty step withdrawn 
 From a low tattered hut, wherefrom the faint 
 Low wail of famine, like a strange night-bird. 
 Cried on the air. He had come forth to give 
 His dying child, his youngest one, repose. 
 " Father," it said, " you weep, I cannot die." 
 There went an incense through the land that night, 
 Through the hush'd holy land when tired men slept ; 
 It came upon his soul, and went down deep. 
 Deep to his heart, and threw the new-made hay 
 Upon the coals of fire that ember'd there. 
 And by the rising flame came pictures fair. 
 Of old ancestral fields that strangers till, 
 And patrimony that the spoiler reaps. 
 Then falls the flame upon the pallet near. 
 And forward on the canvas of the nigh t. 
 To the wild father's eye, lights up that landscape 
 Of love and health and hope which yesterday 
 The poorest crumbs of the oppressor's feast 
 Might buy. Oh God ! how coarse a crust may be
 
 Frotn THE ROMAN. 15 
 
 The bread of life. He breathes the night-balm in, 
 And breathes it back the red-hot smoke of vengeance ! 
 
 There was a lonely mother and one babe, 
 
 — A moon with one small star in all her heaven — 
 
 Too like the moon, the wan and weary moon, 
 
 In pallor, beauty, all, alas ! but change. 
 
 Through six long months of sighs that moon unwaning 
 
 Had risen and set beside the little star. 
 
 And now the little star, whom all the dews 
 
 Of heaven refresh not, westers to its setting, 
 
 Out of the moonlight to be dark for ever. 
 
 O'er the hush'd holy land where tired men sleep. 
 
 There went an incense through the night. It fell 
 
 Upon the mother, and she slept — the babe, 
 
 It smil'd and dream'd of paradise. 
 
 Oh, prince's daughter, if 
 In some proud street, leaning 'twixt night and day 
 From out thy palace balcony to meet 
 The breeze — that tempted by the hush of eve, 
 Steals from the fields about a city's shows. 
 And like a lost child, scared with wondering, flies 
 From side to side in touching trust and terror, 
 Crying sweet country names and dropping flowers — 
 Leaning to meet that breeze, and looking down 
 To the so silent city, if below 
 With dress disorder'd and dishevell'd passions 
 Streaming from desperate eyes that flash and flicker 
 Like corpse-lights (eyes that once were known on high, 
 Morning and night, as welcome there as thine). 
 And brow of trodden snow, and form majestic
 
 1 6 From THE ROMAN. 
 
 That might have walk'd unchallenged through the 
 
 skies, 
 And reckless feet, fitful with wine and woe, 
 And songs of revel that fall dead about 
 Her ruin'd beauty —sadder than a wail— 
 (As if the sweet maternal eve for pity 
 Took outthe joy, and, with a blush of twilight, 
 Uncrovvn'd the Bacchanal) — some outraged sister 
 Passeth, be patient, think upon yon heaven. 
 Where angels hail the Magdalen, look down 
 Upon that life in death and say — My country ! 
 
 Song of Insurgents. 
 ( Chanting as they march. ) 
 
 Who would drone on in a dull world like this ? 
 
 Heaven costs no more than a pang and a sigh ; 
 Dash off the fetters that bind us from bliss, 
 
 Fair fall the freeman who foremost shall die ! 
 Death's a siesta, lads, take it who can ! 
 Wave the proud banners that wave for Milan I 
 
 Chanted in song, and remember'd in story, 
 
 Sunk but to rest— like the sun in the wave- 
 Grandly the fallen shall sleep in his glory. 
 
 Proudly his country shall weep at his grave, 
 And hallow like relics each clod where there ran 
 The blood of that hero who died for Milan ! 
 
 Holy his name shall be, blest by the brave and free. 
 Kept like a saint's day the hour when he died !
 
 From THE ROMAN. 17 
 
 The mother that bore him, the maid that bends o'er 
 him, 
 Shall weep, hut the tears shall be rich tears of pride. 
 Shout, brothers, shout for the first falling man, 
 Shout for the gallant that dies for Milan ! 
 
 Long, long years hence, by the home of his truth. 
 His fate, beaming eyes yet unborn shall bedew. 
 
 Beloved of the lovely, while beauty and youth 
 
 Shall give their best sighs to the brave and the true ! 
 
 On, spears ! spur, cavaliers ! Victory our van, 
 
 Fame sounds the trumpet that sounds for Milan ! 
 
 Francesca's Soliloquy. 
 
 I will but live in twilight, 
 I will seek out some lone Egerian grove. 
 Where sacred and o'er-greeting branches shed 
 Perpetual eve, and all the cheated hours 
 Sing vespers. And beside a sullen stream. 
 Ice-cold at noon, my shadowy self shall sit, 
 Crown'd with dull wreaths of middle-tinted flijwers ; 
 With sympathetic roses, wan with weeping 
 For April sorrows ; frighten'd harebells, pale 
 With thunder ; last, half-scented honeysuckle. 
 That like an ill-starr'd child hides its brown head 
 Through the long summer banquet, but steals late 
 To wander through the fragments of the feast. 
 And glad us with remember'd words that fell 
 From guests of beauty ; sunburnt lilies, grey . 
 
 Wind-whispering ilex, and whatever leaves 
 And changeling blossoms Flora, half-asleep. 
 Makes paler than the sun and warmer than the moon ! 
 Was ever slave so dark and cold as I ? 
 
 O02
 
 J8 From THE ROMAN. 
 
 Ah cruel, cruel night ! the very stars 
 
 Put me to shame ! I sjnir my soul all clay 
 
 With thought of tyrants, woes and chains, and curse 
 
 As oft ray pallid and ill -blooded nature, 
 
 That will not rage. Oh for some separate slave 
 
 To pity every vassal by ! Some tyrant 
 
 By whom I might set down of all oppressors 
 
 That they are thus and thus ! Oh that some liand, 
 
 Oh that some one hand, faint and fetter-wrung. 
 
 Would thrust its clanking wrongs before my eyes, 
 
 And I could bleed to break them I 
 
 And thou ! country ! 
 Thou stern and awful god, of which my reason 
 Preaches infallibly, but which no sense 
 pears witness to — I would thou hadst a shape. 
 Jt might be dwarf, deform'd, maim'd, — anything, 
 So it was thine ; and it should stand to me 
 For beauty. And my soul should wait on it, 
 And I would train my fancies all about it, 
 Till growing to its fashion, and most nurtured 
 \Vith smiles and tears they strengthen'd intq loye. 
 But — Santo— this indefinite dim presence 
 i cannot worship. O thou dear apqstle, 
 Oh what a patriot could Francesca be 
 \ithoii wert Rome ! Oh what a fond disciple 
 Should his tongue have whose only eloquence 
 Was praise of thee ! To what a pile of vengeance 
 One look of retribution in thine eye 
 Were torch enough ! Be still, my heart, be still ! 
 Ah wilful, wilful heart, dost thou refuse? 
 Nay, be appeased — I bid thee silence, lest 
 Consenting cheeks attest how well thou sayest ! 
 foo late, too late. Nay, do you crave, you blushes, 
 pscort of spoken passion, to interpret
 
 From THE ROMAN. 19 
 
 Your beauties to the moon, which, pale with love 
 And watching for the never-coming night, 
 Mistakes them for som^ ros)' cloud of dawn, 
 And ends her vigil ? Heart, have all thy will ! 
 Santo, I love thee ! 
 
 Oi'ENiNG OF Sixth Scene. 
 
 The Monk. This is the spot. From hence my eye 
 unseen 
 Commands their cottage. Hither have I fared 
 Five times at this same hour, and five times learn'd 
 To love my nature better. Here I stood, 
 And felt, when passing gales in snatches bore me 
 Their evening tallc, as if some wayward child 
 Had pelted me with flowers. She is a poet. 
 Or in or out of metre. Rome must have her. 
 A mother too, 'tis well ; then there is one thing 
 The poet will serve. Ah ! art thou forth to-day, 
 Thou little tyrant, that shalt rule for me? 
 My faith ! a lovely boy ! holy St. Mary ! 
 Hark how he carols out his royalty, 
 And, born a sovereign, rules and knows it not. 
 The father must be mine too ; he hath l)one 
 And sinew, and — if the eye's gauge deceive not — 
 A soul as brawny. Heavy deeds demand 
 Such carriers. I will win or lose this night. 
 Let me draw near. 
 
 Children sporting. The girl hides among myrtles, 
 and sings. 
 Girl. Whither wingest thou, wingest thou, winny 
 wind ;
 
 20 Fro77i THE ROMAN. 
 
 V/liere, winny wine], whore, oh where? 
 
 Boy (singing). My sister, my sister, I flit forth to 
 find, 
 My sister, my sister, the orange-flow'r fair ! 
 
 Girl. Since thy songs thy soft sister seek, 
 What woiildst with her ? say, oh say. 
 
 Boy. Oh, to pat her pearl-white cheek. 
 And court her with kisses all day ! [chord 
 
 The Mother. Husband ! the music in my soul would 
 Most sweetly with thy voice. Take down thy lute. 
 
 The. Father. Nay, Lila : Lid me not do violence 
 To this calm sunset. List that golden laughter, 
 Hark to our children ! There is music like 
 The hour. From each to each the heart can pasf. 
 And know no change. 
 
 The Mother. Sing me a song about them, 
 
 Kind husband. Sing that song I made for thee. 
 When once, on a sweet eve like this, we watch'd 
 As now our joyous babes — I blessing them. 
 Thou marvelling, with show of merry jest, 
 How they could be so fair. 
 
 Song. 
 
 Oh, Lila ! round our early love, 
 Wiiat voices went — in days of old ! 
 Some sleep, and some are heard above. 
 And some are here — but changed and cold ! 
 
 Wliat lights they were that lit the eyes 
 That never may again be bright ! 
 Some shine where stars are dim ; and some 
 Have gone like meteors down the night.
 
 From THE ROMAN. 21 
 
 I marvell'd not to see them beam, 
 Or hear their music round our way; 
 A part of life they used to seem, 
 But these — oh whence are they ? 
 
 Ear hath not heard the tones they bring 
 Lip hath not named their name, 
 Like primroses around the sjjring. 
 Each after each they came. 
 
 I should not wonder, love, to see 
 In dreams of elder day, 
 The forms of things that used to be. 
 But these — oh whence are they ? 
 
 Dost thou remember when the days 
 Were all too short for love and me, 
 And we roam'd forth at eve in rays 
 Of mingled light from heaven and thee ? 
 
 One gentle sign so often beam'd 
 Upon us with such favouring eyes. 
 That every vow we plighted seem'd 
 A secret holden with the skies. 
 
 Now sometimes, in strange phantasy, 
 I think, if stars could leave their sphere, 
 And won by the dear love of thee. 
 Renew the constellation here. 
 
 And shine here with the tender light 
 That ghnted through the olden trees, 
 They would come silently and bright, 
 And one by one, like these.
 
 22 From THE ROMAN. 
 
 How can a joy so pure and free 
 Have sprung from tears and cares? 
 I have no beauty — and for thee, 
 Thou hast no mirth like tlieirs. 
 
 Vet with stranjje rir;lit each takes his rest^ 
 Even when he will, on thy fair breast, 
 
 Nor doubts nor fears nor prays. 
 The daisy sniilius; on the lea 
 Comes not with kindlier trust to be 
 
 Beloved of Ajjril days. 
 
 I look into their laughin}^ eyes, 
 They cannot have more light than thiile— ~ 
 Ijut treasured by teii thousand ties, 
 Mine own I know thee, Lila mine. 
 
 Wistful I gaze on them and say, — 
 Fond, checking with a doubtful sigh 
 The pride that swells, I know not why — 
 These, these, oh whence are they ? 
 
 The Monk. Thou little child, 
 
 Thy mother's joy, thy father's hope — thou bright, 
 Pure dwelling where two fond hearts keep their 
 
 gladness — 
 Thou little potentate of love, who comest 
 With solemn sweet dominion to the old, 
 Who see thee in thy merry fancies charged 
 With the grave embassage of that dear past. 
 When they were young like thee — thou vindication
 
 From THE ROMAN. 2^ 
 
 Of God — thou living witness against all men 
 
 "SVho have been babes — thou everlasting promise 
 
 Which no man keeps — thou portrait of our nature, 
 
 Which in despair and pride we scorn and worship — 
 
 Thou household-god, whom no iconoclast 
 
 Hath broken, — if I knew a parent's joys, 
 
 If I were proud and full of great ambitions. 
 
 Had haughty limbs that chafed at ill-borne chains, 
 
 If I had known a tyrant's scorn and felt 
 
 That vengeance though bequeathed is still revenge, 
 
 I would pray God to give me such a son ! 
 
 'Tis the purblind 
 Dim sense of after years that makes our monsters. 
 The earth hath none to children and to angels. 
 Eyes weak with vigil, sear'd with scalding tears, 
 Betray us, and we start at death and phantoms 
 Because they are pale. And the still-groping heart 
 Incredulous by over much believing — 
 Walking by sight dreads the unknown, and clings 
 Even to familiar sorrow, and loves more 
 The seen earth than the unseen God. 
 
 The Campagna. 
 
 Here and there 
 Rude heaps, that had been cities, clad the ground 
 With history. And far and near, where grass 
 Was greenest and the unconscious goat browsed free, 
 The teeming soil was sown with desolations, 
 As though Time — striding o'er the field he reap'd — 
 Warm'd with the spoil, rich droppings for the gleaners 
 Threw round his harvest way. Frieze, pedestal, 
 I'illars that bore through years the weight of glory.
 
 24 From THE ROMAN. 
 
 And take their rest. Tombs, arches, monuments, 
 
 Vainly set up to save a name, as though 
 
 The eternal served the perishable ; urns, 
 
 Which winds had emptied of their dust, but left 
 
 Full of their immortality. In shrouds 
 
 Of reverent leaves, rich works of wondrous beauty 
 
 Lay sleeping — like the children in the wooil — 
 
 Fairer than they. Columns like fallen giants, 
 
 The victor on the vanquish'd, stretch'd so stern 
 
 In death, that not a flower might dare to do 
 
 Their obsequies. And some from sweet Ionia 
 
 With those Ionia bore to Roman skies 
 
 Lay mingled, like a goddess and her mother, 
 
 Who wear, with difference, the co-equal brighlli\es:> 
 
 Of fadeless youth. The plain thus strew'd with age- 
 
 Flovverd in the sunshine of to-day, and bore me 
 
 The Present and the Past. But there were som 
 
 Proud changeless stones that stood up in the sun, 
 
 And with their shadowy finger on the plain 
 
 Drew the same mystic circle day by day, 
 
 And these I worshipp'd. Honouring them, becau-e 
 
 It needs must be they knew the sense that sign 
 
 Bore in the language of Eternity ; 
 
 And fearing them for that dark hand which ever — 
 
 When I drew near their awful face at noon. 
 
 And, spent with wondering, sank down unconscious, 
 
 And slept upon the turf — came back at even 
 
 And cast me shuddering out. 
 
 So days wore on, 
 And childhood. And the shade of all these ruins 
 Fell on my soul. And he, my pride, grew up. 
 With, and without me. And we were such brothers 
 As day and night. We met at morn and eve. 
 Each sun uprose to find us hand in hand.
 
 Frotn THE ROMAN. 25 
 
 And see a tender parting. Each first star 
 
 Led back the shades and us. lie flush'd with conquest, 
 
 Rich in the well slain antelope, and all 
 
 That feathery wage youth loves to take for labour ; 
 
 I laden with new thoughts. Pale, travel-worn, 
 
 Spent with fierce exercise and faint with toil, 
 
 I, who— the shepherd of the plain would tell you— 
 
 Since sunbrcak upon one same broken column 
 
 Sat like a Caryatid. So youtli was mine, 
 
 And seasons crown'd it manhood. 
 
 Music. 
 
 An art 
 Lightly esteem'd, but which to name divine 
 Is not the tilial rapture of a son, 
 Since in the change of time it hath not changed ; 
 Indigenous to all the eaith. A spirit 
 Evoked by many, but a bound familiar 
 To no magician yet. The equal tenant 
 Of loftiest palace and of lowliest cot, 
 Treading the rustic and the royal floor 
 To the same step and time. In every age, 
 With all the reverence that man claims as man, 
 Preaching to clouted clown, and with no more 
 To throned kings. The unrespective friend — 
 In such celestial wise as gods befriend — 
 By turns of haughtiest monarch, humblest swain ; 
 And, with impartial love and power, alike 
 Ennobling prince and peasant. Giving all, 
 Receiving never. What else makes a god ? 
 What human art looks so divine on earth ? 
 And, as you tell us, seraphs in high heaven 
 Find nothing worihicr.
 
 26 From THE ROMAN. 
 
 Song. 
 
 The poet bends above his lyre and strikes — 
 No smile, no smile of rapture on his face ; 
 The poet bends above his lyre and strikes, 
 No fire, no fire of passion, in his eye ; — 
 The poet bends above his lyre and strikes, 
 No flush, no prophet's tlush, upon his cheek ;— 
 Calm as the grand white cloud where thunders sleep. 
 Like a wrapt listener — not in vain to listen — 
 Feeling the winds with every sense to catch 
 Some far sound wandering in the depths of space. 
 The poet bends above his lyre and strikes. 
 
 The poet bends above his lyre and strikes. 
 
 Ah lieaven ! I hear ! Again. Ah Heaven, I hear ! 
 
 Again : — the vacant eyes are moist with tears ! 
 
 Again : — they gleam with vision. Bending lower, 
 
 Crowding his soul upon the strings. — Again. 
 
 Hark, hark, thou heart that leapest ! Ye thrill'd 
 
 fibres ! ' 
 
 See the triumphant minstrel in the dust, 
 To his own music. Hark I Angels in heaven 
 Catch it on golden harps ! Down float their echoes 
 Richer than dews of Paradise. Inspired, 
 Tuning each chord to the enchanted key, 
 The poet sweeps the strings and wakes, awe-stricken, 
 The sounds that never die. From hill to hill 
 They vibrate round the world of time, as deep 
 Calleth to deep. 
 
 But note like this stirs not 
 The wind of every day. And 'tis the car 
 To know it, woo it, wait for it, and stand 
 Amid a Babel deaf to other speech.
 
 From THE ROMAN. 27 
 
 That makes a poet. And from ear like this, 
 That troubling of the air which common men 
 Call harmony, falls unrespectcQ off. 
 As balls from a charm'd life. 
 
 Hear yet again 
 A better parable. The good man hears 
 The voice in ^vhich God speaks to men. The poet, 
 In some wrapt moment of intense attendance, 
 The skies being genial and the earthly air 
 I'ropilious, catches on the inward ear 
 The awful and unutterable meanings 
 Of a divine soliloquy. 
 
 Soul-trembling 
 With incommunicable things, he speaks 
 At infinite distance. So a babe in smiles 
 Repeats the unknown and unknowable 
 ■Joys of a smiling mother. 
 
 The Winters Night. 
 
 And she stood at its father's gate, 
 At its father's gate she stood, 
 With her baby at her breast ; 
 'Twas about the hour of rest — 
 There were lights within the place- 
 The old moon began to sink 
 (Long, like lier, upon the wane), 
 It grew dark ; she drew her hood 
 Close about her pallid face ; 
 At the portal down she sate, 
 Where she will not si* again. 
 " Little one," she slowly said, 
 iiending low her lowly head.
 
 28 Froin THE ROMAN. 
 
 " In all this wide world only thee, 
 And my shame, he gave to me. 
 When thou earnest 1 did think 
 On that other gift of his — 
 Hating that I dreaded this. 
 Thou art fair — but so was he ; 
 'Tis a winning smile of thine, — ■ 
 Ah ! what fatal praise it is ! — 
 One such smile once won all mine. 
 Little one, I not repine, 
 It befits me well to wait 
 My lord's will, till I be dead— 
 Once it was a gentler will ! " 
 
 With that, a night-breeze full chill 
 Shook some dead leaves from the linic; 
 At the sad sound, loud and burly 
 Like a warder went the blast 
 Round about the lordly house ; 
 Hustled her with menial wrath, 
 Much compelling forth her cast, 
 Wlio was all too fain to go ; 
 She sank down upon the path — 
 She cower'd lower, murnmring lev.-, 
 " What was I that I should earn, 
 For I loved him, more return 
 Than I look'd for of the sun, 
 Wlien he smiled upon me early 
 In our merry milking-time ? " 
 
 Then was silence all ; the mouse 
 Rustled with the beechen mast, 
 The lank fox yelp'd round, the owl 
 Floating, shriek'd pale horror past ; 
 Strange and evil-omen'd fowl
 
 From THE ROMAN. 29 
 
 Croak'd about her, and knew not. 
 
 Round her had the last hat fed. 
 
 " Little one," she said, " the cot 
 
 Wliere I bore thee was too low 
 
 For a haughty baron's bride. 
 
 Little one, I hope to go 
 
 WTiere the palace-halls are wide ; 
 
 When thou prattlest at his knee, 
 
 Wilt thou sometimes speak ofnic? 
 
 Tell him, in some eve," she said, 
 
 " Where thou knowest I shall be. 
 
 When he hears that I am grand, 
 
 In those mansions ever fair, 
 
 Will he look upon me there 
 
 As a lady of the land, 
 
 And think no more in scorn 
 
 Upon thee and on the dead ? " 
 
 All below the garden banks. 
 
 Where the blighted aspens grew. 
 
 Faded leaves faint breezes blew, 
 
 As in pity, round her. Then 
 
 Low whisjiering in her plaintive plight, 
 
 Her shivering babe she nearer nurst. 
 
 " 'Tis a bitter night," said she, 
 
 "Little one, a dreary^night. 
 
 Little shalt thou bless the first 
 
 I'ass'd upon thy father's ground. 
 
 Aye ! cower closer in thy nest. 
 
 Birdie ! that didst never build. 
 
 There is warmth enough for thee. 
 
 Though the frost shall split the tree 
 
 Where it rocks." 
 
 " Little one," she said again, 
 
 " Babe," she said, " my little son, 
 
 Thou and I at last must part ;
 
 30 From THE ROMAN. 
 
 There is in my freezing heart 
 
 Only life enough for one. 
 
 ]}y the crowing of the cocks 
 
 Early steps will tread the way, 
 
 Could mine arms but wrap thee round' 
 
 Till the dawning of the day ! " 
 
 Silent then she seem'd to pray. 
 
 Then she spoke like one in pain, 
 
 " Little one, it shall be done, 
 
 I will keep thee back no more ; 
 
 It were sweet to go together. 
 
 If thou couldst be mine alone ; 
 
 As it is I must restore 
 
 Treasure not mine own. 
 
 All the gift and the sweet thanks 
 
 Will be over by to-morrow. 
 
 He must weep some tears to see 
 
 \Vliat at morn they will bring in 
 
 Where she dared not living come. 
 
 He will take thee to his home, 
 
 And bless the mother in the child. 
 
 Little one, 'tis sweet to me. 
 
 Who once gave him all I had — 
 
 Hoped it duty, found it sin — 
 
 Once more to give all, but now 
 
 Take no shame, and no more sorrow 
 
 Than a dealh-pang sets at rest." 
 
 Closer then her babe she prest. 
 
 Chiller sank the wintry weather. 
 
 Once again the owl cried near, 
 
 Once more croak'd the strange night-bird 
 
 From the stagnance of the fosse 
 
 Lorn pale mists, like winding gear. 
 
 Hung about her and look'd sad ; 
 
 Then the blast, that all this whi'P
 
 From THE ROMAN. 31 
 
 Sliimber'd by a freezing fountain, 
 
 Burst out rudely, like a prince 
 
 From a midnight revel rushing. 
 
 In his train a thousand airs, 
 
 Each ambitious of his guilt, 
 
 Each as cruel, cold, and wild. 
 
 Each as rugged, chill, and stark. 
 
 Hurtled round their leader crushing 
 
 All the fretwork of the dark ; 
 
 Frosty palace, turret, and tower, 
 
 Mosque and arabesque, mist-built 
 
 By winter-fairies. Then, grown gross 
 
 With the license of the hour, 
 
 They smote the mother and the child ! 
 
 Dark night grew darker, not a smile 
 
 Came from one star. The moon long since 
 
 Had sunk behind the mountain. 
 
 At the mirkest somewhat stirred 
 
 The sere leaves, where the mother sate ; 
 
 For a moment the babe cried, 
 
 Something in the silence sigh'd, 
 
 And the night was still. Oh fate ! 
 
 What hadst thou done ? Oh that hard sight 
 
 Which morn must see ! When Winter went 
 
 About the earth at dawn, he rent 
 
 His locks in pain, and cast grey hairs 
 
 Upon it as he past. So when 
 
 Maids, poor mother, wail thy lot — 
 
 Mournful at the close of day — 
 
 By that legendary spot 
 
 Oft they tell us, weeping, how 
 
 Hoar frost lay on thy pale brow 
 
 \Mien they found thee, and was not 
 
 Paler than the clay.
 
 32 From THE ROMAN. 
 
 Song. 
 
 Oh maiden ! touch gently the rose overblown, 
 And think of the mother thy childhood hath known ; 
 Smile not on the buds that exult from her stem, 
 Lest her pallor grow paler that thou lovest them. 
 From their beauties, oh maid, each bright butterfly 
 
 chase, 
 'Till his duties are paid to that dew-faded face. 
 And forbid the gay bee one deceitful sweet tone. 
 Till his vows are all said to the rose overblown. 
 Sorrow, oh maid, is more grateful than bliss. 
 Rosebuds were made for the light breeze to kiss. 
 And woo how thou wilt in the soft hope to see 
 Some bright bursting blossom that blooms but for thee, 
 Weep thy fond wish, thou shalt look up to find 
 Thy tears worn as gems to beguile the next wind. 
 Turn then thine eyes to the rose overblown, 
 Speak of its place in a tremulous tone, 
 Sigh to its leaves as they fall one by one. 
 And think how the young hopes the heart used to own 
 Are all shedding fast — like the rose overblown. 
 Yes, turn in thy gloom to the rose overblown, 
 Reverently gather each leaf that hath gone, 
 Watch every canker and wail every strealc, 
 As thou conntest the lines on thy mother's dim cheek ; 
 Twilight by twilight, and day after day, 
 Keep sweet attendance on sweeter decay. 
 Wlien all is over weep tears — two or three — • 
 And perchance long years hence, when the grass grows 
 
 o'er thee, 
 Fond fragrant tribute to days long by-gone, 
 Shall be shed on thy grave by some rose overblown.
 
 'From THE ROMAN. 33 
 
 Song. 
 
 Brother, there is a vacant spot within our holy band, 
 And poorer is our eaithly lot by one strong heart and 
 
 hand ; 
 Yet, brother, it were ill to weep, when life hath been sq 
 
 drear, 
 That we are left alone to keep its painful vigil here. 
 'Twere ill if thou hast trod the way to count the 
 
 labouring hours. 
 Or mourn that sorrow fill'd thy cup with hastier hand 
 
 than ours. 
 Sleep softly by thy bending tree, till death's long sleep be 
 
 o'er, 
 That thou canst not remember, we remember thee the 
 
 more. 
 Sleep softly, — that thine heart hath pass'd through all 
 
 death's deep distress, [it less. 
 
 To such calm rest as now thou hast, shall make us dread 
 Sleep softly, brother, sleep. But oh, if there are hopes 
 
 more blest 
 Than sleep, where seasons come and go about a dream- 
 less rest ; 
 If we may deem this grave a shrine which summer rites 
 
 observe, 
 Where autumn pours the votive wine, and white-robed 
 
 winters serve ; 
 If we may think that those who now sit side by side with 
 
 God, 
 Have sent for thee to ask thee how we tread the path 
 
 they trod ; 
 Oh, brother, if it be not sin when God hath broke the 
 
 chain 
 Of earthly thought, to bind thee in its fever'd links 
 
 again, 
 
 003
 
 34 Frow THE ROMAN. 
 
 This much of aVl that earth did know, and all (hat life 
 
 halh given, 
 The sadness of our love below bequeathes thy bliss in 
 
 heaven ; 
 Remember what the bounden bear, though thou for aye 
 
 art free, 
 And speak of us as kindly there, as here we think of 
 
 thee. 
 
 The Monk. But, Roman, 
 
 Shall we obey the living or the dead ? 
 '* The powers that be ! " By what sign will ye know 
 'YXx^ powers that be? My friends, we are the fools 
 Of eyesight and the earthly habitudes 
 Which cannot look aloft. Walking the plank 
 Of life o'er the abyss, we fear to glance 
 Or upward to the stars, or downward to the grave. 
 Our souls, yoke-strain'd, in attitude of toil 
 Bend earthward. Oft the 7<«worshipp'd angel passeth 
 Wliile we, with eyes fix'd on the ground from which 
 We came, adore his footsteps in tlie sand. 
 And God, this while, is in the heaven of heavens ! 
 
 The Monk. When the Baptist 
 
 Call'd to repentance, did he weigh the dust 
 And measure out the sackcloth ? Let a prophet 
 Wait upon silence. Who can hold his peace 
 Hath said his message. Things that once have dwelt 
 In heaven will make that prison, a man's heart, 
 Glad to release them. Let the seer see 
 And he will cry.
 
 From THE ROMAN. 35 
 
 The Silence of Desolation. 
 
 Absolute calm, 
 A silence like the silence of the desert, 
 Silence beyond repose, lone, lifeless, stagnant, 
 Muter than any grave. Silence too dc.id 
 For living tongue to name. Silence more placid 
 Than peace or night or death (for these are strings 
 Unstruck but to be stricken) ; idiot silence, 
 Sterile, and blank, and blind. A breathless pause 
 In heaven and earth ; held till the moving thought 
 Seems turbulence, this human nature grows 
 Unseemly on us, our life's common functions 
 Impertinent and gross, and conscious cheeks 
 Excuse the beating heart with blushes. Silence 
 As of a hstening world. Such strange defect. 
 Such lean and hungry quiet, such keen sense 
 Of absence grown efi'ectual, that the ear 
 Faints as for breath, and even the very substance 
 Of latent sound seems dead. Alas! for language. 
 We sing the healing darkness of sweet night, 
 But for Egyptian darkness that was felt 
 Have names no blacker. \Vhen j^?< speak of silence, 
 'Tis as the sweet content of voiceless woods 
 After the nightingale — as the home-genius 
 Sole watching by the sleep of happy babes 
 With finger at her lip, and shows of stillness, 
 Meanwhile the sleeper smileth and the air 
 Stirs with dream-music. When /use the word 
 Think of some other silence. In that other 
 I woke.
 
 36 Frcm THE ROMAN. 
 
 The Coliseum. 
 
 In my short rest 
 From imminent heights, the dust of slow decay — 
 Sands from the glass of time shaken of winds — 
 Crumbs from the feast of desolation— strew'd 
 My slumbering face upturn'd. The Gorgon Sleep 
 Made them a shower of stones. My wondering eyes 
 O'er-charged with sense, in shuddering unbelief 
 Unclose upon the lone inane expanse 
 Of summer turf, from which the mouldering walls 
 Shut not the sunshine ; like a green still lake 
 Girt by decaying hills. Urging my gaze 
 Round the tremendous circle, arch on arch, 
 And pile on pile, that tired the travell'd eye, 
 I saw the yawning jaws and siglitless sockets 
 (iape to the heedless air. Like the death's-head 
 Of buried empire. And the sun shone through them 
 With calm avoidance that left them more dark, 
 And pleasured him with some small daisy's face 
 Grass-grown. As though even from the carrion of 
 
 gods. 
 The instinct of the living universe 
 Held heaven and earth aloof. All through the lorn 
 Vacuity winds came and went, but stirr'd 
 Only the flowers of yesterday. Upstood 
 The hoar unconscious walls, bisson and bare, 
 Like an old man deaf, blind, and grey, in whom 
 The years of old stand in the sun and murmur 
 Of childhood and the dead. From parapets 
 Where the sky rests, from broken niches — each 
 More than Olympus, — for gods dwelt in them, — 
 Below from senatorial haunts and seats 
 Imperial, where the ever-passing fates 
 Wore out the stone, strange hermit birds croak'd forth
 
 From THE ROMAN. 37 
 
 Sorrowful sounds, like watchers on the height 
 Crying the hours of ruin. '-.AXTien tiie clouds 
 Dress'd every myrtle on the walls in mourning 
 With calm prerogative the eternal pile 
 Impassive shone with the unearthly light 
 Of immortality. When conquering suns 
 Triumph'd in jubilant earth, it stood out dark 
 With thoughts of ages : like some mighty captive 
 Upon his deathbed in a Christian land, 
 And lying, through the chant of Psalm and Creed 
 Unshriven and stern, with peace upon his brow, 
 And on his lips strange gods. 
 
 Rank weeds and grasses, 
 Careless and nodding, grew, and asked no leave, 
 Where Romans trembled. Where the wreck was 
 
 saddest 
 Sweet pensive herbs, that had been gay elsewhere, 
 With conscious mien of place rose tall and still. 
 And bent with duty. Like some village children 
 Who found a dead king on a battle-field, 
 And with decorous care and reverent pity 
 Composed the lordly ruin, and sat down 
 Grave without tears. At length the giant lay. 
 And everywhere he was begirt with years. 
 And everywhere the torn and mouldering Past 
 Hung with the ivy. For Time, smit with honour 
 Of what he slew, cast his own mantle on him, 
 TJiat none should mock the dead. 
 
 % 
 
 VtS'
 
 38 
 
 CRAZED. 
 
 {First priiilcu in the ^^ AlhemTuiii" oj November 2},, 
 1850.) 
 
 " The Spring again bath started on the course 
 Wherein she seeketh Summer thro' the Earth. 
 I will arise and go upon my way. 
 It may he that tlie leaves of Autumn hiil 
 His footsteps from me ; it may be the suows. 
 
 " He is not dead. There was no funeral ; 
 I wore no weeds. He must be in the Earth. 
 Oh where is he, that I may come to him 
 And he may charm the fever of my brain. 
 
 " Oh Spring, I hope that thou wilt be my friend. 
 Thro' the long weary Summer I toiled sore ; 
 Having much sorrow of the envious woods 
 And groves that burgeoned round me where I came, 
 And, when I would have seen him, shut him in. 
 
 "Also the Honeysuckle and wild bine 
 Being in love did hide him from my sight ; 
 The Ash-tree bent above him ; vicious weeds 
 Withheld me ; Willows in the River-wind 
 Hissed at me, by the twilight, waving wands.
 
 CRAZED. 39 
 
 "Also, for I have told thee, oh dear Spring, 
 Thou knowest after I had §unk outworn 
 In the late summer gloom till Autumn came, 
 I looked up in the light of burning Woods 
 And entered on my wayfare when I saw 
 Gold on the ground and glory in the trees. 
 
 " And all my further journey thou dost know ; 
 My toils and outcries as the lusty world 
 Grew thin to winter ; and my ceaseless feet 
 In vales and on stark hills, till the first snow 
 Fell, and the large rain of the latter leaves. 
 
 "I hope that thou wilt be my friend, oh Spring, 
 And give me service of thy winds and streams. 
 It needs must be that he will hear thy voice, 
 For thou art much as I was when he woo'd 
 And won me long ago Reside the Dee. 
 
 " If he should bend above you, oh ye streams. 
 And anywhere you look up into eyes 
 And think the star of love hath found her mate 
 And know, because of day, they are not stars ; 
 Oh streams, they are the eyes of my beloved ! 
 Oh murmur as I murmured once of old. 
 And he will stay beside you, oh ye streams, 
 And I shall clasp him when my day is come. 
 
 " Likewise I charge thee, west wind, zephyr wind. 
 
 If thou shalt hear a voice more sweet than thine 
 
 About a sunset rosctree deep in June, 
 
 Sweeter than thine, oh wind, when thou dost leap 
 
 Into the tree with passion, jnitting Ijy 
 
 The maiden leaves that rutlle round their dame,
 
 ^o CRAZED. 
 
 And singest and art silent, — having dropt 
 
 In pleasure on the bosom of the rose, — 
 
 Oh wind, it is the voice of my beloved ; 
 
 Wake, wake, and bear me to the voice, oh wind I 
 
 " Moreover, I do think that the spring birds 
 Will be my willing servants. Wheresoe'er 
 There mourns a hen-bird that hath lost her mate 
 Her will I tell my sorrow — weeping hers. 
 
 "And if it be a Lark whereto I speak, i i 
 
 She shall be ware of how my Love went up 
 Sole singing to the cloud ; and evermore 
 I hear his song, but him I cannot see. 
 
 "And if it be a female Nightingale 
 
 That pinelh in the depth of silent woods, 
 
 I also will complain to her that night 
 
 Is still. And of the creeping of the winds 
 
 And of the sullen trees, and of the lone 
 
 Dumb Dark. And of the listening of the stars. 
 
 What have we done, what have we done, oh Night ? 
 
 ' ' Therefore, oh Love, the summer trees shall be 
 My watch-towers. Wheresoe'er thou liest bound 
 I will be there. For ere the spring be past 
 I will have preached my dolour through the land, 
 And not a bird but shall have all my woe. 
 — And whatsoever hath my woe hath me. 
 
 ' ' I charge you, oh ye flowers fresh from the dead, 
 Declare if ye have seen him. You pale flowers, 
 Why do you quake and hang the head like me ? 
 
 " You pallid flowers, why do ye watch the dust 
 And tremble ? Ah, you met him in your caves, 
 And shrank out shuddering on the wintry air.
 
 CRAZED. 41 
 
 "Snowdrops, you need not gaze upon the ground, 
 Fear not. He will not follow ye ; for then 
 I should be happy who arri doomed to woe. 
 
 " Only I bid ye say that he is there, 
 That I may know my grief is to be borne, 
 And all my Fate is but the common lot." 
 
 She sat down on a bank of Primroses, 
 Swayed to and fro, as in a wind of Thought 
 That moaned about her, murmuring alow, 
 "The common lot, oh for the common lot." 
 
 Thus spake she, and behold a giist of grief 
 Smote her. As when at night the dreaming wind 
 Starts up enraged, and shakes the Trees and sleeps- 
 
 "Oh early Rain, oh passion of strong crying, 
 Say, dost thou weep, oh Rain, for him or me ? 
 Alas, thou also goest to the Earth 
 And enterest as one brought home by fear. 
 
 " Rude with much woe, with expectation wild, 
 So dashest thou the doors and art not seen. 
 ^Vhose burial did they speak of in the skies ? 
 
 " I would that there were any grass-green grave 
 Where I might stand and say, ' Here lies my Love ; ' 
 And sigh, and look down to him, thro' the Earth. 
 And look up, thro' the clearing skies, and smile." 
 
 Then the Day passed from bearing up the Heavens, 
 The sky descended on the Mountain tops 
 Unclouded ; and the stars embower'd the Night.
 
 42 CRAZED. 
 
 Darkness did flood the Valley ; flooding her. 
 And when the face of her great grief was hid, 
 Iler callow heart, that like a nestling bird 
 Clamoured, sank down with plaintive pipe and slow. 
 Her cry was like a strange fowl in the dark : 
 "Alas Night," said she ; then like a faint ghost, 
 As tho' the owl did hoot upon the hills, 
 " Alas Night." On the murky silence came 
 Her voice like a white sea-mew on the waste 
 Of the dark deep ; a-sudden seen and lost 
 Upon the barren expanse of mid-seas 
 Black with the Thunder. " Alas Night," said she, 
 "Alas Night." Then the stagnant season lay 
 From hill to hill. But when the waning Moon 
 Rose, she began with hasty step to run 
 The wintry mead ; a wounded bird that seeks 
 To hide its head when all the trees are bare. 
 Silent, — for all her strength did bear her dread- 
 Silent, save when with bursting heart she cried, 
 liike one who wrestles in the dark with fien<ls, 
 "Alas Night." With a dim wild voice of fear 
 As though she saw her sorrow by the moon. 
 
 The morning dawns ; and earlier than the I-ark 
 She murmureth, sadder than the Nightingale. 
 
 " I would I could believe me in that sleep 
 
 When on our bridal morn I thought him dead, 
 
 And dreamed and shrieked and woke upon his breast. 
 
 " Oh God, I cannot think that I am blind ; 
 I think I see the beauty of the world. 
 Perchance but I am blind, and he is near.
 
 CRAZED. 43 
 
 " Even as I felt his arm before I woke, 
 And clinging to his bosom called on him, 
 And wept, and knew and knew not it was he. 
 
 •' I do thank God I think that I am blin<l. 
 There is a darkness thick about my heart 
 And all I seem to see is as a dream ; 
 My lids have closed, and have shut in the world. 
 
 " Oh Love, I pray thee take me by the hand ; 
 I stretch my hand, oh Love, and quake with dread ; 
 I thrust it, and I know not where, Ah me. 
 What shall not seize the dark hand of the blind ? 
 
 " How know I, being blind, I am on Earth? 
 I am in Hell, in Hell, oh Love ! I feel 
 There is a burning gulph before my feet ! 
 I dare not stir— and at my back the fiends ! 
 I wind my arms, my arms that demons scorch, 
 Round this poor breast, and all that thou shouldst save 
 From rapine. Husband, I cry out from Hell ; 
 There is a gulph. They seize my flesh." (,She shrieked. ) 
 
 " I will sink down here where I stand. All round 
 How know I but the burning pit doth yawn ? 
 Here will I shrink and shrink to no more space 
 Than my feet cover." (She wept.) " So much up 
 My mortal touch makes honcs^t. Oh my Life, 
 My Lord, my Husband ! Fool that cryest in vain ! 
 Ah Angel ! What hast thou to do with Hell ? 
 
 " And yet I do not ask thee, oh my Love, 
 To lead mc to thee where thou art in Heaven. 
 Only I would that thou shouldst Iw my star, 
 And whatsoever Fate thy beams dispense 
 I am content. It shall be good lo me.
 
 44 CRAZED. 
 
 " But tho' I may not see thee, oh my Love, 
 Yea, though mine eyes return and miss thee still. 
 And thou shouldst take another shape than thine, 
 Have pity on my lot, and lead me hence 
 Where I may think of thee. To the old fields 
 And wonted valleys where we once were blest. 
 Oh Love, all day I hear them, out of sight, 
 The far Home where the Past abideth yet 
 Beside the stream that prates of other days. 
 
 " My Punishment is more than I can bear. 
 
 My sorrow groweth big unto my time. 
 
 Oh Love, I would that I were mad. Oh Love, 
 
 I do not ask that thou shouldst change my Fate, 
 
 I will endure ; but oh my Life, my Lord, 
 
 Being as thou art a throned saint in Heaven, 
 
 If thou wouldst touch me and enchant my sense, 
 
 And daze the anguish of my heart with dreams. 
 
 And change the stop of grief ; and turn my soul 
 
 A little devious from the daily march 
 
 Of Reason, and the path of conscious woe 
 
 And all the truth of Life ! Belter, oh Love, 
 
 Li fond delusion to be twice betrayed, 
 
 Than know so well and bitterly as L 
 
 Let me be mad." (She wept upon her knees.) 
 
 " I will arise and seek thee. This is Heaven. 
 I sat upon a cloud. It bore me in. 
 It is not so, you Heavens ! I am not dead. 
 Alas ! there have been pangs as strong as Death. 
 It would be sweet to know that I am dead. 
 
 " Even now I feel I am not of this world, 
 Which sayeth, day and night, ' For all but thee, 
 And pourcth its abundance night and day 
 And will not feed the hunger in my heart.
 
 CRAZED. 45 
 
 " I tread upon a dream, myself a dream, 
 I cannot write my Being on the world, 
 The moss grows unrespectiva where I tread. 
 
 " I cannot lift mine eyes to the sunshine, 
 Night is not for my slumlier. Not for me 
 Sink down the dark inexorable hours. 
 
 " I would not keep or change the weary day ; 
 I have no pleasure in the needless night. 
 And toss and wail that other lids may sleep. 
 
 " I am a very Leper in the Earth. 
 Her functions cast me out ; her golden wheels 
 That harmless roll about unconscious Babes 
 Do crush me. My place knoweth me no more. 
 
 " I think that I have died, oh you sweet Heavens. 
 I did not see the closing of the eyes. 
 Perchance there is one death for all of us 
 Whereof we cannot see the eyelids close. 
 
 " Dear Love, I do beseech thee answer me. 
 Dear Love, I think men's eyes behold me not. 
 The air is heavy on these lips that strain 
 To cry ; I do not warm the thing I touch ; 
 The Lake gives back no image unto me. 
 
 " I see the Heavens as one who wakes at noon 
 From a deep sleep. Now shall we meet again 1 
 The Country of the blest is hid from me 
 Like Morn behind the Hills. The Angel smiles. 
 I breathe thy name. He hurleth me from Heaven. 
 
 •' Now of a truth I know thou art on earth. 
 
 Break, break the chains that hold me back from thee.
 
 46 CRAZED. 
 
 I see the race of mortal men pass by ; 
 The great wind of their going waves my hair ; 
 I stretch my hands, I lay my cheek to them, 
 In love ; they stir the down upon my cheek ; 
 I cannot touch them, and they know not me. 
 
 " Oh God ! I ask to live the saddest life ! 
 I care not for it if I may but live ! 
 I would not be among the dead, oh God ! 
 I am not dead ! oh God, I will not die ! " 
 
 So throbbed the trouble of this crazed heart. 
 So on the broken mirror of her mind 
 In bright disorder shone the shattered World 
 So, out of tune, in sympathetic chords. 
 Her soul is musical to brooks and birds, 
 Winds, seasons, sunshine, flowers, and maundering 
 trees. 
 
 Hear gently all the tale of her distress. 
 
 The heart that loved her loves not now yet lives. 
 
 What the eye sees and the ear hears — the hand 
 
 That wooing led her thro' the rosy paths 
 
 Of girlhood, and the lenten lanes of Love, 
 
 The brow whereon she trembled her first kiss, 
 
 The lips that had sole privilege of hers. 
 
 The eyes wherein she saw the Universe, 
 
 The bosom where she slept the sleep of joy, 
 
 The voice that made it sacred to her sleep 
 
 With lustral vows ; that which doth walk the World 
 
 Man among Men, is near her now. But He 
 
 Who wandered with her thro' the ways of Youth, 
 
 Who won the tender freedom of the lip. 
 
 Who took her to the bosom dedicate 
 
 And chaste with vows, who in the perfect whole
 
 CRAZED. 47 
 
 Of gracious Manhood was the goJ Ihat stood 
 
 In her young Heaven, round whom the subject stars 
 
 Circled : in whose dear tiaiji, where'er he passed 
 
 Thronged charmed powers ; at whose advancing feet 
 
 Upspringing happy seasons and sweet times 
 
 Made fond court carolling ! who but moved to stir 
 
 All things submissive, which did magnify 
 
 And wane as ever with his changing will 
 
 She changed the centre of her intinite ; He 
 
 In whom she worshipped Truth, and did obey 
 
 Goodness ; in whose sutificient love she felt, 
 
 Fond Dreamer ! the eternal smile of all 
 
 Angels and men ; round whom, upon his neck, 
 
 Her thoughts did hang ; whom' lacking they fell down 
 
 Distract to the earth ; He whom she loved, and who 
 
 Loved her of old, — in the long days before 
 
 Chaos, the empyrean days ! — (Poor heart, 
 
 She phrased it so) is no more : and O God ! 
 
 Thorough all Time, and that transfigured Time 
 
 We call Eternity, will be no more.
 
 48 
 
 THE SNOWDROP IN THE SNOW. 
 
 {First printed in the " Athenmim " of 
 1st March, 185 1.) 
 
 FULL of Faith ! The Earth is rock, — the Heaven 
 The dome of a great palace all of ice, 
 Russ-built. Dull light distils through frozen skies 
 Thickened and gross. Cold Fancy droops her wing, 
 And cannot range. In winding-sheets of snow 
 Lies every thought of any pleasant thing. 
 
 1 have forgotten the green earth ; my soul 
 Deflowered, and lost to every summer hope. 
 Sad sitteth on an iceberg at the Pole ; 
 
 My heart assumes the landscape of mine eyes 
 
 Moveless and white, chill blanched with hoarest rime ; 
 
 The Sun himself is heavy and lacks cheer 
 
 Or on the eastern hill or western slope ; 
 
 The world without seems far and long ago ; 
 
 To silent woods stark famished winds have driven 
 
 The last lean robin — gibbering winds of fear ! 
 
 Thou only darest to believe in spring. 
 
 Thou only smilest. Lady of the Time I 
 
 Even as the stars come up out of the sea 
 
 Thou risest from the Earth. How is it down 
 
 In the dark depths? Should I delve there, O Flower, 
 
 For beauty? Shall I find the Summer there 
 
 Met manifold, as in an ark of peace ?
 
 THE SNOWDROP TN THE SNOW. 49 
 
 And Thou, a lone white Dove, art thou sent forth 
 
 Upon the winter deluge ? It shall cease, 
 
 But not for thee — pierced by the ruthless North 
 
 And spent with the Evangel. In what hour 
 
 The flood abates thou wilt have closed thy wings 
 
 For ever. When the happy living things 
 
 Of the old world come forth upon the new 
 
 I know my heart shall miss thee ; and the dew 
 
 Of summer twilights shall shed tears for me — 
 
 Tears liker thee, ah, purest ! than mine own — 
 
 Upon thy vestal grave, O vainly fair ! 
 
 Thou should'st have noble destiny, who, like 
 A Prophet, art shut out from kind and kin : 
 Who on the winter silence comest in 
 A still small voice. Pale Hermit of the Year, 
 Flower of the Wilderness ! oh, not for thee 
 The jocund playmates of the maiden spring. 
 For when she danceth forth with cymballed feet, 
 Waking a-sudden with great welcoming. 
 Each calling each, they burst from hill to dell 
 In answering music. But thou art a bell, 
 A passing bell, snow-muffled, dim and sweet. 
 As is the Poet to his fellow-men, 
 So mid thy drifting snows, O Snowdrop, Thou. 
 Gifted, in sooth, beyond them, but no less 
 A snowdrop. And thou shall complete his lot 
 And bloom as fair as now when they are not. 
 Thou art the wonder of the seasons, O 
 First-bom of Beauty. As the Angel near 
 Gazed on that first of living things which, when 
 The blast that ruled since Chaos o'er the sere 
 Leaves of primeval Palms did sweep the plain. 
 Clung to the new-made sod and would not drive, 
 
 004
 
 ^o THE SNOWDROP IN THE SNOW. 
 
 So gaze I upon thee amid the reign 
 
 Of Winter. And because thou livest, I live. 
 
 And art thou happy in thy loneliness ? 
 
 Oh couldst thou hear the shouting of the floods, 
 
 Oh couldst thou know the stir among the trees 
 
 \Vlien — as the herald-voice of breeze on breeze 
 
 Proclaims the marriage pageant of the Spiing 
 
 Advancing from the South — eacli hurries on 
 
 His wedding-garment, and the love-chimes ring 
 
 Thro' nuptial valleys ! No, serene and lone, 
 
 I will not Hush thy cheek with joys like these. 
 
 Songs for the rosy morning ; at grey prime 
 
 To hang the head and pray. Thou doest well. 
 
 I will not tell thee of the bridal train. 
 
 No ; let thy Moonlight die before their day 
 
 A Nun among the Maidens, thou and they. 
 
 Each hath some fond sweet ofiice that doth strike 
 
 One of our trembling heartstrings musical. 
 
 Is not the hawthorn for the Queen of May ? 
 
 And cuckoo-flowers for whom the cuckoo's voice 
 
 Hails, like an answering sister, to the woods ? 
 
 Is not the maiden blushing in the rose ? 
 
 Shall not the babe and buttercup rejoice. 
 
 Twins in one meadow ! Are not violets all 
 
 By name or nature for the breast of Dames? 
 
 For them the primrose, pale as star of prime, 
 
 For them the wind-flower, trembling to a sigh, 
 
 For them the dew siands in the eyes of day 
 
 That blink in April on the daisied lea? 
 
 Like them they Hourish and like them they fade. 
 
 And live beloved and loving. But for thee — 
 
 For such a bevy how art thou arrayed. 
 
 Flower of the Tempests ? What hast thou with 
 
 them ? 
 Thou shalt be pearl unto a diadem
 
 THE SNOWDROP IN THE SNOW. 51 
 
 Which the Heavens jewel. They shall deck the brows 
 Of joy and wither there. But thou shalt be 
 A Martyr's garland. Thou who, undismayed, 
 To thy spring dreams art true amid the snows 
 As he to better dreams amid the flames.
 
 52 
 
 THE HARPS OF HE A VEN. 
 
 On a solemn day 
 
 I clomb the shining bulwark of the skies : 
 
 Not by the beaten way, 
 
 But climbing loy a prayer, 
 
 That like a golden thread hung by the gidfly stair 
 
 Fleck'd on the immemorial blue. 
 
 By the strong step-stroke of the brave and few, 
 
 Who, stirr'd by echoes of far harmonies. 
 
 Must either lay them down and die of love, 
 
 Or dare 
 
 Those empyrean walls that mock their starward eyes. 
 
 But midway in the dread emprize 
 
 The faint and fainter footsteps cease ; 
 
 And, all my footing gone, 
 
 Like one who gathers samphire, I hold on. 
 
 And in the swaying air look up and down : 
 
 And up and down through answering vasts descry 
 
 Nor Earth nor Heaven ; 
 
 Above, 
 
 The sheer eternal precipice ; below, 
 
 The sheer eternal precipice. 
 
 Then when I, 
 
 Gigantic with my desperate agony, 
 
 Felt even 
 
 The knotted grasp of bodily despair 
 
 Relaxing to let go, 
 
 A mighty music, like a wind of light,
 
 THE HARPS OF HEAVEN. 53 
 
 Blew from the imminent height, 
 And caught me in its splendour ; and, as flame 
 That flickers and again aspires, 
 Rose in a moment thither whence it came ; 
 And I, that thought me lost, 
 Pass'd to the top of all my dear desires, 
 And stood, among the everlasting host. 
 Then turn'd I to a seraph whose swift hands, 
 That lived angelic passion, struck his soul 
 Upon a harp — a seraph fair and strong, 
 And faultless for his harp and for his throne. 
 And yet, among 
 
 The Strength and Beauty of the heavenly bands, 
 No more to be remember'd than some one 
 Poor warrior, when a king of many kings 
 Stamps on the fields, and rears his glittering crop 
 Of standing steel, and the vex'd spirit wings 
 Above the human harvest, and in vain 
 Begins from morn till eve to sum the embattled plain ; 
 Or when. 
 
 After a day of peace, sudden and late 
 The beacon flashes and the war-drums roll, 
 And through the torches of the city gate. 
 All the long winter night a martial race 
 Streams to the nation's gathering-place. 
 And, like as water-drop to water-drop, 
 Pour on in changeless flood the innumerable men. 
 I turn'd, and as from footing in mid-seas 
 Looking o'er lessening waves thou may'st behold 
 The round horizon of unshadow'd gold, 
 I, standing on an amethyst, look'd round 
 The moving Heaven of Harpers throned and crown'd. 
 And said, "Was it from these 
 
 I heard the great sound?" And he said, " ^Vhat 
 sound ? "
 
 54 THE HA RPS OF HE A VEN. 
 
 Then I grown bolder, seeing I had thriven 
 
 To win reply — " This that 1 hear from thee, 
 
 This that everywhere I hear, 
 
 Rolling a sea of choristry 
 
 Up and down the jewel of Heaven ; 
 
 A sea which from thy seat of light, 
 
 That seems more loud and bright 
 
 Because more near, 
 
 To the white twinkle of yon furthest portal. 
 
 Swells up those circling shores of chrysolite, 
 
 And, like an odorous luminous mist, doth leap the 
 
 eternal walls, 
 And falls 
 
 In wreaths of melody 
 Adown the azure mountain of the sky ; 
 And round its lower slopes bedew'd 
 Breathes lost, beatitude ; 
 And far away, 
 
 Low, low, below the last of all its lucent scarps. 
 Sprinkles bewildering drops of immortality. 
 O angel fair, thou know'st what I would say — 
 This sound of harpers that I hear. 
 This sound of harpers harping on their harps." 
 Then he bent his head 
 And shed a tear 
 And said, 
 
 " I perceive thou art a mortal." 
 Then I to him — " Not only, O thou bright 
 Seraphic Pity ! to a mortal ear 
 These sacred sounds are dear. 
 Or why withholdest not thy ceaseless hand? 
 And why, 
 
 Far as my dazzled eye 
 Can pierce the lustre of the radiant land. 
 Sec I the rapt celestial auditory.
 
 THE HARPS OF HEAVEN. 5S 
 
 Each, while he blessed hears, gives back his bliss 
 
 With never-tiring touch from golden harps, like this?" 
 
 Then he to me— " Oh, wherefore hast thou trod 
 
 Beyond the limit of thine earthly lot? 
 
 These that we bear 
 
 Within our hands are instruments of glory, 
 
 Wherewith, day without night, 
 
 We make t-lie glory of immortal light 
 
 In the eyes of God, 
 
 As for the sound, we hear it not ; 
 
 Yet, speaking to thee, child of ignorance, 
 
 I do remember that I loved it once, 
 
 In the sweet lower air." 
 
 Yet he spake once more, — 
 
 " But thou, return to the remember'd shore ; 
 
 Why shouldst thou leave thy nation. 
 
 Thy city, and the house of all most dear? 
 
 Do we not all dwell in eternity ? 
 
 P'or we have been as thou, and thou 
 
 Shalt be as we." 
 
 And he lean'd and kissM me, 
 
 Saying, " But now 
 
 Rejoice, O child, in other joys than mine 
 
 Hear the dear music of thy mortal ear 
 
 While yet it is the time with thee. 
 
 Nor make haste to thine exaltation, 
 
 Though our state be better than thine." 

 
 SONNETS WRITTEN IN 1855. 
 
 (During the Crimean War.) 
 
 THE FUTURE. 
 
 I SAW the human millions as the sand 
 
 Unruffled on the starlit wilderness. 
 
 The day was near, and every star grew less 
 
 In universal dawn. Then woke a band 
 
 Of wheeling winds, and made a mighty stress 
 
 Of morning weather ; and still wilder went 
 
 O'er shifting plains, till, in their last excess, 
 
 A whirlwind whirled across the whirling land. 
 
 Heaven blackened over it ; a voice of woes 
 
 Foreran it ; the great noise of clanging foes 
 
 Hurtled behind ; beneath the earth was rent. 
 
 And howling Death, like an uncaverned beast, 
 
 Leaped from his lair. Meanwhile morn oped the East, 
 
 And thro' the dusty tumult God arose.
 
 57 
 
 THE ARMY SURGEON. 
 
 Over that breathing waste of friends and foes, 
 The wounded and the dying, hour by hour, — 
 In will a thousand, yet but one in power, — • 
 He labours thro' the red and groaning day. 
 The fearful moorland where the myriads lay 
 Moved as a moving field of mangled worms. 
 And as a raw brood, orphaned in the storms. 
 Thrust up their heads if the wind bend a spray 
 Above them, but when the bare branch performs 
 No sweet parental office, sink away 
 With hopeless chirp of woe, so as he goes 
 Around his feet in clamorous agony 
 They rise and fall ; and all the seething plain 
 Bubbles a cauldron vast of many-coioured pain.
 
 58 
 
 CZAR NICHOLAS. 
 
 We could not turn from that colossal foe, 
 The morning shadow of whose hideous head 
 Darkened the furthest West, and who did throw 
 His evening shade on Ind. The polar bow 
 Behind him flamed and paled, and through the red 
 Uncertain dark his vasty shape did grow 
 Upon the sleepless nations. Lay him low ! 
 Aye, low as for our priceless English dead 
 We lie and groan to-day in England ! Oh, 
 My God ! I think Thou hast not finished 
 This Thy fair world, where, triumph 111 or Good, 
 We still must weep ; where or to lose or gain 
 Is woe ; where Pain is medicined by Pain, 
 And Blood can only be washed out by Blood.
 
 59 
 
 HOME, IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 She turned the fair page with her fairer hand — 
 
 More fair and frail than it was wont to be — 
 
 O'er each remembered thing he loved to see 
 
 She lingered, and as with a fairy's wand 
 
 Enchanted it to order. Oft she fanned 
 
 New motes into the sun ; and as a bee 
 
 Sings thro' a brake of bells, so murmured she, 
 
 And so her patient love did understand 
 
 The reliquary room. Upon the sill 
 
 She fed his favourite bird. " Ah, Robin, sing ! 
 
 He loves thee." Then she touches a sweet string 
 
 Of soft recall, and towards the Eastern hill 
 
 Smiles all her soul — for him who cannot hear 
 
 The raven croaking at his carrion ear.
 
 6o 
 
 WARNING, 
 
 Virtue is Virtue, writ in ink or blood. 
 And Duty, Honour, Valour, are the same 
 Whether they cheer the thundering steps of Fame 
 Up echoing hills of Alma, or more blest. 
 Walk with her in that band where she is least, 
 Thro' smiling plains and cities doing good. 
 Vet, oh to sing them in their happier day ! 
 Von glebe is not the hind whose manhood mends 
 Its rudeness, yet it gains but while he spends, 
 And mulcts him rude. Even that sinless Lord 
 Whose feet wan Mary washed, went not His way 
 Uncoloured by the Galilean field ; 
 And Honour, Duty, Valour, seldom wield 
 With stainless hand the immedicable sword.
 
 6r 
 
 AMERICA, 
 
 Men say, Columbia, M-e shall hear thy guns. 
 
 But in what tongue shall be thy battle-cry? 
 
 Not that our sires did love in years gone by, 
 
 ^V'hen all the Pilgrim Fathers were little sons 
 
 In merrie homes of Englaunde ? Back, and see 
 
 Thy satchelled ancestor ! Behold, he runs 
 
 To mine, and, clasped, they tread the equal lea 
 
 To the same village-school, where side by side 
 
 They spell " our Father." Hard by, the twin-pride 
 
 Of that grey hall whose ancient oriel gleams 
 
 Thro' yon baronial pines, with looks of light 
 
 Our sister-mothers sit beneath one tree. 
 
 Meanwhile our Shakespeare wanders past and dreams 
 
 His Helena and Hermia. Shall we fight ?
 
 62 
 
 AMERICA. 
 
 Nor force nor fraud shall sunder us ! Oh ye 
 Who north or south, on east or western land, 
 Native to noble sounds, say truth for truth. 
 Freedom for freedom, love for love, and God 
 For God ; Oh ye who in eternal youth 
 Speak with a living and creative flood 
 This universal English, and do stand 
 Its breathing book ; live worthy of that grand 
 Heroic utterance — parted, yet a whole. 
 Far, yet unsevered, — children brave and free 
 Of the great Mother-tongue, and ye shall be 
 Lords of an Empire wide as Shakespeare's soul, 
 Sublime as Milton's immemorial theme, 
 And rich as Chaucer's speech, and fair as Spenser's 
 dream.
 
 63 
 
 THE COMMON GRA VE 
 
 Last night beneath the foreign stars I stood 
 
 And saw the thoughts of those at home go by 
 
 To the great grave upon the hill of blood. 
 
 Upon the darkness they went visibly, 
 
 Each in the vesture of its own distress. 
 
 Among them there came One, frail as a sigh, 
 
 And like a creature of the wilderness 
 
 Due with her bleeding hands. She neither cried 
 
 Nor wept : nor did she see the many stark 
 
 And dead that lay unburied at her side. 
 
 All night she toiled, and at that time of dawn, 
 
 When Day and Night do change their More or Less, 
 
 Ami Day is More, I saw the melting Dark 
 
 Stir to the last, and knew she laboured on.
 
 64 
 
 ^SSE ET POSSE. 
 
 The groan of fallen Hosts ; a torrid glare 
 Of cities ; battle-cries of Right and Wrong 
 Where armies shout to rocking fleets that roar 
 On thundering oceans to the thundering shore, 
 And high o'er all — long, long prolonged, along 
 The moaning caverns of the plaining air, — 
 The cry of conscious Fate. The firmament 
 Waves from above me like a tattered flag ; 
 And as a soldier in his lowly tent 
 Looks up when a shot strikes the helpless rag 
 From o'er him, and beholds the canopy 
 Of Heaven, so, sudden to my startled eye 
 The Heavens that shall be ! The dream fades- 
 
 I stand 
 Among the mourners of a mourning land.
 
 65 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 (To Alexander Smith.) 
 
 The stars we saw arise are high above, 
 
 And yet our Evensong seems sung too soon. 
 
 Good-Night ! I lay my hand — with such a love 
 
 As thou wert brother of my blood— upon 
 
 Thy shoulder, and methinks beneath the moon 
 
 Those sisters, Anglia and Caledon, 
 
 Lean towards each other. Aye, for Man is one ; 
 
 We are a host ruled by one trumpet-call. 
 
 Where each, armed in his sort, makes as he may 
 
 The general motion. The well-tuned array 
 
 We see ; yet to what victory in what wars 
 
 We see not ; but, like the revolving stars. 
 
 Move on ourselves. The total march of all, 
 
 Or men or stars, God knows. Lord, lead us on I 
 
 005
 
 LYRICS FROM 
 
 ENGLAND IN TIME OF WAR. 
 
 (1S56.) 
 
 DESOLATE. 
 
 From the sad eaves the drip-drop of the rain ! 
 The v/ater washing at the latchel door ; 
 A slow step plashing by upon the moor ! 
 A single bleat far from the famished fold ; 
 The clicking of an embered hearth and cold ; 
 The rainy Robin tic-tac at the pane. 
 
 "So as it is with thee 
 
 Is it with me, 
 
 So as it is and it used not to be, 
 
 With thee used not to be, 
 
 Nor me." 
 
 So singeth Robin on the willow tree, 
 
 The rainy Robin lic-tac at the pane 
 
 flere in this breast all day 
 The fire is dim and low. 
 Within I care not to stay. 
 Without I care not to go.
 
 DESOLA TE. 67 
 
 A sadness ever sings 
 
 Of unforgotten things, 
 
 And the bird of love is patting at the pane ; 
 
 But the wintry water deepens at the door, 
 
 And a step is plashing by upon the moor 
 
 Into the dark upon the darkening moor, 
 
 And alas, alas, the drip-drop of the rain !
 
 68 
 
 THE MARKET- WIPES SONG. 
 
 The butter an' the cheese weel stowit they be, 
 I sit on the hen-coop the eggs on my knee, 
 The lang kail jigs as we jog owre the rigs. 
 The gray mare's tail it wags wi' the kail, 
 The warm simmer sky is blue aboon a', 
 An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels 
 twa. 
 
 I sit on the coop, I look straight before, 
 But my heart it is awa' the braid ocean owre, 
 I see the bluidy fiel' where my ain bonny chiel', 
 My wee bairn o' a', gaed to fight or to fa'. 
 An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels 
 twa. 
 
 I see the gran' toun o' the big forrin' loun, 
 I hear the cannon soun', I see the reek aboon ; 
 It may be lang John lettin' aff his gun, 
 It may be the mist — your mither disna wist — 
 It may be the kirk, it may be the ha'. 
 An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels 
 twa. 
 
 * In several of the Scottish songg of this volume, the author 
 wishes, notwithstanding whatever coulexir locale they may 
 possess, to be understood as speaking ratlier for a class than a 
 locality. As most of the English provincial dialects are poeti- 
 cally objectionable, and are modifications of tongues which 
 exist more purely in the "Lallans" of Scotland, it seemed to 
 him that when expressing the general peasant life of the empire 
 he might employ the central truth of tliat noble Doric which is 
 at once rustic and dignified, heroic and vernacular.
 
 THE MARKET-WIFE'S SONG. 69 
 
 An' I ken the Black Sea, ayont the rock o' dool. 
 Like a muckle blot o' ink in. a buik fra' the schule, 
 An' Jock ! it gars me min' o* your buikies lang syne, 
 An' mindin' o' it a' the tears begin to fa', 
 An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels 
 twa. 
 
 Then a bull roars fra' the scaur, ilka rock 's a bull agen. 
 An' I hear the trump o' war, an' the carse is fu' o' men. 
 Up an' doun the morn I ken the bugle horn, 
 Ilka birdie sma' is a fleein' cannon ba'. 
 An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels 
 twa. 
 
 Guid Heavens ! the Russian host ! We maun e'en gie 
 
 up for lost ! 
 Gin ye gain the battle hac ye countit a' the cost ? 
 Ye may win a gran' name, but wad wee Jock come hame? 
 Dinna fecht, dinna fecht ! there's room for us a', 
 An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the aukl wheels 
 
 twa. 
 
 In vain, in vain, in vain ! They are marchin' near and 
 
 _ far! 
 Wi' swords an' wi' slings an' wi' instruments o' war ! 
 Oh, day sae dark an' sair ! ilka man seven feet an' mair ! 
 I bow my head an' say, " Gin the Lord wad smit them 
 
 An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels 
 twa. 
 
 Then forth fra' their ban' there steps an armed man, 
 His tairge at his breast an' his claymore in his han'.
 
 70 THE MARKET-WIFE'S SONG, 
 
 His gowd pow glitters fine an' his shadow fa's behin', 
 I think o' great Goliath as he Stan's before them a', 
 An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels 
 twa. 
 
 To meet the Philistine leaps a laddie fra' our line, 
 Oh, my heart ! oh, my heart ! 'tis that wee lad o' mine 1 
 I start to my legs — an' doun fa' the eggs — 
 The cocks an' hens a' they cackle an' they ca', 
 An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels 
 twa. 
 
 Oh, Jock, my Hielan' lad — oh, Jock, my Hielan' lad. 
 Never till I saw thee that moment was I glad ! 
 Aye sooner sud thou dee before thy mither's e'e 
 Than a man o' the clan sud hae stept out but thee ! 
 An' sae I cry to God — while the hens cackle a', 
 An' Avhiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels 
 twa.
 
 71 
 
 THE LITTLE -MIRVS SONG. 
 
 Do not mind my crying, Papa, I am not crying for 
 
 pain. 
 Do n»t mind my shaking, Papa, I am not shaking 
 
 with fear ; 
 rho" the wild wild wind is hideous to hear, 
 And I see the snow and the rain. 
 When will you come back again. 
 Papa, Papa? 
 
 Somebody else that you love, Papa, 
 
 Somebody else that you dearly love 
 
 Is weary, like me, because you're away. 
 
 Sometimes I see her lips tremble and move, 
 
 And I seem to know what they're going to say ; 
 
 And every day, and all the long day, 
 
 I long to cry, " Oh Mamma, Mamma, 
 
 WTien will Papa come back again ? " 
 
 But before I can say it I see the pain 
 
 Creeping up on her white white cheek. 
 
 As the sweet sad sunshine creeps up the white wall, 
 
 And then I am soriy, and fear to speak ; 
 
 And slowly the pain goes out of her cheek, 
 
 As the sad sweet sunshine goes from the wall. 
 
 Oh, I wish I were grown up wise and tall. 
 
 That I might throw my arms round her neck 
 
 And say, " Dear Mamma, oh, what is it all 
 
 That I see and see and do not see 
 
 In your white while face all the livelong day ? " 
 
 But she hides her grief from a child like me. 
 
 WTien will you come back again, 
 
 Papa, Papa ?
 
 72 THE LITTLE GIRL'S SONG. 
 
 Where were you going, Papa, Papa ? 
 
 All this long while have you been on the sea? 
 
 When she looks as if she saw far away, 
 
 Is she thinking of you, and what does she see? 
 
 Are the white sails blowing, 
 
 And the blue men rowing, 
 
 And are you standing on the high deck 
 
 AVliere we saw you stand till the ship grew grey, 
 
 And we watched and watched till the ship was a 
 
 speck. 
 And the dark came first to you, far away ? 
 I wish I could see what she can see, 
 But she hides her grief from a child like me. 
 ^^'hen will you come back again. 
 Papa, Papa ? 
 
 Don't you remember. Papa, Papa ? 
 
 How we used to sit by the fire, all three, 
 
 And she told me tales while I sat on her knee, 
 
 And heard the winter winds roar down the street, 
 
 And knock like men at the window pane, 
 
 And the louder they roared, oh, it seemed more 
 
 sweet 
 To be warm and warm as we used to be, 
 Sitting at night by the fire, all three ? 
 When will you come back again, 
 Papa, Papa? 
 
 Papa, I like to sit by the fire ; 
 
 AVhy does she sit far away in the cold 
 
 If I had but somebody wise and old, 
 
 That every day I might cry and say, 
 
 " Is she changed, do you think, or do I forget ? 
 
 Was she always as white as she is to-day ? 
 
 Did she never carry her head up higher ? "
 
 THE LITTLE GIRL'S SONG. 73 
 
 Papa, Papa, if I could but know ! 
 
 Do you think her voice was always so low? 
 
 Did I always see what I seem to see 
 
 When I wake up at night and her pillow is wet ? 
 
 You used to say her hair it was gold — 
 
 It looks like silver to me. 
 
 But still she tells the same tale that she told, 
 
 She sings the same songs when I sit on her knee. 
 
 And the house goes on as it went long ago, 
 
 When we lived together, all three. 
 
 Sometimes my heart seems to sink, Papa, 
 
 And I feel as if I could be happy no more. 
 
 Is she changed, do you think. Papa, 
 
 Or did I dream she was brighter before ? 
 
 She makes me remember my snowdrop, Papa, 
 
 That I forgot in thinking of you. 
 
 The sweetest snowdrop that ever I knew ! 
 But I put it out of the sun and the rain : 
 It was green and white when I put it away, 
 It had one sweet bell and green leaves four ; 
 It was green and white when I found it that day. 
 It had one pale bell and green leaves four, 
 But I was not glad of it any more. 
 Was it changed, do you think, Papa, 
 Or did I dream it was brighter before ' 
 
 Do not mind my crying, Papa, 
 
 I am not crying for pain. 
 
 Do not mind my shaking. Papa, 
 
 I am not shaking for fear ; 
 
 Tho' the wild wild wind is hideous to hear. 
 
 And I see the snow and the rain. 
 
 When will you come back again, 
 
 Papa, Papa?
 
 74 
 
 ''HE IS safe:' 
 
 " And it shall come to pass at eventide 
 
 There shall be light." Lord, it hath come to pass. 
 
 As one day to the world so now to me 
 
 Thine advent. My dark eve is white as noon ; 
 
 My year so sour and green is gold and red ; 
 
 Mine eyes have seen Thy Goodness. All is done. 
 
 All things bespeak an end. I am come near 
 The crown o' this steep earth. My feet still stand 
 Cold in the western shadow, but my brow 
 Lives in the living light. The toil is o'er. 
 Surely " lie giveth His beloved Rest." 
 
 I feel two worlds : one ends and one begins. 
 Methinks I dwell in both ; being much here, 
 But more hereafter : even as when the nurse 
 Doth give the babe into the mother's arms, 
 And she who hath not quite resigned, and she 
 Who hath not all received, support in twain 
 The single burden ; ne'ertheless the babe 
 Already tastes its mother. Lord, I come. 
 Thy signs are in me. " He shall wipe away 
 All tears : " Thou see'st my tears are wiped away. 
 "There shall be no more pain : " Lord, it is done. 
 Here there is no more pain. " The sun no more 
 Shall be their light by day : " even so, Lord, 
 I need no light of sun or moon ] My heart
 
 HE IS SAFE. 75 
 
 Is as a lamp of jasper, crystal-clear, 
 
 Dark when Thy light is out, but lit with Thee 
 
 The sun may be a suckling at this breast, 
 
 And milk a nobler glory. Lord, I know 
 
 Mine hour. This painful world, that was of thorns, 
 
 Is roses. Like a fragrance thro' my soul 
 
 I breathe a balm of slumber. Let me sleep. 
 
 Bring me my easy pillows, Margery. 
 
 I am asleep ; this oak is soft : all things 
 
 Are rest : I sink as into bliss. O Lord, 
 
 Now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace
 
 76 
 
 LADY CONSTANCE. 
 
 My Love, my Lord, 
 
 I think the toil of glorious day is done. 
 
 I see thee leaning ou thy jewelled sword, 
 
 And a light-hearted child of France 
 
 Is dancing to thee in the sun, 
 
 And thus he carols in his dance. 
 
 " Oh, a gallant sans peur 
 Is the merry chasseur, 
 
 With his fanfaron horn and his rifle ping-pang 1 
 And his grand haversack 
 Of gold on his back, 
 His pistol cric-crac ! 
 And his sword cling-clang ! 
 
 " Oh, to see him blithe and gay 
 From some hot and bloody day, 
 Come to dance the night away till the bugle blows 
 • au rang,' 
 With a wheel and a whirl 
 And a wheeling waltzing girl, 
 And his bow, ' place aux dames I ' and his oath, 
 ' feu et sang ! ' 
 And his hop and his fling 
 Till his gold and silver ring 
 To the clatter and the clash of his sword cling-clang ! 
 
 " But hark, 
 Thro' the dark, 
 
 Up goes the well-known shout 1 
 The drums beat the turn oat !
 
 LADy CONSTANCE. yy 
 
 Cut short your courting, Monsieur TAmant ! 
 
 Saddle ! mount ! march ! trot ! 
 
 Down comes the stoniji of shot, 
 
 The foe is at the charge ! En avant ! 
 
 " His jolly haversack 
 Of gold is ou his back, 
 Hear his pistol cric-crac I hear his rifle ping-pang ! 
 
 " Vive r Empereur ! 
 And Where's the Chasseur ? 
 
 " He's in 
 Among the din 
 Steel to steel cling-clang ! " 
 
 And thou within the doorway of thy tent 
 Leanest at ease with careless brow unbent, . 
 Watching the dancer in as pleased a dream 
 As if he were a gnat i' the evening gleam, 
 And thou and I were sitting side by side 
 Within the happy bower 
 Where oft at the same hour 
 We watched them the sweet year I was a bride. 
 
 My Love, my Lord, 
 
 Leaning so grandly on thy jewelled sword, 
 
 Is there no thought of home to whisper thee. 
 
 None can relieve the weary guard I keep. 
 
 None wave the flag of breathing truce for me, 
 
 Nor sound the hours to slumber or to weep ? 
 
 Once in a moon the bugle breaks thy rest, 
 
 I count my days by trumpets and alarms : 
 
 Thou liest down in thy warcloak and art blest. 
 
 While L who cannot sleep but in thine arms, 
 
 Wage night and day fresh fields unknown to fame, 
 
 Arm, marshal, march, charge, fight, fall, faint, and die,
 
 78 LADV CONSTANCE. 
 
 Know all a soldier can endure but shame, 
 
 And every chance of warfare but to Hy. 
 
 I do not murmur at my destiny : 
 
 It can but go with love, with whom it came, 
 
 And love is like the sun — his light is sweet, 
 
 And sweet his shadow — welcome both to me ! 
 
 Better for ever to endure that hurt 
 
 Which thou canst taste but once than once to lie 
 
 At ease when thou hast anguish. Better I 
 
 Be often sad when thou art gay than gay 
 
 One moment of thy sorrow. Tho' I pray 
 
 Too oft I shall win nothing of the sky 
 
 But my unfilled desire and thy desert 
 
 Can take it and still lack. Oh, might I stay 
 
 At the shut gates of heaven ! that so I meet 
 
 Each issuing fate, and cling about his feet 
 
 And melt the dreadful purpose of his eye. 
 
 And not one power pass unimpleaded by 
 
 Whose bolt might be for thee ! Aye, love is sweet 
 
 In shine or shade ! But love hath jealousy. 
 
 That knowing but so little thinks so much ! 
 
 And I am jealous of thee even with such 
 
 A fatal knowledge. For I wot too well 
 
 In the set season that I cannot tell 
 
 Death will be near thee. This thought doth deflour 
 
 All innocence from time. I dare not say 
 
 " Not now," but for the instant cull tho hour, 
 
 And for tlie hour reap all the doubtful daj', 
 
 And for the day the year : and so, forlorn, 
 
 From morn till night, from startled night till morn, 
 
 Like a blind slave I bear thine heavy ill 
 
 Till thy time comes to take it ; come when 't will 
 
 The broken slave will bend beneath it still.
 
 79 
 
 THE MILKMAID'S SONG. 
 
 Turn, turn, for my cheeks they burn, 
 
 Turn by the dale, my Harry ! 
 
 Fill pail, fill pail. 
 
 He has turned by the dale. 
 
 And there by the stile waits Harry. 
 
 Fill, fill, 
 
 Fill pail, fill, 
 
 For there by the stile waits Harry 1 
 
 The world may go round, the world raav stand still, 
 
 But I can milk and marry, 
 
 Fillpail, 
 
 I can milk and marry. 
 
 Whengh, wheugh ! 
 
 Oh, if we two 
 
 Stood down there now by the water, 
 
 I know who'd carry me over the ford 
 
 As brave as a soldier, as proud as a lord, 
 
 Tho' I don't live over the water. 
 
 Wheugh, wheugh ! he's whistling thro', 
 
 He's whistling " the farmer's daughter.' 
 
 Give down, give down, 
 
 My crumpled brown ! 
 
 He shall not take the road to the town 
 
 For I'll meet him beyond the water. 
 
 Give down, give down, 
 
 My crumpled brown ! 
 
 And send me to my Harry.
 
 So THE MILKMAID'S SONG. 
 
 The folk o' towns 
 
 May have silken gowns, 
 
 But I can milk and marry, 
 
 Fillpail, 
 
 I can milk and marry. 
 
 Wheugh, wheugh ! he has whistled thro' 
 
 He has whistled thro' the water. 
 
 Fill, fill, with a will, a will. 
 
 For he's whistled thro' the water, 
 
 And he's whistling down 
 
 The way to the town. 
 
 And it 's not " the farmer's daughter ! " 
 
 Churr, churr ! goes the cockchafer, 
 
 The sun sets over the water, 
 
 Churr, churr ! goes the cockchafer, 
 
 I'm too late for my Harry ! 
 
 And, oh, if he goes a-soldiering, 
 
 The cows they may low, the bells they may ring, 
 
 But I'll neither milk nor marry, 
 
 Fillpail, 
 
 Neither milk nor marry. 
 
 My brow beats on thy flank, Fillpail, 
 
 Give down, good wench, give down ! 
 
 I know the primrose bank, Fillpail, 
 
 Between him and the town. 
 
 Give down, good wench, give down, Fillpail, 
 
 And he shall not reach the town ! 
 
 Strain, strain ! he's whistling again. 
 
 He's nearer by half a mile. 
 
 More, more I Oh, never before 
 
 Were you such a weary while 1 
 
 Fill, fill ! he's crossed the hill, 
 
 I can see him down by the stile, 
 
 He's passed the bay, he's coming this way.
 
 THE MILKMAID 'S SONG. §i 
 
 He 's coming to me, my Harry ! 
 
 Give silken gowns to tlie folk o' towns, 
 
 He 's coming to me, my Harry ! 
 
 There's not so grand a dame in the land, 
 
 That she walks to-night with Harry ! 
 
 Come late, come soon, come sun, come moon, 
 
 Oh, I can milk and marry, 
 
 Fillpaii; 
 
 I can milk and marry, 
 
 Wheugh, wheugh ! he has whistled thro', 
 
 My Harry ! my lad ! my lover ! 
 
 Set the sun and fall the dew, 
 
 Heigho, merry world, what's to do 
 
 That yon 're smiling over and over ? 
 
 Up on the hill and down in the dale, 
 
 And along the tree-tops over the vale 
 
 Shining over and over, 
 
 Low in the grass and high on the bough, 
 
 Shining over and over. 
 
 Oh, world, have you ever a lover ? 
 
 You were so dull and cold just now, 
 
 Oh, world, have you ever a lover ? 
 
 I could not see a leaf on the tree. 
 
 And now I could count them, one, two, three. 
 
 Count them over and over, 
 
 Leaf from leaf like lips apart. 
 
 Like lips apart for a lover. 
 
 And the hill-side beats with my beating heart. 
 
 And the apple-tree blushes all over. 
 
 And the May bough touched me and made me start 
 
 And the wind breathes warm like a lover. 
 
 Pull, pnll ! and the pail is full, 
 And milking's done and over. 
 
 Qo6
 
 82 THE MILKMAID'S SONG. 
 
 Who would not sit here under tlie tree ? 
 
 What a fair fair thing 's a ^reen field to sea 
 
 Brim, brim, to the rim, ah me ! 
 
 I have set my pail on the daisies ! 
 
 It seems so light — can the sun be set ? 
 
 The dews must be heavy, my cheeks are wat, 
 
 I could cry to have hurt the daisies ! 
 
 Harry is near, Harry is near, 
 
 My heart 's as sick as if he were here, 
 
 My lips are luirnii)::^, my cheeks are wet. 
 
 He hasn't uttered a word as yet, 
 
 But the air's astir with his praises, 
 
 My Harry ! 
 
 The air's astir with j'our praises. 
 
 He has scaled the rock by the pixy's stone, 
 
 He 's among the kingcups — he picks me one. 
 
 1 love the grass that I tread upon 
 
 "When I go to my Harry ! 
 
 He has jumped the brook, he has climbed the knowe, 
 
 There's never a faster foot 1 know, 
 
 But still he seems to tarry. 
 
 Oh, Harry ! oh, Harry ! my love, my pride, 
 
 My heart is leaping, my arms are wide ! 
 
 Roll up, roll up, you dull hill-side. 
 
 Roll up, and biing iny Harry ! 
 
 They may talk of glory over th , sea, 
 
 But Harry's alive, and Harry's for me 
 
 My love, my lad, my Harry ! 
 
 Come spring, come winter, come sun, come snov.', 
 
 What cares Dolly whether or no. 
 
 While I can milk and marry ? 
 
 Right or wrong, and wrong or right, 
 
 Quarrel who quarrel, and light who tight, 
 
 But I'll bring my pail home every night 
 
 To love, and home, and Harry i
 
 THE MILKMAID'S SONG. 
 
 We'll drink our can, we'll eat our cake. 
 
 There's beor in the barrel, there's bread in the bake, 
 
 The world may sleep, the world may wake, 
 
 But I shall milk and marry, 
 
 And marry, 
 
 I shall milk and marry.
 
 84 
 
 THE GERMAN LEGION. 
 
 In the cot beside the water, 
 In the white cot by the water, 
 The white cot by the white water, 
 There they laid the German maid. 
 
 There they wound her, singing round her, 
 Deftly wound her, singing round her, 
 Softly wound her, singing round her, 
 In a shroud like a cloud. 
 
 And they decked her as they wound her, 
 With a wreath of leaves they bound her, 
 Lornest leaves they scattered round her, 
 Singing grief with every leaf. 
 
 Singing grief with every leaf, 
 Sadder grief with sadder leaf, 
 Sweeter leaf with sweeter grief, 
 So 't was sung in a dark tongue. 
 
 Like a latter lily Ij'ing, 
 O'er whom falling leaves are sighing, 
 And Autumn vapours crj'ing. 
 Pale and cold on misty mould, 
 
 So I saw her sweet and lowly, 
 Shining shining jiale and holy, 
 Thro' the dim woe slowly, slowly. 
 Said and sung in that dark tongue.
 
 THE GERMAN LEGION. 
 
 Such an awe her beauty lent her, 
 While they sang I dared not enter 
 That charmed ring where she was centre, 
 But I stood with stirring blood 
 
 Till tlie song fell like a billow, 
 And I saw them leave her pillow, 
 And^o forth to the far willow, 
 For the wreath of virgin death. 
 
 And I stood beside her pillow, 
 "While they plucked the distant willow 
 And my heart rose like a billow 
 As I said to the pale dead — 
 
 *' Oh, thou most fair and sweet virginity. 
 
 Of whom this heart that beats for thee doth know 
 
 Nor name nor story, that these limbs can bo 
 
 For no man evermore, that thou must go 
 
 Cold to the cold, and that no eye shall see 
 
 That which thine unsolved womanhood doth owe 
 
 Of the incommunicable mystery 
 
 Shakes me with tears. I could kneel down by thee, 
 
 And o'er thy chill unmarriageable rest 
 
 Cry, 'Thou who shalt no more at all be prest 
 
 To any heart, one moment come to this ! 
 
 And feel me weeping with thy want of bliss, 
 
 And all the unpraised beauties of thy lireast — 
 
 Thy breast which never shall a lover kiss ! ' " 
 
 Then I slowly left her pillow, 
 For they came back with the willow, 
 And my heart sinks as a billow 
 Doth implore towards the shore,
 
 86 THE GERMAN LEGION. 
 
 As I see the crown tlioy weave her, 
 And I kuow tliat I must leave her, 
 And I feel that I could grieve her 
 Sad and sore for evermore. 
 
 And again they sang around her, 
 In a richer robe they wound her, 
 With the willow wreath they bound her 
 And the loud song like a cloud 
 
 Of golden obscunition, 
 With the strange tongue of her nation, 
 Filled the house of lamentation, 
 Till she lay in melody, 
 
 Like a latter lily lying, 
 O'er whom falling leaves are sighing, 
 And the Autumn vapours crying, 
 In a dream of evening gleam. 
 
 And I saw her sweet and lowl}', 
 Shining shining pale and holy, 
 Thro' the dim woe slowly slowly 
 Said and sung in a dark tongue. 
 
 In the cot beside the water. 
 The white cot by the white water, 
 English cot by English water 
 That shall see the German sea.
 
 87 
 
 PP'Oi: IS ME. 
 
 Far ill the cradling sky, 
 Dawn opes his baby eye, 
 Then 1 awake and cry, 
 Woe is me ! 
 
 Morn, the young hunter ga)', 
 Chases the shadows gray, 
 Then I go forth and say. 
 Woe is me ! 
 
 Noou ! drunk with oil and wine, 
 The' not a grief is thine, 
 Yet shalt thou shake with mine ! 
 Woe is me ! 
 
 Eve knccleth sad and calm, 
 Bearing the martyr's palm ; 
 I shriek above her psalm, 
 Woe is me ! 
 
 Night, hid in her black hair 
 From eyes she cannot dare. 
 Lies loud with fierce despair ; 
 Then I sit silent where 
 •She cries from her dark lair 
 Woe is me !
 
 THE YOUNG MAN'S SONG. 
 
 At last the curse lias run its date ! 
 
 The heaveus grow clear above, 
 And on the purfjle plains of Hate 
 
 We'll build the throne of Love ! 
 
 One great heroic reign divine 
 
 Shall mock tlio Ely-sian isles, 
 And love in arms shall only shine 
 
 Less fair than Love in smiles ! 
 
 Old Clio, burn thine ancient scroll, 
 The scroll of Rome and Greece ! 
 
 Our war shall be a j)arable 
 On all the texts of peace. 
 
 And saints look down, with eyes of praise, 
 
 Where on our modern field 
 Tiie new Samaritan forelays 
 
 The wrongs that other healed ! 
 
 What virtue is beyond our prize ? 
 
 What deed beneath yon sun 
 More Godlike than the prodigies 
 
 We mortal men have done ? 
 
 Wo wearied of tlie lagging steed, 
 The dove had not a (juill
 
 THE YOUNG MAN'S SONG. 89 
 
 To fledge the imaginable speed 
 Of our wild shaft of will ; 
 
 What Force can meet our matchless might ? 
 
 What Power is not our slave ? 
 We bound the angel of the light, 
 
 We scourged him iu a cave. 
 
 And when we saw the prisoner pine 
 
 For his immortal land, 
 We wrung a ransom, half divine, 
 
 From that celestial hand 
 
 Whose skill the heavy chain subdued, 
 
 And all a captive's woe 
 Did tame to such a tempered good 
 
 As mortal e}"es can know. 
 
 Who comes, who comes, o'er mountains laid, 
 Vales lifted, straightened ways ? 
 
 'Tis he ! the mightier horse we made 
 To serve our nobler days ! 
 
 But now, unheard, I saw afar 
 
 His cloud of windy mane, 
 Now, level as a blazing star. 
 
 He thunders thro' the plain ! 
 
 The life he needs, the food he loves, 
 
 This cold earth bears no more ; 
 He fodders on tiio eternal groves 
 
 That heard the dragons roar. 
 
 Strong with the feast he roars and run-?, 
 And, in liis maw unfurled.
 
 oo THE YOUNG MAN'S SONG. 
 
 Evolves the folded fires of sans 
 That lit a grander world ! 
 
 Yon bird, the swiftest in the sky, 
 
 Before him sprang, but he 
 Has passed her as a wind goes by 
 
 A straggler in the sea. 
 
 With forward beak and forward blows 
 
 She slides back from his side ; 
 Wliile ever as the monster goes, 
 With needless power and pride, 
 
 Disdainful from his fiery jaws 
 
 He snorts his vital heat, 
 And, easy as his shadow, draws. 
 
 Long-drawn, the living street. 
 
 He's gone ! Methinks that over him, 
 
 Like Curtius in the abyss, 
 I see great gulphs close rim to rim. 
 
 And Past and Future kiss ! 
 
 Oh, Man ! as from the flood sublime 
 Some alp rose calm and slow, 
 
 So from the exhaling floods of time 
 1 see thy stature grow. 
 
 Long since thy royal brow, uncrowned, 
 
 Allegiant nature saw. 
 Long since thino eye of empire frowned 
 
 The heavenly thrones to awe ;
 
 THE YOUNG MAN'S SONG. 91 
 
 So sang a j-outh of glorious blood. 
 
 Biilow, tlie wind-hawk shook her wings, 
 Aud lower, in its kingdom, stood 
 
 A tower of ancient kings. 
 
 Above, tho autumn sky was blue, 
 Far round the golden world was fair, 
 
 And, gun by gun, the ramparts blew 
 A battle ou the air.
 
 92 
 
 DEAD-MAID 'S-POOL. 
 
 Oh water, water — water deep and still, 
 
 In this hollow of the hill. 
 
 Thou helenge well o'er wliich the long reeds lean, 
 
 Here a stream and there a stream, 
 
 And thou so still, between, 
 
 Thro' thy coloured dream, 
 
 Thro' the drownfed face 
 
 Of this lone leafy place, 
 
 Down, down, so deep and chill, 
 
 I see the pebbles gleam 1 
 
 Ash-tree, ash-tree. 
 
 Bending o'er the well, 
 
 Why there thou bendestj 
 
 Kind hearts can tell. 
 
 'Tis that the pool is deep, 
 
 'Tis that — a single leap, 
 
 And the pool closes : 
 
 And in the solitude 
 
 Of this wild mountain wood. 
 
 None, none, would hear her cry, 
 
 From this bank where she stood 
 
 To that peak in the sky 
 
 Where the cloud dozes. 
 
 Ash-tree, asb-tree, 
 
 Thou art so sweet and good,
 
 DEAD-MAID'S-POOL. 93 
 
 If any creeping thing 
 
 Among the summer games in the wild roses 
 
 Fall from its airy swing, ' 
 
 (While all its pigmy kind 
 
 Watch from some imminent rose-leaf half uncurled)— 
 
 I know thou hast it full in mind 
 
 (While yet the drowning minim lives, 
 
 And blots the shining water where it strives), 
 
 To touch it with a finger soft and kind, 
 
 As when the gentle sun, ere day is hot. 
 
 Feels for a little shadow in a grot, 
 
 And gives it to the shades behind the world. 
 
 And oh ! if some poor fool 
 
 Should seek the fatal pool. 
 
 Thine arms— ah, yes ! I know 
 
 For this thou watchest days, and months, and years, 
 
 For this dost bend beside 
 
 The lone and lorn well-side, 
 
 The guardian angel of the doom below, 
 
 Content if, once an age, thy helping hand 
 
 May lift repentant madness to the land : 
 
 Content to hear the cry 
 
 Of living love from lips that would have died : 
 
 To seem awhile endowed 
 
 With all thy limbs did save, 
 
 And in that voice they drew out of the grave, 
 
 To feel thy dumb desire for once released aloud, 
 
 And all thy muffled century 
 
 Repaid in one wild hour of sobs, and smiles, and tears. 
 
 Aye, aye, I envy thee, 
 Pitiful ash-tree ! 
 
 Water, water — water deep and =till, 
 lu the hollow of the hill,
 
 94 DEAD-MAID 'S-POOL 
 
 Water, water, well I wot, 
 
 Tliro' the weary honrs. 
 
 Well I wot tliee Ij'ing there, 
 
 As fair as false, as false as fair. 
 
 The crows they fly o'er, 
 
 The small birds flit about, 
 
 The stream it i-ipplcs in, the stream it ripples out, 
 
 But what eye ever knew 
 
 A rinkle wimple thee ? 
 
 And what eye shall see 
 
 A rinkle wimple thee 
 
 Evermore ? 
 
 Thro' thy gauds and mocks. 
 
 All thy thin enchantment tlno' — 
 
 The green delusion of thy bowers, 
 
 The cold flush of thy feigned flowers, 
 
 All the treacherous state 
 
 Of fair things small and great, 
 
 That are and are not. 
 
 Well I wot tliee shining there, 
 
 As fair as false, as false as fair. 
 
 Thro' the liquid rocks, 
 
 Thro' the watery trees, 
 
 Thro' the grass that never grew, 
 
 Thro' a face God never made, 
 
 Thro' the frequent gain and lo?3 
 
 Of the cold cold shine and shade, 
 
 Thro' the subtle fern and moss, 
 
 Thro' the humless, hiveless bees, 
 
 Round the ghosts of buds asleep, 
 
 Thro' the disembodied rose, 
 
 Waving, waving in the deeji, 
 
 Where never wind blows, 
 
 I look down, and see far down, 
 
 In clear depths that do nothing hida,
 
 DEAD-MAW' S-POOL. 95 
 
 Green in green, and brown in brown, 
 The long fish turn and glide ! 
 
 Ash-tree, ash-tree, 
 
 Bending o'er the water — 
 
 Ash-tree, ash-tree, 
 
 Hadst thou a daughter ? 
 
 Ash^reo, ash-tree, let ma draw near, 
 
 Ash-tree, ash-tree, a word in thine ear 
 
 Thou art wizen and white, ash-tree ; 
 Other trees have gone on. 
 Have gathered and grown. 
 Have bourgeoned and borne : 
 Thou hart wasted and worn. 
 
 Thy knots are all eyes ; 
 Every knot a dumb eye, 
 That has seen a sight 
 And heard a cry. 
 
 Thy leaves are dry : 
 
 The summer has not gone by. 
 
 But they're withered and dead. 
 
 Like locks round a head 
 
 That is bald with a secret sin, 
 
 That is scorched by a hull within. 
 
 Thy skin 
 
 Is withered and wan, 
 
 Like a guilty man : 
 
 It was thin. 
 
 Aye, silken ami thin, 
 
 It is houghed 
 
 And ploughed. 
 
 Like a murderer's .skin.
 
 96 DEADMAID'S-POOL. 
 
 Thou hast no shoots nor wands, 
 
 All thy arms turn to the deep, 
 
 All thy twigs are crooked, 
 
 Twined and twisted, 
 
 Fingered and fisted, 
 
 Like one who had looked 
 
 On wringing hands 
 
 'Till his hands were wrung in his sleep 
 
 Pardon my doubt of thee, 
 What is this 
 In the very groove 
 Of thy right arm ? 
 There is not a snake 
 So yellow and red, 
 There is not a toad 
 So sappy and dread ! 
 It doth not move, 
 It doth not hiss — 
 Ash-tree — for God's sake — 
 Hiist thou known 
 What hath not been said. 
 And the summer sun 
 Cannot keep it warm, 
 And the living wood. 
 Cannot shut it down 1 
 And it grows out of thee 
 And will bo told. 
 Bloody as blood. 
 And yellow as gold I 
 
 Ash-tree, ash-tree, 
 That once wert so green ! 
 Ash-tree, ash-tree 1 
 What hast thou seen ?
 
 DEAD-MAID'S-POOL. 97 
 
 Was I a mother — nay or aye ? 
 
 Ajn I childless — aye or nay ? 
 
 Ash-tree, ash- tree. 
 
 Bonding o'er the water 1 
 
 Ash-tree, ash -tree, 
 
 Give me my daughter ! 
 
 Curse the water, 
 
 Curse thee, 
 
 Ash -tree, 
 
 Ben dins: o'er the water ! 
 
 Leaf on the tree, 
 
 Flower on the stem, 
 
 Curse thee, 
 
 And curse them ! 
 
 Trunk and shoot. 
 
 Herb and weed, 
 
 Bud and fruit. 
 
 Blossom and seed. 
 
 Above and below. 
 
 About and about. 
 
 Inside and out, 
 
 Grown and to grow, 
 
 Curse you all. 
 
 Great and small, 
 
 That cannot give hack my daughter ! 
 
 But if tliere were any, 
 Among so many. 
 
 Any small thing that did lie sweet for her. 
 Any newt or marish-worm that, shrinking 
 Under the }>illow of the water weed. 
 Left her a cleaner bed. 
 
 Any least leaves that fell with little plashes. 
 And sinking, sinking. 
 
 Sank soft and slow, and settled on her lashes, 
 
 007
 
 98 DEAD-MAID'S-POOL. 
 
 And did what was so meet for her, 
 Them I do not curse. 
 
 See, see up the glen. 
 
 The evening sun agen ? 
 
 It falls upon the water, 
 
 It falls upon the grass, 
 
 Thro' the birches, thro* the firs, 
 
 Thro' the alders, catching gold. 
 
 Thro' the bracken and the brier, 
 
 Goes the evening fire 
 
 To the bush-linnet's nest. 
 
 There between us and the west, 
 Dost thou see the angels pass ? 
 Thro' the air, with streaming hair, 
 The golden angels pass ? 
 Hold, hold ! for mercy, hold ! 
 I know thee ! ah, I know thee 1 
 I know thou wilt not pass me so — 
 The grey old woman is ready to go. 
 Call nie to thee, call me to thee, 
 ]\1y daughter I oh, my daughter I
 
 99 
 
 THE SAILOR'S RETURN. 
 
 This morn I lay a-dreaming, 
 
 This morn, this merry morn, 
 
 When the cock crew shrill from over the hill, 
 
 I heard a biigle horn. 
 
 And thro' the dream I was dreaming, 
 There sighed the sigh of the sea, 
 And thro' the dream I was dreaming, 
 This voice came singing to me. 
 
 *' High over the breakers, 
 Low under the lee. 
 Sing ho 
 The billow, 
 And the lash of the rolling sea ! 
 
 " Boat, boat, to the billow, 
 Boat, boat, to the lee ! 
 Love, on thy pillow. 
 Art thou dreaming of me ? 
 
 "Billow, billow, breaking. 
 Land us low on the lee ! 
 For, sleeping or waking. 
 Sweet love, I am coming to thee ! 
 
 " High, high, o'er the breakers, 
 Low, low, on the lee, 
 Sing ho ! 
 The billow 
 That brings me back to thee ! "
 
 lOO 
 
 AN E VENING DREAM. 
 
 I'm leaning where yon loved to lean in eventides of 
 
 old, 
 The sun has sunk an hour ac;o behind the treeless wold, 
 lu this old oriel that we loved how oft I sit forlorn, 
 Gazing, gazing, up the vale of green and waving corn. 
 The summer corn is in the ear, thou knowest wliat I see 
 Up the long wide valley, and irom seldom tree to tree, 
 The serried corn, the serried corn, the green and serried 
 
 corn, 
 From the golden morn till night, from the moony night 
 
 till morn. 
 1 love it, morning, noon, and night, in sunshine and in 
 
 rain, 
 For being here it^eems to say, "The lost comeback 
 
 again." 
 And being here as green and fair as those old fields we 
 
 knew. 
 It says, "The lost when they come back, come back 
 
 unchanged and true." 
 But more than at the shout of morn, or in the sleep of 
 
 noon. 
 Smiling with a smiling star, or wan beneath a wasted 
 
 moon, 
 I love it, soldier brother ! at this weird dim hour, for 
 
 then 
 The serried ears are swords and spears, and the fields are 
 
 fields of men. 
 Rank on rank in faultless phalanx stern and still I can 
 
 discern,
 
 AN EVENING DREAM. loi 
 
 Phalanx after faultless phalanx iu dumb armies still 
 
 and stern ; 
 Army on army, host on ho^, till the bannered nations 
 
 stand, 
 As the dead may stand for judgment silent on the o'er- 
 
 peopled land. 
 Not a bayonet stirs: down sinks the awful twiliglit, 
 
 dern and dun, 
 On an age that waits its leader, on a world that waits the 
 
 suu. 
 Then your dog — I know his voice — cries from out the 
 
 courtyard nigh, 
 And my love too well interprets all that long and 
 
 mournful cry ! 
 In my passion that thou art not, lo ! I see thee as thou art, 
 And the pitying fancy brings thee to assuage the 
 
 anguished heart. 
 "Oh my brother 1" and my bosom's throb of welcome 
 
 at the word, 
 Claps a hundred thousand hands, and all my legions 
 
 hail thee lord. 
 And the vast unmotioned myriads, front to front, as at 
 
 a breath, 
 Live and move to martial music, down the devious 
 
 dance of death, 
 Ah, thou smilest, scornful brother, at a maiden's dream 
 
 of war ! 
 And thou shakeat back thy locks as if — a glow-worm for 
 
 thy star — 
 I dubbed thee with a blade of grass, by carthlight, in a 
 
 fairy ring, 
 Knight o' the garter o' Queen Mab, or lord in-waiting-to 
 
 her king. 
 Brother, in thy plumed pride of tented field and turrcted 
 
 tower,
 
 I02 AN EVENING DREAM. 
 
 Smiling brother, scornful brother, darest thou watch 
 
 with me one hour ? 
 Even now some fate is near, for I shake and know not 
 
 why, 
 And a wider sight is orbing, orbing, on my moistened 
 
 eye, 
 And I feel a thousand flutterings round my soul's still 
 
 vacant field, 
 Like the ravens and the vultures o'er a carnage yet 
 
 nnkilled. 
 Hist ! I see the stir of glamour far upon the twilight wold, 
 Hist ! I see the vision rising ! List ! and as I speak 
 
 behold ! 
 These dull mists are mists of morning, and behind yon 
 
 eastern hill, 
 The hot sun abides my bidding : he shall melt them 
 
 when I will. 
 All the night that now is past, the foe hath laboured for 
 
 the day. 
 Creeping thro' the stealthy dark, like a tiger to his prey. 
 Throw this window wider ! Strain thine eyes along the 
 
 dusky vale ! 
 Art thou cold with horror ? Has thy bearded cheek 
 
 grown pale ? 
 'Tis the total Russian host, flooding up the solemn plain, 
 Secret as a silent sea, mighty as a moving main ! 
 Oh, my country ! is there none to rouse thee to the 
 
 rolling sight ? 
 Oh thou gallant sentinel who has watched so oft so well, 
 
 must thou sleep this only night ? 
 So hath the shepherd lain on a rock above a plain, 
 Nor beheld the flood that swelled from some embowelled 
 
 mount of woo, 
 AVaveless, foamless, sure and slow, 
 Silent o'er the vale below,
 
 Ai\' EVENING DREAM 103 
 
 Till nigher still and nighcr comes the seethe of fields ou 
 
 fire, 
 And the thrash of falling trees, and the steam of rivers 
 
 (lry» 
 And before the burning flood the wild things of the wood 
 
 Skulk and scream, and fight, and fall, and flee, and lly. 
 
 A gun ! and then a gun ! F the far and early sun 
 
 Dost thou see by yonder tree a fleeting redness rise, 
 As if, one after one, ten poppies red had blown, 
 
 And shed in a blinking of the eyes 1 
 They have started from their rest with a bayonet at each 
 breast. 
 Those watchers of the west who shall never watch 
 again ! 
 'Tis nought to die, but oh, God's pity on the woe 
 
 Of dying hearts that know they die in vain ! 
 Ticyond yon backward height that meets their dying 
 sight, 
 A thousand tents are white, and a slumbering army 
 lies. 
 " Brown Bess," the sergeant cries, as he loads her while 
 
 he dies, 
 "Let this devil's deluge reach them, and the good old 
 
 cause is lost." 
 He dies upon the word, but his signal gun is heard. 
 You ambush green is stirred, yon labouring leaves arc 
 tost. 
 And a sudden sabre waves, and like dead fiom opened 
 graves, 
 A hundred men stand up to meet a host. 
 Dumb as death, with bated breath. 
 Calm u|(stand that fearless band, 
 
 And the dear old native land, like a dream of sudden 
 sleep.
 
 1 04 AN E VENING DREA M. 
 
 Passes by each manly eye that is fixed so steru and dry 
 
 On the tide of battle rolling up the steep. 
 They hold their silent ground, I can hear each fatal 
 sound 
 Upon that summer mound which the morning sun- 
 shine warms, 
 The word so brief and shrill tiiat rules them like a will, 
 The sough of moving limbs, and the clank and ring of 
 arms. 
 "Fire ! " and round that green knoll the sudden war- 
 clouds roll, 
 And from the tyrant's ranks so fierce an answ'ring 
 blast 
 Of whirling death came back that the green trees turned 
 to black, 
 And dropped their leaves in winter as it passed. 
 A moment on each side the surging smoke is wide, 
 Between the fields are green, and around the hills are 
 loud, 
 But a shout breaks out, and lo ! they have rushed upon 
 the foe, 
 As the living lightning leaps from cloud to cloud. 
 Fire and flash, smoke and crash, 
 The fogs of battle close o'er friends and foes, and they 
 
 are gone ! 
 Alas, thou bright-eyed boy ! alas, thou mother's joy ! 
 With thy long hair so fair, thou didst so bravely lead 
 thcni on ! 
 I faint with pain and fear. Ah, heaven ! what do I 
 hear ? 
 A trumpet-note so near ? 
 What are these that race like hunters at a chase ? 
 Who are these tliat run a thousand men as one ! 
 What are these that crash the trees far in the waving 
 rear?
 
 Al^ EVENING DREAM. 105 
 
 Fight oil, thou young hero ! there's help upon the way ! 
 Tlie light horse are coming, the great guns are coining, 
 The Highlanders are coming ; — good God, give us the 
 day 1 
 Hurrah for the brave and the leal ! Hurrah for the strong 
 
 and the true ! 
 Hurrah for the helmets of steel ! Hurrah for the bonnets 
 
 o' blue-1 
 A run and a cheer, the Highlanders are here I a gallop 
 
 and a cheer, the light horse are here ! 
 A rattle and a cheer, the great guns are here ! 
 
 With a cheer tliey wheel round and face the foe ! 
 As the troopers wheel about, their long swords are out, 
 
 With a trumpet and a shout, in they go ! 
 Like a yawning ocean green, the liuge host gulphs them 
 in, 
 But high o'er the rolling of the flood, 
 Tlieir sabres you may see like lights upon the sea 
 
 When the red sun is going down in blood. 
 Again, again, again ! And the lights are on the wane ! 
 
 Ah, Christ ! I see them sink, light by light, 
 As the gleams go one by one when the great sun is down, 
 
 And the sea rocks in foam beneath the night. 
 Aye, the great sun is low, and the waves of battle flow 
 O'er his honoured head ; but, oh, we mourn not he is 
 down, 
 For to-morrow he shall rise to fill his country's eyes. 
 
 As he sails up the skies of renown ! 
 Ye may yell, but ye shall groan ! 
 Ye shall buy them bone for bone ! 
 Now, tyrant, hold thine own ! blare the trumpet, peal 
 
 the drum 1 
 From yonder hill-side dark, the storm is on you ! 
 Hark! 
 Swift as lightning, loud as thunder, down they come 1
 
 io6 AN EVENING DREAM. 
 
 As on some Scottish shore, with mountains frowning 
 o'er, 
 
 The sudden tempests roar from the glen, 
 And roll the tumbling sea in billows to the lee, 
 
 Came the charge of the gallant Highlandmen ! 
 And as one beholds the sea tho' the wind he cannot see. 
 
 But by the waves that flee knows its might, 
 So I tracked the Highland blast by the sudden tide that 
 past 
 
 O'er the wild and rolling vast of the fight. 
 Yes, glory be to God ! they have stemmed thi foremost 
 flood! 
 
 I lay me on the sod and breathe again f 
 In the precious momenjts won, the bugle call has gone 
 
 To the tents where it never rang in vain, 
 And lo I the landscape wide is red from side to side, 
 
 And all the might of England loads the plain ! 
 Like a hot and bloody dawn, across the horizon drawn, 
 
 While the host of darkness holds the misty vale, 
 As glowing and as grand our bannered legions stand, 
 
 And England's flag unfolds upon the gale ! 
 At that great sign unfurled, as morn moves o'er the world 
 
 When God lifts His standard of light, 
 With a tumult and a voice, and a rushing mighty noise, 
 
 Our long line moves forward to the fight. 
 Clarion and clarion defying. 
 Sounding, resounding, replying, 
 Trumpets braying, pipers playing, chargers neighing. 
 Near and far 
 
 The to and fro storm of the never-done hurrahing. 
 Thro' the bright weather banner and feather rising and 
 
 falling, bugle and fife 
 Calling, recalling — for death or for life — 
 Our host moved on to the war. 
 While England, England, England, England, England I
 
 AN E VENING DREA M. 1 07 
 
 Was blown from line to line near and far, 
 
 And like the morning sea, our baj'onets you might see, 
 
 Come beaming, gleaming, streaming, 
 
 Streaming, gleaming, beaming, 
 
 Beaming, gleaming, streaming, to the war. 
 
 Clarion and clarion defying, 
 
 Sounding, resounding, replying, 
 
 Trumpets braying, pipers playing, chargers neighing, 
 
 Near and far 
 
 The to and fro storm of the never-done hurrahing. 
 
 Thro' the bright weather, banner and feather rising and 
 
 falling, bugle and fife 
 Calling, recalling — for death or for life— 
 Our long line moved forward to the war.
 
 io8 
 
 From A SHOWER IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 Rain, rain, sweet warm rain, 
 
 On the wood and on the i>lain ! 
 
 Rain, rain, warm and sweet, 
 
 Summer wood lush leafy and loud. 
 
 With note of a throat that ripples and ring^. 
 
 Sad sole sweet from her central seat, 
 
 Bubbling and trilling, 
 
 Filling, filling, filling 
 
 The shady space of the green dim place 
 
 With an odour of melody. 
 
 Till all the noon is thrilling, 
 
 And the great wood hangs in the balmy dj.\ 
 
 Like a cloud with an angel in the cloud, 
 
 And singing because she sings ! 
 
 In the sheltering wood, 
 
 At that hour I stood ; 
 
 I saw that in that hour 
 
 Great round drops, clear round drop-;, 
 
 Grew on every leaf and flower. 
 
 And its hue so fairly took 
 
 And faintly, that each tinted elf 
 
 Trembled with a rarer self. 
 
 Even as if its beauty shook 
 
 With passion to a tenderer look. * 
 
 Rain, rain, sweet warm rain. 
 On the wood and on the plain I
 
 A SHOWER IN WAR-TIME. 109 
 
 Kain, rain, warm and sweet, 
 
 Summer wood lush leafy and loud, 
 
 With note of a throat that ripples and rings, 
 
 Sad sole sweet from her central seat, 
 
 Bubbling and trilling, 
 
 Filling, filling, filling 
 
 The shady s[iace of the green dim place 
 
 With an odour of melody, 
 
 Till all the noon is thrilling. 
 
 And the great wood hangs in the balmy day. 
 
 Like a cloud with an angel in the cloud, 
 
 And singing because she sings ! 
 
 Then ont of the sweet warm weather 
 There came a little wind sighing, sighing : 
 Came to the wood sighing, and sighing went in, 
 Sighed thro' the green grass, and o'er the leaves 
 
 brown, 
 Sighed to the dingle, and, sighing, lay down, 
 While all the flowers whispered together. 
 Then came swift winds after her who was flying, 
 Swift bright winds with a jocund din. 
 Sought her in vain, her boscage was so good, 
 And spread like baflfled revellers thro' the wood. 
 Then, from bough, and leaf, and bell. 
 The great round drops, the clear round drops, 
 In fitful cadence drooped and fell — 
 Drooped and fell as if some wanton air 
 Were more apparent hero and there, 
 Sphered on a favourite flower in dewy kiss, 
 Grew heavy with delight and dropped with bliss. 
 
 Rain, rain, sweet warm rain. 
 On the wood and on the plain ; 
 Rain, rain, still and sweet,
 
 no A SHOWER IN IV A R- TIME 
 
 For the winds have hushed again, 
 And the nightingale is still, 
 Sleeping in her central seat. 
 Rain, rain, summer rain, 
 Silent as the summer heat. 
 Doth it fall, or doth it rise ? 
 Is it incensft from the hill. 
 Or bounty from the skies ? 
 Or is the face of earth that lies 
 Languid, looking up on higli, 
 To the face of Heaven so nigh 
 That their balmy breathings meet ? 
 
 Rain, rain, summer rain. 
 
 On the wood and on the plain : 
 
 Rain, rain, rain, uutil 
 
 The tall wet trees no more athirst, 
 
 As each chalice green doth fill, 
 
 See the pigmy nations nurst 
 
 Round their distant feet, and throw 
 
 The nectar to the herbs below. 
 
 The droughty herbs, without a sound, 
 
 Drink it ere it reach the ground. 
 
 Rain, rain, sweet warm rain, 
 On the wood and on the plain, 
 And round me like a dropping well. 
 The great round drops they fell and fell. 
 
 I say not War is good or ill ; 
 Perchance they may slay, if they will. 
 Who killing love, and loving kill.
 
 A SHO li 'ER JN WA R- TIME. 1 1 1 
 
 Whether our bloodsheds flow or cease, 
 I know that as the years increase, 
 The flower of all is human peace. 
 
 "The flower." Vertumnus hath repute 
 O'er Flora ; yet methinks the fruit 
 But alter ego of the root ; 
 
 And that which serves our fleshly need, 
 Subserves the blossom that doth feed 
 The soul which is the life indeed. 
 
 Nor well he deems who deems the rose 
 Is for the roseberry, nor knows 
 The roseberry is for the rose. 
 
 And Autumn's garnered treasury, 
 But prudent Nature's guarantee 
 That Summer evermore shall be, 
 
 And yearly, once a-year, complete 
 That top and culmen exquisite 
 Whereto the slanting seasons meet. 
 
 Whether our bloodsheds flow or ceasp, 
 I know that, as the years increase, 
 The flower of all is human peace. 
 
 "The flower." Yet whether shall we sow 
 
 A blossom or a seed ? I know 
 
 The flower will rot, the seed will grow. 
 
 By this the rain had ceased, and I went forth 
 From that Dodona green of oak and beech.
 
 112 A SHOU ER IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 But ere my steps could reach 
 
 The hamlet, I beheld along the verge 
 
 A. flight of fleeing cloudlets that did ur<;o 
 
 Unequal speed, as when a herd is driven 
 
 By the recurring pulse of shoutings loud. 
 
 I saw ; but held the omen of no worth. 
 
 For by the footway not a darnel stirred, 
 
 And still the noon slept on, nor even a biid 
 
 Moved the dull air ; but, at fach silent hand, 
 
 Upon the steaming land 
 
 The hare lay basking, and the budded wheat 
 
 Hung slumberous heads of sleep. 
 
 Then I was 'ware that a great northern cloud 
 
 Moved slowly to the centre of the heaven. 
 
 His white head was so high 
 
 That the great blue fell round him like the wide 
 
 And erniined robe of kings. He sat in pride 
 
 Lonely and cold ; but methought when he spied 
 
 From that severe inhospitable height 
 
 The distant dear delight, 
 
 The melting world with summer at her side, 
 
 His pale brow mellowed with a mournful light, 
 
 And like a marble god he wept his stony tears. 
 
 The loyal clonds that sit about; his feet, 
 
 All in their courtier kinds, 
 
 Do weep to see him weep. 
 
 After the priceless drops the sycophant winds 
 
 Leap headlong down, ami cbase, and swirl, and swoop 
 
 Beneath the royal grief that scarce may reach thu 
 
 ground. 
 To see their whirling zeal, 
 Unlikely things that in the kennel lie 
 Begin to wdieel and wheel ; 
 The wild tarantula-will spreads far and nigh, 
 And spinning straws go spiral to the sky,
 
 A SHOWER IN IVAR-T/ME. 113 
 
 And leaves long dead leap up and dance their ghastly 
 
 round. 
 And so it happened in the street 
 'Neath a broad eave I stood and mused again, 
 And all tlie arrows of the diiving rain 
 Were tipped with slanting sleet. 
 I mused beneath the straw pent of the brirkcd 
 And sodded cot, with damp moss mouldered o'er, 
 Tlie bristled thatch gleamed witli a carcanet. 
 And from the inner eaves the reeking wet 
 Dripped ; dropping more 
 And more, as more the sappy roof was sapped, 
 And wept a mirkier wash that splaslied and clapped 
 The plain-stones, dribbling to the flooded door. 
 A plopping ])ool of droppings stood before. 
 Worn by a weeping age in rock of easy grain. 
 O'erhead, hard by, a pointed beam o'erlapped, 
 And from its jewelled tip 
 The slipping slipping drip 
 Did whip the iillipiied pool whose hopping plashes 
 
 ticked. 
 
 Let one or thousands loose or bind, 
 That land's enslaved whose sovran mind 
 Collides the conscience of mankind. 
 
 And free — whoever holds the rood — 
 Where Might in Kiglit, and Power in Good, 
 Flow each in each, like life in blood. 
 
 If England's head and heart were one, 
 Where is that good beneath the sun 
 Her noble hands sliouM leave nndone ! 
 
 ooS
 
 114 A SHOWER IN WAR- TIME. 
 
 Small unit, hast thou hardiness 
 To bid mankind to battle ? Yes. 
 The worm will rout tliem, and is lesw. 
 
 The world assaults ? Nor fight nor fly. 
 Stand in some steadfast truth, and eye 
 The stubborn siege grow old and die. 
 
 My army is mankind. My foe 
 The very meanest truth 1 know. 
 Shall I come back a conqueror ? No. 
 
 Wouldst light ? See Phosphor shines coufest, 
 Turn thy broad back upon the west ; 
 Stand firm. Tlio world will do the rest. 
 
 Stand firm. Unless thy strength can climb 
 Yon alp, and from that height sublime 
 See, ere we see, the advancing time. 
 
 Act for to-day ? Friend, this " to-day " 
 Washed Adam's feet and streams away 
 Far into yon Eternity.
 
 ITS 
 
 A HERO'S GRAVE. 
 
 O'er our eveniii|j fire the smoke is like a pall, 
 And funeral banners hang about the arches of the hall, 
 In the f,'able end I see a catafalque aloof, 
 And night is drawn up like a curtain to the girders of 
 the roof. 
 
 Thou knowest why we silent sit, and why our eyes are 
 
 dim, 
 Sing us such proud sorrow as we may hear for him. 
 
 Reach me the old harp that hangs between the flags he 
 
 won, 
 I will sing what once I heard beside the grave of such a 
 
 son. . 
 
 ^ly son, my sou, 
 
 A father's eyes are looking on thy grave, 
 
 Dry eyes that look on this green mound and see 
 
 The low weed blossom and the long grass wave, 
 
 Without a single tear to them or thee. 
 
 My son, my son. 
 
 "Why should I weep ? The grass is grass, the weeds 
 Aro weeds. Tlie emmet hath done thus ere now. 
 1 tear a leaf; the green blood that it bleeds 
 Is cold. What have I here? Where, where art thon, 
 My son, my son ?
 
 ii6 A HERO'S CRAVE. 
 
 On which tall trembler shall the old man lean ? 
 Which chill leal" shall lap o'er him when he lias 
 On that bed where in visions I have seen 
 Thy filial love ? or, when tliy father dies, 
 Tissue a finj^ored thorn to close his childless eyes ? 
 
 Aye, where art thou ? lieu tell me of a fame 
 Walking the wonderinp; nations ; and tliey say, 
 When thro' the shoutinj,' jioofile thy great name 
 Goes like a chief upon a battle-day, 
 They shake the heavens with glory. Well-away ! 
 
 As some poor hound that thro' thronged street and square 
 Pursues his loved lost lord, and fond and fast 
 Seeks what he feels to be but feels not where, 
 Tracks the dear feet to some closed door at last, 
 And lies him down and lornest looks doth cast, 
 
 So I, thro' all the long tumultuous days, 
 Tracing thy footstej) on the human sands, 
 O'er the signed deserts and the vocal ways 
 Pursue thee, faithful, thro' the echoing lands, 
 Wearing a wandciing stalf with trembling hands : 
 
 Thro' echoing lands that ring with victory, 
 And answer for the living witii the dead, 
 And give me marble when I ask for bread, 
 And give me glory when I ask for thee — 
 It was not glory I nursed on my knee. 
 
 And now, one stride behind thee, and too late, 
 Yet true to all that reason cannot kill, 
 I stand before the inexorable gate 
 And see thy latest footstep on the sill, 
 And know tliou canst not coine, but watch and wait 
 thee still.
 
 A HERO'S GRAVE. 117 
 
 " Old man ! " — Ah, darest thou ? yet thy look is kind. 
 Didst thou, too, love him ? " Thou grey-headed sire, 
 Seest thou this path which from that grave doth wiud 
 Far thro' those western uplands higlier and higher, 
 Till, like a thread, it burns in the great lire 
 
 "Of sunset ? The wild sea and desert meet 
 Eastward by yon unnavigable strand. 
 Then wherefore liath tlie How of human feet 
 Left this dry runnel of memorial sand 
 Meandering thro' the summer of the land ? 
 
 " See where tlie long immeasurable snake, 
 Between dim hall and hamlet, tower and shed, 
 Mountain and mountain, precipice and lake. 
 Lies forth unfinished to this final head. 
 This green dead mound of the unfading dt-ad ! " 
 
 Do they then come to weep thee ? Do they kiss 
 Thy relics ? Art thou then as wholly gone 
 As some old buried saint ? My son, my son. 
 Ah, could I mourn thee so ! Such tears were bliss ! 
 "Old man, tliey do not mourn wiio weep at graves liko 
 this." 
 
 They do not mourn ? What ! hath the insolent foe 
 Found out my child's last bed ? Who, who, are they 
 That come and go about him ? I crj', " Who ? " 
 I am his father— I ;— I cry " Who ? " " Aye, 
 Gray trembler, I will tell thee who are they. 
 
 " The slave who, having grown up strong and stark 
 To the set season, feels at length he wears 
 Bonds that will break, and thro' the slavish dirk 
 Shines v\ ith the light of liberated years, 
 And still in chaius doth weep a freeman's tears.
 
 Ii8 A HERO'S GRAVE. 
 
 *' The patriot, while the unebbed force that hurled 
 His tyrant throbs within his bursting veins, 
 And, on the ruins of a hundred reigns, 
 That ancient heaven of brass, so long unfurled, 
 Falls with a crash of fame that fdls the world, 
 And thro' the clangour lo the unwonted strains 
 Of peace, and, in the new sweet heavens upcurlcd, 
 The sudden incense of a thousand plains. 
 
 "Youth, whom some mighty flasli fiom heaven hath 
 
 turned 
 In his dark highway, and who runs forth, shod 
 "With flame, into the wilderness untrod, 
 And as he runs his heart of flint is burned, 
 And in that glass he sees the face of God, 
 And falls upon his knees — and morn is all abroad. 
 
 " Age, who hath heard amid his cloistered ground 
 The cheer of youth, and steps from echoing aisles, 
 And at a sight the great blood with a bound 
 Melts his brow's winter, which the free sun smiles 
 To jewels, and ho stands a young man crowned 
 With glittering years among a young world shouting 
 round. 
 
 "Girls that do blush and tremble with delight 
 On the St. John's eve of their maidenhood ; 
 When the unsummered woman in her blood 
 Glows through the Parian maid, and at the sight 
 The flushing virgin weeps and feels herself too bright. 
 
 " He who first feels the world-old destiny, 
 
 The shaft of gold that strikes the poet still, 
 
 And slowly in its victim melts away. 
 
 Who knows his wounds will heal but when they kill, 
 
 And drop by vital drop doth bleed his golden ill.
 
 A HERO'S GRAVE. it^ 
 
 "All whom the everpassing mysteries 
 
 Have rapt above the region of our race, 
 
 And, blinded by the glory and the grace, 
 
 Break from the ecstatic sphere — as he who dies 
 
 In darkness, and in heaven's own light doth rise, 
 
 Dazed with the untried glory of the place 
 
 Looks up and sees some well-remembered face, 
 
 And thro' the invulnerable angels flies 
 
 To that dear human breast and hides his dazzled eyes. 
 
 " All who, like the sun-ripened seed that springs 
 
 And bourgeons in the sun, do hold profound 
 
 An antenatal stature, which the round 
 
 Of the dull continent flesh hath cribbed and wound 
 
 Into this kernelled man ; but having found 
 
 Such soil as grew them, burst in blossomings 
 
 Not native here, or, from the hallowed ground. 
 
 Tower their slow height, and spread like sheltering wliigs, 
 
 Those boughs wherein the bird of omen sings 
 
 High as the palms of heaven, while to the sound 
 
 Lo kingdoms jocund in the sacred bound 
 
 Till the world's summer fills her moon, and brings 
 
 The final fruit which is the feast and fate of kings. 
 
 " And darest thou mourn ? Thy bones are left behind. 
 But where art thou, Anchiscs 1 Dost thou see 
 Him who once bare the slow paternity. 
 Foot-burnt o'er stony Troy 1 So, thou, reclined 
 Goest thro' the falling years. Here, here where we 
 Two stand, lies deep the flesh thou hast so pined 
 To clasp, and shalt clasp never. Verily, 
 Love and the worm are often of one mind ! 
 God save them from election I Pity tliee ? 
 True he lifts not thy load, but ho hath signed 
 And at his beck a nation rose up free ;
 
 120 A /ZERO'S GRAVE. 
 
 Thy wounds his living love may never bind, 
 
 But at the dead man's touch posterity 
 
 Is healed. To thee, tliou poor, and halt, and blind, 
 
 He is a stall' no more : but times to be 
 
 Lean on his monumental memory 
 
 As the moon on a mountain. Thou shalt find 
 
 A silent home, a cheerless hearth : but he 
 
 Shall be a hre which the enkindling wind, 
 
 Blowing for ever from eternity. 
 
 Fans till its universal blaze hath sinned 
 
 The yule of thankful ages, Pity thee ? 
 
 A son is lost to thine infirmity ; 
 
 Poor fool, what then ? A son thou hast resign fi 
 
 To give a father to the virtues of mankind,"
 
 121 
 
 IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 An Aspiration of the Spirit, 
 
 LuRD Jesus, as a little child, 
 Upon some high ascension day 
 When a great people goes to pay 
 
 Allegiance, and the tumult wild 
 
 Roars by its thousand streets, and filJa 
 The billowy nation on the plain, 
 As roar into the heaving main 
 
 A thousand torrents from the hills, 
 
 Caught in the current of the throng 
 Is drawn beneath the closing crowd, 
 And, drowning in the human Hood, 
 
 Is whirled in its dark depths along ; 
 
 And low under the ruthless feet. 
 Or high as to the awful knees 
 Of giants that he partly sees. 
 
 Blinded with fear and faint with heat, 
 
 :Siindless of all but what doth seem. 
 And shut out from tlie ui'per light, 
 Maddens within a monstrous niglit 
 
 Of limbs tliat crush him like a dream ;
 
 12?. IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 And wbci) liis strength no more can stand, 
 And while he sinks in his last swound, 
 Is lifted fiom the deadly ground, 
 
 And led by a resistless hand. 
 
 And thro' the opening agony 
 Goes on and knows not where, beside 
 The mastery of his guardian guide, 
 
 Goes on, and knows not where nor why, 
 
 Till, when the sky no more is hid. 
 Between the rocking heads he sees 
 A mount that rises by degrees 
 
 Above them like a pyramid, 
 
 And on the summit of the mount 
 
 A vacant throne, and round tlie throne 
 Bright-vestured princes, zono by zone. 
 
 In circles that he cannot count, 
 
 And feels, at length, a slanting way, 
 And labours by his guardian good 
 Till forth, as from a lessening wood, 
 
 They step into the dazzling day, 
 
 And from the mount he sees below 
 The marvel of the marshalled plain, 
 And what was tumult is a reign. 
 
 And, as he climbs, the princes know 
 
 His guide, and fall about his feet. 
 Before his face the courtiers fall, 
 And lo ! it is the Lord of all, 
 
 And on his throne he takes his seat j
 
 IN WAR-TIME. 123 
 
 And, while strong foars transfix the boy, 
 
 The mighty people far and near 
 
 Throw uj) ujjon the eye and ear 
 The flash and thunder of their joy, 
 
 And, round the royal flag unfurled, 
 
 In sequent love and circling awe 
 
 The legions lead their living law, 
 And what was Chaos is a World : 
 
 So, Lord, Thou seest this mortal me, 
 
 Deep in Titanic days that press 
 
 Incessant from unknown access 
 To issues that I cannot see. 
 
 Caught in the current stern and strong 
 I sink beneath the closing crowd, 
 And drowning in the awful flood 
 
 Am whirled in its dark depths along, 
 
 Struggling with shows so thronged and thrust 
 On these wide eyes which bruise and burn, 
 And flash with half-seen sights, or turn 
 
 To that worse darkness thick with dust, 
 
 That mindful of but what doth seem, 
 
 And hopeless of the upper light, 
 
 I madden in a monstrous night 
 Of shapes that crush me like a dream. 
 
 Then when my strength no more can st.iini; 
 And while I sink in my last s wound, 
 Lo ! I am lifted from the ground, 
 
 And led by a resistless hand ;
 
 124 -^A' WAR-TIME. 
 
 And thro' the opening agony 
 
 Go on and know not where, beside 
 The mastery of ray guardian guide, 
 
 Go on, and know not where or why ; 
 
 Nor, tho' I cannot see Thy brow, 
 Distrust the hand I feel so dear, 
 Kor question bow Thou wert so near, 
 
 Xor ask Thee wliither goest Thou, 
 
 Nor whence Thy footsteps first began. 
 Whence, Lord, Thou knowest : whither, Lord, 
 Thou knowest : how Thou knowest. Oh AVord 
 
 Tliat can be touched, oh Spoken Man, 
 
 Enough, enough, if Thou wilt lead, 
 To know Thou knowest ; enough to know 
 That darkling at Thy side I go, 
 
 And this strong hand is Thine indeed. 
 
 Yet by that side, unspent, untrod. 
 
 Oh let rae, clinging still to Thee, 
 
 Betuccn the swaying wonders see 
 The throne upon the mount of God. 
 
 And — tho' they close before mine cj'c, 
 And all my course is choked and shut — 
 Feel Time grow stee{)er under foot, 
 
 And know the final height is nigh. 
 
 And as one sees, thro' cambered straits 
 
 Of forests, on his forward way, 
 
 Horizons green of coloured day, 
 Oh let me thro' the crowding Fates
 
 IN WAR-TIME. 
 
 r.cliold the light of skies unseen, 
 Till on tliat suJilen Capitol 
 I step forth to the sight of all 
 
 That is, and shall be, and hath been, 
 
 And Thou, Kiii^, .sli;ilt take Tliine own 
 ^friuniphant ; and. Thy place I'ultilled, 
 The flaw of Nature shall be healed, 
 
 And joyous round Thy central throne 
 
 I see the vocal ages roll. 
 
 And all the human universe 
 
 Like some great symphony rehearse 
 
 The order of its perfect whole ; 
 
 And seek in vnin where once I fell. 
 Nor know the anarcliy I knew 
 In those congenial motions due 
 
 Of this great work where all is well, 
 
 And smile, with dazzled wisdom dumb, 
 — Remciubcring all I said and sung— 
 That man asks more of mortal tongue 
 
 Than skill to say, " T!iy kingdom come. 
 
 'mf^ 
 
 r
 
 126 
 
 HOAIE, WOUNDED 
 
 Wheel me into the sunshine, 
 
 Wheel me into the shadow, 
 
 There must be leaves on the woodbine, 
 
 Is the king-cup crowned in the meadow ? 
 
 Wheel me down to the meadow, 
 
 Down to the little river, 
 
 In sun or in shadow 
 
 I shall not dazzle or shiver, 
 
 I shall be happy anywhere, 
 
 Every breath of the morning air 
 
 Makes me throb and quiver. 
 
 Stay wherever you will, 
 
 By the mount or under the hill, 
 
 Or down by the little rivur : 
 
 Stay as long as you please, 
 
 Give me only a bud from the trees, 
 
 Or a blade of grass in morning dew, 
 
 Or a cloudy violet clearing to blue, 
 
 I could look on it for ever 
 
 Wheel, wheel thro' the sunshine. 
 Wheel, wheel thro' tlio shadow ; 
 There must be odours round the pinO; 
 There must be balm of breathing kuie 
 Somewhere down in the meadow.
 
 HOME, WOUNDED. 127 
 
 Must I choose ? Then anchor me there 
 Beyond the beckoning poplars, where 
 The larch is snooding her flowery hair 
 With wreaths of morning shadow. 
 
 Among the thicket hazels of the brake 
 
 Perchance some nij^htingale doth shake 
 
 His feathers, and the air is full of song ; 
 
 In those old days when I was young and strong, 
 
 He used to sing on yonder garden tiee, 
 
 Beside the nursery. 
 
 Ah, I remember how I loved to wake, 
 
 And find him singing on the self-same bough 
 
 (I know it even now) 
 
 Where, since the flit of bat, 
 
 In ceaseless voice he sat, 
 
 Trying the spring niglit over, like a tune, 
 
 Beneath the vernal moon ; 
 
 And while I listed long, 
 
 Day rose, and still he sang, 
 
 And all his stanchless song, 
 
 As something falling unaware. 
 
 Fell out of the tall trees he sang among, 
 
 Fell ringing down the ringing morn, and rang— 
 
 Rang like a golden jewel down a golden stair. 
 
 Is it too early ? I hope not. 
 But wheel me to the ancient oak, 
 On this side of the meadow ; 
 Let me hear the raven's croak 
 Loosened to an amorous note 
 In the hollow .shadow. 
 Let me see tlie winter snake 
 Thawing all his frozen rings 
 On the bank where the wren sings.
 
 128 HOME, HOUNDED, 
 
 Let me hear the little bell, 
 
 Where tlie red-wing, top-mast high, 
 
 Looks towards the northern sky, 
 
 And jangles liis farewell. 
 
 Let us rest by the ancient oak, 
 
 And see his net of shadow, 
 
 His net of barren shadow. 
 
 Like those wrestlers' nets of old, 
 
 Hold the winter dead and cold, 
 
 Hoary winter, white and cold, 
 
 While all is green in the meadow. 
 
 And when you've rested, brother mint. 
 Take me over the meadow ; 
 Take me along the level crown 
 Of the bare and silent down, 
 And stop by the ruined tower. 
 On its green scarp, by and by, 
 I shall smell the flowering thyme, 
 On its wall the wall-flower. 
 
 In the tower there used to be 
 
 A solitary tree. 
 
 Take me there, for the dear sake 
 
 Of tliose old days wherein I loved to He 
 
 And pull tlie melilote. 
 
 And look across the valley to the sky. 
 
 And hear the joy that tilled the warm wide lioiir 
 
 Bubble from the thrush's throat. 
 
 As into a shining mere 
 
 Rills some riilet trebling clear, 
 
 And speaks the silent silver of the lake 
 
 There mid cloistering tree-roots, year by year, 
 
 Tlie hen-thrush sat, ai.d he, her lief and dear, 
 
 Among the boughs did make
 
 HOME, WOUNDED. 129 
 
 A ceaseless music of her married time, 
 And all the ancient stones grew sweet to lieai , 
 And answered liim in the unspoken rhjme 
 Of gracious forms most musical 
 That tremble on the wall 
 And .trim its age with airy fantasies 
 That flicker in the sun, and hardl)' seem 
 As if to 1)0 lieliold were all, 
 And only to our eyes 
 They ri^^e and fall. 
 And fall and rise, 
 
 Sink down like silence, or a-sudden streasii 
 As wind-blown on the wind, as streams a weddint^'-i liinie 
 
 But you are wheeling me wliile I dream, 
 And we've almost reached the meadow ! 
 You may wheel me fast thro' the sunshine, 
 You may wheel me fast thro' the shadow. 
 But wheel me slowly, brother mine. 
 Thro' tlie green of tlie sappy meadow ; 
 For the snn, these days have been so fine, 
 Must have touched it over with celandine, 
 And the southern hawthorn, I divine, 
 Sheds a muffled shadow. 
 
 There blows 
 
 The first primrose, 
 
 Under tlie bare bank rosea: 
 
 There is but one. 
 
 And the bank is brown, 
 
 But soon the children will come down. 
 
 The ringing children come singing down. 
 
 To flick their Ea.-it«^r posies, 
 
 And they'll spy it out, my beautiful, 
 
 Among the bare brier-roses; 
 
 QQ9
 
 I30 HOME, WOUNDED. 
 
 And when I sit here again alone, 
 
 The bare brown bank will be blind and dull, 
 
 Alas for Easter posies ! 
 
 But when the din is over and gone, 
 
 Like an eye that opens after pain, 
 
 I shall see my pale flower shining again : 
 
 Like a fair star after a gust of rain 
 
 I shall see my pale flower shining again ; 
 
 Like a glow-worm after the rolling wain 
 
 Hath shaken darkness down the lano 
 
 I shall see my pale flower shining again ; 
 
 And it will blow here for two months more, 
 
 And it will blow here again next year, 
 
 And the year past that, and the year beyond ; 
 
 And thro' all tlio years till my years are o'er 
 
 I shall always find it here. 
 
 Shining across from the bank above, 
 
 Shining i;p from the pond below, 
 
 Ere a water-fly wimple the silent pond, 
 
 Or the first green weed appear. 
 
 And I shall sit here under the tree, 
 
 And as each slow bud uncloses, 
 
 I shall see it brighten and brighten to me, 
 
 From among the leafing brier-roses, 
 
 The leaning leafing roses. 
 
 As at eve the leafing shadows grow, 
 
 And the star of light and love 
 
 Dravveth near o'er lier airy glades, 
 
 Draweth near thro' her heavenly shades, 
 
 As a maid thro' a myrtle grove. 
 
 And the flowers will multiply, 
 
 As the stars come blossoming over the sky, 
 
 The bank will blossom, the waters blow. 
 
 Till the singing children hitherward hie 
 
 To gather May-day posies ;
 
 HOME, WOUNDED. 131 
 
 And the bank will b&bare wherever they go, 
 As dawn, the primrose-girl, goes by, 
 And alas for heaven's primroses ! 
 
 Blare the trumpet, and boom the gnn, 
 But, oh, to sit here thus in the sun, 
 To sit here, feeling ray work is done, 
 While the sands of life so golden run, 
 And I watch the children's posies, 
 And my idle heart is whispering 
 "Bring whatever the years may bring, 
 The flowers will blossom, the birds \\\\\ sing; 
 And there'll always be primroses." 
 
 Looking before me here in the sun, 
 I see the Aprils one after one, 
 Primrosed Aprils one by one, 
 Primrosed Aprils on and on, 
 Till the floating prospect closes 
 In golden glimmers that rise and rise, 
 And perhaps are gleams of Paradise, 
 And perhaps — too far for mortal eyes- 
 New years of fresh primroses, 
 Years of earth's primroses. 
 Springs to be, and springs for me 
 Of distant dim primroses. 
 
 My soul lies out like a basking hound, 
 
 A hound that dreams and dozes ; 
 
 Along my life my length I lay, 
 
 I fill to-morrow and yesterday, 
 
 I am warm with the suns that have long since set 
 
 I am warm with the summers that are not yet. 
 
 And like one who dreams and dozes 
 
 Softly afloat on a sunny sea. 
 
 Two worlds are whispering over me,
 
 133 HOME, WOUNDED. 
 
 And there blows a wind of roses 
 
 From the backward shore to the shore before, 
 
 From the shore before to the backward shore, 
 
 And like two clouds tliat meet and pour 
 
 Each thro' each, till core in core 
 
 A single self reposes, 
 
 Tlie nevermore with the evermore 
 
 Above me mingles and closes ; 
 
 As my soul lies out like the basking hound; 
 
 And wherever it lies seems happy ground, 
 
 And when, awakened by some sweet sound, 
 
 A dreamy eye uncloses, 
 
 I see a blooming world around. 
 
 And I lie amid primroses — 
 
 Years of sweet primroses, 
 
 Springs of fresh primroses. 
 
 Springs to be, and springs for me 
 
 Of distant dim primroses. 
 
 Oh to lie a-dream, a-dream. 
 
 To feel I may dream and to know you deem 
 
 My work is done for ever, 
 
 And the palpitating fever 
 
 That gains and loses, loses and gains. 
 And beats the hurrying blood on the brunt of a thousand 
 pains 
 
 Cooled at once by that blood-let 
 
 Upon the parapet ; 
 And all the tedious taskM toil of tlie difficult long 
 endeavour 
 
 Solved and quit by no more fine 
 
 Than these limbs of mine, 
 
 Spanned and measured once for all 
 
 By that right hand 1 lost, 
 
 Bought up at so light a cost
 
 HOME, WOUNDED. 133 
 
 As one bloody fall x 
 
 On the soldier's bed, 
 
 And three days on the ruined wall 
 
 Among the thirstless dead. 
 
 Oh to think my name is crost 
 
 From duty's muster-roll ; 
 
 That I may slumber tho' the clarion call, 
 
 And live the joy of an embodied soul 
 
 Free as a liberated ghost. 
 
 Oh to feel a life of deed 
 
 Was emptied out to feed 
 
 That fire of pain that burned so brief a wliile — 
 
 That fire from which I come, as the dead come 
 
 Forth from tho irreparable tomb. 
 
 Or as a martyr on his funeral pile 
 
 Heaps up the burdens other men do bear 
 
 Thro' years of segregated care, 
 
 And takes the total load 
 
 Upon his shoulders broad. 
 
 And steps from earth to God. 
 
 Oh to think, thro' good or ill, 
 
 AVhatcver I am you'll love me still ; 
 
 Oh to think, tho' dull I be, 
 
 You that are so grand and free, 
 
 You that are so bright and gay, 
 
 "Will pause to hear me when I will. 
 
 As tho' my head were grey ; 
 
 And tlio' there's little I can say, 
 
 Each will look kind with honour while he hears. 
 
 And to your loving ears 
 
 My thoughts will halt with honourable scars, 
 
 And when my dark voice stumbles with the weight 
 
 Of what it doth relate
 
 134 HOME, WOUNDED. 
 
 (Like that blind comrade — blinded in the wars- 
 
 Who bore the one-eyed brother that was lame), 
 
 You'll remember, tis the same 
 
 That cried " Follow me," 
 
 Upon a summer's day ; 
 
 And I shall understand with unshed tears 
 
 This great reverence that I see, 
 
 And bless the day — and Thee, 
 
 Lord God of victory 1 
 
 And she, 
 
 Perhaps oh even she 
 
 May look as she looked when I knew her 
 
 In those old days of childish sooth. 
 
 Ere my boyhood dared to woo her. 
 
 I will not seek nor sue her, 
 
 For I'm neither fonder nor truer 
 
 Than when she slighted my love-lorn youth. 
 
 My giftless, graceless, guinealess truth. 
 
 And I only lived to rue her. 
 
 But I'll never love another, 
 
 And, in spite of her lovers and lands, 
 
 She shall love me yet, my brother ! 
 
 As a child that holds by his mother. 
 
 While his mother speaks his praises, 
 
 Holds with eager hands. 
 
 And ruddy and silent stands 
 
 In the ruddy and silent daisies, 
 
 And hears her bless her boy, 
 
 And lifts a wondering joy. 
 
 So I'll not seek nor sue her, 
 
 But I'll leave my glory to woo her. 
 
 And I'll stand like a child beside, 
 
 And from behind the purple pride 
 
 I'll lift my eyes unto her,
 
 HOME, WOUNDED. 135 
 
 And I shall not be. denied. 
 
 And you will love her, brother dear, 
 
 And perhaps next year you'll bring me here 
 
 All thro' the balmy April-tide, 
 
 And she will trip like spring by my side, 
 
 And be all the birds to my ear. 
 
 And here all three we'll sit in the sim, 
 
 And see the Aprils one by one, 
 
 Primrosed Aprils on and on, 
 
 Till the floating prospect closes 
 
 In golden glimmers that rise and rise, 
 
 And perhaps are gleams of Paradise, 
 
 And perhaps, too far for mortal eyes, 
 
 New springs of fresh primroses, 
 
 Springs of earth's primroses, 
 
 Springs to be and springs lor me, 
 
 Of distant dim primroses. 
 
 -^^i*
 
 136 
 
 A NUPTIAL EVE. 
 
 On, happy, happy maid, 
 In the year of war and death 
 She wears no sorrow ! 
 By her face so young and fair, 
 By the happy wreath 
 That rules her hap]iy hair, 
 She might be a bride to-morrow ! 
 .She sits and sings within her moonlit bower, 
 Her moonlit bower in rosy June, 
 Yet, ah, her bridal breath, 
 
 Like fragrance from some sweet night-blowing flower. 
 Moves from her moving lips in many a mournful tuna I 
 She sings no song of love's despair, 
 She sings no lover lowly laid, 
 No fond peculiar grief 
 Has ever touched or bud or leaf 
 Of her unblighted spring. 
 She sings because she needs must sing : 
 She sings the sorrow of the air 
 Whereof her voice is made. 
 That night in Britain hovvsoe'er 
 On any chords the fingers strayed, 
 They gave the notes of care. 
 A dim sad legend old 
 Long since in some pale shade 
 Of some far twilight told. 
 She knows not when or where, 
 
 She sings, with trembling hand on trendiling lute- 
 strings laid : —
 
 A NUPTIAL EVE. 137 
 
 The murmur of the mourning ghost 
 That keeps the shadowy kine, 
 
 " Oh, Keith of Ravelston, _ 
 The sorrows of thy line ! " 
 
 Ravelston, Ravelston, 
 
 The merry path that leads 
 Down the golden morning hill, 
 
 And thro' the silver meads ; 
 
 Ravelston, Ravelston, 
 
 The stile beneath the tree, 
 The maid that kept her mother's kine, 
 
 The song that sang she ! 
 
 She sang her song, she kept her kine, 
 
 She sat beneath the thorn 
 When Andrew Kcitli of Ravelston 
 
 Rode thro' the Monday morn. 
 
 His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring, 
 
 His belted jewels shine ! 
 Oh, Keith of Ravelston, 
 
 The sorrows of thy line ! 
 
 Year after year, where Andrew came, 
 Comes evening down the glade. 
 
 And still there sits a moonshine ghost 
 Where sat the sunshine maid. 
 
 Her misty hair is faint and fair, 
 She keeps the shadowy kine; 
 
 Oh, Keith of Ravelston, 
 The sorrows of thy line I
 
 138 A NUPTIAL EVE, 
 
 I lay my hand upon the stile, 
 
 The stile is lone and cold, 
 The burnie that goes babbling by 
 
 Says nought that can be told. 
 
 Yet, stranger ! here, from year to year, 
 
 She keeps her shadowy kine ; 
 Oh, Keith of Ravelston, 
 
 The sorrows of thy line ! 
 
 Step out three steps, where Andrew stood- 
 Why blanch thy cheeks for fear ? 
 
 The ancient stile is not alone, 
 'Tis not the burn I hear ! 
 
 She makes tier immemorial moan, 
 
 She keeps her shadowy kine j 
 Oh, Keith of Ravelston, 
 
 The sorrows of thy line 1 
 
 ^
 
 139 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 There came to me softly a small wind from the sea, 
 And it lifted a curl as it passed by me. 
 But I sang sorrow and ho the heavy day ! 
 And I sang heigho and well-away ! 
 
 Again there came softly a small wind from the sea, 
 And it lifted a curl as it passed by me. 
 And still I sang sorrow and ho the heavy day ! 
 And I sang heigho and well-away ! 
 
 Once more there came softly that small wind from 
 
 the sea, 
 And it lifted a curl as it passed bv me. 
 I hushed my song of sorrow and ho the heavy day, 
 And I hushed my heigho and well-away. 
 
 Then, when I was silent, that small wind from the 
 
 sea, 
 It came the fourth time tenderly to me ; 
 To me, to me, 
 Sitting by the sea, 
 
 Sitting sad and solitary thinking of thee. 
 Like warm lips it touched me — that soft wind from 
 
 the sea, 
 And I trembled and wept as it passed by mc.
 
 I40 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 Hear me, hear me, now ! 
 
 By this heaven less pure than thou^ 
 
 Fare thee well ! 
 
 By this living light, 
 
 Less bright, 
 
 Pare thee well ! 
 
 By the boundless sea 
 
 Of mine agony, 
 
 Fare thee well ! 
 
 That unfathomed sea 
 
 Which must roll from me to thee, 
 
 Must roll from thee to me, 
 
 Fare thee well ! 
 
 ];y the tears that I have bled for thee, 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
 By the life's-blood I will shed for thee, 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
 By that field of death and fear 
 
 Where I'll fight with sword and spear 
 
 The fight I'm fighting here, 
 
 P'are thee well ! 
 
 By a form amid the storm, 
 Fare (hee well ! 
 By a sigh above the cry, 
 Fare thee well !
 
 FAREWELL. 141 
 
 By the war-cloud and the shout 
 That shall wrap me round about, 
 But can never shut thee out, 
 Fare thee well ! 
 
 By the wild and bloody close, 
 -WHien I loose this hell of woes, 
 And these fires shall eat our foes, 
 Fare thee well ! 
 
 By all thou'lt not forget, 
 Fare thee well ! 
 By the joy when first we met. 
 Fare thee well ! 
 
 By the mighty love and pain 
 Of the frantic arms that strain 
 What they ne'er shall clasp again, 
 Fare thee well ! 
 
 By the bliss of our first kiss, 
 Fare thee well ! 
 By the locked love of our last, 
 Till a passion like a blast 
 Tore the future from the past. 
 Fare thee well ! 
 
 By the nights that I shall weep for thee, 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
 By the vigils I shall keep for thee. 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
 By the memories that will beam of tliee. 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
 By the dreams that I shall dream of thee, 
 
 Farewell 1
 
 142 FAREWELL. 
 
 By the passion when I wake 
 Of this heart that will not break. 
 That can bleed, but cannot break^ 
 Fare thee well ! 
 
 By that holier woe of thine, 
 Fare thee well ! 
 
 By thy love more pure than mine, 
 Fare thee well ! 
 
 By the days thou shalt hold dear for me, 
 The lone life thou shalt bear for me, 
 The grey hairs thou shalt wear for me, 
 Farewell ! 
 
 By thy good deeds offered up for me, 
 
 Farewell 1 
 
 When thou fillest the wanderer's cup for me, 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
 When thou givest the hungry bread for me, 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
 When thou watchest by the dead for me, 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
 By the faith of thy pure eyes, 
 By the hopes that shall arise 
 Day and night to the deaf skies, 
 Fare thee well ! 
 
 By that faith I cannot share. 
 Fare thee well ! 
 
 By this hopeless heart's despair, 
 Fare thee well !
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 >43 
 
 By the days I have been glad for thee, 
 The years I shall be sad for thee, 
 The hours I shall be mad for thee, 
 Farewell i
 
 144 
 
 SLEEPING AND WAKING. 
 
 I HAD a dream — I lay upon thy breast, 
 In that sweet place where we lay long ago : 
 I thought the morning woodbine to and fro 
 With playful shadows whipped away my rest, 
 And in my sleep I cried to thee, too blest, 
 
 " Rise, oh my love, the morning sun is bright, 
 
 Let us arise, oh love, let us arise ; 
 
 The llowers awake, the lark is in the skies, 
 
 I will array myself in my delight. 
 
 And we will — " and I woke to death and night 1
 
 145 
 
 ''HE LOVES AND HE RIDES 
 A WA K" 
 
 'TvvAS in that island summer where 
 
 They spin the morning gossamer, 
 
 And weave the evening mist, 
 
 That, underneath the hawthorn-tree, 
 
 I loved my love, and my love loved me, 
 
 And there we lay and kissed, 
 
 And saw the happy ships upon the yielding sea. 
 
 Soft my heart, and warm his wooing. 
 What we did seemed, while 'twas doing, 
 Beautiful and wise ; 
 Wiser, fairer, more in tune, 
 Than all else in that sweet June, 
 And sinless as the skies 
 
 That warmed the willing earth thro' all the languid 
 noon. 
 
 Ah, that fatal spell ! 
 Ere the evening fell 
 I fled away to hide my frightened face. 
 And cried that I was born, 
 And sobbed with love and scorn. 
 And in the darkness sought a darker place, 
 And blushed, and wept, and blushed, and dared not 
 think of morn. 
 
 oio
 
 146 HE LOVES AND HE RIDES AWAY. 
 
 Day and night, day and night. 
 
 And I saw no light, 
 
 Night and day, night and day, 
 
 And in my woe I lay 
 
 And dreamed the dreams they dream who cannot sleep: 
 
 My speech was withered, and I could not pray ; 
 
 My tears were frozen, and I could not weep. 
 
 I saw the hawthorn rise 
 
 Between me and the skies, 
 
 I felt the shadow was from pole to pole, 
 
 I felt the leaves were shed, 
 
 I felt the birds were dead, 
 
 And on the earth I snowed the winter of my soul. 
 
 Like to the hare wide eyed. 
 
 That with her throbbing side 
 
 Pressed to the rock, awaits the coming cry, 
 
 In my despair I sate 
 
 And wailed for my fate ; 
 
 And as the hunted hare returns to die, 
 
 And with her latest breath 
 
 Regains her native heath. 
 
 So, when I heard the feet of destiny 
 
 Near and more near, and caught the yelp of death, 
 
 Toward the sounding sea, 
 
 Toward my hawthorn-tree, 
 
 Under the ignorant stars I darkly crept : 
 
 " There," I said, " they '11 find me dead, 
 
 Lying within my maidenhead." 
 
 And at my own unwonted voice, I wept ; 
 
 And for my great heart-ache, 
 
 Within a little brake
 
 HE LOVES AND HE RIDES AWAY. 147 
 
 I lay me weary down and weary slept, 
 
 Nor ever oped mine eyes' till Morn had left the lake. 
 
 Her morning bath was o'er, 
 And on the golden shore 
 She stood like Flora with her floral train, 
 And all her track was seen 
 Among the water)' sheen, 
 
 That blushed, and wished, and blushing wished again. 
 And parted still, and closed, with pleasure that had 
 been. 
 
 Oh the happy isle, 
 
 The universal smile 
 
 That met, as love meets love, the smile of day, 
 
 And touched and lit delight 
 
 Within the common light, 
 
 Till all the joy of life was ecstasy. 
 
 And morn's wild maids ran each her flowery way. 
 
 And shook her dripping locks o'er hill, and dale, ami 
 
 lea! 
 "At least," I said, " my tree is sear and blight. 
 My tree, my hawthorn-tree ! " 
 
 "With downcast pyes of fear 
 
 I drew me near and near, 
 
 Dazed with the dewy glory of the hour, 
 
 Till under-foot I see 
 
 A flower too dear to me : 
 
 I pause, and raise my full eyes from the flower, 
 
 And lo ! my hawthorn-tree ! 
 
 As a white-limbed may. 
 In some illumined bay,
 
 148 HE LOVES AND HE RIDES A J FA K 
 
 Flings round her shining charms in starry rain, 
 
 And with her body bright 
 
 Dazzles the waters white, 
 
 That fall from her fair form, and flee in vain, 
 
 Dyed with the dear unutterable sight, 
 
 And circle out her beauty thro' the circling main, 
 
 So my hawthorn-tree 
 
 Stood and seemed to me 
 
 The very face that smiled the summer smile : 
 
 All lesser light-bearers 
 
 Did light their lamps at hers — 
 
 She lit her own at heaven's, and looked the while 
 
 A purer, sweeter sun, 
 
 Whence beauty was begun, 
 
 And blossomed from her blossoms thro' the blossoming 
 
 isle. 
 Then I took heart, and as I looked upon 
 Her unstained white, I said, " I am not wholly vile." 
 
 Thus my hawthorn-tree 
 Was my witness unto me, 
 And so I answered my impleading sin 
 Till blossom-time was o'er, 
 And with the autumn roar 
 Mine unrebuked accuser entered in. 
 And I fell down convinced, and strove with shame no 
 more. 
 
 Some time after came to me. 
 
 An image of the hawthorn-tree, 
 
 And bore the old sweet witness ; and I heard, 
 
 And from among the dead 
 
 I lifted up my head.
 
 HE LOVES AND HE RIDES AWAY. 149 
 
 As one lifts up to hear a little bird, 
 
 And finds the night is past and all the east is red. 
 
 Small and fair, choice and rare, 
 
 Snowy pale with moonlight hair, 
 
 My little one blossoms and springs ! 
 
 Like joy with woe singing to it. 
 
 Like love with sorrow to woo it, 
 
 So my witty one, so my pretty one, sings ! 
 
 And I see the white hawthorn-tree and the bright 
 
 •summer bird singing thro' it. 
 And my heart is prouder than kings ! 
 
 While I look on her I seem 
 
 Once again in the sweet dream 
 
 Of that enchanted day, 
 
 When, underneath the hawthorn-tree, 
 
 I loved my love and my love loved me : 
 
 And lost in love we lay, 
 
 And saw the happy ships upon the yielding sea. 
 
 While I look on her I seem 
 Once again in that bright dream, 
 Beautiful and wise : 
 Wiser, fairer, more in tune, 
 Than all else in that sweet June, 
 And sinless as the skies 
 
 That warmed the willing earth thro' all the languid 
 noon. 
 
 Like my hawthorn-tree, 
 
 She stands and seems to me 
 
 The very face that smiles the summer smile ; 
 
 All lesser light-bearers 
 
 Do light their lamps at hers —
 
 ISO HE LOVES AND HE RIDES AWAY. 
 
 She lights her own at heaven's, and looks the while 
 A sweeter, purer sun, 
 Whence beauty is begun, 
 
 To blossom from that blossom thro' the blossoming 
 isle. 
 
 Thou shalt not leave me, child ! 
 
 Come weather fierce or mild, 
 
 My babe, my blossom ! thou shalt never leave me ! 
 
 Life shall never wean us, 
 
 Nor death shall e'er have room to come between us. 
 
 And time may grieve me but shall ne'er bereave me, 
 
 Nor see us more apart than he hath seen us. 
 
 For I will fall with thee, 
 
 As a bird from the tree 
 
 Falls with a butterfly petal whitely shed, 
 
 And falling — thou and I — 
 
 I shall not dread to die. 
 
 But like a child I'll take my flower to bed. 
 
 And when the long cold death-night hath gone by. 
 
 In the great darkness of the sepulchre 
 
 I'll feel and find thee near. 
 
 My babe, my white, white blossom ! 
 
 And when the trumpet cries, 
 
 I shall not fear to rise, 
 
 But wear thee o'er the spot upon my bosom, 
 
 And come out of my grave and bear the awful eyes.
 
 151 
 
 ^FHE CAPTAIN'S WIFE. 
 
 I DO not say the day is long and weary, 
 For while thou art content to be away, 
 Living in thee, oh Love, I hve thy day, 
 
 And reck not if mine own be sad and dreary. 
 
 ■ I do not count its sorrows or its charms : 
 It Hes as cold, as empty, and as dead, 
 As lay my wedding-dress beside my bed 
 
 When I was clothed in thy dear arms. 
 
 Yet there is something here within this breast 
 Which, like a flower that never blossoms, lieth, 
 And tbo' in words and tears my sorrow crieth, 
 
 I know that it hath never been exprest. 
 
 Something that blindly yearneth to be known. 
 And doth not burn, nor rage, nor leap, nor dart ; 
 But struggles in the sickness of my heart. 
 
 As a root struggles in a vault of stone. 
 
 Now, by my wedding ring, 
 
 I charge thee do not move 
 
 That heavy stone that on the vault doth lie ; 
 
 I charge thee be of merry cheer, my love,
 
 152 THE CAPTAIN'S WIFE. 
 
 Nor ever let me know that thou dost sigh, 
 
 For, ah ! how light a thing 
 
 Would shake me with the sorrow I deny ! 
 
 I am as one who hid a giant's child 
 In her deep prison, and, from year to year, 
 He grew to his own stature, fierce and wild, 
 And what she took for love she kept for fear. 
 
 Oh, thou enchanter, who dost hold the spells 
 
 Of all my sealed cells, 
 
 Oh Love, that hast been silent all too long, 
 
 A little longer, Love, oh, silent be ; 
 
 My secret hath waxed strong, 
 
 My giant hath grown up to angry age ; 
 
 Do thou but say the word that sets him free, 
 
 And, lo I he tears me in his rage ! 
 
 I do not say the day is sad and dreary, 
 For while thou art content to be away, 
 Living in thee, oh Love, I live thy day. 
 And reck not if mine own be wan and weary. 
 
 I look down on it from my far love-dream, 
 As some drowned saint may see with musing eyes 
 Her lifeless body float adown the stream, 
 While she is smiling in her skies. 
 
 But do thou silence keep ! 
 
 For I am one who walketh on the ledge 
 
 Of some great rock's sheer edge : 
 
 I walk in beauty and in light, 
 
 Self-balanced on the height : 
 
 A breath ! — and 1 am breathless in the deep.
 
 THE CAPTAIN'S WIFE. 153 
 
 Oh, my own Love, I warn 
 
 Thy grief to be as still as'they who tread 
 
 The snow of alpine peak. 
 
 And see the pendulous avalanche o'erhead 
 
 Hang like a dew-drop on a thorn ! 
 
 I charge thee silence keep ! 
 
 My life stands breathless by her agony, 
 
 (3h, do not bid her leap ! 
 
 I am as calm as air 
 
 Before a summer storm ; 
 
 The ocean of my thoughts hath ceased to roll ; 
 
 This living heart that doth not beat is warm ; 
 
 I think the stillness of my face is fair ; 
 
 The cloud that fills my soul 
 
 Is not a cloud of pain. 
 
 15eware, beware ! one rash 
 
 Sweet glance may be the flash 
 
 That brings it raving down in thunder and in rain ! 
 
 No, do not speak : 
 
 Nor, oh ! let any tell of thy pale cheek, 
 Nor paint the silent sorrow of thine eye. 
 Nor tell me thou art fond, or gay, or glad ; 
 For, ah ! so tuned and lightly strung am I, 
 That howsoe'er thou stir, I ring thereby. 
 
 Thy manly voice is deep, 
 
 But if thou touch from sleep 
 
 The woman's treble of my shrill reply, 
 
 Ah, who shall say thine echoes may not weep? 
 
 A jester's ghost is sad, 
 
 The shades of merriest (lowers do mow an<l crcci), 
 
 And oh, the vocal shadows that should fly
 
 154 THE CAPTAIN'S WIFE, 
 
 About the simplest word that thou canst say, 
 What after-spell shall ever lay ? 
 
 I last thou forgot when I sat down to sing 
 
 To my forsaken harp, long, long ago, 
 
 I low thou, for sport, wouldst strike a single string. 
 
 And hark the hovering chorus come and go, 
 
 Low and high, high and low. 
 
 Till round the throbbing wire 
 
 Rose such a quivering quire. 
 
 As all King David's wives were echoing 
 
 The tenor of their king. 
 
 Like those dear strings, my silent soul is full 
 Of cries, as a ripe fruit is full of wine. 
 The fruit is hanging fair and beautiful. 
 And dry-eyed as a rose in the sunshine. 
 But try it with a single touch of thine. 
 And, lo ! the drops that start. 
 And all the golden vintage of its heart ! 
 
 So, thinking of thy debt to Love and me, 
 
 In some dull hour beyond the sea, 
 
 Do thou but only say — 
 
 As carelessly as men do pay their debts — 
 
 "Oh, weary day!" 
 
 And that one sigh o'ersets 
 
 The hive of my regrets, 
 
 " Ah, weary, weary day, 
 
 Oh, weary, weary day. 
 
 Oh, day so weary, oh, day so dreary, 
 
 Oh, weary, weary, weary, weary, weary, 
 
 Oh, weary, weary I "
 
 iss 
 
 GRASS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD 
 
 Small sheaf 
 
 Of withered grass, that hast not yet revealed 
 
 Thy story, lo ! I see thee once more green 
 
 And growing on the battle-field, 
 
 On that last day that ever thou didst grow ! 
 
 I look down thro' thy blades and see between 
 
 A little lifted clover leaf 
 
 Stand like a cresset : and I know 
 
 If this were morn there should be seen 
 
 In its chalice such a gem 
 
 As decks no mortal diadem 
 
 Poised with a lapidary skill 
 
 Which merely living doth fulfil 
 
 And pass the exquisite strain of subtlest human will. 
 
 But in the sun it lifteth up 
 
 A dry unjewelled cup, 
 
 Therefore I see that day doth not begm ; 
 
 And yet I know its beaming lord 
 
 Hath not yet passed the hill of noon, 
 
 Or thy lush blades 
 
 Would be more dry and thin. 
 
 And every blade a thirsty sword 
 
 Edged with the sharp desire that soon 
 
 Should draw the silver blood of all the shades. 
 
 I feel 't is summer. This whereon I stand 
 
 Is not a hill, nor, as I think, a vale ;
 
 IS6 GRASS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 The soil is soft upon the generous land, 
 
 Yet not as where the meeting streams take hand 
 
 Under the mossy mantle of the dale. 
 
 Such grass is for the meadow. If I try 
 
 To lift my heavy eyelids, as in dreams 
 
 A power is on them, and I know not why. 
 
 Thou art but part ; the whole is unconfcst : 
 
 Beholding thee I long to know the rest. 
 
 As one expands the bosom with a sigh, 
 
 I stretch my sight's horizon ; but it seems. 
 
 Ere it can widen round the mystery, 
 
 To close in swift contraction, like the breast. 
 
 The air is held, as by a charm. 
 
 In an enforced silence, as like sound 
 
 As the dead man the living. 'T is so still, 
 
 I listen for it loud. 
 
 And when I force my eyes from thy sole place 
 
 And see a wider space, 
 
 Above, around, 
 
 In ragged glory like a torn 
 
 And golden-natured cloud, 
 
 O'er the dim field a living smoke is warm j 
 
 As in a city on a sabbath morn 
 
 The hot and summer sunshine goes abroad 
 
 Swathed in the murky air, 
 
 As if a god 
 
 Enrobed himself in common flesh and blood, 
 
 Our heavy flesh and blood, 
 
 And here and there 
 
 As unaware 
 
 Thro' the dull lagging limbs of mortal make. 
 
 That keep unequal time, the swifter essence brake. 
 
 But hark a bugle horn ! * 
 
 And, ere it ceases, such a shock
 
 GJ^ASS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 157 
 
 As if the plain were iron, and thereon 
 
 An iron hammer, heavy as a hill, 
 
 Swung by a monstrous force, in stroke came down 
 
 And deafened Heaven. I feel a swound 
 
 Of every sense bestunned. 
 
 The rent ground seems to rock. 
 
 And all tfc definite vision, in such wise 
 
 As a dead giant borne on a swift river, 
 
 Seems sliding off for ever, 
 
 When my reviving eyes, 
 
 As one that holds a spirit by his eye 
 
 With set inexorable stare. 
 
 Fix thee : and so I catch, as by the hair. 
 
 The form of that great dream that else had drifted by. 
 
 I know not what that form may be ; 
 
 The lock I hold is all I see, 
 
 And thou, small sheaf ! art all the battle-field to me. 
 
 The wounded silence hath not time to heal 
 
 When see ! upon thy sod 
 
 The round stroke of a charger's heel 
 
 With echoing thunder shod ! 
 
 As the night-lightning shows 
 
 A mole upon a momentary face. 
 
 So, as that gnarled hoof strikes the indented place, 
 
 I see it, and it goes ! 
 
 And I hear the squadrons trot thro' the heavy shell 
 
 and shot. 
 And wheugh ! but the grass is gory ! 
 Forward ho ! blow to blow, at the foe in they go, 
 And 'tis hieover heigho for glory ! 
 
 The rushing storm is past, 
 
 But hark ! upon its track the far drums beat,
 
 IS8 GRASS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 And all the earth that at thy roots thou hast [of feet 
 
 Stirs, shakes, shocks, sounds, with quick strong tramp 
 
 In time unlike the last. 
 
 Footing to tap of drum 
 
 The charging columns come ; 
 
 And as they come their mighty martial sound 
 
 Blows on before them as a flaming fire 
 
 Blows in the wind ; for, as old Mars in ire 
 
 Strode o'er the world encompassed in a cloud. 
 
 So the swift legion, o'er the quaking ground, 
 
 Strode in a noise of battle. Nigh and nigher 
 
 I heard it, like the long swell gathering loud 
 
 What-tinie a land-wind blowing from the main 
 
 Blows to the burst of fury and is o'er, 
 
 As if an ocean on one fatal shore 
 
 Fell in a moment whole, and threw its roar 
 
 Whole to the further sea : and as the strain 
 
 Of my strong sense cracked in the deafened ear, 
 
 And all the rushing tumult of the plain 
 
 Topped its great arch above me, a swift foot 
 
 Was struck between thy blades to the struck root, 
 
 And lifted : as into a sheath 
 
 A sudden sword is thrust and drawn again 
 
 Ere one can gasp a breath. 
 
 I was so near, 
 
 I saw the wrinkles of the leather grain, 
 
 The very cobbler's stitches, and the wear 
 
 By which I knew the wearer trod not straight ; 
 
 An honest shoe it seemed that had been good 
 
 To mete the miles of any country lane. 
 
 Nor did one sign explain 
 
 'Twas made to wade thro' blood. 
 
 My shoe, soft footstooled on this hearth, so far 
 
 From strife, hath such a patch, and as he past 
 
 His broken shoelace whipt his eager haste.
 
 GRASS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 159 
 
 An honest shoe, good faith ! that might have stood 
 Upon the threshold of a yillage inn 
 And welcomed all the world : or by the byre 
 And barn gone peaceful till the day closed in, 
 And, scraped at eve upon some homely gate, 
 Ah, Heaven ! might sit beside a cottage fire 
 And touc|i the lazy log to softer flames than war. 
 
 Long, long, thou wert alone, 
 
 I thought thy days were done, 
 
 Flat as ignoble grass that lies out mown 
 
 By peaceful hands in June, I saw thee lie. 
 
 A worm crawled o'er thee, and the gossamer 
 
 That telegraphs Queen Mab to Oberon, 
 
 Lengthening his living message, passed thee by. 
 
 But rain fell : and thy strawed blades one by one 
 
 Began to stir and stir. 
 
 And as some moorland bird 
 
 Whom the still hunter's stalking steps have stirred, 
 
 When he stands mute, and nothing more is heard, 
 
 With slow succession and reluctant art 
 
 Grows upward from her bed, 
 
 Each move a muffled start, 
 
 And thro' the silent autumn covert red 
 
 Uplifts a throbbing head 
 
 That times the ambushed hunter's thudding heart ; 
 
 Or as a snow-drop bending low 
 
 Beneath a flake of other snow 
 
 Thaws to its height when spring winds melt the skies, 
 
 And drip by drip doth mete a measured rise ; 
 
 Or as the eyelids of a child's fair eyes 
 Lift from her lower lashes slow and pale 
 To arch thj wonder of a fairy tale ;
 
 l6o GRASS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 So thro' the western light 
 
 I saw thee slowly rearing to thy height. 
 
 Then when thou hadst regained thy state, 
 
 And while a meadow-spider with three lines 
 
 Enschemed thy three tall pillars green, 
 
 And made the enchanted air between 
 
 Mortal with shining signs 
 
 (For the loud carrion-flies were many and late). 
 
 Betwixt thy blades and stems 
 
 There fell a hand, 
 
 Soft, small, and white, and ringed with gold and gems ; 
 
 And on those stones of price 
 
 I saw a proud device. 
 
 And words I could not understand. 
 
 Idly, one by one. 
 
 The knots of anguish came undone. 
 
 The fingers stretched as from a cramp of woe. 
 
 And sweet and slow 
 
 Moved to gracious shapes of rest, 
 
 Like a curl of soft pale hair 
 
 Drying in the sun. 
 
 And then they spread. 
 
 And sought a wonted greeting in the air. 
 
 And strayed 
 
 Between thy blades, and with each blade 
 
 As with meeting fingers played 
 
 And tresses long and fair. 
 
 Then again at placid length it lay, 
 
 Stretched as to kisses of accustomed lips , 
 
 And again in sudden strain 
 
 Sprang, falling clenched with pain,
 
 CRASS GROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. i6i 
 
 Till the knuckles white, 
 
 Thro' the evening grey, - 
 
 ^^^litened and whitened as the snowy tips 
 
 Of far hills glimmer thro' the night. 
 
 But who shall tell that agony 
 
 That beat thee, beat thee into bloody clay 
 
 Red as the sards and rubies of the rings ; 
 
 As when a bird, fast by the fowler's net, 
 
 A moment doth forget 
 
 His fetters, and with desperate wings 
 
 A-sudden springs and falls. 
 
 And (while from happy clouds the skylark calls) 
 
 Still feebler springs 
 
 And fainter falls. 
 
 And still untamed upon the gory ground 
 
 With failing strength renews his deadly wound ? 
 
 At length the struggle ceased ; and my fixed eye 
 
 Perceived that every finger wan 
 
 Did quiver like the quivering fan 
 
 Of a dying butterfly, 
 
 Nor long I watched until 
 
 Even the humming in the air was still. 
 
 Then I gazed and gazed. 
 
 Nor once my aching eyeballs raised 
 
 Till a poor bird that had a meadow nest 
 
 Came down, and like a shadow ran 
 
 Among the shadowy grass. 
 
 I followed with mine eyes ; and with a strain 
 
 Pursued her, till six cubits' length beyond 
 
 Thy central sheaf I found 
 
 A sight I could not pass. 
 
 The hacked and haggard head 
 
 Of a huge war-horse dead. 
 
 The evening haze hung o'er him like a breath, 
 
 And slill in death
 
 1 62 GRASS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 He stretched drawn lips of rage that grinned in vain ; 
 
 A sparrow chirped upon 
 
 His wound, and in his dying slaver fed, 
 
 Or picked those teeth of stone 
 
 That bit with lifeless jaws the purple tongue of pain. 
 
 But I remembered that dead hand 
 
 I left to trace the childless lark, 
 
 And back o'er those six cubits of grass-land, 
 
 Blade by blade, and stalk by stalk, 
 
 As one doth walk 
 
 Who, mindful, counts by dark 
 
 Along the garden palings to the gate, 
 
 I felt along the vision to where late 
 
 There lay that dead hand white ; 
 
 But now methought that there was something more 
 
 Than when I looked before. 
 
 And what was more was sweeter than the rest ; 
 
 As when upon the moony half of night 
 
 Aurora lays a living light. 
 
 Softer than moonshine, yet more bright. 
 
 And as I looked I was aware 
 
 Another hand was on the hand, 
 
 A smaller hand, more fair 
 
 But not more white, as is the warm delight 
 
 That curves and curls and coyly glows 
 
 About the blushing heart of the white rose, 
 
 More fair but not more white 
 
 Than those broad beauties that expand 
 
 And fall, and falling blanch the morning air. 
 
 Both hands lay motionless. 
 The living on the dead. But by-and-by 
 The living hand began to move and press 
 The cold dead flesh, and took its silent way
 
 GRASS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 163 
 
 So often o'er the unrespective clay, 
 
 In such long-drawn caress 
 
 Of pleading passion, such an ecstasy 
 
 Of supplicating touch, that as they lay 
 
 So like, so unlike, twined with the fond art 
 
 And all the dear delay 
 
 And dreadful patience of a desperate heart, 
 
 Methought that to the tenement 
 
 From which it lately went, 
 
 The naked life had come back, and did try 
 
 By every gate to enter. While I thought, 
 
 With sudden clutch of new intent 
 
 The living grasp had caught 
 
 The dead compliance. Slowly thro' 
 
 The dusky air she raised it, and aloft, 
 
 While all her fingers soft 
 
 And every starting vein 
 
 Tightened as in a rack of pain, 
 
 Held it one straining moment fixed and mute, 
 
 And let it go. 
 
 And with a thud upon the sod, 
 
 It fell like falling fruit 
 
 Then there came a cry, 
 
 Tearless, bloodless, dry 
 
 Of every sap of sorrow but its own — 
 
 It had no likeness among living cries ; 
 
 And to my heart my streaming blood was blown 
 
 As if before my eyes 
 
 A dead man sprang up dead, and dead fell down. 
 
 The carrion-hunting winds that prowl the wold, 
 
 Frenzied for prey, sweep in and bear it on. 
 
 Far, far and further thro' the shrieking cold, 
 
 And still the yelling pack devour it as they run. 
 
 And silence, like a want of air,
 
 i64 GRASS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 Was round me, and my sense burned low, 
 
 And darkness darkened ; and the glow 
 
 Of the living hand being gone. 
 
 The dead hand showed bke a pale stone 
 
 Full fathom five 
 
 Under a quiet bay. 
 
 But still my sight did dive 
 
 To reach it where it lay, 
 
 And still the night grew dark, and by degrees 
 
 The dead thing glimmered with a drowned light. 
 
 As faces seem and sink in depths of darkening seas. 
 
 Then, while yet 
 
 My set eyes saw it, as the sage doth set 
 
 His glass to some dim glimpse afar 
 
 That palpitates from mote lo star, 
 
 It was touched and hid ; 
 
 Touched and hid, as when a deep sea-weed 
 
 Hides some white sea-sorrow. All 
 
 My sight uprose, and all my soul 
 
 (As one who presses at the pane 
 
 When a city show goes by), 
 
 Crowded into the tixed eye. 
 
 And filled the starting ball. 
 
 Nor filled in vain. 
 
 I began to feel 
 
 The air had something to reveal. 
 
 Beyond the blank indifference 
 
 Was underlined another sense, 
 
 Was rained a gracious influence ; 
 
 And tho' the darkness was so deep, 
 
 I knew it was not wholly dead, 
 
 Nor empty, as we feel in sleep 
 
 That some one standeth by the bed. 
 
 I beheld, as who should look 
 
 In trance upon a sealed book.
 
 GRASS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD, 165 
 
 I perceived that in a place 
 
 The night was lighter, as the face 
 
 Of an Indian Ouecn wlien love 
 
 Draws back the dark blood from her sick 
 
 Pale cheek 
 
 Behind the sable curtain that doth not move. 
 
 No outer light was shed, 
 
 But as the mystery 
 
 Before my stronger will did slowly yield, 
 
 I saw, as in that dark hour before morn 
 
 When the shocks of harvest corn 
 
 Exhale about the midnight field 
 
 The wealth of yellow suns, and breathe a gentle day. 
 
 I saw the shape of a fair bended head. 
 
 And hair pale streaming long and low 
 
 Veiling the face I might not know, 
 
 And dabbling all the ground with sweet uncertain woe, 
 
 Much I questioned in my mind 
 
 Of her form and kind, 
 
 But my stern compelling eye 
 
 Brought no other answer from the air, 
 
 Nor did my rude hand dare 
 
 Profane that agony. 
 
 I watched apart 
 
 With such a sweet awe in my heart 
 
 As looks up dumb into the sky 
 
 When that goddess, lorn and lone, 
 
 \Vho slew grim winter like a polar bear, 
 
 And threw his immemorial white 
 
 Upon her granite throne, 
 
 Sits all unseen as Death, 
 
 Save for the loss of many a hidden star 
 
 And for the wintry mystery of her breath, 
 
 And at a far-sight that she sees.
 
 1 66 GRASS FROM THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 Bowed by her great despair, 
 
 Bendeth her awful head upon her knees, 
 
 And all her wondrous hair 
 
 Dishevels golden down the northern night. 
 
 At length my weary gaze 
 
 Relents: and, haze in haze 
 
 Pervolving as in glad release, 
 
 I saw each separate shade 
 
 Slide from his place and fade, 
 
 And all the flowering dark did winter back 
 
 Into its undistinguished black. 
 
 So the sculptor doth in fancy make 
 
 His formed image in the formless stone, 
 
 And while his spells compel, 
 
 Can see it there full well, 
 
 The ivory kernel in the ivory shell, 
 
 But shakes himself and all the god is gone. 
 
 Alas! 
 
 And have I seen thee but an hour ? 
 
 And shalt thou never tell 
 
 Thy story, oh thou broken flower. 
 
 Thou midnight asphodel 
 
 Among the battle grass ? 
 
 Too soon ! too soon ! 
 
 But while I bid thee stay, 
 
 Night, like a cloud, dissolves into the day. 
 
 And from the city clock I hear the stroke of noon. 
 
 -Hlcvije^
 
 167 
 
 THE GHOSTS' RETURN. 
 
 Skirlin' an' birlin', tunin' an' croonin', 
 Reelin' an' skreelin', they piped doun the glen, 
 Lang Hugh an' black Sandie, Ian Dhu an' wee Dandie, 
 Wha wad iia gang w i' the braw Hielan'men? 
 
 Shirlin' an' birlin', tunin' an' croonin', 
 Reelin' an' skreelin', they piped doun the glen, 
 Wi' a rout an' a shout, an' a the lasses out, 
 Wha wad na gang wi' the braw Hielan'men ? 
 
 Skirlin' an' birlin', tunin' an' croonin', 
 Reelin' an' skreelin', they piped doun the glen ! 
 Wi' the hot light o' noon an' the blue sky aboon. 
 Ilka man sword in han' gaed the braw Hielan'men ! 
 
 Ken ye why we weep ? Think ye that they sleep. 
 Ilka man on his ain bluidy brae. 
 Ilk ane whar he died wi' a faeman by his side, 
 An' the pibroch can wauk him na mae ? 
 
 Or the news cam' fra the fiel' we ken'd it a' too weel. 
 Our bonnie, bonnic braw Hielan'men ! 
 Not a foot ony stirred to meet the bluidy word, 
 As the death-roll cam' slow up the glen.
 
 i68 THE GHOSTS' RETURN. 
 
 Had ye seen any sight of terror and affright ? 
 Did their ghosts walk in white up the glen ? 
 We saw na ony sight o' terror an' afiright, 
 An' white 's no for braw tartaned men ! 
 
 Fra the hour they gaed that day, oh the glen was fit' o* 
 
 wae, 
 Our bonnie, bonnie braw Hielan'men ! 
 Sair, sair, an' mair an' mair, our hearts were fu' o' care, 
 And our een speerit aye doun the glen ; 
 
 Till ae morn it did befa' that we waukit up a', 
 An' the light it was sweet, but an' ben, 
 An' a' that lang day we had na ony wae, 
 An' no ee cared to speer doun the glen. 
 
 Not a lassie but apart hid her wonder in her heart, 
 An' lay close till the day began to dee. 
 Lest her canty een confest the secret o' her breast, 
 For she said, " They will a' weep but me." 
 
 But when we met at een by the thorn upon the greeti, 
 An' the tale we a' tellt was the same. 
 Not a word mair we said, but ilk ane hid her head, 
 hxi ken'd that her man was at hame.
 
 t69 
 
 AFLOAT AND ASHORE. 
 
 "Tumble and rumble, and grumble and snorf, 
 Like a whale to starboard, a whale to port ; 
 Tumble and rumble, and grumble and snort, 
 And the steamer steams thro' the sea, love I " 
 
 " I see the ship on the sea, love, 
 
 I stand alone 
 
 On this rock, 
 
 The sea does not shock 
 
 The stone ; 
 
 The waters around it are swirled, 
 
 But under my feet 
 
 I feel it go down 
 
 To where the hemispheres meet 
 
 At the adamant heart of the world. 
 
 Oh, that the rock would move 1 
 
 Oh, that the rock would roll 
 
 To meet thee over the sea, love ! 
 
 Surely my mighty love 
 
 Should fill it like a soul, 
 
 And it should bear me to thee, love ; 
 
 Like a ship on the sea, love, 
 
 Bear me, bear me, to thee, love 1 "
 
 I70 AFLOAT AND ASHORE. 
 
 '* Guns are thundering, seas are sundering, crowds are 
 
 wondering, 
 Low on our lee, love. 
 Over and over the cannon- clouds cover brother and 
 
 lover, but over and over 
 The whirl -wheels trundle the sea, love, 
 And on thro' the loud pealing pomp of her cloud 
 The great ship is going to thee, love, 
 Blind to her mark, like a world thro' the dark. 
 Thundering, sundering, to the crowds wondering, 
 Thundering ever to thee, love." 
 
 " I have come down to thee coming to me, love, 
 
 I stand, I stand 
 
 On the solid sand, 
 
 I see thee coming to me, love ; 
 
 The sea runs up to me on the sand, 
 
 I start — 't is as if thou hadst stretched thine hand 
 
 And touched me thro' the sea, love. 
 
 I feel as if I must die 
 
 For there's something longs to fly, 
 
 Fly and fly, to thee, love. 
 
 As the blood of the flower ere she blows 
 
 Is beating up to the sun. 
 
 And her roots do hold her down. 
 
 And it blushes and breaks undone 
 
 In a rose. 
 
 So my blood is beating in me, love I 
 
 I see thee nigh and nigher.
 
 AFLOAT AND ASHORE. 171 
 
 And my soul leaps up like sudden fire, 
 
 My life's in the air :. 
 
 To meet thee there, 
 
 To meet thee coming to me, love ! 
 
 Over the sea, 
 
 Coming to me, 
 
 Coming, and coming to me, love ! " 
 
 "The boats are lowered : I leap in first, 
 Pull, boys, pull ! or my heart will burst ! 
 More ! more ! — lend me an oar ! — 
 I'm thro' the breakers ! I'm on the shore I 
 I see thee waiting for me, luve 1 " 
 
 " A sudden storm 
 
 Of sighs and tears, 
 
 A clenching arm, 
 
 A look of years. 
 
 In my bosom a thousand cries, 
 
 A flash like light before my eyes. 
 
 And I am lost in thee, love 1 ' 
 
 ^
 
 172 
 
 DAFT JEAN. 
 
 Daft Jean, 
 
 The waesome wean, 
 
 She cam' by the cottage, she cam' by the ha', 
 
 The laird's ha' o' Wuthcistanelaw, 
 
 The cottar's cot by the birken sliaw ; 
 
 An' aye she gret, 
 
 To ilk ane she met, 
 
 For the trumpet had blawn an' her lad was awa'. 
 
 " Black, black," sang she, 
 " Black, black my weeds shall be, 
 My love has widowed me ! 
 Black, black 1 " sang she. 
 
 Daft Jean, 
 
 The waesome wean, 
 
 She cam' by the cottage, she cam' by the ha', 
 
 The laird's ha' o' Wutherstanelaw, 
 
 The cottar's cot by the birken shaw ; 
 
 Nae mair she creepit, 
 
 Nae mair she weepit. 
 
 She slept 'mang the lasses the queen o' them a'. 
 
 The queen o' them a'. 
 
 The queen o' them a'. 
 
 She stept 'mang the lasses the queen o' them a'. 
 
 For the fight it was fought i' the fiel' far awa', 
 
 An' claymore in han' for his love an' his Ian', 
 
 The lad she lo'ed best he was foremost to fa'.
 
 DAFT JEAN. 173 
 
 " White, white," sang she, 
 
 " White, white, my weeds shall be, 
 
 I am no widow," sang slie, 
 
 " White, white, my wedding shall be. 
 
 White, white ! " sang she. 
 
 Daft Jean, 
 
 The waesonie wean, 
 
 She gaed na' to cottage, she gacd na' to ha', 
 
 But forth she creepit, 
 
 While a' the house weepit. 
 
 Into the snaw i' the eerie night-fa'. 
 
 At morn we found her. 
 
 The lamniies stood round her. 
 
 The snaw was her pillow, her sheet was the snaw ; 
 
 Pale she was lying. 
 
 Singing and dying, 
 
 A' for the laddie wha fell far awa'. 
 
 •' White, white," sang she, 
 " My love has married me. 
 White, white, my weeds shall be, 
 W^hite, white, my wedding shall be, 
 White, white," sang she I
 
 174 
 
 « WHEN THE RAIN IS ON THE 
 ROOF." 
 
 Lord, I am poor, and know not how to speak, 
 But since Thou are so great, 
 
 Thou needest not that I should speak to Thee well. 
 All angels speak unto Thee well. 
 
 Lord, Thou hast all things : what Thou wilt is Thine, 
 
 More gold and silver than the sun and moon j 
 
 All flocks and herds, all fish in every sea ; 
 
 Mountains and valleys, cities and all farms ; 
 
 Cots and all men, harvests and years of fruit. 
 
 Is any king arrayed like Thee, who wearest 
 
 A new robe every morning ? Who is crowned 
 
 As Thou, who settest heaven upon thy head ? 
 
 But as for me — 
 
 For me, if he be dead, I have but Thee ! 
 
 Therefore, because Thou art my sole possession, 
 
 I will not fear to speak to Thee, who art mine, 
 
 For who doth dread his own ? 
 
 Lord, I am very sorrowful. I know 
 That Thou delightest to do well ; to wipe 
 Tears from all eyes ; to bind the broken-hearted ; 
 To comfort them that mourn ; to give to them 
 Beauty for ashes, and to garb with joy
 
 " THE RAIN IS ON THE ROOF." 175 
 
 The naked soul of grief. And what so good 
 
 But Thou that wilt canst do it ? Which of all 
 
 Thy works is less in wonder and in praise 
 
 Than this poor heart's desire ? Give me, oh Lord, 
 
 My heart's desire ! Wilt Thou refuse my prayer 
 
 Who givest when no man asketh ? How great things, 
 
 How unbesought, how difficult, how strange, 
 
 Thou dost in daily pleasure ! \\Tio is like Thee 
 
 Oh Lord of Life and Death ? The year is dead ; 
 
 It smouldered in its smoke to the white ash 
 
 Of winter : but Thou breathest and the fire 
 
 Is kindled, and Thy summer bounty burns. 
 
 This is a marvel to me. Day is buried ; 
 
 And where they laid him in the west I see 
 
 The mounded mountains. Yet shall he come back ; 
 
 Not like a ghost that rises from his grave. 
 
 But in the east the palace gates will ope. 
 
 And he comes forth out of the feast, and I 
 
 Behold him and the glory after him, 
 
 Like to a messaged angel with wide arms 
 
 Of rapture, all the honour in his eyes. 
 
 And blushing with the King. In the dark hours 
 
 Thou hast been busy with him : for he went 
 
 Down westward, and he cometh from the east, 
 
 Not as toil-stained from travel, tho' his course 
 
 And journey in the secrets of the night 
 
 Be far as earth and heaven. This is a sum 
 
 Too hard for me, oh Lord ; I cannot do it. 
 
 But Thou hast set it, and I know with Thee 
 
 There is an answer. Man also, oh Lord, 
 
 Is clear and whole before I'hee. Well I know 
 
 That the strong skein and tangle of our life 
 
 Thou boldest by the end. The mother dieth — 
 
 The mother dieth ere her time, and like 
 
 A jewel in the cinders of a fire,
 
 176 " THE RAIN IS ON THE ROOE:' 
 
 The child endures. Also, the son is slain, 
 
 And she who bore him shrieks not wliile the steel 
 
 Doth hack her sometime vitals, and transfix 
 
 The heart she throbbed with. How shall these 
 
 things be ? 
 Likewise, oh Lord, man that is born of woman, 
 Who built him of her tenderness, and gave 
 Her sighs to breathe him, and for all his bones — 
 Poor trembler ! — hath no wherewithal more stern 
 Than bowels of her pity, cometh forth 
 Like a young lion from his den. Ere yet 
 His teeth be fangled he hath greed of blood, 
 And gambols for the slaughter : and being grown. 
 Sudden, with terrible mane and mouthing thunder, 
 Like a thing native to the wilderness 
 He stretches toward the desert ; while his dam, 
 As a poor dog that nursed the king of beasts, 
 Strains at her sordid chain, and, with set ear, 
 Hath yet a little longer, in the roar 
 And backward echo of his windy flight. 
 Him, seen no more. This also is too hard — 
 Too hard for me, oh Lord ! I cannot judge it. 
 Also the armies of him are as dust. 
 A little while the storm and the great rain 
 Beat him, and he abideth in his place. 
 But the suns scorch on him, and all his sap 
 And strength, whereby he held against the ground, 
 Is spent ; as in the unwatched pot on the fire. 
 When that which should have been the children's 
 
 blood 
 Scarce paints the hollow iron. Then Thou callest 
 Thy wind. He passeth like the stowre and dust 
 Of roads in summer. A brief while it casts 
 A shadow, and beneath the passing cloud 
 Things not to pass do follow to the hedge,
 
 « THE RAIN IS ON THE ROOFP 177 
 
 Swift heaviness runs umler with a show. 
 
 And draws a train, and what was white is dark ; 
 
 But at the hedge it falleth on the fields — 
 
 It falleth on the greenness of the grass ; 
 
 The grass between its verdure takes it in, 
 
 And no man heedeth. Surely, oh Lord God, 
 
 If he has gone down from me, if my child 
 
 Nowhere in any lands that see the sun 
 
 Maketh the sunshine pleasant, if the earth 
 
 Hath smoothed o'er him as waters o'er a stone, 
 
 Yet is he further from Thee than the day 
 
 After its setting? Shalt Thou not, oh Lord, 
 
 Be busy with him in the under dark, 
 
 And give him journey thro' the secret night, 
 
 As far as earth and heaven? Aye, tho' Thou slay 
 
 me 
 Yet will I trust in Thee, and in his flesh 
 Shall he see God ! But, Lord, tho' I am sure 
 That thou canst raise the dead, oh what has he 
 To do with death ? Our days of pilgrimage 
 Are three-score years and ten ; why should he die ? 
 Lord, this is grievous, that the heathen rage, 
 And because they imagined a vain thing, 
 That Thou shouldst send the just man that feared 
 
 Thee, 
 To smite it from their hands. Lord, who are they. 
 That this my suckling lamb is their burnt-offering? 
 That with my staff, oh Lord, their fire is kindled, 
 My ploughshare Thou dost beat into Thy sword. 
 The blood Thou givest them to drink is mine? 
 Let it be far from Thee to do to mine 
 What if I did it to mine own. Thy curse 
 Avengeth. Do I take the children's bread 
 And give it to the dogs ? Do I rebuke 
 So widely that the aimless lash comes down 
 
 012
 
 178 " THE RAIN IS ON THE ROOF.'' 
 
 On innocent and guilty? Do I lift 
 
 The hand of goodness by the elbowed arm 
 
 And break it on the evil ? Not so. Not so. 
 
 Lord what advantageth it to be God 
 
 If Thou do less than I ? 
 
 Have mercy on me ! 
 Deal not with me according to mine anger ! 
 Thou knowest if I lift my voice against Thee, 
 'T is but as he who in his fierce despair 
 Dasheth his head against the dungeon-stone, 
 Sure that but one can sufler. Yet, oh Lord, 
 If Thou hast heard — if my loud passion reached 
 Thine awful ear — and yet, I think, oh Father, 
 I did not rage, but my most little anger 
 Borne in the strong arms of my mighty love 
 Seemed of the other's stature — oh, good Lord, 
 Bear witness now against me. Let me see 
 And taste that Thou art good. Thou who art slow 
 To wrath, oh pause upon my quick offence. 
 And show me mortal ! Thou whose strength is made 
 Perfect in weakness, ah, be strong in me. 
 For I am weak indeed I How weak, oh Lord, 
 Thou knov.'est who hast seen the unlifted sin 
 Lie on the guilty tongue that strove in vain 
 To speak it. Call my madness from the tombs ! 
 Let the dumb fiend confess Thee ! If I sinned 
 In silence, if I looked the fool i' the face 
 And answered to his heart, " There is no God," 
 Now in mine hour stretch forth Thy hand, oh Lord, 
 And let me be ashamed. As when in sleep 
 I dream, and in the horror of my dream 
 Fall to the empty place below the world 
 Where no man is : no light, no life, no help, 
 No hope ! And all the marrow in my bones 
 Leaps in me, and I rend the night with fear !
 
 " THE RAIN IS ON THE ROOF:' 179 
 
 And he who lieth near me thro' the dark 
 
 Stretcheth an unseen hand, and all is well. 
 
 Tho' Thou shouldst give m6 all my heart's desire, 
 
 What is it in Thine eyes? Give me, oh God, 
 
 My heart's desire ! my heart's desire, oh God ! 
 
 As a young bird doth bend before its mother, 
 
 Bendeth and crieth to its feeding mother. 
 
 So bend I for that good thing before Thee. 
 
 It trembleth on the rock with many cries. 
 
 It bendeth with its breast upon the rock. 
 
 And worships in the hunger of its heart. 
 
 I tremble on the rock with many cries, 
 
 I bend my beating breast against the rock, 
 
 And worship in the hunger of my heart. 
 
 Give me that good thing ere I die, my God ! 
 
 Give me that very good thing ! Thou standest, Lord, 
 
 By all things, as one standeth after harvest 
 
 By the threshed corn, and, when the crowding fowl 
 
 Beseech him, being a man and seeing as men, 
 
 Hath ()ity on their cry, respecting not 
 
 The great and little barley, but at will 
 
 Dipping one hand into the golden store 
 
 Straweth alike ; nevertheless to them 
 
 Whose eyes are near their meat and do esteem 
 
 By conscience of their bellies, grain and grain 
 
 Is stint or riches. Let it, oh my God, 
 
 Be far from Thee to measure out Thy gifts 
 
 Smaller and larger, or to say to me 
 
 Who am so poor and lean with the long fast 
 
 Of such a dreary dearth — to me whose joy 
 
 Is not as Thine — whose human heart is nearer 
 
 To its own good than Thou who art in heaven — 
 
 •' Not this but this : " to me who if I took 
 
 All that these arms could compass, all pressed down 
 
 And running over that this heart could hold,
 
 i8o " THE RAIN IS ON THE ROOF:' 
 
 All that in dreams I covet when the soul 
 
 Sees not the further bound of what it craves, 
 
 Might filch my mortal infinite from Thine 
 
 And leave Thee nothing less. Give me, oh Lord, 
 
 My heart's desire ! It profiteth Thee nought 
 
 Being withheld ; being given, where is that aught 
 
 It doth not profit me ? Wilt Thou deny 
 
 That which to Thee is nothing, but to me 
 
 All things ? Not so. Not so. If I were God 
 
 And Thou — Have mercy on me ! oh Lord ! Lord ! 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 Lord, I am weeping. As Thou wilt, oh Lord, 
 
 Do with him as Thou wilt ; but oh, my God, 
 
 Let him come back to die ! Let not the fowls 
 
 O* the air defile the body of my child, 
 
 My own fair child that when he was a babe 
 
 I lift up in my arms and gave to Thee I 
 
 Let not his garment. Lord, be vilely parted. 
 
 Nor the fine linen which these hands have spun 
 
 Fall to the stranger's lot ! Shall the wild bird 
 
 —That would have pilfered of the ox — this year 
 
 Disdain the pens and stalls ? Shall her blind young, 
 
 That on the iieck and moult of brutish beasts 
 
 Had been too happy, sleep in cloth of gold 
 
 Whereof each thread is to this beating heart 
 
 As a peculiar darling ? Lo, the flies 
 
 Hum o'er him ! Lo, a feather from the crow 
 
 Falls in his parted lips ! Lo, his dead eyes 
 
 .See not the raven ! Lo, the worm, the worm 
 
 Creeps from his festering horse ! My God ! my God J 
 
 Oh Lord, Thou doest well. I am content. 
 If Thou have need of him he shall not stay. 
 But as one calleth to a servant, saying.
 
 " THE RAIN IS ON THE ROOF:' iSi 
 
 "At such a time be with me," so, oh Lord, 
 Call him to Thee ! • Oh bid him not in haste 
 Straight whence he standeth. Let him lay aside 
 The soilW tools of labour. Let him wash 
 His hands of blood. Let him array himself 
 Meet for his Lord, pure from the sweat and fume 
 Of corporal travail ! Lord, if he must die, 
 Let him die here. Oh take him where Thou gavest ! 
 
 And even as once I held him in my womb 
 Till all things were fulfilled, and he came forth. 
 So, ob Lord, let me hold him in my grave 
 Till the time come, and Thou, who settest when 
 The hinds shall calve, ordain a better birth ; 
 And as I looked and saw my son, and wept 
 For joy, I look again and see my son, 
 And weep again for joy of him and Thee !
 
 1 82 
 
 THE ORPHAN'S SONG. 
 
 I HAD a little bird, 
 I took it from the nest ; 
 I prest it, and blest it, 
 And nursed it in my breast. 
 
 \ set it on the ground, 
 
 I danced round and round, 
 
 And sang about it so cheerly, 
 
 With " Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird, 
 
 And oh but I love thee dearly ! " 
 
 I make a little feast 
 Of food soft and sweet, 
 I hold it in my breast, 
 And coax it to eat ; 
 
 I pit, and I pat, 
 
 I call it this and that, 
 
 And sing about it so cheerly, 
 
 With " Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird, 
 
 And ho but I love thee dearly I " 
 
 I may kiss, I may sing. 
 But I can't make it feed, 
 It taketh no heed 
 Of any pleasant thing.
 
 THE ORPHAN'S SONG. 183 
 
 I scolded, and I socked, 
 ]jut it minded not a whit, 
 Its little mouth was locked, 
 And I could not open it. 
 
 Tho' with pit, and with jsat, 
 
 And with this, and with that, 
 
 i sang about it so cheerly, 
 
 And " Hey my little bird, and ho ray little bird, 
 
 And ho but I love thee dearly." 
 
 But when the day was done, 
 And the room was at rest. 
 And I sat all alone 
 With my birdie in my breast, 
 
 And the light had fled, 
 And not a sound was heard, 
 Then my little bird 
 Lifted up its head, 
 
 And the little mouth 
 
 Loosed its sullen pride, 
 
 And it opened, it opened, 
 
 With a yearning strong and wide. 
 
 Swifter than I speak 
 I brought it food once more, 
 But the poor little beak 
 Was locked as before. 
 
 I sat down again, 
 And not a creature stirred, 
 I laid the little bird 
 Again where it had lain ;
 
 184 '^li^ ORPHAN'S SONG. 
 
 And again when nothing sliired, 
 
 And not a word I said, 
 
 Then my little bird 
 
 Lifted up its head, 
 
 And the little beak 
 
 Loosed its stubborn pride, 
 
 And it opened, it opened, 
 
 With a yearning strong and wide. 
 
 It lay in my breast, 
 
 It uttered no cry, 
 
 'Twas famished, 'twas famished, 
 
 And I couldn't tell why. 
 
 I couldn't tell why. 
 
 But I saw that it would die, 
 
 For all that I kept dancing round afld round, 
 
 And singing above it so cheerly, 
 
 With " Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird, 
 
 And ho but I love thee dearly 1 " 
 
 I never look sad, 
 I hear what people say, 
 I laugh when they are gay 
 And they think I arn glad. 
 
 My tears never start, 
 I never say a word. 
 But I think that my heart 
 Is hke that little bird. 
 
 Every day I read, 
 And I sing, and I play,- 
 But thro' the long day 
 It taketh no heed.
 
 THE ORPHAN'S SONG. 185 
 
 It taketh no heed 
 Of any pleasant thing, 
 I know it doth not read, 
 I know it doth not sing. 
 
 With my mouth I read, 
 With my hands I play, 
 My shut heart is shut, 
 Coax it how you may. 
 
 You may coax it how you may 
 AVhile the day is broad and bright, 
 But in the dead night 
 When the guests are gone away, 
 
 And no more the music sweet 
 Up the house doth pass, 
 Nor the dancing feet 
 Shake the nursery glass ; 
 
 And I've heard my aunt 
 Along the corridor, 
 And my uncle gaunt 
 Lock his chamber door ; 
 
 And upon the stair 
 All is hushed and still. 
 And the last wheel 
 Is silent in the square ; 
 
 And the nurses snore, 
 And the dim sheets rise and fall, 
 And the lamplight's on the wall, 
 And the mouse is on the floor ;
 
 i86 THE ORPHAN'S SONG. 
 
 And the curtains of my bed 
 Are like a heavy cloud, 
 And the clock ticks loud, 
 And sounds are in my head ; 
 
 And little Lizzie sleeps 
 
 Softly at my side, 
 
 It opens, it opens, 
 
 With a yearning strong and wide f 
 
 It yearns in my breast. 
 
 It utters no cry, 
 
 'Tis famished, 'tis famished. 
 
 And I feel that I shall die. 
 
 I feel that I shall die, 
 
 And none will know why, 
 
 Tho' the pleasant life is dancing round and round 
 
 And singing about me so cheerly, 
 
 With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird, 
 
 And ho but I love thee dearly I "
 
 l87 
 
 TOMMY'S DEAD. 
 
 You may give over plough, boys, 
 You may take the gear to the stead, 
 All the sweat o' your brow, boys, 
 Will never get beer and bread. 
 The seed's waste, I know, boys, 
 There's not a blade will grow, boys, 
 'Tis cropped out, I trow, boys, 
 And Tommy's dead. 
 
 Send the colt to fair, boys, 
 
 He's going blind, as I said, 
 
 My old eyes can't bear, boys, 
 
 To see him in the shed : 
 
 The cow's dry and spare, boys, 
 
 She's neither here nor there, boys, 
 
 I doubt she's badly bred ; 
 
 Stop the mill to-morn, boys, 
 
 There'll be no more corn, boys. 
 
 Neither white nor red ; 
 
 There's no sign of grass, boys, 
 
 You may sell the goat and the ass, boys, 
 
 The land's not what it was, boys. 
 
 And the beasts must be fed : 
 
 You may turn Peg away, boys, 
 
 You may pay off old Ned, 
 
 We've had a dull day, boys, 
 
 And Tommy's dead.
 
 1 88 TOMMY'S DEAD. 
 
 Move my chair on the floor, Loys, 
 
 Let me turn my head : 
 
 She's standinjT there in the door, boys, 
 
 Your sister Winifred ! 
 
 Take her away from me, boys. 
 
 Your sister Winifred ! 
 
 Move me round in my place, boys, 
 
 Let me turn my head. 
 
 Take her away from me, boys. 
 
 As she lay on her death-bed. 
 
 The bones of her thin face, boys, 
 
 As she lay on her death-bed ! 
 
 I don't know how it be, boys, 
 
 When all's done and said, 
 
 But I see her looking at me, boys. 
 
 Wherever I turn my head ; 
 
 Out of the big oak-tree, boys. 
 
 Out of the garden-bed. 
 
 And the lily as pale as she, boys, 
 
 And the rose that used to be red. 
 
 There's something not right, boys, 
 But I think it's not in my head, 
 I've kept my precious sight, boys — 
 The Lord be hallowed ! 
 Outside and in 
 
 The ground is cold to my tread, 
 The hills are wizen and thin, 
 The sky is shrivelled and shred. 
 The hedges down by the loan 
 I can count them bone by bone. 
 The leaves are open and spread, 
 But I see the teeth of the land, 
 And hands like a dead man's hand, 
 And the eyes of a dead man's head.
 
 TOMMY'S DEAD. 189 
 
 There's nothing but chiders and sand, 
 The rat and the mouse have fed, 
 And the summer's empty and cold ; 
 Over valley and wold 
 Wherever I turn my head 
 There's a mildew and a mould. 
 The sun's going out overhead. 
 And I'm very old, 
 And" Tommy's dead. 
 
 What am I staying for, boys, 
 You're all born and bred, 
 'Tis fifty years and more, boys, 
 Since wife and I were wed. 
 And she's gene before, boys, 
 And Tommy's dead. 
 
 She was always sweet, boys. 
 
 Upon his curly head, 
 
 She knew she'd never see't, boys, 
 
 And she stole off to bed ; 
 
 I've been sitting up alone, boys. 
 
 For he'd come home, he said. 
 
 But it's time I was gone, boys. 
 
 For Tommy's dead. 
 
 Put the shutters up, boys. 
 
 Bring out the beer and bread, 
 
 Make haste and sup, boys, 
 
 For my eyes are heavy as lead ; 
 
 There's something wrong in the cup, boy; 
 
 There's something ill wi' the bread, 
 
 I don't care to sup, boys, 
 
 And Tommy's dead.
 
 I90 TOMMY'S DEAD. 
 
 I'm not right, I doubt, boys, 
 I've such a sleepy head, 
 I shall never more be stout, boys. 
 You may carry me to bed. 
 What are you about, boys, 
 The prayers are all said, 
 The fire's raked out, boys, 
 And Tommy's dead. 
 
 The stairs are too steep, boys, 
 You may carry me to the head. 
 The night's dark and deep, boys, 
 Your mother's long in bed, 
 'Tis time to go to sleep, boys, 
 And Tommy's dead. 
 
 I'm not used to kiss, boys. 
 
 You may shake my hand instead. 
 
 All things go amiss, boys, 
 
 You may lay me where she is, boys, 
 
 And I'll rest my old head : 
 
 'Tis a poor world, this, boys, 
 
 And Tommy's dead. 
 
 ^Vpjj,,,
 
 191 
 
 ''SHE TOUCHES A SAD STRING OF 
 SOFT RECALL." 
 
 Return, return ! all night my lamp is burning, 
 All night, like it, my wide eyes watch and burn ; 
 
 Like it, I fade and jiale, when day returning 
 Bears witness that the absent can return, 
 Return, return. 
 
 Like it, I lessen with a lengthening sadness, 
 Like it, I burn to waste and waste to burn, 
 
 Like it, I spend the golden oil of gladness 
 To feed the sorrowy signal for return, 
 Return, return. 
 
 Like it, like it, whene'er the east wind sings, 
 
 I bend and shake ; like it, I quake and yearn, 
 When Hope's late buttertlies, with whispering wings. 
 
 Fly in out of the dark, to fall and burn — 
 
 Burn in the watchfire of return. 
 
 Return, return. 
 
 Like it, the very flame whereby I pine 
 Consumes me to its nature. While I mourn 
 My soul becomes a better soul than mine, 
 And from its brightening beacon I discern 
 My starry love go forth from me, and shine 
 Across the seas a path for thy return, 
 Return, return.
 
 192 SHE TOUCHES A SAD STRING. 
 
 Return, return ! all niijht I see it burn, 
 All night it prays like me, and lifts a twin 
 Of palmed praying hands that meet and yearn — 
 Yearn to the impleaded skies for thy return. 
 Day, like a golden fetter, locks them in, 
 And wans the light that withers, tho' it burn 
 As warmly still for thy return ; 
 Still thro' the splendid load uplifts the thin 
 Pale, paler, palest patience that can learn 
 Nought but that votive sign for thy return — 
 That single suppliant sign for thy return, 
 Return, return. 
 
 Return, return ! lest haply, love, or e'er 
 
 Thou touch the lamp the light have ceased to burn, 
 
 And thou, who thro' the window didst discern 
 
 The wonted flame, shalt reach the topmost stair 
 
 To find no wide eyes watching there, 
 
 No withered welcome waiting thy return ! 
 
 A passing ghost, a smoke-wreath in the air, 
 
 The flameless ashes, and the soulless urn. 
 
 Warm with the famished fire that lived to burn — 
 
 Burn out its lingering life for thy return. 
 
 Its last of lingering life for thy return, 
 
 Its last of lingering life to light thy late return, 
 
 Return, return.
 
 19.3 
 
 From '' balder:' 
 
 Amy's Song of the Willow. 
 
 The years they come, and the years they go, 
 Like winds that blow from sea to sea ; 
 From dark to dark they come and go, 
 All in the dew-fall and the rain. 
 Down by the stream there be two sweet willows, 
 — Hush thee, babe, while the wild winds blow, — 
 One hale, one blighted, two wedded willows 
 All in the dew-fall and the rain. 
 
 She is blighted, the fair young willow, 
 — Hush thee, babe, while the wild winds blow, — 
 She hears the spring-blood beat in the bark ; 
 She hears the spring-leaf bud on the bough ; 
 But she bends blighted, the wan weeping willow, 
 All in the dew-fall and the rain. 
 
 The stream runs sparkling under the willow, 
 
 — Hush thee, babe, while the wild winds blow, — 
 
 The summer rose-leaves drop in the stream ; 
 
 The winter oak-leaves drop in the stream ; 
 
 But she bends blighted, the wan weeping willow, 
 
 All in the dew-fall and the rain. 
 
 Sometimes the wind lifts the bright stream to her, 
 —Hush thee, babe, while the wild winds blow, —
 
 194 From BALDER. 
 
 The false stream sinks, and her tears fall faster ; 
 Because she touched it her tears fall faster ; 
 Over the stream her tears fall faster, 
 All in the sunshine or the rain. 
 
 The years they come, and the years they go ; 
 
 Sing well-away, sing well-away 1 
 
 And under mine eyes shines the bright life -river ; 
 
 Sing well-away, sing well-away ! 
 
 Sweet sounds the spring in the hale green willow, 
 
 The goodly green willow, the green waving willow ; 
 
 Sweet in the willow, the wind-whispering willow ; 
 
 Sing well-away, sing well-away ! 
 
 But I bend blighted, the wan weeping willow, 
 
 All in the sun, and the dew, and the rain. 
 
 Balder sfea7;s. — I have lingered by the Past 
 As by a death-bed, with unwonted love 
 And such forgiveness as we bring to those 
 Who can offend no more. The very stones 
 Of old memorial have been dear to me, 
 Sitting long days on ancient stiles worm -worn, 
 And gazing thro' green trees o'er grassy graves 
 Upon the living village and the dead. 
 The early and the latter tryst that all 
 Have kept so long and well ; or to the pile 
 Reared by those English whose ancestral feet 
 Trod the same path their children's children keep 
 Still hallowed, where the beauty of the vale. 
 The blushing girl of yonder bridal train. 
 Walks in her love and joy, and passing slow 
 Salutes unconscious with her wedding skirt 
 The gable end, no greyer than of yore,
 
 From BALDER. 195 
 
 When by the same dark yew for ever old, 
 The same grey Time did hold his scythe above 
 Her grandame's head, whose silk of long ago 
 So rustled on the wall when she went by 
 A happy bride, and heard perchance that day 
 Tales from wan lips of the far morning when 
 Her mother's mother passed as fair as she. 
 Or on the leafy and live-long repose 
 Of country labour, and the unhasted life 
 That plods with equal step the wonted way, 
 A-field at morn and homeward slow at eve. 
 And slow with eve and morn through drowsy day 
 Doth toil and feed and sleep and feed and toil. 
 Or on lone homesteads and the untrespassed rest 
 Of immemorial pastures, and the tread 
 Of dreamful herds in verdant peace unvexed 
 And taskless thro' the round of sauntering day. 
 And all the dewy leisure of the meatls. 
 
 The Cuckoo-Lamb. 
 
 Amy sings. — The cuckoo-Iamb is merry on the lea, 
 The daisied lea ; I would I were the lamb ! 
 While that the lark will pipe, the lamb will dance. 
 And when the lark is mute he danceth still ; 
 Up springs the lark, and pipes again for joy I 
 He, more by birth, than we by toil and skill, 
 Is happy with no labour but to live ; 
 He leapeth early, and he leapeth late ; 
 He leapeth in the sunshine and the rain, 
 Nor fears the hour that will not find him blest, 
 And milky plenty sauntering Vjy his side. 
 Also the lamb that doth not toil nor spin. 
 Lies where he will, and where he lieth sleeps.
 
 196 From BALDER. 
 
 Sleeps on the hill-top like a cloud o' the hill, 
 
 Sleeps where the trembling Lily of the Vale, 
 
 Albeit she is so spotlesss, sleepeth not, 
 
 But like a naked fairy fears all night 
 
 The wind that for her beauty cannot sleep. 
 
 Sleeps on the nettle or the violet ; 
 
 Or where the sun doth warm his trance with light, 
 
 Or where the runnel murmureth cool dreams, 
 
 Or where the eglantine not yet in bloom, 
 
 Like a sweet girl full of her sweeter thought, 
 
 Reveals unheard the sweetness still to be. 
 
 Or where the darnel nods, and, as they tell 
 
 Of beauty nursed upon a savage dug, 
 
 Sucks grace from the harsh bosom of the waste. 
 
 Sleeps in the meadow butter-cups at noon, 
 
 — A babe a-slumber in a golden crib — 
 
 Or like a daisy by the way-side white, 
 
 And like a daisy quieteth the way. 
 
 The lamb, the lamb, I would I were the lamb ! 
 
 Balder to Amy. 
 
 Thou most pure 
 And guileless voice, I never breathed thee 1 No, 
 Thou meek misfortune, thou art not my past. 
 My Amy, my own Amy, whom of old 
 I found, as a wild sailor of the sea 
 Comes on some happy isle of Love and Peace, 
 Some isle where joys that in all other climes. 
 Sweet flying thro' the night of his dark way, 
 A moment rest upon his sail, pass on, 
 And are beheld no more, in equal haunts 
 And bright assured communion ever dwell,
 
 From BALDER. 197 
 
 Day without night, and native, brood and sing ! 
 Thou who thro' the stern ordeal of tills life 
 Didst cling beside me. 
 
 . - , • • 
 
 My first Love and my last ; so far, so near, 
 
 So strong, so weak, so comprehensible 
 
 In these encircling arms, so undescribed 
 
 In any thought that shapes thee ; so divine, 
 
 So softly human, that to either stretch, 
 
 Extreme and farthest tether of desire 
 
 It finds thee still ; my ministering saint, 
 
 Attendant sprite, enshrined Egeria ! 
 
 My ornament, my crown, my Indian gem 
 
 And incommunicable amulet 
 
 Upon my breast, not me but warm with me ! 
 
 Amy. l^Iy lord, that walkest thro' the universe, 
 Did I not go beside thee, as a child. 
 With humble step and looking to thy face ? 
 
 My king, who reignest wheresoe'er thou art ! 
 All do thy best, my King, but who as I ? 
 Hast thou not all thy subjects here in me ? 
 
 My husband, who hast loved me like a god, 
 And blessed me, surely I did well to love 
 Thee as a god ? — but can a god forget ? 
 
 Wherein have I offended ? Nay, thy brow 
 Is sweet and cloudless — I have done no ill.
 
 198 Frotn BALDER. 
 
 My husband, have I not been still thy bird, 
 Thy dove, thy snow-while dove, upon thy wrist, 
 Or in thy breast, or feeding from thy lips, 
 Or round thine head, or fluttering with fond feint 
 Before thy footsteps— with mine eyes on thee ? 
 
 Was I not as a lamb around thy feet, 
 
 That loved thee ? For my neck thou didst entwine 
 
 Sweet garlands and I followed thee, nor knew 
 
 The inexorable sadness, till a door 
 
 Opened, and thou art among men, and I 
 
 Am but a lamb, and bleat about the gate. 
 
 My husband, I have been an orphan fawu 
 
 That ran beside the cubless lioness ; 
 
 WTio spared her, and did make with her what sport 
 
 Befits the offspring of the forest king. 
 
 And the poor fawn still gambolled in her blood. 
 
 Have I not been a moth about thy light 
 
 Scorched, scorched ; but, husband ! when the wound 
 
 was worst, 
 Winging with madder passion still to thee ! 
 
 Wert thou nor always as a crescent moon, 
 And I thy star within thee, till the time 
 Came, and the lengthening distance, and I knew 
 My rising and my setting were not thine. 
 
 Oh was I not a floweret in thine hand 
 When thou didst stand upon the peak of thought 
 GaEing to heaven, which with a thunder-shock 
 Rolled back, and angels came to thee, and thou 
 Didst stretch to them thine open hands uplift 
 In welcome, and I fell to where I am.
 
 From BALDER. 199 
 
 I think they touched thine eyes, and that 
 thenceforth 
 Thou seest all things clearly, and me here. 
 Nor knowest it is very far from thee. 
 Oh husband ! it is night here in the vale, 
 And I lie on the rugged earth who had 
 Thy bosom ; moreover I cannot hear 
 Thy voice, nor tho' thou seest me can I see 
 Thy face. It is not with me as with thee ; 
 The shadows here are always long and deep. 
 Also the night comes sooner than to thee. 
 
 IlAri'Y Eve, 
 
 Happy eve, happy eve ! 
 
 But the mavis singing in the eve, 
 
 Singetli for the silence of the eve. 
 
 Happy flower, happy flower, 
 
 But the golden secret of the flower, 
 
 Hidden honey sweeter than the flower. 
 
 Happy moon, happy moon, 
 
 But the loving moonlight of the moon, 
 
 Tender wonder fairer than the moon. 
 
 Little child, little child. 
 
 As the evening mavis unto me, 
 
 As the twilight mavis unto me. 
 
 Little child, little child. 
 
 As the hidden honey unto me, 
 
 As the golden honey unto me.
 
 200 Frojn BALDER. 
 
 Little child, little child. 
 
 As the wondrous moonlight unto me, 
 
 As the better moonlight unto me. 
 
 Amy. Is there no hostel by the way of life ? 
 My way fare was from far as I can see ; 
 As far my toil is hot and white before ; 
 I stagger with my load, and halt midway, 
 And trembling turn beseeching eyes and vain 
 Backward and forward from my pitiless place. 
 The weary miles lie infinite beyond, 
 And each might be the future and the past. 
 I would lay down my burden lest I die. 
 is there no hostel by the way of life ? 
 
 Balder. Tnis very morn 
 Thro' her green island home the laughing spring 
 Drove, flinging joy, her blossom-laden car. 
 Forth from the polar cavern of the snows, 
 Dripping with winter, leaped a northern storm. 
 And shook himself ; and she lay buried white 
 Beneath an avalanche. At that dread sight 
 Up rose the West, and such a wind went by 
 As stunned the isle with voices, like a chief, 
 Rushing to battle with a sounding host 
 In shouting ranks wide on the echoing hills. 
 At first a roar of warning, " To the north ! " 
 Then like the shriek of all a ravished land, 
 " O Europe, Europe, Europe, Europe, Europe ! " 
 And then like the world's trumpet blown to war, 
 "The North, the North, the North, the North, the 
 North 1 "
 
 From BALDER. 201 
 
 Sailors' Song. 
 
 " How many ? " said our good Captain. • 
 
 " Twenty sail and more." 
 We were homeward bound, 
 
 Scudding in a gale with our jib towards the Nore. 
 Right athwart our tack, 
 The foe came thick and l-lack, 
 Like Hell-birds and foul weather— you might count them 
 by' the score. 
 
 The Betsy Jane did slack 
 To see the game in view. 
 They knew the Union Jack, 
 And the tyrant's flag we knew ! 
 Our Captain shouted "Clear the decks!" and the 
 Bo' sun's whistle blew. 
 
 Then our gallant Captain, 
 
 With his hand he seized the wheel, 
 
 And pointed with his stump to the middle of the foe. 
 
 •' Hurrah, lads, in we go ! " 
 
 (You should hear the British cheer, 
 
 Fore and aft.) 
 
 " There are twenty sail," sang he, 
 
 "But little Betsy Jane bobs to nothing on the sea ! " 
 
 (You should hear the British cheer, 
 
 Fore and aft. ) 
 
 " See yon ugly craft 
 
 With the pennon at her main I 
 
 Hurrah, my merry boys. 
 
 There goes the Betsy Jane ! " 
 
 ( You should hear the British cheer. 
 
 Fore and aft. )
 
 202 From BALDER. 
 
 The foe, he beats to quarters, and the Russian bugles 
 sound ; 
 • And tlie little Betsy Jane she leaps upon the sea. 
 " Port and starboard ! " cried our Captain ; 
 " Pay it in, my hearts ! " sang he, 
 " We're old ICngland's sons. 
 And we'll fight for her to-day ! " 
 (Vou should hear the British cheer, 
 Fore and aft. ) 
 
 ' ' Fire away 1 " 
 In she runs, 
 And her guns 
 Thunder round. 
 
 Amy's Song. 
 
 Neither gold nor silver, oh ye heavens ! 
 
 Only a little sunshine and sweet air, 
 
 The sunshine and the air of the old days ! 
 
 Only to be a feather ou the stream, 
 
 A thistle-plume upon the changing wind 
 
 Hither and thither ; to go to and fro 
 
 And up and down the joyance of the world, 
 
 The happy world, and be a part of all. 
 
 Ye are now unto me, oh ye bright heavens. 
 As one who should misuse the deaf and blind 
 In secret, but full loud when men are by 
 Speaketh rich words of love into the ears 
 That hear not, and before the sightless eyes 
 Makes vain ado of all they cannot see.
 
 Fro7n BALDER. 2oq 
 
 I pray ye ope the lattice of my soul 
 Aud let the wiud blow on mo ere I die, 
 And let me hold my forehead to the light, 
 And let me feel the falling of the dews, 
 And know the holy blessing of the rain ! 
 
 Balder. Had it been my portion here 
 With these obedient limbs and iron aid 
 Of some unconscious instrument to dig 
 The unquestionable soil, so that this hand 
 Thus armed should with no further cost than thrcea 
 Of definite volition — as to grasp, 
 To sink, to raise, — complete the stated dues 
 Of daily labour ! 
 
 "Were I born to plough, 
 While the lark drops upon his meal, the long 
 Material black and measurable furrow, 
 Whereof the brute sense of returning steer, 
 Treading the line, observant, testifies 
 That it is made indeed, and grossest clown 
 Who holds two eyes in use is a critic 
 Superfluously endowed ! 
 
 Happier to drive 
 The patient ass along the beaten way, 
 Laden with humble fruits to the set mart 
 Of fixed reward, and back to certain rest, 
 And sweet assured possession, than like me 
 Bound helpless on the fury of the winds, 
 To scour the plains 1 seek not, scale the height 
 Where my brain swims, and leap, as in a dream, 
 Down into the unfathomable void. . . .
 
 204 From BALDER. 
 
 Amy. If tliou wouldst sleep, my babe, if thou 
 wouldst sleep 
 And weary of the never-ending day ! 
 Tliou hast not milked me of my sorrow, babe, 
 Why must thou moan and watch and wake like me ? 
 
 My babe, my babe, is it not well with thee ? 
 And if not well, tlie end is come indeed. 
 
 My place was dark, and o'er a darker place 
 A great baud held me that I could not see. 
 
 Below us the dark gulph, for ever deep, 
 
 Above us, thro' the dark, a light of day, 
 
 And thou wert as a jewel on iny breast, 
 
 Sweet shining in the light that lit not me. 
 
 The hand is weary with upholdiug mo ! 
 
 If ill hath touched thee, babe, wo are given o'er. 
 
 Given o'er and dropt, a pillage and a prey ! 
 
 Ah I in the dark gulph what shall not seize thee ! 
 
 If thou wouldst sleep, my baby, if thou wouldst 
 
 sleep, 
 Nor scare me with the mystery of thine eyes. 
 
 Alas, thy parted lips, my babe, my babe ! 
 Alas, the hot breath from the cankered rose I 
 Alas, the little limbs ! Alas, the heart 
 That beateth like a wounded butterfly ! 
 My babe, my babe, what hath befallen thee ? 
 
 I see it all ; I sec, I see it all ! 
 How couLlst thou lie upon my breast and live ? 
 Tlio doom has run its date, the hour is hero ! 
 Not enough, babe, oh ! not enough, my babe.
 
 From BALDER. 205 
 
 That I who wag the favourite and tlie flower, 
 
 Bruised and beaten by a thousand ills, 
 
 As to the utter shelter and mere shed 
 
 Of this great gilded palace-world did creep 
 
 With thee, not wholly lost since thou wert not, 
 
 Nor in my desolation desolate. 
 
 Because the glory could not give thee more 
 
 Than me, or the bare walls of sorrow less. 
 
 My babe, it was too good for thee and me. 
 
 God hath abandoned us, and from His home 
 
 Is driving forth the mother and her child. 
 
 My child, my child, the wolf is in the wa}', 
 And what if lie doth choose the suckling lamb ? 
 
 Balder. — One can be brave 
 At noon, and with triumphant logic clear 
 The demonstrable air, but ne'ertheless, 
 Sometimes at Hallowe'en when, legends say, 
 The things that stir among the rustling trees 
 Are not all mortal, and the sick white moon 
 AVanes o'er the season of the sheeted dead. 
 We grow unreasonable and do quake 
 With more than the cold wind. The very soul, 
 iSick as the moon, suspects her sentinels. 
 And thro' her fortress of the body peers 
 Shivering abroad ; our heart-strings over-strung, 
 Scare us with strange involuntary notes 
 Quivering and quaking, and the creeping flesh 
 Knows all the starting horrors of surprise 
 But that which makes them, and for that, half- wild, 
 Quickens the winking lids, and glances out 
 Prom side to side, as if some sudden chance
 
 2o6 From BALDER. 
 
 Of vision, some unnsed slant of the eyo, 
 
 Some accidental focus of the sight 
 
 0' th' instant might reveal a peopled world 
 
 Crowding about us, and the empty light 
 
 Alive with phantoms. Doubtless there are ao 
 
 ghosts ; 
 Yet somehow it is better not to move 
 Lest cold hands seize upon us from behind 
 Or forward thro' the dim uncertain time 
 Face close with paly face. My ominous drcnm 
 Leaves me in shuddering incredulity 
 As logically white. 
 
 If to the long mysterious trance of death 
 There be immortal waking, he who lifts 
 His head from the clay pillow, and doth stretch 
 Eternal life thro' all his quickening limbs, 
 And conscious on his opening orbs receives 
 Remembered light, and rises to be sure 
 He hath revived indeed, tastes in that first 
 Best moment what the infinite beyond 
 Can never give again. 
 
 Am]i. My heart is shivered as a fallen cup, 
 And all the golden wine is in the earth. 
 
 My heart is stricken, and it cannot heal. 
 Tlio' thou art but a little grave I know, 
 O little grave, it will bleed into thee 
 For evermore, and thou wilt not be filled.
 
 From BALDER. 207 
 
 The fountains of my fate are dry ; my soul 
 Is dying in the famine of my lot. 
 I am a dead leaf in a wintry wind ; 
 My stem is broken from the tree of life, 
 I wither in the sun and in the air, 
 I wither in the rain and in the dews. 
 
 And thou£!h the wind doth tlirow mo on the tree. 
 Oh wind ! thou canst not bind what thou didst break; 
 1 wither in the verdure of the leaves. — 
 Beneath my window built the niglitingale ; 
 Ah cruel, who despoiled her happy nest ! 
 And in his wanton gripe he crushed her egg, 
 Her one lone egg ; — so doth Fate crush my heart. 
 
 The spring returns unto the nightingale, 
 The nightingale shall find a happier tree ; 
 The ravished nest must drift upon the da}', 
 The wind shall toss it as an idle straw, 
 The rain shall tread its ruins to the earth, 
 And I am all despoiled for evermore. 
 
 Amy. Oli wounded dove, oh dove with broken 
 wing, 
 Oh dying dove, wert thou not beautiful ? 
 Why didst thou hide thee, trembler, from the day. 
 And strain into the crevice of the did'. 
 And press thy beating breast against the hill, 
 As if the rocic should ope and let thee in ? 
 
 I took thee to my heart, oh snow-white dove, 
 I would have kissed and kissed thee o'er and o'er, 
 But thou wert fierce with fear, and with wild eyes 
 Didst turn upon me like a frantic maid 
 That struggles with a lover in the dark, 
 Bruising the hands that would have cherished her.
 
 2o8 From BALDER. 
 
 And gnashing on the lips that seek her own. 
 Oh dove, I also fall with broken wing, 
 I also strive and turn upon my fate, 
 And strike the inevitable hands in vain. 
 I also strain my bosom to the earth, 
 The earth that will not ope and let me in. 
 
 The Swallow. 
 
 Swallow, that yearly art blown round the world, 
 What seekest thou that never may be found ? 
 Whither for ever sailing and to sail ? 
 1 think the gulphs have sucked thine haven down, 
 And thou still steerest for the vanished strand. 
 What cheer, what cheer, oh fairy marinere 
 Of windy billows, sea-mew of the air % 
 The viewless oceans wash thee to and fro, 
 Spout thee to Heaven, and dive thee to the deep. 
 Swallow ! I also seek and do not find. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 I ne'er see Milton, but I see the Alps, 
 
 As once sole standing on a peak supreme, 
 
 To the extremest verge summit and gulph 
 
 I saw, height after depth, Alp beyond Alp, 
 
 O'er which the rising and the sinking soul 
 
 Sails into distance, heaving as a ship 
 
 O'er a great sea that sets to strands unseen. 
 
 And as the mounting and descending bark 
 
 Borne on exulting by the under deep. 
 
 Gains of the wild wave something not the wave. 
 
 Catches a joy of going, and a will
 
 From BALDER. 209 
 
 Resistless, and upon the List lee foam 
 Leaps into air beyond it, so the soul 
 Upon the Alpine ocean mountain-tost, 
 Incessant carried up to heaven, and plunged 
 To darkness, and still wet with drops of death 
 Held into light eternal, and again 
 Cast down, to be again uplift in vast 
 And infinite succession, cannot stay 
 The mad momentum, but in frenzied sight 
 Of horizontal clouds and mists and skies 
 And the untried Inane, springs on the surge 
 Of things, and passing matter by a force 
 Material, thro' vacuity careers, 
 llising and falling. 
 
 England. 
 
 This dear English land ! 
 This happy England, loud with brooks and birds, 
 Shining with harvests, cool with dewy trees, 
 And bloomed from hill to dell ; but whose best 
 
 flowers 
 Are daughters, and Ofdielia still more fair 
 Than any rose she weaves ; whose noblest floods 
 The pulsing torrent of a nation's heart ; 
 Whose forests stronger than her native oaks 
 Are living men ; and whose unlathomed lakes, 
 For ever calm, the unforgotten dead 
 In quiet graveyards willowed seemly round. 
 O'er which To-day bends sad, and sees liis face. 
 Whose rocks are rights, consolidate of old 
 Thro' unremembered years, around whose base 
 The ever-surging peoples roll and roar 
 Perpetual, as around lier clilfs the seas 
 That only wasli them wliiter ; and whose monnlriins, 
 
 074
 
 210 From BALDER. 
 
 Souls that from this mere footing of the earth 
 Lift their great virtues thro' all clouds of Fate 
 Up to the very heavens, and make them rise 
 To keep the gods above us ! 
 
 Charity. 
 
 Learn this, my friend, 
 The secret that doth make a flower a flower, 
 So frames it that to bloom is to be sweet, 
 Aud to receive to give. The flower can die, 
 But cannot change its nature ; though the earth 
 Starve it, and the reluctant air defraud, 
 No soil so sterile and no living lot 
 So poor but it hath somewhat still to spare 
 In bounteous odours. Charitable they 
 Who, be their having more or less, so have 
 That less is more than need, and more is less 
 Than the great heart's goodwill. 
 
 Sprixg. 
 
 Spring, who did scatter all her wealth last year, 
 Had gone to heaven for more ; and coming back 
 Flower-laden after three full seasons, found 
 The Earth, her mother, dead. 
 
 Far off, appalled 
 With the unwonted pallor of her face, 
 She flung her garlands down, and caught, distract. 
 The skirts of ^xissing temjiests, and thro' wilds 
 Of frozen air fled to her, all uncrowned 
 AVith liaste, — a bunch of snowdrops in her breast. 
 Her cliarms dishevelled, and her cheeks as white 
 As winter with lier woe. She fell upon
 
 From BALDER. 211 
 
 The corse, and wanned it. The maternal earth, 
 
 Which was not dead, but slept, unclosed her eyes. 
 
 Then Spring, o'erawed at her own miracle. 
 
 Fell on her knees ; and then she smiled and wept. 
 
 Meanwhile the attendant birds her haste outstripped, 
 
 Chasing her voice, crowd round and fill the air 
 
 With jocund loyalty ; and eager winds. 
 
 Her suitors, at full speed with Love and wild, 
 
 Hie by her in the lusty cheer of JIarch, 
 
 Crying her name. Laughed Spring to see them pass, 
 
 — Laughing in tears. Then it repented her 
 
 To see the old parental limbs of Earth 
 
 Lie stark as death ; and fared she forth alone 
 
 To where she left her burden in the void 
 
 Beyond the south horizon ; her fair hair 
 
 Streaming spring clouds among the vernal stars. 
 
 Returning slow, with flowers, she dressed the Eurth 
 
 Which had sat up, and, being naked, blushed 
 
 And stretclied her conscious arms to meet the Spring, 
 
 Who breathed upon her face, and made her young. 
 
 Then did her mother Earth rejoice iu her ; 
 
 And she with filial love and joy admired. 
 
 Weeping and trembling in the wont of maids. 
 
 Meantime her pious fame had filled the skies ; 
 
 He that begat her, the almighty Sun, 
 
 Passing in regal state, did call her "child," 
 
 And blessed her and her mother where they sat — 
 
 Her by the imposition of briglit hands, 
 
 The Earth with kisses. Then the Spring would go, 
 
 Abashed with bliss, decorous in the face 
 
 Of love parental. But the Earth stood up, 
 
 And held her there ; and, them encircling, came 
 
 All kind of happy shapes that wander space, 
 
 Brightening the air. And they two sang like gods 
 
 Under the answering heavens.
 
 212 Frovi BALDER. 
 
 SUMMKR. 
 
 Summer, 
 Mother of gods and men, with equal face 
 Unchangeable, and such wide eyes divine 
 As on the Athenian hill-top Phidian Jove 
 Inherited ; whose universal sense 
 Seems made with ampler vision to behold 
 A larger world than ours. She leans in light 
 On rose-leaves, as a long and lazy cloud 
 Leans on the broad bed of the blushing west. 
 In her right hand a horn of plentj', red 
 With fragrant fruits exuberant ; in her left 
 The early harvest ; crowned with oak and asli, 
 Her hot feet slippered in the calid seas. 
 Her voice is like the murmur of the floods 
 Sluggard with noon, or the thick-leaved response 
 Of sultry forests to the languid winds 
 Dull with the dog-days. 
 
 AUTt'MN. 
 
 He stands beside a throne of golden hills, 
 And up the steep steps of the royal throne 
 The burdened forests climb like countless slaves 
 Laden with gold. He stands and heeds them neb ; 
 Meanwhile his hand, with air abstract and wan. 
 From the abounding tribute of the earth 
 Scatters imperial largesse. All her fields 
 Are his ; they own their lord ; his barns are full, 
 His rivers run with wine, and his red plains 
 Shout with the vintage. Yet he stands beside 
 His golden throne, and looketh up to heaven, 
 And sighetli in the mi'lanclioly winds,
 
 From BALDER. 213 
 
 And smileth sweeter sadness. Ho hath learned 
 The lesson of power ; therefore his locks are sere, 
 Therefore there is no light in the sunk eyes 
 Which day and night reproach the sun and stars 
 With the unsated hunger of a soul 
 That is no richer tho' the world be won. 
 
 The Death of Autumn. 
 
 Sometimes an aged king upon his bed, 
 He dieth 'mid tlie conscious hush of all 
 His reverent realm, and silent snows him wind. 
 Or, haply, at midnight a clioir of winds 
 Chanting great anthems, bear him to his rest. 
 And sometimes doing battle with his fate, 
 A wreathed wrestler from a goige of wine. 
 He falls in pride ; a giant in his blood, 
 Dashed with the purple feast as to his robts 
 Of azure triump'h and his golden crown 
 Olympic, while his dying eye on fire 
 Brings a red glow into the cheeks of Death, 
 His ghastly foe, and his felled stature shakes 
 The sounding halls. 
 
 And sometimes as a maid 
 Dead and undone, the palo and drowned year 
 Lies still and silent on the mortal shore, 
 With dank unmeaning lips and sightless eyes 
 Oozo-fiUed, and blanch limbs stark and stiff beyond 
 The draggled robes eoakeii with a colder death. 
 And sometimes as a trusting maid who waits 
 Her far false lover, and thro' long lone hours 
 Exjiecta in vain, but as the sun goes down. 
 Chilled with the bitter day where love is not,
 
 214 From BALDER. 
 
 Bligbteil and mute, astonied beyond speech, 
 Stands ulterless ; while all within is changed 
 From life to death, and under that pale breast 
 Unheaving and those glittering eyes transacts 
 The alchemy of ruin. Nor she weeps, 
 Nor starts, nor shrieks, nor throws her arms to heaven, 
 But motionless and crimson with her wrong 
 Dies in lier silence, and falls still as leaves 
 Thro* stiller air. 
 
 Winter. 
 
 Who is he 
 
 That o'er green pastures of the latter year, 
 
 And on the mountain-tops, and through the woods 
 
 Passeth amid the pageant of the world 
 
 Silent and ceaseless, laying hand on nought ? 
 
 Not as content, for greed is in his eye, 
 
 But patient in the confidence of fate. 
 
 Downward in face, and as to his bent head 
 
 Covered ; by night and day, in sun or rain, 
 
 Unlooked for, unforeseen, but ever found. 
 
 And keeping ever on an aimless way 
 
 With the firm foot of purpose, as in dreams 
 
 We walk to airy biddings, and as on 
 
 A king's death-day, while all the court stand round 
 
 Power unresigned, the inevitable heir 
 
 Doth eye the crown and pace the palace floors 
 
 Expectant. But none know him for a king 
 
 Nor do him homage. The too-lusty green 
 
 Of the o'er-confident time unawed stands out 
 
 Into his path, and the insulting growth 
 
 Below retards his unrespected feet.
 
 From BALDER. 21 S 
 
 He sees, ami a cold smile comes on liis face 
 
 As moonlight upon ice ;' the shivering wind 
 
 Starts from his side, and fleeing ominous, 
 
 Spreads such a sign as in the latter day 
 
 Shall blow from chill Damascus ; but no roll 
 
 Of answering; tliunder nor dread bolt of wrath 
 
 Smites the roused world that listens and forgets. 
 
 Yet some are wise. With him on hill-tops hoar 
 
 The o'erruling spirits and attentive hours 
 
 Confer, and seek and take his high behest 
 
 In secret, and make peace with things to come. 
 
 And failing Autumn, like an aged king, 
 
 Talked with him on the field of cloth of gold. 
 
 And as be spake fell dead ; and the lush powers, 
 
 And pleasures full, which ruled the summer reign 
 
 (Like shijis on a calm sea, that, sinking slow. 
 
 Of all their gallant bulk above the wave 
 
 Leave but a naked mast) sank one by one 
 
 Into the earth, and in the wonted place 
 
 Were found in lesser fashion, daily less. 
 
 And now the lields are empty, but He walks 
 
 Hale and unmiuished to and fro and up 
 
 And down, and more and more tlie observance 
 
 Of the astonished year is turned and turned 
 
 Upon the Solitary, and the leaves 
 
 Grow wan with conscience, and a-sudden fall 
 
 Liege at his feet, and all the naked trees 
 
 Jlourn audibly, lifting appealing arms. 
 
 Which when he knew, as a pale smoke that grows 
 
 Keeping its shape, he rose into the air 
 
 And froze it, and the broad land blanched with fear, 
 
 And every breathless stream and river stopj)ed, 
 
 And thro' him, walking white and like a ghost 
 
 With grim unfurnished limbs, tlie '•old liglit jiassed 
 
 And cast uo shade. Then was he king indeed,
 
 2i6 From BALDER. 
 
 And all the undefended World he saw 
 Bare at his will. His brow grew black on her ; 
 And witli a sound that killed her shuddering hudit, 
 He whistled for the North. 
 
 Dawn. 
 
 See her in naked beauty, calm as snow, 
 And cradled in a cloud upon the east. 
 Unblushed, unconscious, with unopened lids, 
 Fair as the first of women where she lay 
 Among the aspliodels of Paradise 
 Before God breathed for her the breath of life. 
 
 MoiiK. 
 
 Lo, Morn, 
 When she stood forth at universal prime, 
 The angels shouted, and the dews of joy 
 Stood in the eyes of earth. AVhile here she reigned 
 Adam and Eve were full of orisons, 
 And could not sin. And so she won of God 
 That ever when she walketh in the world 
 It shall be Eden. And aroiind her come 
 The happy wonts of early Paradise. 
 Again the mist ascendeth from the earth 
 And watereth the ground, and at the sign 
 Nature, that silent saw our woe, breaks forth 
 Into her olden singing, near and far 
 The full and voluntary chorus tune 
 Spontaueous throats, aud the tea thousand strings
 
 From BALDER. 217 
 
 That by meridian day, being struck, give out 
 
 A muflied answer, peal tlieir notes, and ring 
 
 Reverberating music. Once again 
 
 The heavens forget their limits, pinions bright 
 
 0'er-p:issing mix the ethereal hounds with ours, 
 
 And winds of morning lead between their wings 
 
 Ambrosial odours and celestial airs 
 
 Warm with the voices of a better world. 
 
 Dews to the early grass, Light to the eyes, 
 
 Brooks to the murmuring hills. Spring to the earth, 
 
 Sweet winds to opening flowers, MORN to the heart ! 
 
 But more than dew to grass or light to eyes 
 
 Or brooks to murmuring hills or spring to earth 
 
 Or winds to opening flowers, morn to the heart ! 
 
 Once more to live is to be happy ; Life 
 
 With backward-streaming hair and eyes of haste 
 
 That look beyond the hills, doth urge no more 
 
 Her palpitating feet ; her wild hair falls 
 
 Soft thro' the hapyjy light upon her limbs. 
 
 She turns her wondering gaze upon herself. 
 
 Sweet saying — " It is good." Once more the soul 
 
 Rises in Eden to immortal gifts, 
 
 And by the side of morning,— new from heaven, 
 
 Fresh from the stores of all tilings, and within 
 
 Her limpid face still weaiing reflex bright 
 
 Of joys tliat shall be,— dances glad with strange 
 
 Unutterable Knowledge. We are healed ; 
 
 The curse falls from our ej^ellds ; all the thorns 
 
 And thistles that do plague us, clad in gems 
 
 Stand round ; and we behold them as tliey are, 
 
 And call them jewelled friends. All fetters break ; 
 
 From the tremendous girdle that doth round 
 
 The globe and keep her, to these heavy bonds 
 
 That bind us to her, and whose last stronghold 
 
 Is clenched in central fires. We are not dogs
 
 2i8 From BALDER. 
 
 Nailed to a needful den, but winged lions, 
 
 And walk the earth from choice, — the fair free earth 
 
 That willeth to be lierc, and cares not yet 
 
 To mount up like a coloured cloud to God. 
 
 The pulse of Being flows, the ill that ran 
 
 Along her veins, the hand of Incubus 
 
 Upon her throat, are gone like niglit ! All things 
 
 Do well, and still his function is to each 
 
 Consummate welfare. As the unheeded garb 
 
 Upon the rising and the falling breast 
 
 Of beauty, that still moveth as she moves, 
 
 Breathes with her breath and quivers with her sighs, 
 
 So Nature's varied robe lies light on her, 
 
 The beautiful broad surface of the world 
 
 And all its kingdoms. Memory that stirred 
 
 And murmured thro' the helpless dreamy dark, 
 
 Snuffing the eternal air, sinks silent down 
 
 To utter sleep, for whereas day that is 
 
 Bendeth beneath the golden multitude 
 
 Of all the days that have been, each to-morrow 
 
 Heavier for yesterday. Morn hath no past. 
 
 Primeval, perfect, she, not born to toil, 
 
 Steppeth from under tlie great weight of life, 
 
 And stands as at the first. 
 
 The feast is spread. 
 And none know wherefore. Wherefore ? who shall 
 
 ask? 
 Who cannot feast ? As a rich bride in smiles 
 And blushes for her much bliss eateth not, 
 And seeth that they serve a sacrament 
 And something more than wine, the poet sits. 
 Wiiile Who stood glorious at the shining head 
 Of Jubilee, where men a light beheld 
 And he a presence, clad in sounding joy
 
 From BALDER. 219 
 
 Moves down the festal aisles. As a true queen, 
 In whose ennobling eyes her lowliest guests 
 Are princes, so she slow descends to far 
 Forgotten places, and with her mere smile 
 Rights the unequal board. Light shines to light 
 Down to the earth and upward to the heaven, 
 And whatsoe'er unknown it is whereof 
 Our lives default, whatever of divine 
 Whose all irreparable absence makes 
 The nameless dolour of a mortal day, 
 Returns in full. As love, that hath his cell 
 'In the deep secret heart, dotli with his breath 
 Enrich the precincts of his sanctuary 
 And glorify the brow and tint the cheek ; 
 As in a summer garden one beloved 
 Whom roses hide, unseen tills all the place 
 With happy presence ; as to the void soul 
 Beggared with famine and with drought, lo God ! 
 And there is great abundance ; so comes MORN, 
 Plenishes all things and completes the world. 
 
 Fairies. 
 
 I knew a family 
 Of fairies. Thou wouldst hear their history ? 
 But how ? I cannot speak of them apart ; 
 Nay, hardly of the matter of this breath 
 May frame their common story. Our least word 
 Too palpable is grosser than the strength 
 Of all, as one bright water-drop contains 
 An animalcular people. Oberon, 
 Step forth, and let rne fit thee with a sound 
 Wherein from top to toe thou wouldst not stand
 
 220 From BALDER. 
 
 Hid as an urchin in his grandsire's coat ! 
 
 Their dwelling-place was by the water's edge 
 
 Under a stone. The mosses of the brink 
 
 Spread ample shade with branching arms at noon, 
 
 And there each day they lay at ease, all three 
 
 Singing a drowsy chorus like the hum 
 
 Of hovering gnat above a bed at night, 
 
 Heard when the house is still. Such needful rcat 
 
 Concludes the daily feast ; — a grain of grass 
 
 In no more honey-dew than loads an ant 
 
 Driven like an ass before them. Once a day 
 
 They fed at home, but morn and eve I saw 
 
 Where in green ambush under milking kine, 
 
 Looking up, all, as to a precipice, 
 
 They watched the pail, and when the white plash fell 
 
 Cupped in some patent floweret, gathering round, 
 
 Climbed the laborious stem, and bending o'er, 
 
 Drank deep ; wliich done, they seek the lucid lake, 
 
 And sailing forth in pride, tlie emerald wing 
 
 Of summer beetle is a barge of state ; 
 
 Her cock-boat, red and black, the painted scale 
 
 Of lady-fly aft in tlie fairy wake 
 
 Towed by a film, and tossed perchance in storm, 
 
 When airy martlet, sipping of tlie pool, 
 
 Touches it to -a ripple that stirs not 
 
 The lilies. Thus I knew the tiny band, 
 
 Nor only so, but singly, and of each 
 
 Tlie several favour ; yet I can but speak 
 
 With organs made to tell of gods and men. 
 
 Thou who wouldst know them better think the rest. 
 
 And with some fine suggestion which has taste 
 
 Of a remembered odour; silent sweet, 
 
 Or what rare power divides the last result 
 
 Of mortal touch, and to the atomy 
 
 Gives an unnamed inferior, or what sense
 
 From BALDER. 221 
 
 Eesponds the tremors of the soul and takes 
 
 The sound of wings that,unbeheki by eyes, 
 
 Jlj'stie and seh^om thro' its ujiper air 
 
 Pass as in wandering flight ; therewith behold 
 
 My vision, and therewith accept the parts 
 
 Of the so delicate whole which my strained care 
 
 Brought not unminished, nor could bring, but found 
 
 As 'twere an eltin draught in faery cup, 
 
 And to be spilled by the mere pulse of hands 
 
 Like mine. Therewith attach each separate grace 
 
 Of those thus fair together ; know what made 
 
 Jilach brother beauteous, what more subtle charm 
 
 The lovelier sister, and what golden hair 
 
 Hung over her as sometimes shimmereth light 
 
 From smallest dew-drop, else unseen, that crowns 
 
 The slimmest grass of all the shaven green 
 
 At morning. Love tliem by their names, for names 
 
 They had, and speech that any word of ours 
 
 Would drop between its letters uncontained ; 
 
 Love tliem, but hope not for impossible knowledge. 
 
 In their small language they are not as we ; 
 
 Nor could, methinks, deliver with the tongue 
 
 Our gravid notions ; nor of this our world 
 
 They speak, tho' earth-born, but have heritage 
 
 From our confines, and property in all 
 
 That thro' the net of our humanity 
 
 Floats down the stream of things. Inheriting 
 
 Below us even as we below some great 
 
 Intelligence, in whose more general eyes 
 
 Perchance Mankind is one. Neither have fear 
 
 To scare them, drawing nigh, nor with thy voice 
 
 To roll their thunder. Thy wide utterance 
 
 Is sihjuce to tlie eais it enters not, 
 
 Raising the attestation of a wind, 
 
 No more. As we, being men, nor hear but soa
 
 222 From BALDER. 
 
 The clamour and the universal tramp 
 Of stars, and the continual Voice of God 
 Calling above our heads to all the world. 
 
 Chamouni. 
 
 If 
 
 Thou hast known anywhere amid a storm 
 
 Of thunder, when the Heavens and Earth were moved, 
 
 A gleam of quiet sunshine that hath saved 
 
 Thine heart ; Or where the earthquake hath made 
 
 wreck, 
 Knowest a stream, that wandereth fair and sweet 
 As brooks go singing thro" the fields of home ; 
 Or on a sudden when the sea distent 
 With windy pride, upriseth thro' the clouds 
 To set his great head equal with the stars 
 Hast sunk Hell-deep, thy noble ship a straw 
 Betwixt two billows ; Or in any wild 
 Barbaric, hast, with half-drawn breath, passed by 
 The sleeping savage, dreadful still in sleep. 
 Scarred by a thousand combats, by his side 
 His rugged spouse — in aught but sex a chief — 
 Their babe between ; Or where the stark roof-tree 
 Of a burnt home blackened and sear lies dark. 
 Betwixt the gaunt-ribbed ruin, hast thou seen 
 The rose of peace ; Or in some donjon deep, 
 Rent by a giant in the blasted rock 
 And proof against his peers, — hast thou beheld 
 Prone in the gloom, naked and shining sad 
 In her own light of loveliness, a fair 
 Daughter of Eve : Then as thou seest God 
 In some material lilceness, less and morsj
 
 From BALDER. 223 
 
 Thou hast seen Chamouni, 'mid sternest Alps 
 
 The gentlest valley ; bright meandering track 
 
 Of summer when she winds among the snows 
 
 From Land to Land. Beliold its fairest field 
 
 Beneath the bolt-scarred forehead of the hills 
 
 Low lying, like a heart of sweet desires, 
 
 Pulsing all day a living beauty deep 
 
 Into the sullen secrets of the rocks. 
 
 Tender as Love amid the Destinies 
 
 And Terrors ; whereabout the great heights stand 
 
 Down-gazing, like a solemn company 
 
 Of grey heads met together to look back 
 
 Upon a far fond memory of youth. 
 
 Northward and southward of my hut, from heaven 
 
 To earth, two gates of ice shut in the scene, 
 
 As tho' between twin icebergs a green sea 
 
 Had melted, and the summer sun and sky 
 
 Shone in the waters. All the vale is flowers. 
 
 Take thy stafl" shod with iron, gird thy loins 
 
 For conflict. Let us to the northern gate ! 
 
 Is this a wood of pines ? Are these but rocks. 
 
 Hurled by the winter tempest ? Did a chance 
 
 O'erthrow these trunks — in the stern wont of war 
 
 Supine ? Or was it here the Thunderer smoto 
 
 The Giants — and the battered remnant stand 
 
 Astouied giving glory to the Heavens ? 
 
 Aye, these are pines ; but thou shalt turn and break 
 
 The hugest on thy knee, having once passed 
 
 Out of their umbrage, and in open day 
 
 Fronted the everlasting looks of them 
 
 Who sit beyond in council ; round whose feet 
 
 Are wrapped the shaggy forests, and whose beards, 
 
 Down from the great height unapproachable. 
 
 Descend upon their breasts. There, being old, 
 
 All days and years they maunder on their thrones
 
 224 From BALDER. 
 
 Mountainous mutterings, or thro' the vale 
 
 KoU the long roar from startled side to side 
 
 When whoso, lifting up his sudden voice, 
 
 A moment speaketh of his meditation, 
 
 And thinks again. There shalt thou learn to stand 
 
 One in that companj', and to commune 
 
 With them, saying, " Thoii, oh Alp, and thou, and 
 
 thou, 
 And I." Nathless, proud equal, look thou take 
 Heed of thy peer, lest he perceive thee not, — 
 Lest the wind blow his garment, and the hem 
 Crush thee, or lest he stir, and tlie mere dust 
 In the eternal folds bury thee quick ! 
 The forest now behind thee, at thy feet 
 The torrent, thrust thine head back as who seeks 
 The pole-star ; and above the mountains green. 
 And o'er the shepherd's shealing, — less than nest 
 On tree-top — and o'er woods that are as moss, 
 Black on a ruin, — over the icy sea 
 — A billowy Sibir of ten thousand hills 
 As tho' yon white rocks, bending evermore 
 So potently above the floods, begat 
 A likeness, and from out their yielding breasts 
 Compelled a brood of stone — o'er naked crags,— 
 Aye, above where the shyest roe unseen 
 Draws the thin breath, and marmot cannot pass 
 The inexorable famine, — over wilds 
 For ever dead, and snow, and upper snow. 
 And wastes above the snow, see nearer heaven 
 The base of a great pyramid, and rise 
 Slow to this peak, like a grey pinnacle 
 Of the towered earth piercing the cloudless skies. 
 To ns how calm aTul lonely, tenantless 
 And silent as the still and empty air, 
 Uut to that height the seldom mountaineer
 
 From BALDER. 225 
 
 Loots from the extreincst footing of some ridge 
 Incredible, three times Ijeyond our ten, 
 And to his keen and upward-straining eyes 
 Round it midway the circling eagles sail, 
 As daws that round some thin and distant siiire 
 On English hill, scarce seen thro' lucent air, 
 Are motes in the evening sun. 
 
 Now, if Ihoii dur; 
 Drop from the Alp to lowest vale remote 
 Breathless ; nor be the first in that great fall. 
 So yon dark glacier from his native snows 
 Felfon the narrow valley, which beneath, 
 Like a poor foundered skift", when some vast whale 
 In his unwieldy death-pang leaps and falls, 
 Is sunk and lost. Grim with mortality, 
 War-stained he lies in heavy length, and bleeds, 
 A hill of death. Behold aloft the seas 
 Whence he came down, unmelting seas of snow 
 Well-named, the ocean of a frozen world. 
 A marble storm in monumental rage. 
 Ploughed on the fragment of a shattered moon. 
 Passion at nought and strength still strong in vain, 
 A wrestling giant, spell-bound, but not dead. 
 As tho' the universal deluge passed 
 These confines, and when forty days were o'er 
 Knew the set tinie obedient and arose 
 In haste : but Winter lifted up his hand 
 And stayed the everlasting sign which strives 
 For ever to return. Cold crested tides 
 And cataracts more white than wintry foam 
 Eternally in act of the great leap 
 That never may be ta'en, these fill the gorge 
 And rear upon the steep uplifted waves 
 Immovable, that proudly feign to go, — 
 And on the awful ramparts of the rock 
 
 015
 
 226 From BALDER. 
 
 Bi3nil forward, as in motioTi — Jside hy side 
 
 Mixed manifold, rank after mingling rank, 
 
 In all tlie throng of miilticiide, but each 
 
 Condign, and in a personality 
 
 Confest. Nor from tlie valley seen as waves. 
 
 But as lone slieplicrd, on some battle liill, 
 
 At setting of a chill moon on the wane, 
 
 Beholds his heroes from tlieir unknown graves 
 
 Snow-co!<l, with blades of ice, out of the night, 
 
 The peopled peopling night, o'er airy crag 
 
 Crowding nnstaunched invasion, with consent 
 
 Of hands that point advance, and martial gaze 
 
 Of helmed heads, silent, niajestical, — 
 
 All ghosts ! Or as some great acropolis, 
 
 Above the wondering ej'es of ancient men. 
 
 On sacred feast, a statuary host 
 
 Sent ont her idols round the incandent hill. 
 
 And all her marble deities went by 
 
 In solemn march, tall, white, innumerable, 
 
 Each after each divine ; while far beneath, 
 
 Lone, like some shattered jiillar of the skies, 
 
 Ilalf-buried by his fall, headlong and proue. 
 
 The broken worship of a ruder race, 
 
 A Greater lay. Or so methinks of old, 
 
 Below a mount of Jewrj', Dagon fell 
 
 Before the Highest ; ami in liim subdued 
 
 From their high seats, fair bowers, dim haunts 
 
 beloved. 
 And temples of the abdicated earth. 
 Upon a day the great mythology 
 Came forth by legions to behold the sign. 
 Dethroned, discrowned, divestureil ; with bare browa 
 Paler than men ; proud whispering as they pass, 
 In murmur of a thousand waterfalls, 
 While somewhat like the finger of the world
 
 Fro77i BALDER. 227 
 
 Pointeth above their Leads into tho heavens, 
 And crash as of avenging thunderbolts ' 
 Pursues them, — nor can haste the step of gods. 
 Low in the abject earth lies Chamouni, — 
 Low in the last profound, whose narrow deep 
 Seems from you midway and diminished peak — 
 So hunters say — who, clinging to tlie rock, 
 Dizzy look down — a gulph of nionntain-mist, 
 Raiubowed, or if substantial, sunk and lost. 
 Drowned in the abyss of air, and lapsed below 
 Terraetrial, hopeless in a void of dreams. 
 Beheld as one should spy from u])per wave 
 Of seas unsounded fathomless and dark, 
 "Low, thro' mysterious waters infinite, 
 Illumined by a gleam, some jewelled mine 
 Emerald and ruby flashing dreamy gold, 
 Rent in the nether bed of the mid-main. 
 Nor less above yon midway crag the calm 
 Unventured summit, than if who descried 
 The deep-sea gulph, with sudden gaze revert, 
 Sees from his span nf footing on the wave 
 Far in unearthly elher iinassailed, 
 A great white cloud serene in sacred lifht 
 And happy skies. 
 
 Here, ia the lowest vale, 
 Sit we beside the torrent, till the goats 
 Come tinkling home at eve, with pastoral born 
 Slow down the winding way, plucking sweet grass 
 Amid the yellow pansics and harebells blue. 
 " The milk is warm, 
 
 The cakes are brown ; 
 
 The flax is spun. 
 
 The kino are dry. 
 
 The bed is laid,
 
 228 From BALDER. 
 
 The chililren sleep ; 
 • Como, husband, come, 
 
 To home and mo." 
 So sings the mother as she railks within 
 The chalet near thee; sinking so for him 
 Whom es^ery morn she sendeth forth alone 
 Into the waste of mountains, to return 
 At close of day as a returning soul 
 Out of the infinite ; lost in the whirl 
 Of clanging systems and the wilderness 
 Of all tilings, but to one remembered tryst, 
 One human heart and unforgotten cell, 
 True in its ceaseless self, and in its time 
 Restored. But now the dusk which like a tarn 
 Lay long sines in the hollows of the hills, 
 Swells from deep caves and tributary glens 
 Unnumbered, till tlie lower mountain tojis 
 Are covered, and the dull and dead sea line 
 Rests tideless on a sliore of sacred snow. 
 And now an unknown trouble has made cold 
 Tliose higlier Aliiiuo foreheads whence supreme 
 Over our darkness a serener day 
 Looked westward and to all tliat we saw not, 
 Tlie glory and the loss. For thoy do watch 
 Tlie journey of the setting sun as one 
 AVlio when the weaker inmates of the house 
 Have sunk abont liis feet in dews and shades 
 Of sorrow, watches still with brow of light 
 And manly eye a brotlier on his way ; 
 But when the lessening face shines no return 
 Thro' distance slowly lengthening and sitilcs slow 
 Beliind the hill-top, nor him, looking back, 
 The straining sense discerns, nor the far sound 
 Of wlieels, stands fixed in sudden gloom profound, 
 And thoughts more stern than woe.
 
 From BALDER. 229 
 
 Over those liei^lits 
 Untrocl, uor to be trodden, let thy soul 
 Pass like a fleeting sunshine. Let it glide 
 Over the summit, southward, and descend 
 Where, tliro' black mountains, a great river of snow 
 Banked by two Alps, from the eternal source 
 Whiter felian clouds between the awful shores 
 Shines to the valley. Meantime we below 
 Tread the dark vale uplooking ; or sit long, 
 With hopeless upturued eyes, as one let down 
 Into the abyss of everlasting night, 
 From the impossible deep should gaze in vain 
 Up through the silent chaos to the skirts 
 or ordered Nature. What is he, unseen, - 
 Who with the dreadful glacier as a sceptre 
 Touches the vale, and in his left hand holds 
 Yon rounded summit as an orb of state ? 
 Thou canst not see them now, but forth to meet 
 The sovereign synibol, venerable woods 
 Climb the huge steep where age and pride allov, 
 And send their lither progeny to scale 
 Tiie bleaker rock, ambitious. These, inured, 
 Attain the lower precipice, nor blench. 
 Storm-bred : but these fall back aghast in sight 
 Of everlasting Winter, where, snow-borne, 
 In liis white realm, for ever white, he sits 
 Invisible to men ; and in his works 
 Gives argument of that which, seen, makes faint 
 Aspiring Nature, and his throne a mount 
 Not to be touched. On either wilderness 
 A snow-land spreads along the level skies. 
 Now from the eastward midnight draweth nigh. 
 When all things rest from labour. As she goes 
 Her vestments floating shut out moon and stars 
 Mysterious ; and she breathes before her face
 
 230 Fro7n BALDER. 
 
 Darkness where all is dark. Mule goeth she, 
 
 And silently on either hand unyokes 
 
 The willinj^ mountains from beneath their load 
 
 Even now dispersing while the valley shakes, 
 
 And in his bed the sleeping peasant stirs, 
 
 And dreams of thunder. They, beheld no more, 
 
 Leave only to the cataraets, and thee, 
 
 The great snow baseless in mid-heaven, self-shown, 
 
 Out-stretched and ecjual, like supporting wings, 
 
 Or thro' the windy and tumultuous dark 
 
 Down the long glacier sounding to the vale. 
 
 There was a legend wild, whispered at eve. 
 
 Late round the dying watch-lires to awed men. 
 
 In those dead seasons whence our Danish sires. 
 
 Of the Great Arctic Ghost, tlie ethcient power 
 
 And apparition of the frozen North, 
 
 The mystic swan of Noma, the dread bird 
 
 Of destiny, world wide, with roaring wings. 
 
 Flapping the ice-wind and the avalanche. 
 
 And white and terrible as polar snows. 
 
 By them unseen behold it ! thro' the night 
 
 Swooping from heaven, its head to earth, its neck 
 
 Down-streaming from the cloud ; above the cloud 
 
 Its great vans thro' a rolling dust of stars 
 
 Thunderous descending in a rush of fate. 
 
 An P]akn-Song. 
 
 In the spring twilight, in the coloured twilight 
 
 Whereto the latter primroses are stars, 
 
 And early nightingale 
 
 Letteth her love adown the tender wind, 
 
 Tliat thro' the eglantine
 
 From BALDER. 23! 
 
 lu mixed delight the fragrant music bloweth 
 
 On to me, 
 
 Where in the twiliglit, in the coluured twilight, 
 
 I sit beside the thorn upon the hill. 
 
 The mavis sings upon the old oak tiee 
 
 Sweet and strong, 
 
 Strong and sweet, 
 
 Solt, sweet, and strong, 
 
 And with his voice interpreteth the silence 
 
 01' the dim vale when I'liilomel is mute ! 
 
 The dew lies like a light upon the grass, 
 
 The cloud is as a swau upon the sky, 
 
 The mist is as a biidewucd on the moon. 
 
 The shadows new ami sweet 
 
 Like maids unwonted iu the dues of joy 
 
 Play with the meadow Uowcrs, 
 
 And give with feaiful fancies more and less, 
 
 And come, and go, and ilit 
 
 A brief emotion in the moving air, 
 
 And now are stirred to Ilight, and now are kind, 
 
 Unset, uncertain, as the cheek of Love. 
 
 As tho' amid the eve 
 
 Stood Spring with iluttering breast. 
 
 And like a butteifly upon a flower, 
 
 Spreading and closing with delight's excess, 
 
 A-sudden fanned and shut her tinted wings. 
 
 In the spring twilight, in the coloured twi-ight, 
 
 Ere Hesper, eldest child of Night, run forth 
 
 On mountain-top to see 
 
 If Day hath left the dale, 
 
 Aud hears, well-pleased, the dovo 
 
 From ancient elm and high 
 
 In murmuring dreams still bid the sun good-night. 
 
 And sound of lowing kine. 
 
 And echoes long and clear,
 
 232 From BALDER. 
 
 And herdsman's evening call, 
 
 And bells of penning folds, 
 
 Sweet and low ; 
 
 Oh maid, as fair as thou 
 
 Behold the young May moon 1 
 
 Oh ! liai)py, happy maid, 
 
 With love as young as she 
 
 In the spring twilight, in the coloured twilight, 
 
 Meet, meet me, by the thorn upon the hill. 
 
 At the midsummer, at the high midsummer, 
 Deep in the darkness let me sit embowered 
 All alone ; 
 
 What time the children of the earth and heaven, 
 As of two houses whom a feud divides, 
 Meet in the mingling mystery of midnight, 
 And melting clouds sink low with woers' tears, 
 Felt but unseen, dropping a balm of joy 
 Whereto the love- touched leaves 
 Tremble and whisper thro' the gentle land. 
 The incense risetli and the incense falleth 
 And all the stolen hour is stirred with kisses, 
 And silent loves constrain the passionate time ; 
 Rich loves that as they list 
 Exchange and take and give 
 Unmeted mode and debts for ever due. 
 And sweets are mixed along the languid air 
 Like balmy breath of lovers warm and near. 
 And glowing faces meeting thro' the dark. 
 Hush ! for tiie world stands still 
 Held in mere joy, as nought on earth would lose 
 The happy place and moment where it stood. 
 Hush ! o'er a stillness, still as Love's delight, 
 Hearts gushing, bosoms heaving, moving arms 
 Winding, unwinding; lips that close and part
 
 Frotn BALDER. 233 
 
 And love still eudiui,' ami bef;iuniug ; hush ! 
 
 I'ut back tlie dawn, Thosphor ! Set again ! 
 
 Fall like a sweet drop from the hone}'ed heavens ! 
 
 Go down, and carried by a tender clond ! 
 
 The exquisite best moment of the night 
 
 Sinks down with thee. This is the ecstasy ! 
 
 It shedsi, it sheds ! The night is filled witli flowers, 
 
 The viewless night, faint night, the yielding 
 
 night. 
 The favouring night, — with flowers and happy rain ! 
 As tho' to-morrow's blossoms spreading odours 
 As they float 
 
 Soft thro' the season, shy thro' the dark season, 
 Like a warm dew sank murmuring from the skies. 
 
 Fall, fall, fall. 
 
 Fall, fall, fall, 
 
 Oh orchard fruit fall from the fading tree, 
 
 Fall fruit of Autumn on the sullen sod. 
 
 Heavy and dead as clods into a grave. 
 
 Fall, fall, fall. 
 
 Fall, fall, fall, 
 
 Lone lingering rose thou knowest all must die ! 
 
 Canst thou convince the breeze of spring, or blush 
 
 The summer thro' the cheeks of sallow day ? 
 
 Thou, sick with solitude, and blanched with tears ? 
 
 Fall, fall, fall, 
 Fall, fall, fall, 
 
 Sere leaf that quiverest thro' the sad still air. 
 Sere leaf that waverest down the sluggish wiuJ, 
 Sere leaf that whirlest on the Autumn gust. 
 Free in the ghastly anarchy of death. 
 The sad still air which as an alkahest, 
 Potent and silent doth dissolve the year ; 
 The sluggish wind that as a red stream slow
 
 234 i^'^o'n BALDER, 
 
 With carnage welters dull, and steams with death ; 
 
 The sudden gust that like a headsman wild, 
 
 Uplit'teth Beauty h}' her golden hair, 
 
 To show the world that she is dead indeed ! 
 
 Fall, tail, fall, 
 
 Fall, fall, fall, 
 
 Fall twilight rain tliat dost not strive nor cry. 
 
 But chillest all the time with silent sorrow ; 
 
 And not a wind does violence, nor a plaint 
 
 Stirs the dank quiet of the latter leaves ; 
 
 But — as in speechless looks of him who stands, 
 
 AVithered and wan by tlie wayside of Fate, 
 
 Timeless, unwelcome, all his better lot 
 
 Outlived, and the dear fashion of his day 
 
 And race forgotten, bended to his ill, 
 
 And lifting not the unavailing voice 
 
 Whicli no man heedeth — lorn and stillest tears 
 
 Grow in the fade eyes of the relict world. 
 
 Trim the lamp. 
 Pile the Are ; 
 Biim tlie cup, 
 Touch the strings ; 
 Sigh of love. 
 Sing of joy; 
 Trill of maids, 
 Chant of men ! 
 
 Oh the young. 
 And the fair ; 
 Oh the love. 
 And the Avine 5 
 Log of Yule, 
 Log of Yule, 
 In thy glamour
 
 Fiom BALDER. 235 
 
 They shine ! 
 
 For aq hovir 
 AVe are gods, 
 And of all 
 Love hath given 
 Lacking none 
 From our workl 
 See tlie sun 
 Of our days ! 
 
 Round the forms 
 That to-day 
 Blushed with life 
 Meet and smile 
 All the shapes 
 Of the past 
 In the light 
 Glimmer pale. 
 
 Eaily loves, 
 Friends of yore, 
 Ancient eyes, 
 Voices old, 
 Where the blaze 
 Charms the air 
 By our hearth 
 Come again. 
 
 And the sounds 
 And the dreams 
 And the quick 
 And the dead 
 In sjwll-dance 
 Wove round mo, 
 In murmur 
 And maze.
 
 236 Fro7n BALDER. 
 
 Oil ye Loves ! 
 ()\\ ye Days ! 
 Oh yo Dead ! 
 Oh ye Dreams ! 
 Bar the door, 
 Bar the door, 
 With a shout, 
 Shut them in ! 
 
 For all the outer world is rocked io war ! 
 
 The powers ot harm break faith, aud in uiad might 
 
 Yell tor the rout aud will not be denied ! 
 
 Even now the hungry sea begins to wreck, 
 
 And the impatient storms, eager for ill, 
 
 Bide not the expected signal, but blow out 
 
 The lingering Light that flickered in the west. 
 
 To-day is dead an hour before his time ! 
 
 Good spells arc brokeu, and the shrieking uight, 
 
 Down from the haunted and mysterious hills, [snows, 
 
 Comes black and shuddering, wrapped about with 
 
 Like a starved lithiop sheeted from the grave. 
 
 English Birds. 
 
 Yonder pensive thrush 
 Singing his rhythmic cadence, aud, below, 
 The blackbird, earnest in the flowering thorn, 
 Chanting his mellow prose as tho' he told 
 A wonted story, ever old and uew ! 
 The fitful chaffinch, like a bashful youth 
 That hurries forth his love in sudden speech 
 And blushing pause, the loud and cheerful wrea, 
 The sparrow's chirp, the swallow on the wall— 
 The swallow that jiours out her liquid joy 
 Upon the morning flood of happiness,
 
 From BALDER. 237 
 
 Wlierein it falls with silver souiul and sweet 
 
 As water into water ; tliese, and all 
 
 The warbling voices breathing of the South, 
 
 The slender treble of the tuneful year 
 
 With throbbing throats that chorus sunshine thro' 
 
 The vocal world, dainty, and solt, and low ! 
 
 And high o'er all a languid noise of rooks. 
 
 Lost in bright air, circling in sunny calm, 
 
 Or cawing from the haunt of oaken green 
 
 The leafy rest of June ! 
 
 Nature thk Poet's Teaser. 
 
 Herein behold why Nature 
 Is the one Teacher whom the Poet needs, 
 For she alone can show him in her works 
 Consummate ait, and that supreme excess 
 "Which fashions her fair work until the bound 
 Of possible performancp, and the verge 
 Of the wrapt heart's belief ; and while we sa}', 
 " Behold the final good ! " sprinkles a dew, 
 And with divine complacence, passeth both. 
 Or having wrought her statue from a block 
 Infallible, with an unfailing hand 
 Quickens the faultless whole, and with a touch 
 Makes cold Perfection live. With her he sees 
 Not only snow, but driven snow, nor driven suow 
 P>ut on the sacred summit of an Alp 
 Immaculate, and on the whitest peak, 
 "Whiter than white ; the flower not only fair, 
 But fragrant, and the liglit not only warm. 
 The fire not only bright ; the summer fruit 
 Sweet to the taste but sweeter to the eye.
 
 238 From BALDER. 
 
 And over all ils tangible a bloom 
 
 That never can be touched. She, only she, 
 
 In her least work, as in her greatest, shows 
 
 To his confessing eyes the unattained 
 
 And unattainable, and tbo' his pride. 
 
 Stung to its strength, outstrain the furthest stretch 
 
 Of man, and bring the trophies of the world, 
 
 She, still unsatisfied, by Day and Night 
 
 Points upward, saying, — "Be ye perfect as 
 
 Your Father in the Heavens ! " 
 
 Balder to Amy. 
 
 Tliou hast said well 
 'Tis Ro3urrcction-day. For I remember 
 Once in a sleep of childhood I looked forth 
 Thro' a wide summer window, on a still 
 And Gaiden-worid. Eden, as at the first, 
 I saw, and all tlie summers since the first, 
 Above it, lik'o a golden silent sea, 
 Lay warm and sweet and slumb'rona, soaking deep 
 All things in honeyed liglit — Howers, fruits, and trees, 
 Which breathed their gums and amber, and let down 
 From their festooned fair to]is tliat; no wind stirred 
 Visible odours — and the tepid Lakes 
 And the dissolving Hills. And far below, 
 Down thro' green warmtli of the relaxed sod 
 To hidd(m secrets of the inner Earth 
 Slow sank incumbent, sinking, sinking Light. 
 'Twas Resurrection-morn. Where I beheld 
 City had never stood, nor ways of men, 
 Nor place of funeral. But the Dead came up 
 Like spring-Flowers, white ami golden, thro' the 
 ground,
 
 Fro7}i BALDER. 239 
 
 Lifting a little earth, as suowdrops lift, 
 
 On their strange heads. This morning, as I stood 
 
 Beside my open window, ere thou earnest, 
 
 And looked npon the day, mcthought I saw 
 
 My childliood's dream. Is it a dream ? For thou 
 
 Art such a tiling as one might think to see 
 
 Upon a footstone, sitting in the sun, 
 
 Beside a* broken Grave ! 
 
 I do know this moment ! 
 This is the very wind that long ago 
 In the first morning of sweet life we breathed 
 By the open gate of Love, when thou and I 
 Went ha}ipy in togetlier, knowing not 
 The place, nor heeding if 'twere Earth or no. 
 We were so young, thou wert so pure, the woes 
 And weary ills that keep the gate of Love 
 I^ooked on us as on shapes concerning whom 
 They had no charge ; the guardians of the trees 
 Slept all, and with us the sublimer Fates 
 Dealt softly as with children. Did we dream 
 A dream of years upon sonie flowery knoll. 
 And do we wake where we lay down? Is this 
 The outer world ? Is this the common day 
 Of all the living? Oh Amy ! my own child, 
 I could believe this fancy ; never since 
 I felt this wind upon me in my j'outh 
 Have I beheld thee as now. Dost thou remember 
 The old days when at trysting-tinio thou camest 
 Forth down the win<liiig valley to the stilo 
 To meet me, and beside me all tlie sweet 
 Meandering way trod bai k in silent joy. 
 With downcast eyes that ever sought the ground, 
 But tell-tale smiles that could not choose but come
 
 240 Fyo7n BALDER. 
 
 Me-ward ; quick smiles t.lint every word of mine 
 Stirred up anew so oi'ten that they met 
 Like sudden roses cauglit in a warm wind, 
 And did provoke each other, ruffling sweets 
 In dear confusion, and in all the change 
 Of my swift fancy changing till they lay 
 Upon thee like the thousand lines of light 
 Upon tlie shimmering water that the west 
 Moves with a sigh ? So we past slowly on, 
 And so, fond gazing on thy silent face, 
 I poured the glorious wine of love into 
 A vase of crystal, where it blushed and shone 
 More fair. Sometimes I marvel when I think 
 Of those first days of love ; love that unknown 
 Knew not himself, and still went in and out 
 Among the happy inmates of the heart 
 As an unconscious prophet walks amid 
 Ills brethren ere his equal lips bo touched 
 With the live coals of fire. I that so long 
 Spake, and we knew not that I spake of love 
 Because it filled my speech, and being all 
 Seemed nothing, I who that I saw it not 
 Never believed it present, nor remembered 
 That the sole face on wliich I cannot look 
 Is this men know for mine — how did I win thee ? 
 Canst tell me ? 
 Amy. I can sing a little song. — 
 
 The sun he riseth up on new year's day. 
 And lookcth on the earth and goeth down ; 
 The earth she stirreth to bo looked upon. 
 The iaithful sun he riseth day by day, 
 And lookcth on the earth and goeth down ; 
 The earth she trembleth to be looked upon, 
 The faithful sun he riseth day by day,
 
 Frotn BALDER. 241 
 
 And looketh on the earth and goeth down ; 
 The earth she blusheth to be looked upon. 
 The faithful sun he riseth day by day, 
 And looketh on the earth and goi;th down ; 
 The earth she smileth to be looked ujion. 
 The faithful sun he riseth day by day, 
 And looketh on the earth and goeth down ; 
 The earth she sigheth to him from the south ; 
 The earth she stands before him all in flowers ; 
 The many-voiced earth, she calleth him ; 
 She singeth at his chamber that he rise, 
 And long time holdeth him lest he go down. 
 
 The Flower at Eden-Gate. 
 
 There grew a lowly flower by Eden -gate 
 Among the thorns and thistles. High the palm 
 Branched o'er her, and imperial by her side 
 Upstood the sunburnt Lily of the east. 
 
 The goodly gate swung oft, with many gods 
 Going and coming, and the spice-winds blew 
 Music and niurmurings, and paradise 
 "Welled over and enriched tlie outer wild. 
 Then the palm trembled fast-bound Ity the feet, 
 And the imperial Lily bowed her down 
 With yearning, but they could not enter in. 
 
 The lowly flower she looked up to the palm 
 And lily, and at eve was full of dews. 
 And hung her head and wept and said, " Ah these 
 Are tall and fair, and shall I enter in 1 " 
 
 016
 
 242 Fro7n BALDER. 
 
 There came an an^el to the gate at even, 
 A weary angel, with dishevelled hair ; 
 For he had wandered far, and as he went, 
 The blossoms of his crown fell one by one 
 Thro' many nights, and seemed a falling st.ii . 
 
 He saw the lovely flower by Eden -gate, 
 And cried, "Ah, pure and beautiful ! '' and turned 
 And stooped to her and wound her in his hair, 
 And in his golden hair she entered in. 
 
 Husband ! I was the weed at Eden-gate, 
 I looked up to the lily and the palm 
 Above me, and I wefit and said, "ah these 
 Are tall and fair, and shall I enter in ? " 
 And one came by me to the gate at even, 
 And stooped to me and wound me in his hair 
 And in his golden hair I entered in. 
 
 SoNQ or THK Sun. 
 
 Earliest bird 
 
 Thou hearest me. 
 
 Me afar off 
 
 Thro' the dark. 
 Roll days into the years, and O years into tl)e 
 
 ages, and O ages into tlie mystery of God ! 
 Oh, Love, oh Life, and all ye jocund train 
 Virtues and Joys, my lusty Company, 
 Be loud around me ! Sing because I sing ! 
 Call each to each as I call unto you I
 
 Fro7n BALDER. 243 
 
 Love calling unto Life 
 
 "Oh Life! Oh Life ! " 
 
 Life calling unto Love 
 
 " Oh Love ! Oh Love !" 
 
 " How beautiful oh Life ! " 
 
 " How beautiful oh Love ! " 
 
 I am the sun singing behind the mountains ! 
 
 Thou heaven, that didst watch for me on the hills, 
 
 Sitting upon the hill-tops above the valley of beauty, 
 
 Thou hearest me afar off singing behind the mountains, 
 
 And hast let fall thy mourning, and thy bosom is pale. 
 
 Also blushes are on thy cheeks lest I see thee, oh thnu 
 
 most beautiful. 
 But I will see thee, thou most beautiful ! 
 Robe thee in purple, take thy clouds about tiioe, 
 Rise up, queen, with gold upon thy brows. 
 Behold I reach thee forth my golden sceptre. 
 Behold I give thee moining as a garment. 
 Sit on thy hill, and I will touch thy hill. 
 And thou shalt sit upon a diamond throne, 
 And shalt be glorified before my world ! 
 For I see thee, thou most beautiful ! 
 
 Quiet valley, valley deep and still. 
 
 Dost thou hear my voice behind the nu.nn tains ? 
 
 I will come gently as a father peepeth 
 
 Over the cot, over the cot of beauty, 
 
 So will I lift my face up over thee. 
 
 Love, love, love, how beautiful, oh love ! 
 Art tliou well-awakened, little flower ? 
 Are thine eyelids open, little flower ? 
 Are they cool wifh dew, little fhjwer ]
 
 244 From BALDER. 
 
 Hath the south touched thee ? Hath the fairy kissed 
 
 thee ? 
 Wilt thou come forth, come forth, into my day 1 
 
 Ringdove, ringdove, 
 
 This is my golden finger 
 
 Between the upper branches of the pine ! 
 
 Come forth, come forth, and sing into my day ! 
 
 Butterfly, butterfly, 
 
 This is m.y golden finger, 
 
 I will feel for thee down among the roses, 
 
 Sweet in the roses, in the climbing roses, 
 
 And put thee from thy bed into my day ! 
 
 Love, love, love, how beautiful, love ! 
 
 I will arise, I will awake the world ! 
 
 They shall be glad because of me, I feel 
 
 The joy-light shining thro' their lids of sleep. 
 
 Like music from the hollow of the earth. 
 
 It is time, It is time It is time, 
 
 ye leaves, ye streams, ye bells, 
 
 On the tree-tops On the hill-tops In the grey spiru 
 Of morning; Of morning ; Of morning; 
 
 Laugh down Run down Ring down 
 
 The trees, The hills, The spire, 
 
 That the jiashirca, That the valleys That the lianil-it 
 May wake ! May wake ! May wake ! 
 
 Awake ! 
 
 1 am the sun, 1 am above the mountains, 
 My joy is on me, I will give you day ! 
 
 I will spend day among you like a king ! 
 Your water shall be wine because I reign ! 
 I stave my golden vintage on the mountains,
 
 from BALDER, 245 
 
 And all your rushing rivers run with day ! 
 I am the sun, I am above the mountains ! 
 Arise, my hand is open, it is day ! 
 Rise ! as men strike a bell and make it music, 
 So have I struck the earth and made it day ! 
 Move, move, world, on all your brazen hinges, 
 Send roumi the thunder of your golden wheels ; 
 Throng out, millions, out, shouting millions ; 
 Throng out, millions, shouting, shouting day ! 
 For as one blows a trumpet through the valloys. 
 So from my golden trumpet I blow day ! 
 
 earth, flowers, bird?, beasts, nun, 
 
 Day is jiroclaimed ! I called until I heard 
 
 The caverns echo ! Day is everywhere • 
 
 White-favoured day is sailing on the sea, 
 
 And, like a sudden harvest in the land, 
 
 The windy land is waving gold with day ! 
 
 As for j'ou whom I have awakened, do 
 
 As shall seem good in all your shining eyes, 
 
 Your eyes still wet with morning. They shall dry, 
 
 And day shall fade. But I have done my task : 
 
 Do yours ! And what is this that I have given, 
 
 And wherefore ? look yo to it ! xis ye can. 
 
 Be wise and foolish to the end. For me, 
 
 I, under all heavens, go forth praising God 1 
 
 Balder. Alas ! that ouy 
 
 Should use the days of summer but to live, 
 And breathe but as the needful element 
 The strange superfluous glory of the air ! 
 Nor rather stand apart in awe beside 
 The untouched Time, and saying o'er and e'er 
 In love and wonder, " These ate summer days."
 
 246 Fro77i BALDER. 
 
 Under this ash, last spring, 
 I saw a sight more sweet than ever clown 
 Came on a-sudden in a fairy-ring 
 By summer moon. A growth of primroses, 
 Thick as the stars by night, and like the stars 
 In constellations and in orbits due, 
 Shone round the central tree. I could believe 
 Queen Flora, on a royal progress tired. 
 Halted beneatli it, and her flowery court 
 Pitched their fair tents about her, or, well-please?^, 
 Sole, or by twins, in fragrant conveise, lay 
 Ujion the enchanted ground. 
 
 A Chanted Calendar. 
 
 First came the primrose. 
 
 On the bank high, 
 
 Like a maiden looking forth 
 
 From the window of a tower 
 
 When the battle rolls belov/, 
 
 So looked she, 
 
 And saw the storms go by. 
 
 Then came the wind-flower 
 In the valley left behind, 
 As a wounded maiden pale 
 With purple streaks of woe 
 When the battle has rolled by 
 Wanders to and fro, 
 So tottered she, 
 Dishevelled in the wind.
 
 From BALDER. 247 
 
 Then came the daisies, 
 On the first of May, 
 Like a bannered show's advance 
 While the crowd runs by the way, 
 With ten thousand flowers about them they came trooping 
 through the fields. 
 
 As a happy people come, 
 
 So came they, 
 
 As a happy people come. 
 
 When the war has rolled away, 
 
 With dance and tabor, pipe and drum, 
 
 And all make holiday. 
 
 Then came the cowslip, 
 
 Like a dancer in the fair, 
 
 She spread her little mat of green, 
 
 And on it danced she. 
 
 With a fillet bound about her brow, 
 
 A fillet round her happy brow, 
 
 A golden fillet round her brow, 
 
 And rubies in her hair. 
 
 Beauty. 
 
 LovelinpRs 
 Is precious for its essence ; time and space 
 Make it nor near nor far nor old nor new, 
 Celestial nor terrestrial. Seven snowdrops 
 Sister the pleiads, the primrose is kin 
 To Ilespcr, Hesper to the world to come I
 
 248 From BALDER. 
 
 For sovereign Beauty as divine is free ; 
 
 Herself perlection, in herself complete, 
 
 Or in the flowers of earth or stars of heaven. 
 
 Merely contained in the seven-coloured bow 
 
 Arching the globe, and still contained in each 
 
 Of all its raindrops. This, my thought, I give 
 
 To thee, and am no poorer ; no, nor thou 
 
 Still giving, nor a siugular of all 
 
 Who ever shall ])ossess it, tho' my thought 
 
 Become the equal birthright of unborn 
 
 Nations of men, in every heart a whole. 
 
 There cannot be a dimple on the cheek 
 
 But all an everlasting soul hath smiled ; 
 
 Day is day to all the eyes on earth, 
 
 No less than day to mine. Love strong as death 
 
 Measures eternity and fills a tear ; 
 
 And beauty universal may be touched 
 
 As at the lips in any single rose. 
 
 See how I turn toward the turf, as he 
 
 "Who after a long pilgrimage once more 
 
 Beholds the face that was his desert dream. 
 
 Turning from heaven and earth bends over it, 
 
 And parts the happy tresses from her brow, 
 
 Counting her ringlets, and discoursing bliss 
 
 On every hint of beauty in the dear 
 
 Regained possession, oft and oft retraced, 
 
 So could I lie down in the summer grass 
 
 Content, and in the round of my fond arm 
 
 Enclose enough dominion, and all day 
 
 Do tender descant, owning one by one 
 
 Floweret and flower, and telling o'er and o'er 
 
 The changing sum of beauty, still repaid 
 
 In the unending task for ever new, 
 
 And in a love which first sees but the whola 
 
 But when the whole is partially beloved
 
 Fro7n BALDER. 249 
 
 Doth feast the multitude upon the bread 
 Of one, endow the units with no less 
 Than all, and make each meanest integer 
 The total of my joy. Yet I have stood 
 And clasped the earth as if she were a maid ; 
 And held her, bearing all her sparkling stars 
 Upon her like a vase of Castalie 
 Upon a Greek girl's head, and made my boast 
 Of her, and as a lover let her fill 
 My feeding eyes ! Or 1 have hovered far 
 Upon the verge of all things, and beheld 
 The round globe as a fruit upon a tree, 
 The spangled tree that night by starry night 
 Stands o'er us, and have seen an angel pass. 
 Pluck it and cool his lips, and drop the hujl 
 To chaos, and this earth, that I have loved 
 And worshipped, fall out of the universe 
 As uurespected as a dead leaf falls 
 From summer aspen, while the innumerons stars 
 Twinkled and quivered in the wind of God 
 Walking between the shade of fruited heavens 
 Untold as once between the river-trees 
 Of Eden. But wlierever I beheld 
 Or one or every one, the whole or part, 
 Some better thing that is not either or aJ! 
 For ever putteth forth from all and each 
 A hand, and toucheth me, as he of old 
 Was touched in sleep ; and I as one in sleep 
 Know not how or where, but, having felt, 
 Believe, and serve the Invisible Unknown, 
 Calling it Beauty.
 
 250 From BALDER. 
 
 Incompleteness. 
 
 Oh Earth, that every year 
 Conceivest and hast no power to bring forth, 
 And year by year beginnest a psalm unsung, 
 So as with thee is it with all of thine ! 
 As one who in a crowd of recreant men 
 Begins a chant of freedom, and with brow 
 Lift to the glowing sun, sings the first stave 
 Triumphant, but no ring of bold refrain 
 Surrounds him pausing for the wonted shout, 
 And he looks down to pallid lips and eyes 
 And all the silent treason, and, undone. 
 Sinks on the sward, and hides his shamed face ; 
 So ever looking to a golden time 
 At each new year, impatient, thou criest out 
 " There shall be ! " — and art silent, casting dust 
 Upon thine head. Oli, season ever new, 
 Oh Spring that risest with us, sun by sun ! 
 Whither thine hurrying stream, where thy full tide, 
 Thy neap excess, and overflow ? What vale 
 Far off in heaven dost thou yearly flood 
 With rainbow waters worthy of thy well, 
 Ah fountain Arethuse % For never here 
 Thy consummation ; but what time we hail 
 Thine outleap, and the pulsing channels sing, 
 Somewhat beyond the verdurous verge drinks down 
 Tiie sudden waters, leaving yellow sands 
 That autumn gathers, till the rock beneath 
 Shines in the frost of winter. 
 
 Where on earth 
 Is the unknown meridian of that day 
 Which to .the Morn I met upon the east,
 
 From BALDER. 251 
 
 Should be as man to babe ? Doth the young moon 
 Complete her promised light or multiply 
 Her beauty by her days ? 
 
 Where is that rose 
 Which he who gave its bud as hieroglyph 
 Of budding love would own the equal sign 
 Of love's full-flowered perfection ? 
 
 Oh little child, girl-child, 
 Last daughter of the old manorial liouse 
 In the green village, thou who when the sun 
 Is rising, and above, below, around, 
 The dew-drops shine, as every bough and spray. 
 Blade, leaf, small petal and least acrospire, 
 Yea, the unbodied joyance of the air 
 Had eyes, and smiled to see him, comest forth 
 Into the morning as an element 
 Of such ethereal season duly sweet 
 And sweetly due, while singing birds and bees 
 Sound like the bubbling of that stream of day 
 Whereby thou, tripping, givest song for song ! 
 Fair happy child, who goest at thy will 
 Into the sunny midst as a white bird 
 Into the crystal water that reflects 
 Spotless a spotless image, pure in pure, 
 And each unlessened still enhancing each, — 
 The image whitens the white wave, the wave 
 Adds the pure image to the floating snow ; — 
 Thou who art native to the good of all ; 
 For whom the unsullied fairness of the earth 
 Guards not herself, nor deprecating hands 
 Mystic arise out of the lieautiful 
 To put thee from the beauty ; who dost tread 
 The daisies like a morning-wind and spill 
 Dews from lithe buttercups that fill again
 
 252 From BALDER. 
 
 With drops of pleasure ; Oh thou unknown esseni^u ! 
 
 So near the eyes, so distant from the heart, 
 
 When dost thou take our nature, and become 
 
 No more than we ? Something within her looks 
 
 A strange light through her lashes, and a joy 
 
 Beyond our throb. It cannot be that this 
 
 Abideth with lier, for such bliss fulfilled 
 
 Thro' all the coming seasons that must yet 
 
 Accomplish woman, and increasing still 
 
 Within the ampler temple, were a sight 
 
 To breed rebellion in the universe, 
 
 Burn every world with jealousy of her's. 
 
 Summer this earth, and make the schooldame Nature 
 
 Break thro' the ill-assumed severity 
 
 Of her enforced aspect, with a cry 
 
 Be all the mother, catch thee to her heart, 
 
 Begin the golden ages, and in thee 
 
 Restore mankind. Therefore, tiiou most fair chilvl, 
 
 Here thou hast no completion. In what hour 
 
 Of what set night wilt thou give up this ghost, 
 
 Exhaled as the last fragrance from a flower 
 
 Unchanged in hue ? Upon what destined morn 
 
 Shall she come down a stranger to the board 
 
 Where the same face and form shall take a place 
 
 Not hers, and answer to familiar names 
 
 That have no owner upon eartli ? Of thenr 
 
 Who loved her is there one who shall be grave 
 
 With an unconscious sorrow, knowing nought, 
 
 But saying in himself, since such a day 
 
 My heart is poorer ? Is there one of all, 
 
 Who thinking of a blissful time gone by 
 
 That floats in on his day-dream, like sweet air 
 
 From heaven, suu-bright and full of golden sounds 
 
 Going and coming, at one happy voice 
 
 Among the choir, starting, shall cry "Ah whose ? "
 
 From BALDER. 253 
 
 Anil muse, and pass his hand across his brow 
 Perplexed I Will they be sodden with a spell, 
 Nor lift astonished eyes and hands to see 
 Her shining crescent fill no fuller moon 
 Than others ? Nor so much as droop a Hi 
 Sighint;, as when the pulsing heart of youth 
 In mere abundance of young life's excess 
 Beats an linknown approach that never lomes. 
 And we look up expecting, and look down 
 With melancholy wisdom mildly sad. 
 Smiling moralities ? 
 
 They will behold, 
 And she shall grow and marry, breed and tlie, 
 Even as her mother, and of many none 
 Shall question her. Nevertheless at last 
 Truth shall be justified. Of them who deck 
 Her bier, or chant her thro' the pompous aisle, 
 Or load the blazoned marble witli her broad 
 And gravid virtues, or in sable grief 
 Swell the daik progress winding long and slow 
 Stately to honourable tombs, no hand 
 AVill write upon her coffin, " This is she 
 Who played among the roses." 
 
 Amy. Surely the Lord is cruel but to ma, 
 And over bounteous to the race of men 
 With mercy taken from my single lot. 
 
 I am the dwarf of this great family, 
 
 The favoured lips do drink the wine of life, 
 
 And all the mingled lees fill up my fate.
 
 254 From BALDER. 
 
 I am a place where music music meets, 
 Putting it out ; by how much joy is loud, 
 I am the darker silence : all the lines 
 Of sorrow cross above my wretched head. 
 
 They are grown sour with sweetness, they are proud 
 With pleasure, they care not to keep awiiko 
 Even to be happy. Like a slave they bid 
 Their bliss abide their time, and, like a slave, 
 It fans their happy faces while they sleep. 
 
 Ah Heaven ! they sleep upon the flowery banks, 
 And daylight ilowers fill them with honey dreams, 
 And pleasured smiles do light their languid lips. 
 
 Ah Heaven I they stand amid the fruited trees, 
 The golden-fruited trees, and every wind 
 Daubs the ripe fruit upon their sated lips. 
 
 Ah Heaven ! they lie beside the living stream, 
 And the superfluous stream o'er-wells his banks, 
 And laps sweet waters to their happy lips. 
 
 Where they do most enjoy my need is worst ; 
 The living cup they spill would save my life ; 
 The joy that wearies them would give me rest. 
 
 I lie down in the night but cannot sleep ; 
 I keep vain vigil for my pliglited bliss ; 
 I strain after the fruit 1 may not touch, 
 And cannot reach the river tho' I die !
 
 Fro7n BALDER. 255 
 
 Balder. — Full many a time and oft 
 I have sat still thro' all a summer day, 
 And listened to its change as to a book 
 Read by untiring lips. Thou wouldst b.ave sworn 
 The day was like a field of battercups, 
 Where every shining moment stood and smiled 
 Beside his golden likeness ; but not 1 ! 
 I know the hours, and call them by their names, 
 As a shepherd his sheep. 
 
 Laus Deo. 
 
 In the hall the coffin waits, and the idle armourer 
 
 stands, [hands. 
 
 At his belt the coffin nails, and the hammer in his 
 The bed of state is hung with crape — the grand old bed 
 
 where she was wed — 
 And like an upright corpse she sitteth gazing dumbly at 
 
 the bed. 
 Hour by hour her serving men enter by the curtained 
 
 door, 
 And with steps of muflled woe pass breathless o'er the 
 
 silent floor, 
 And marshal mutely round, and look from each to each 
 
 with eye-lids red, 
 "Touch him not," she shrieked and cried, "he is but 
 
 newly dead ! " [say, 
 
 "Oh, my own dear mistress," the ancient Nurse did 
 " Seven long days and seven long nights you have 
 
 watched him where he lay."
 
 256 From BALDER. 
 
 "Seven long days and seven long nights," the lioary 
 
 Steward said. 
 "Seven long days and seven long nights," groaned the 
 
 Warrener grey, 
 "Seven," said the ohl Henchman, and bowed his aged 
 
 head ; 
 "On your lives!" she shrieked and cried, "he is hut 
 newly dead ! ' 
 
 Then a father Priest they sought, 
 The priest that taught her all she knew, 
 And they told him of her loss. 
 " For she is mild and sweet of will, 
 She loved him, and his words are peace, 
 And he shall heal her ill." 
 But her watch she did not cease. 
 He blest her where she sat distraught, 
 And showed her holy cross, — 
 The cross she kissed from year to year — 
 But she neither saw nor heard ; 
 And said he in her deaf ear 
 All he had been wont to teach. 
 All she liad been fond to hear, 
 Missalled prayer, and solemu speech. 
 But she answered not a word. 
 Only when he turned to speak with those who wept 
 
 about the bed, 
 
 " On your lives ! ■' she shrieked and cried, "ho is but 
 
 newly dead ! " [tell, 
 
 Then how sadly he turned from her it were wonderful to 
 
 And he stood beside the death-bed as by one who 
 
 slumbers well. 
 And he leaned o'er him who lay there, and in cautious 
 
 whisper low, 
 " lie is not dead, but slecpoth," said the Priest, and 
 smoothed his brow.
 
 Fro7n BALDER. 257 
 
 " Sleepeth ? " said she looking up, and the sun rose in 
 
 her face ! 
 " He must be better than I fliought, for the sleep is 
 
 very sound." 
 " He is better," said the Priest, and called her maiilcns 
 
 round. 
 A'ith them came tliat ancient dame who nursed her 
 
 when a child ; 
 " Oh Nurse," .she sighed, "Oh Nurse," she ciied, "Oh 
 Nurse ! " and then she smiled. 
 
 And then she wept ; with that they drew 
 
 About her, as of old ; 
 
 Her dying eyes were sweet and blue, 
 
 Her trembling touch was cold ; 
 
 But she said, " My n aidens true 
 
 No more weeping and well-away ; 
 
 Let them kill the feast. 
 
 I would be happy in my soul. 
 
 " He is better," saith the Priest ; 
 
 He did but sleep the weary day, 
 
 And will waken whole. 
 
 Carry me to his dear side. 
 
 And let the halls be ttiin ; 
 
 Whistly, whistly," said she, 
 
 " I am wan with watching and wall; 
 
 He must not wake to see me pale, 
 
 Let me sleep with him. 
 
 See you keep the tryst for me, 
 
 I would rest till he awake 
 
 And rise up like a bride. 
 
 But whistly, whistly ! ' said she. 
 
 "Yet rejoice your Lord doth live ; 
 
 And for his dear sake 
 
 Say Laus Domine." 
 
 Silent thoy cast down their eyes, 
 
 017
 
 258 From BALDER. 
 
 And every breast a sob did rive, 
 
 She lifted her in wild surprise 
 
 And they dared not disobey, 
 " Laus Deo," said the Steward, hoary when her days were 
 
 new, 
 " Laus Deo," said the Warrener, whiter than the warren 
 
 snows ; 
 "Laus Deo," the bald Ilenclunati, who had nursed her 
 on his knee. 
 
 The old Nurse moved her lips in vain 
 
 And she stood among the train 
 
 Like a dead tree shakiuj^ dew. 
 
 Then the Priest he softly stept 
 
 Midway in the little band, 
 
 And he took the Lady's hand. 
 
 " Laus Deo ! " he said, aloud, 
 
 " Laus Deo," they said again, 
 
 Yet again, and yet again, 
 
 Humbly crossed and lowly bowed, 
 
 Till in wont and fear it rose 
 
 To the Sabbatb strain. 
 
 But she neither turned her head 
 
 Nor " whistly, whistly," said she. 
 
 Her hands were folded as in grace, 
 
 We laid her with her ancient race 
 
 And all the village wept. 
 
 Balder's Portrait of Amy. 
 
 In her, 
 Nature's first thought was beauty ; she conceived 
 Her image sitting in her robe of white 
 Thinking of spring, and, at the fancy moved.
 
 From BALDER. 259 
 
 Smiling breathed softly, and did turn to make 
 
 The firstliug snowdrop of the stainless year. 
 
 And, as the year arose, her fairer thouglit 
 
 Took substance, and, consummate in her care, 
 
 Grew with the growing year ; for at her will 
 
 Day after day past by, and passing dropt 
 
 Its own memorial ilower, the better siijn 
 
 Of all ; and night by niglit, when shades arc deep, 
 
 And that mysterious sorrow is transact 
 
 Unseen, and there is weeping in the air, 
 
 She iinderslaiiding all, midst common dews, 
 
 Caught the accepted tear that makes the hour 
 
 So holy. Nor herself in greater deeds 
 
 Forgot the less, thro' each surpassing mood 
 
 In which with higher ecstasy she wrought 
 
 Abundant sumurcr, whatsoe'er confessed 
 
 Her happier hand — elect and dedicate 
 
 Increased the secret store ; and over all 
 
 Frequent and fond with dainty change and wise — 
 
 As meet perfection of each part admits 
 
 Phoebus or Dian, — various balm of life 
 
 She poured from golden and from silver vase 
 
 Of sun and moon. F.ut when the year was grown, 
 
 (And sweet by warmer sweet to nuptial June 
 
 The flowery adolescence slowly fdleil, 
 
 Till in a passion of Koses all the time 
 
 Flushed, and around the glowing Heavens made suit) 
 
 And onward through the rank and buxom days, 
 
 Tho' she ceased not to work and help the year 
 
 Great with the burden of the honeyed past, 
 
 And gave her good deliverance and great pomp 
 
 Of harvest, and in royal glory robed 
 
 Matron and mother, to her dearer hoard 
 
 She added nought, nor what her love had hid 
 
 Unclosed before the broad unclouded face
 
 26o FrP7n BALDER. 
 
 And lioatcd welfare of tlie lusty worLl. 
 
 But when the destiny that haunts the proud 
 
 Did tardy judgment, and the prosperous year, 
 
 .Struck in her young maternity, beheld 
 
 First born and last lie low, and wrappiiic; wild 
 
 The early mists about her, on the ground 
 
 Amid her prostrate hopes disconsolate 
 
 Sat veiled : or standing forth with upstretchcd hands 
 
 And strange appealing eyes, and wilderod face 
 
 Hectic with fate, looked like her spring-time self 
 
 Transfigured on some martyr pile of woe 
 
 Seen through the llame ; then Nature knew her hour, 
 
 And at conjunction of the setting signs 
 
 Opened her sacred Casket and took forth 
 
 Well-pleased : and of the lone and latter rose, 
 
 Palo autumn violets, and all hapless blooms 
 
 Did make in mournful fragrance sadly sweet 
 
 The mortal breath of beauty. 
 
 Nature thus, 
 The Poet Nature, singing to herself — 
 Did make Her in sheer love, having delight 
 Of all her work, and doing all for joy 
 
 .... Ah, was the very air 
 Ethereal round her, so that whoso breathed 
 Revived to his best nature and grew bright 
 For her sake, as a mote from dim to dim 
 Sails the sunbeam ? — What deity indwelt 
 Her still small voice, which was her perfect sd 
 Audible — that most happy voice, which when 
 It rose to gladness made men lich and glad 
 Unminished, and receiving but to spend
 
 From BALDER. 261 
 
 Sweeter abundance with a lovelier will. 
 
 Gayer for gaiety, but of the gay 
 
 Still gayest, as bright sun o'er brightened fields 
 
 Seems brighter, gaining from the light he gives. 
 
 That voice which was to sorrow as its sigh, 
 
 And by the side of wonted circumstance 
 
 Went as the tinkle of Titania's feet. 
 
 Ringing the hour of day on fairy bells 
 
 Mairiage or funeral. Nor less blessed when 
 
 It fell into the bosom of the poor 
 
 Like gold and silver. That dear voice which v.Len 
 
 She sang her life, the charmed listener heaiiug, 
 
 Accepted for consummate loveliness 
 
 Till she was mute, and his divided soul 
 
 Returning to the eyes, her silent beauty 
 
 By the higher sense perceived, seemed insomuch 
 
 Diviner music. 
 
 Oft have I admired 
 When the poor wayfarer ou whom she looked 
 Clothed in his tattered fortune did take rank 
 A moment in her smile, and could not ask 
 The alms his famine craved ; the passing thief 
 Had virtue in her service, and the clown 
 Grace to be hers. The maimed who chanced to meet 
 Her far-off beauty on tlie way, aside 
 Drew into shadow till she passed, nor begged 
 Aught that might turn the liglit of her sweet facs 
 On the too conscious fault ; and Lazarus 
 Covered his sores with deeper sense of ill. 
 Rude country- wives to whom in lane or mead 
 Happened her sweet regards, with honoured lace 
 And thankful ilid obeisance going by 
 As owning bounty and a duty known 
 LTnschooled ; the village children at the door — 
 Little two-year children — having gazed,
 
 263 F7om BALDER. 
 
 Rdu to her as she passed and caught her skirt 
 
 And looking up laughed strange intelligence, 
 
 Abashed and pleased, in the mere act repaid, 
 
 And wiser than the three-score-years-and-ten 
 
 That chid the holy freedom, being purblind. 
 
 For they who saw her were as one who knows 
 
 A mystic sign and smiles with consciousness. 
 
 There is a soul unto the grosser sense 
 
 Of spoken language, an uuuttered thought 
 
 Virgin and peerless, which no man hath said 
 
 Nor hath the hope to hear upon the earth, 
 
 Tho' it be dear as tlie unbodied dream 
 
 Of early love, familiar as the wife 
 
 Upon his breast, albeit untouched as maids 
 
 In Paradise. In every human speech 
 
 No speaker but hath with him, undeclared, 
 
 This angel ; and doth bear about a thing 
 
 Too lovely for his lips, beloved unnamed. 
 
 As every heart ujinn its secret so. 
 
 The world did look on her ! Where'er she went 
 
 Nature, in dale or hill, in cot or grove, 
 
 Owned her, and in the sliepherd or the lamb 
 
 Confcst no less. The Lamb which to her knee 
 
 Came fearless, unsuspicious of the grey 
 
 Grim guardian of the fold who harmed her not 
 
 Nor challenged her just riglit what-time she took 
 
 The lambkin willing, to her purer breast. 
 
 Thus or in haunts beloved or foreign fields 
 
 Her equal way was all among her own. 
 
 Unquestioned still, nor anywhere or new 
 
 Or strange. We had a wonted bower, secluse, 
 
 Of honeysuckle wild in mossy dell 
 
 Facing the noon, and sheltered from the north 
 
 By denser shade ; flowery it was and deep, 
 
 And caught the flowing light as chaliced leaves
 
 From BALDER. 263 
 
 The sunset. In the inner sanctities 
 Shy birds did nest, and all the summer through, 
 Entering, with tumult of distress I shook 
 The troubled verdure, but she came at will 
 And sat there ; and the birds went in and out 
 As the' she were so merely beautiful 
 That nought betrayed her limits, and she mixed- 
 She, undistinguished— with the love-lit air 
 The fragrance and the summer joy that lived 
 In that green bower. 
 
 " So lovely in her rest 
 More lovely her awakened beauty played 
 The smiling pastime of her innocent life 
 Gracious and holy, wherein fairest thought 
 And fond performance thro' melodious hours 
 Rhymed like a gentle ballad. All she did 
 Expressed her. The mild lore and simi)le arts 
 She knew and loved might exercise unblamed 
 Chaste Flora's self or what pure essence warms 
 The happy difference of a morn of May. 
 Song and answering lute, and mute delight 
 Of pencilled touch, and nice dexterity 
 Of bending Eve in gardened Paradise 
 Were hers ; she had a faerie forestrie 
 Of birds, and bees, and summer flies ; she knew 
 Sweet mysteries of sunrise and sunset, 
 Of seasons, moons, and clouds. But chief in joy 
 Her skill was among flowers, which in her hand 
 Took better hues, and fell under her looks 
 Into an ordered beauty as before 
 Their queen ; and when they crowned her, unaware 
 The butterfly did court the rose as still 
 Upon the blushing tree. Yet more I loved 
 An art which of all others seemed the voice 
 And argument ; rare art, at better close
 
 264 From BALDER. 
 
 Of chosen day, worn like a jewel rare 
 
 To beautify the beauteous, and make briglil 
 
 The twilight of some sacred festival 
 
 Of love and peace. Her happy memory 
 
 Was many poesies, and when serene 
 
 Beneath the favouring shades and the first star, 
 
 She audibly remembered, they who heard 
 
 Believed the Muse no fable. As that star 
 
 Unsullied from the skies, out of the shrine 
 
 Of her dear beauty beautifully came 
 
 The beautiful, untinged by any taint 
 
 Of mortal dwelling, neither flushed nor pale, 
 
 Pure in the naked loveliness of Heaven. 
 
 Such and so graced was she. . . . 
 
 , , . Loved and loving she would live, 
 No more accompanied than by what train 
 Is love's, and in the love-feast of her days 
 Served while she sat, or sat whileas she served ! 
 To know where winding from the ancient tree 
 By the grey stile thro' copse and daisied dell. 
 In every mood of immemorial mind 
 The simple village went a thousand years ; 
 Or o'er the brook upon the stepping-stones 
 To follow unperplexed thro' bosky maze, 
 The feet of sorrow to her shyest lair ; 
 Or at the ruined cot, and down the dim 
 Deserted path, to watch under the dust 
 The unwonted grass rise slowly up and lift 
 The memory of the dead from off the earth ; 
 Or round the 'wildered garden to convince 
 The graceless moss of greed ; or from lone lane 
 At summer eve to trace some ancient track
 
 Fro7n BALDER. 26: 
 
 A-field and learn what need or joy of life 
 
 Saw viewless landmarks in the devious way, 
 
 Her daily pleasaunce. But where men are met, 
 
 If unpropitious hap or lot unsought 
 
 Awhile constrained her, fate that did the wrong. 
 
 Jealous, allowed no other ; as a King 
 
 Seizing his bride, rapt from her native bowers 
 
 Circassian, in the amorous came completes 
 
 His cruelty and makes the captive queen. 
 
 Not otherwise, and lookmg like a flower 
 
 Dropt in the city street — some blossom fair 
 
 That grew dew-nursed and lone green miles away — 
 
 Into the heedless crowd that knew her not 
 
 She came uncrowned, and they w'st not she came ; 
 
 Till simply sitting in the parlous midst 
 
 Her presence like a silent virtue spread 
 
 About her. For a little while she sat 
 
 Unhonoured, but a consciousness disturbed 
 
 The spot, and as a holy influence 
 
 Did touch the unwilling people into aM'e, 
 
 ^^^lom gentle observance and sweet respect 
 
 Disposed, till who partook her magic ring 
 
 Still or discursive, sole or social^le, 
 
 Each in his several function did denote 
 
 Her place. Nor customary in mere use 
 
 Perfunctory, and rite of cap or knee, 
 
 The general homage ; but of some inborn 
 
 Content and central sanction in the soul, 
 
 Inmost and earlier than where creeds bepin 
 
 Or doubts divide. Men turned and asked n';t why, 
 
 Nor, seeing, marvelled that they turned ; 1 ut apt 
 
 Took reverent distance : nor, decorous, ceased 
 
 The fealty of regard. With decent eyes 
 
 And with no louder sign nor needless bruit 
 
 Of the unuttered reason than what-time
 
 266 Fjoik balder. 
 
 On wintry day they face by mute consent 
 
 The seldom sun. Thus she who came unknown 
 
 Into the stranger crowd with modest step 
 
 And eyes that rather would be ruled than rule, 
 
 Having no need of praise, nor hope of fame, 
 
 Nor conscience of dominion, did subdue 
 
 Its chaos to her nature, being divine ; 
 
 And merely present could no less than stir 
 
 The dull and grosser essence to revolve 
 
 About her, as by instinct and hid force 
 
 Of that well-ordered universe whereof 
 
 Its matter was a part. Herself informed 
 
 The jarring elements, till, as her sway 
 
 No utter sign enforced, nor shows of power, 
 
 Nor but a golden sweet necessity 
 
 Sovereign, unseen, the subject heart gave like 
 
 Confession. Not as they confess a queen 
 
 With sudden shout, but as two friends regard 
 
 A rising star, and speak not of it while 
 
 It fills their gaze. The loud debate grew low, 
 
 What was unseemly chastened, and the fear 
 
 Of Beauty waking her moralities 
 
 Sent thro' adjusted limbs the long-forgot 
 
 Ambition to be fair. Nor sex, nor rank. 
 
 Nor age, nor changed condition, did absolve 
 
 Her rule, which whatsoever was remote 
 
 From sin, the more saluted. Everywhere 
 
 Babes smiled on her, and women on her face 
 
 Did look as women look in happy love. 
 
 So the world blessed her ; and another world, 
 Like spheres of cloud that interpenetrate 
 Till each is either, met and mixed with this.
 
 From BALDER. 267 
 
 And as the angel Earth that bears her Heaven 
 
 About her so that wheresoe'er in space 
 
 Her footstep stayeth we look up and say 
 
 That Heaven is there — She moved and made all times 
 
 And seasons equal ; — trod the mortal life 
 
 Immortally, and with her human tears 
 
 Bedewed the everlasting, till the Past 
 
 And Future lapsed into a golden Now 
 
 For ever best. She was much like the moon 
 
 Seen in the day-time, that by day receives 
 
 Like joy with us, but when our night is dark. 
 
 Lit by the changeless sun we cannot see, 
 
 Shineth no less. And she was like the moon, 
 
 Because the beams that brightened her passed o'er 
 
 Our dark heads, and we knew them not for light 
 
 Till they came back from hers ; and she was like 
 
 The moon, that whatsoe'er appeared her wane 
 
 Or crescent was no loss or gain in her 
 
 But in the changed beholder. \, who saw 
 
 Her constant countenance, and had its orb 
 
 Still full on me with whom she rose and set, 
 
 Knew she had no lunation. In herself 
 
 The elements of holiness were merged 
 
 In white completion, and all graces did 
 
 The part of each. To man or Deity 
 
 Her sinless life had nought whereof to give 
 
 Of worse or better, for she was to God 
 
 As a smile to a face. Ah, God of Beauty ! 
 
 Where in this lifeless picture my poor hand 
 
 Hath done her wrong, forgive ; she was Thy smik , 
 
 How could I paint her ? That I dared essay 
 
 Her image and am innocent, I plead 
 
 Resistless intuition, which believes 
 
 Where knowledge fails, and powerless to define 
 
 Or to confound, still calls the face and smile
 
 268 Fron BALDER. 
 
 Not one, but twain, and contradicts the sensu 
 Material, which beliolding her, beliolds 
 Essence not Effluence, nor Thine but Thee. 
 
 Amy. That I might die and be at rest, O God ! 
 That I might die and sleep the sleep of peace ! 
 That I might die and know the balm of death 
 Cool thro' my limbs and all my silenced heart ! 
 
 God, that I might die ! that I might die ! 
 
 Death, Death, thou wilt not take me? should I brir.g 
 
 Disquiet to thy kingdom ? Yesterday 
 
 Was pain, and had a yesterday of pain 
 
 ^Vliereto it was to-morrow ; and pain, pain 
 
 This dark to-day, to-morrow's yesterday 
 
 And yesterday's to-morrow ; then why not 
 
 To-morrow ? and why less because with thee ? 
 
 1 know the wanderer in the desert heat. 
 When the well failcth and the cruse is spent. 
 Sees with his eyes his great necessity. 
 
 And hears the murmur of his strong desire, 
 And speeds — to drearer wastes and deadlier sand. 
 If I am he, O Death, and thou my Thought 
 Hast lain so long before me cool and sweet, 
 And art the mirage of a wretched heart ! 
 
 In what fair shape hast thou beguiled me not ? 
 O Death, in all this vision of the world 
 \Vliat have I seen, Betrayer, if not thee?
 
 Fro7n BALDER. 269 
 
 Sometimes I climb, and thou upon the heij^lit 
 
 My mother waiting for her weary child 
 
 With outstretched circling arms and bosom bare ! 
 
 Or I am falling in a draw-well deep 
 
 Red round with infinite depth of hateful eyes 
 
 And night-mare mocking faces, and below 
 
 Thou iiest like a smile of love and peace. 
 
 Sometimes I am a maimed captive, bound 
 
 To the swift chariot of the pitiless sun, 
 
 And thou art night that dost unloose my chain ! 
 
 Or I a pilgrim at the gate of heaven. 
 
 Torn with the thorniest way, and thou, O Derah, 
 
 A virgin angel met upon the verge. 
 
 And pitiful thou dost divesture me 
 
 And there of all my tattered earthly weeds 
 
 Spreadest a bed where I may sleep my Liit 
 
 Nor enter weary on the happy land. 
 
 Or I a floating vapour, white and wan, 
 Casting a shade and shedding doleful dews, 
 And thou a sunshine from a sun unseen 
 Dost touch me, passing, to a rarer change. 
 I float and sadden not the summer air 
 Nor shed a doleful dew nor cast a shade. 
 
 Or I am sailing on an ©cean wild 
 
 And o'er the bark I bend me, fain to die, 
 
 And hopeless look into the sea ; and eyes 
 
 Shine up like drowned jewels from the depths, 
 
 And somewhat riseth in the deep to me, 
 
 And in the waters a familiar face 
 
 And a hand waving to the mermaid-cells.
 
 270 From BALDER. 
 
 Touch me, O Death ! This moment let me sleep ! 
 
 I can do all, O Death, hut doubt in thee. 
 
 Touch me, O Death, lest I be wild with fear ! 
 
 Aye, now thou art again as thou hast been. 
 
 Stay with me ; lay thine hand upon my lirow, 
 
 Cool, cool ; bend o'er me ; let thy shadow)- hair 
 
 Shut out the distance from my aching eyes. 
 
 Stand between me and the unsetting sun ; 
 
 Console the frailty of my feeble limbs 
 
 And task me with a burden I can Viear 1 
 
 I fling me on the shore ; I cannot liy 
 
 The ocean of interminable life. 
 
 Hush me, and sing me to a better mind. 
 
 A little rest, a little rest, O Death, 
 
 Ere the great labour of the world to coMc: ! 
 
 Balder. Like a sailing eagle old 
 Wliich with unwavering wings outspread and wide 
 Makes calm horizons in the slumbrous air 
 Of cloudless noon and fills the silent heaven 
 With the slow circulation of a course 
 More placid than repose, this shining still 
 And universal day revolves serene 
 Around me, hasting not and uncompelled. 
 
 Here where I sit 
 The sun must needs be sweet, — the bees sing in it. 
 And yon large fly — a hawk among his kind — 
 Still in the very level of mine eye 
 Keeps on the wing, with shining long delay 
 Or suildcn flash of capture.
 
 From BALDER. 271 
 
 On the bank 
 The noddin£^ moor-hen knds to preen her quills. 
 The trout hath left the alders of the pool 
 And basks. Her beak the brooding king-fisher 
 Shows, breathless, at her callow hole above 
 The brook ; within the eddies of the brook 
 The water-mouse dissolves and reappears ; 
 Therefore 'tis halcyon weather. 
 
 The small flock 
 That lay but now, fleece upon panting fleece, 
 About the knees of yonder aged oak — 
 Their lusty lord upon a gnarled root 
 High in the cooler midst — descend and fill 
 The lengthening shade. The weed that shuts at 
 
 noon 
 Is closer than a sleeping infant's lid ; 
 And the pale evening rose hath not yet set 
 Her chalice for the dews ; therefore it is 
 That heavy hour of silent afternoon 
 \Mien even grief can slumber and forget. 
 
 Across 
 My doorway I perceive the gossamer 
 Drew silver bars behind me. They have lost 
 The immaterial beauty of the morn. 
 When passing on the gleaming wind they seem 
 Rather eflect than cause, the cutting sheen 
 Of somewhat on the eye too swift for sight. 
 Or hung across the early way appear 
 A shining prohibition in the air 
 No more. But these are stiff as rods of glass, 
 And flat with drought. Therefore since I went forth 
 
 None hath gone in or out 
 
 How the motes 
 In idle sunshine slowly circulate,
 
 272 Fro7n BALDER. 
 
 A little heaven of worlds as calm and sweet 
 As any stars above us. Eh ! my breath 
 Sucks gulphs beneath the golden equipoise 
 And sets a viewless tide that bears away 
 Systems and suns. Thou great astronomer, 
 Perplexed l>y some new motion, Who on hii;h 
 Beyond thy telescopic organ stands 
 Iireathin<r ? 
 
 Striving against the Inexorarls. 
 
 I am as one 
 Who hearing music thro' the dark doth press 
 Straight towards the sound and comes upon a tower, 
 And feels along the impediment whereby 
 To pass it ; and the walls still put him back 
 And the contained voice still calls and he 
 Still pressing to the sound still journeyeth round 
 His hid desire ; and now by ear led on 
 Draws nigh, — and now, when close pursuit should 
 
 break 
 The skin of fleshed enjoyment, hears the voice 
 Fainter and fainter from the further cell. 
 And so unconscious treads a beaten ring 
 Following that moony voice that wanes and fills 
 And wanes, and at the worst again is new. 
 Till at the last, instructed by defeat. 
 Step by slow step he measures round the wall 
 The crescent sound, and at one loudest spot 
 Of proximate possession lays his siege. 
 And with his straining strength and bruised hands 
 Would force the unyielding Stone \
 
 Fro7n BALDER. 273 
 
 Balder to Amy. 
 
 What weary Angel exiled from the skies, 
 Her baby at her breast, with failing strength 
 Paused at this earth and left thee ? Thou wert not 
 Of us and being grown up shouldst have gone 
 Back to thine heaven ; or having business here 
 It should have been in some excepted task 
 Set out and sacred from the common lot. 
 If there be any still and vesper hour 
 More pure than all the day, thou shouldst have been 
 Its tutelar, to lead it in and out, 
 Versed in the duteous season and each rite 
 Of welcome and farewell. This changeful earth 
 Should be to thee a garden where we take 
 Rare pleasaunce and in happy weather walk 
 But do not dwell. Thou shouldst have dwelt afar 
 With everlasting Morning, going forth 
 With her and from her chaste urn unrebuked 
 — Dipping thy sinless hand — shouldst sprinkle dews 
 Or at the side of Spring, her handmaiden 
 Bearing her violets, what time she conies 
 Over the hills, descending shouldst have passed 
 Into this valley blessing it and me. 
 And shouldst have loved me only while the fields 
 Were sown, nor pitied me forlorn, nor heard 
 My vows, nor faithless to thy Goddess-queen 
 Forgot thy better duty, but have gone 
 Wben she went, singing o'er the southern slopes 
 Joyous beside her ; turning on the height 
 For my sake and in richer violet-beds 
 Betraying that thine hand relaxed with thought. 
 Ho thou shouldst still have left me and returned 
 
 Ql3
 
 274 Froftt BALDER. 
 
 With the pervading year, for ever young, 
 Till that sad season when thy tearful care 
 Found not the old man on the wonted hill 
 Nor by the thorn nor the memorial tree ; 
 And made a time of strange forget-me-nots 
 And melancholy flowers that love the rain 
 Setting the fairest banks with saddest blooms 
 And by a grassy mound in one deep dell 
 Beating thy breast let fall the store of spring, 
 So that to other vales the spring came late 
 Tarrying for thee.
 
 275 
 
 THE MAGYARS NE W- YEAR-E VE. 
 (1859.) 
 
 By Temesvar I hear the clarions call : 
 
 The year dies. Let it die. It lived in vain. 
 
 Gun booms to gun along the looming wall, 
 
 Another year advances o'er the plain. 
 
 The Despot hails it from his bannered keep : 
 
 Ah, Tyrant, is it well to break a bondsman's sleep ? 
 
 He might have dreamed, and solved the conscious throes 
 
 Of Time and Fate in some soft vision blest : 
 
 Sighed his thick breath in childhood's happy woes, 
 
 Or spent the starry tumult of the breast 
 
 On some dear dreamland maid, nor known how high 
 
 The blind heart beats to hours like this. 'Tis nigli ! 
 
 Lo in the air a trouble and a strife ; 
 
 I feel the future. Mighty days to come 
 
 Strain the strong leash a moment into Life : 
 
 vShapes beckon : voices clamour and are dumb : 
 
 And viewless nations charge upon the blast 
 
 That blows the spectral host to silence, and is past. 
 
 Hark, hark ! the great hour strikes ! The stroke peals 
 
 "one;" 
 Again ! again ! God ! Have the earth and sky
 
 276 THE MAGYAR'S NEW-YEAR-EVE. 
 
 Stopped breathing? Will it never end ? 'Tis done. 
 The years arc rent asunder with a cry, 
 The big world groans from all her gulphs and caves, 
 And sleeping Freedom stirs, and rocks the martyrs' 
 graves. 
 
 Oh ye far Few, who, battle-worn and grey, 
 Watch from wild peaks the plains where once ye bled, 
 Oh ye who but in fortune less than they 
 Keep the lone vigil of the immortal Dead, 
 Behold ! And like a fire from steep to steep, 
 Draw, draw the dreadful swords whereon ye lean and 
 weep I 
 
 And oh you great brave harvest, that, war-ploughed 
 And sown with men, a grateful country yields, 
 You bearded youth who, beardless, saw the proud 
 Ancestral glories of those smoking fields 
 That now beneath ten grassy years lie cold. 
 Rise ! Shew your children how your fathers fought of 
 old! 
 
 But we are fettered, and a bondsman's ire, 
 Howe'er it flash, can only end in show'rs. 
 Who shall unlade these limbs ? Alas, the fire 
 Of passion will not melt such chains as ours ; 
 We have but heated them in wrath of men 
 To harden them in women's tears. WTiat then ? 
 
 Less than both hands at once what Freeman gives 
 To Freedom ? Stand up where the Tyrant stands, 
 Draw in one breath the strength of slavish lives, 
 Lift the twin justice of your loaded hands,
 
 THE MA G YAR 'S NE W- YEAR-E VE. 277 
 
 And with that double thunder in the veins 
 
 Launch on his fated head the vengeance of your chains 
 
 They hear ! I see them thro' dissolving night ! 
 Like sudden woods they rise upon the hills ! 
 The mountains stream with a descending sight, 
 The hollow ear of vacant landscape fills, 
 From side to side the living landscape warms, 
 To arms ! Yon bleeding cloud is spread ! Day breaks ! 
 To arms ! 
 
 Aye, Tyrant, the day breaks. Look up and fear. 
 
 To arms ! A greater day than day is born ! 
 
 To arms 1 A larger light than light is near ! 
 
 A blacker night than midnight foams with morn ! 
 
 Arise, arise, my Country, from the flood I 
 
 Arise, thou god of day, and dye the east with blood ! 

 
 278 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 TO A LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 (1862.) 
 
 When we all lie still 
 
 Where churchyard pines their funeral vigil keep, 
 
 II10U shalt rise up early 
 
 ^Vhile the dews are deep ; 
 
 Thee the earliest bird shall rouse 
 
 From thy maiden sleep, 
 
 Thy white bed in the old house 
 
 WHiere we all, in our day, 
 
 Lived and loved so cheerly. 
 
 And thou shalt take thy way 
 
 Where the nodding daffodil 
 
 Tells thee he is near ; 
 
 "V\1iere the lark above the corn 
 
 Sings him to thine ear ; 
 
 Where thine own oak, fondly grim, 
 
 Points to more than thou canst spy ; 
 
 And the beckoning beechen spray 
 
 Beckons, beckons thee to him. 
 
 Thee to him and him to thee ; 
 
 Him to thee, who, coy and slow, 
 
 Stealest through dim paths untrod 
 
 Step by step, with doubtful glance, 
 
 Taking witness quick and shy
 
 LO VE. 279 
 
 Of each bud and herb and tree 
 
 If thou doest well or no. 
 
 Haste thee, haste thee, slow and coy 1 
 
 What ! art doubting still, though even 
 
 The white tree that shakes with fear 
 
 When no other dreams of ill, 
 
 The girl-tree whom best thou knowest, 
 
 Waves the garlands of her joy. 
 
 And, by something more than chance, 
 
 Of all paths in one path only 
 
 The primroses where thou goest 
 
 Thicken to thy feet, as though 
 
 Thou already wert in heaven 
 
 And walking in the galaxy. 
 
 Do those stars no longer glisten 
 
 To thy steps, ah ! shivering maid, 
 
 That, where upper light doth fade 
 
 At yon gnarled and twisted gate. 
 
 Thou dost pause and tremble and so, 
 
 Listening stir, and stirring listen ? 
 
 Not a blossom will illume 
 
 That chill grove of cambering yew 
 
 Wherein Night seems to vegetate, 
 
 And, through bats and owls, a dew 
 
 Of darkness fills the mortal gloom. 
 
 Haste thee, haste thee, gaze not back . 
 
 Of all hours since thou wert born, 
 
 Now thou may'st not look forlorn ; 
 
 Though the blackening grove is dread, 
 
 Shall he plead in vain who pled 
 
 •« To-morrow ? " Through the tree-gloom lonely 
 
 One more shudder, and the track 
 
 Softens : this is upland sod. 
 
 Thou canst smell the mountain air. 
 
 What was heavy overhead
 
 28o LO VE. 
 
 Lightens, the black whitens, the white brightens ! 
 
 Ah, dear and fair, 
 
 Lo the dazzling east, and lo, 
 
 Someone tall against the sky 
 
 Coming, coming, like a goil. 
 
 In the rising morn ! 
 
 And when the lengthening days whose light we 
 
 never saw 
 Have melted his sweet awe, 
 And thy fond fear is like a little hare. 
 Large-eyed and passionately afraid, 
 That peepeth from the covert of her rest 
 Into the narrow glade 
 
 Between two woods, and doth a moment dare 
 The sunshine, and leap back ; yet forth will fare 
 Again, and each time ventures further from the 
 
 nest. 
 Till, having past the midst ere she be 'ware. 
 Bold with fear to be so much confest 
 She flees across the sun into the other shade ; 
 Flees as thou that didst so coyly draw 
 Near him and nearer, and art trembling there • 
 Midway 'twixt giving all and nought, 
 In a moment, at a thought, 
 Bashful to panic, hidest on his breast ; 
 Once again beneath the hill 
 
 Where round our graves these funeral pines refuse 
 The clamorous morning, thou shalt rise up early 
 When we all lie still. 
 Thou shalt rise up early while 
 Do\vn the chimney, ample and deep, 
 Dreaming swallows gurgle, and shrill 
 In window-nook the mossy wren 
 Chirps an answer cheerly, 
 Chirps and sinks to sleep.
 
 LOVE. 
 
 In the crossed and corbelled bay 
 
 Of that ivied oriel, thou 
 
 Lovest at morn and eve to muse ; 
 
 But this once thou shalt not stay 
 
 To mark the forming earth, and how 
 
 Far and near, in equal grey 
 
 Of growing dawn, thy well-known land 
 
 Now to the strained gaze appears 
 
 The nebulous umbrage of itself, and now, 
 
 Ere one can say this or this. 
 
 Divides upon the sense into the world th d is 
 
 As the slow suffusion that doth fill 
 
 Tender eyes with soft uncertainties, 
 
 Suddenly, we know not when, 
 
 Shapes to tears we understand ; 
 
 Such tears as blind thy eyes with light. 
 
 When thou shalt rise up, white from white. 
 
 In thy virgin bed 
 
 On that morn, and, by-and-by, 
 
 In thy bloom of maidenhead 
 
 Beam softly o'er the shadowy floor, 
 
 And softly down the ancient stairs, 
 
 And softly through the ancestral door, 
 
 And o'er the meadow by the house 
 
 ^Vhere thy small feet shall not rouse 
 
 From the grass those unrisen pray'rs, 
 
 The skylarks, though thy passing smile 
 
 Shall touch away the dews. 
 
 And thou shalt take thy way, 
 
 Ah whither ? Where is the dear tryst to day ? 
 
 Trembler, doth he wait for thee 
 
 By the ash or the beech-tree ? 
 
 With the lightest earliest breeze 
 
 The dodder in the hedge is quaking. 
 
 But the mighty ash is still a-slumber ;
 
 282 LOVE. 
 
 All its tender multiplicity 
 
 Drooped with a common sleep, by twos and threes, 
 
 That triple into companies, 
 
 ^\^lich, in turn, do multiply 
 
 Each by each into an all 
 
 So various, so symmetrical, 
 
 That the membered trunk on high 
 
 Lifts a colour'd cloud that seems 
 
 The numberless result of number. 
 
 Now still as thy still sleep, soft as thy dreams, 
 
 They slumber ; but when morning bids 
 
 The world awake, the giant sleeper, waking. 
 
 Shall lift at once his shapely myriads up, 
 
 As thou at once upliftest thy two lids. 
 
 Ah, guileless eyes, from whom those lids unclose ; 
 
 Ah, happy, happy eyes! if morning's beams 
 
 Awake the trees, how can they sleep in yours ? 
 
 Look up and see them start from their repose ! 
 
 Yet nay, I think thou wouldst forbid them hear 
 
 What some one comes this morn to say ; 
 
 Therefore, sweet eyes, shine only on the ground. 
 
 Nor venture to look round, 
 
 Lest thou behold how subtly the flow'rs sigh 
 
 Among the whispering grasses tall, 
 
 And see thy secret pale the lily's cheeks, 
 
 Or redden on the daisy's lips. 
 
 Or tremble in the tremulous tear 
 
 Wherewith the warmer light of day fulfils 
 
 That frigid beauty of the wort whose stars 
 
 Look, thro' the summer darkness like the scars 
 
 Of those lunar arrows shot 
 
 From the white string of that silver bow 
 
 Wherewith, as we all wot. 
 
 Because it was a keepsake of her Greek, 
 
 Diana shooteth still on every moony night.
 
 LO VE. 283 
 
 What is it, then, that this close buttercup 
 
 Is shutting down into a golden shrine ? ^ 
 
 ■\Vhat hath the wind betrayed to the wind-flow r, 
 
 That, on either side, it so abjures 
 
 Thy passing beauty, by such votive hands 
 
 Point to point with praying finger-tips ? 
 
 I know not how such secrets go astray, 
 
 Nor how so dear a mystery 
 
 Foreslipped the limits of its destined hour ; 
 
 Perhaps, the mustered spring, in whatsoe'er 
 
 Deep cavern of the earth, ere it come here. 
 
 It takes the flowery order of the year, 
 
 Heard the soft powers speak of this loveliness 
 
 That in due season should be done and said, 
 
 As if it were a part o' the white and red _ 
 
 Of summer ; or perchance some zephyr, wilhng 
 
 To sv/eeten the stoVn fragrance of a rose. 
 
 Caught one of thy breaths, and blew U 
 
 To the flow'rs that suck the evening air. 
 
 And in it some unspoken words of thine 
 
 Went thro' the floral beauty, and somewhere 
 
 Therein came to themselves, and made the fields 
 
 aware. 
 Thus, or not thus, surely the cowshps knew it ; 
 Else wherefore did they press 
 Their march to this sole day, and long ago 
 Set their anmial dances to it, . , , -, 
 
 This day of all the days that summer yields ? 
 Didst thou not mark how sure and slow 
 They came upon thee with exact emprise ? 
 First a golden stranger, n\eek and lone, 
 Then the vanward of a fairy host 
 Following the nightingales. 
 Bashful and bold, in sudden troops and bands. 
 Takes the willowy depths of all the dales,
 
 284 LO VE. 
 
 And, on unsuspected nights, 
 
 Makes vantage-ground of mounts and heights 
 
 Till, ere one knew, a south wind blew, 
 
 And a fond invasion holds the fields ! 
 
 Over the shadowy meadowy season, up and down 
 
 from coast to coast, 
 A pigmy folk, a yellow-haired people stands, 
 Stands and hangs its head and smiles ! 
 And art thou conscious that they smile, and why ? 
 That with such palpitating flight 
 Thou fleest toward the linden-aisles ? 
 Ah, yet a moment pause among 
 The lime-trees, where, from the rich arches o'er 
 
 thee, 
 The nightingale still strews his falling song 
 As if the trees were shaken and dropt sweetness : 
 No heed ? More speed ? Ah, little feet. 
 Is the ground soaked with music that ye beat 
 Silver echoes thence, and keep 
 Such quick time and dainty unison 
 With the running cadence of the bird 
 That he hath not heard 
 A note to fright him or offend, 
 While down the tell-tale path from end to end 
 Such a ringing scale has run thro' his retreat ? 
 The limes are past, and ye speed on ; 
 Ah, little feet, so fond, so fleet. 
 Fleeter than ever — why this fleetness ? 
 Who is this ? a start, a ciy 1 
 A blind moment of alarms. 
 And the tryst is in his arms ! 
 Fluttering, fluttering heart, confess 
 Truly, didst thou never guess 
 That he would be here before thee ? 
 Didst thou never dream that ere
 
 LOVE. 28 s 
 
 The last glow-worm 'gan to dim, 
 Or the dear day-star to burn, 
 Or the elm-top rooks to talk, 
 Or the hedge-row nests to threep, 
 tie was waiting for thee here ? 
 Ah ! ne'er so fair, ah ! ne'er so dear, 
 For his love's sake pardon him, 
 Smile on him again, and turn 
 With him thro' the sweet-brier glnile, 
 With him thro' the woodbine shade ; 
 In the sweetbrier wilderness. 
 To his side, ah ! closer creep. 
 In the honeysuckle walk 
 Let him make thee blush and weep, 
 While the wooing doves, unseen, 
 Move the air \vith fond ado. 
 And, lest the long morning shine 
 Show you to some vulgar eye. 
 To ye, passing side by side, 
 With a grace that copies thine, 
 Favouring trees their boughs incline ; 
 While, w'here'er ye wander by, 
 Hawthorn and sweet eglantine 
 From among their laughing leaves 
 Stretch and pluck ye by the sleeves : 
 And all flow'rs the hedge doth hide 
 Sigh their fragrance after you ; 
 And sly airs, with soft caresses, 
 Letting down thy golden tresses. 
 Marry those dear locks with his ; 
 While from the rose-arch above thee. 
 Where the bowery gate uncloses. 
 Budded tendrils, lithe and green. 
 Loosen on the wind and lean 
 Each to each, and leaning kiss,
 
 286 LO VE. 
 
 Kiss and redden into roses. 
 
 Oh, you Lovers, warm and living ! 
 
 And ah, our graves, so deep and chill ! 
 
 As ye stand in upper light 
 
 Murmuring love that never dies, 
 
 While your happy cheeks are burning, 
 
 Will ye feel a distant yearning ? 
 
 Will a sudden dim surprise 
 
 Lift up your happy eyes 
 
 From what you are taking and giving, 
 
 To where the pines their funeral vigil keep, 
 
 And we all lie still ? 
 
 Love on, plight on, we cannot hear or see. 
 
 Oh beautiful and young and happy ! ye 
 
 Have the rich earth's inheritance. 
 
 For you, for you, the music and the dance 
 
 That moves and plays for all who need it not. 
 
 That moved and played for us, who, thus forgot, 
 
 In the dark house where the heart cannot sing 
 
 Nor any pulse mete its own joyous measure, 
 
 See not the world, nor any pleasant thing ; 
 
 And ye, in your good time, have come into oui 
 
 pleasure. 
 Ah, while the time is good, love on, plight on ! 
 Leap from yourselves into the light of gladness ! 
 The light, the light ! surely the light is sweet ? 
 And, if descending from those ecstasies, 
 Ye touch the common earth with wavering feet, 
 Your life is at your will ; whate'er betide. 
 We shall not check or chide. 
 The hand is dust that might restrain ; 
 The voice whose warning should distress ye 
 By any augurj' of doubt or sadness, 
 Can never speak again. 
 The angel that so many woo in vain
 
 LOVE. 287 
 
 Descends, descends ! Ah, seize him ere he soar ; 
 Ah, seize him by the skirt or by the wing ; 
 What matter, so that, like the saint of yore, 
 Ye do not let him hence until he bless ye ? 
 In our 3'outh we had our madness, 
 In the grave ye may be wise. 
 Love on, love on, for Love is all in all ! 
 Manners, that make us and are made of us, 
 Who with the self-will of an infant king 
 Do fashion them that have our fashioning, 
 And make the shape of our correction ; 
 Virtue, that fruit whose substance ripens slow, 
 And in one semblance having past from crude 
 To sweet, rots slowly in the form of good ; 
 Joy, the involuntary light and glow 
 Of this electric frame mysterious, _ 
 That, radiant from our best activities, 
 Complexion their fine colours by our own ; 
 And Duty, the sun-flower of knowledge,— these 
 Change and may change with changing time and 
 
 place : 
 But Love is for no planet and no race. 
 The summer of the heart is late or soon, 
 The fever in the blood is less or more ; 
 But while the moons of time shall fill and wane, 
 While there is earth below and heaven above. 
 Wherever man is tnie and woman fair, 
 Through all the circling cycles Love is Love ! 
 And when the stars have tlower'd and fall'n away. 
 And of this earthly ball 
 A little dust upon eternity 
 Is all that shall remain, 
 
 Love shall be Love : in that transcendent whole 
 Clear Nature from the swift euthanasy 
 Of her last change, transfigured, shall arise ;
 
 288 LO VE. 
 
 And we, whose wonted eyes 
 
 Seek vainly the familiar universe, 
 
 Shall feel the living worlds in the immortal soul. 
 
 But nor of this, 
 
 Nor anything of Love except its l)liss. 
 
 On that summer morning shalt thou know ; 
 
 Nor, in that moment's apotheosis 
 
 When, like the sudden sun 
 
 That, rising round and raylcss, bursts in rays, 
 
 And is himself and all the heavens in one. 
 
 Love in the sun-burst of our own delight 
 
 Makes us for an instant infinite, 
 
 Owning no first or last, before or after, 
 
 Child of Love, shalt thou divine 
 
 That, years and years before thy day, 
 
 In the little Arcady 
 
 And planted Eden of thy line, 
 
 On such mornings such a maid 
 
 Lived and loved as thou art living and loving, 
 
 Through the floweiy fields where thou art roving, 
 
 And in the favourite bowers and by the wonted 
 
 ways, 
 Stepped the morning music with thy grace ; 
 Smiled the sunshine which thou with her face 
 Smilest ; so, with sweeter voice, 
 Helped the vernal birds rejoice, 
 Or, when passing envy stayed 
 Matins green and leafy virilays 
 Startled her sole self to hear. 
 Like a scared bird hushed for fear ; 
 Or, more frightened by my passionate praise, 
 Rippled the golden silence with shy laughter. 
 Yet I saw her standing there. 
 While my happy love I made. 
 Standing in her long fair hair.
 
 LO VE. 289 
 
 And looking (so thou lookest now) 
 
 As when beneath an April bough 
 
 In an April meadow, 
 
 Light is netted into place 
 
 By a lesser light of shadow ; — 
 
 Standing by that tree where he 
 
 This morn of thine makes love to thee 
 
 Leaning to his half-embrace, 
 
 Leaning where, full well I know, 
 
 ^Vhile slow day grows ripe to noon 
 
 Thou untired shalt still be leaning. 
 
 Still, entranced by Love's beguiling. 
 
 Listening, listening, smiling, smiling , 
 
 Leaning by the tree — Ah me. 
 
 Leaning on the name I cut 
 
 In the bark which, while she tarried here, 
 
 Chased it with duteous silver year by year ; 
 
 But from the hour that heard her coffin shut 
 
 Blindly closed over the withered meaning, 
 
 Till argent vert and verdant argentrie 
 
 Encharged each simple letter to a rune. 
 
 Ah me, ah me ! the very name 
 
 To which — another yet the same — 
 
 (The same, since all thy loveliness is she, 
 
 Another, since thou dost forget me) — 
 
 Thou answerest, as she answered me 
 
 \\Taen on summer morns she met me, 
 
 \Miile the dews were deep, — 
 
 She whom earliest bird did rouse 
 
 From her maiden sleep, 
 
 From her bed in the old house, 
 
 Her white bed in the old house — 
 
 She whom bird arouseth never 
 
 From that sleep upon the hill 
 
 Where we all lie still. 
 
 019
 
 290 LO VE. 
 
 For what is, was, will be. Suns rise and set 
 
 And rise : year after year, as when we met, 
 
 In one brief season the epiphany 
 
 Of perfect life is shown, and is withdrawn ; 
 
 As maidens bloom and die : but Maidenhood for 
 
 ever 
 Walks the eternal Spring in everlasting Dawn. 

 
 291 
 
 AN AUTUMN MOOD. 
 (1863.) 
 
 Pile the pyre, light the fire — there is fuel enough and to 
 
 spare ; 
 You have fire enough and to spare with your madness 
 
 and gladness ; 
 Burn the old year— it is dead, and dead, and done. 
 There is something under the sun that I cannot bear : 
 I cannot bear this sadness under the sun, 
 I cannot bear this sun upon all this sadness. 
 Here on this prophecy, here on this leafless log, 
 Log upon log, and leafless on leafless, I sit. 
 Yes, Beauty, I see thee ; yes, I see, but I will not rejoice. 
 Down, down, wild heart ! down, down, thou hungry dog 
 That dost but leap and gaze wdth a want thou canst not 
 
 utter ! 
 Do^vn, down ! I know the ill, but where is the cure? 
 Moor and stubble and mist, stubble and mist and moor, 
 Here, on the turf that will feel the snows, a vanishing 
 
 flutter 
 Of bells that are ringing farewells. 
 And overhead, from a branch that will soon be bare, 
 Is it a falling leaf that disturbs my blood like a voice ? 
 Or is it an autumn bird that answers the evening light? 
 The evening light on stubble and moor and mist, 
 And pallid woods, and the pale sweet hamlets of dying 
 
 men.
 
 292 AN A UTUMN MOOD, 
 
 Oh, autumn bird I I also will speak as I list. 
 
 Oh, woods ! oh, fields ! oh, trees 1 oh, hill and glen ! 
 
 You who have seen my glory, you who wist 
 
 How I have walked the mornings of delight— 
 
 Myself a morning, summer'd through and ht 
 
 With light and summer as the sunny dew 
 
 With sun : you saw me then — 
 
 You see me now ; oh, hear my heart and answer it. 
 
 Where is the Nevermore and the land of the Yesterdays ? 
 Aye, 
 
 Where are Youth and Joy, the dew and the honey-dew, 
 
 The day of the rose, and the night of the nightingale? 
 Where — 
 
 WTiere are the sights and the sounds that shall ne'er and 
 shall e'er 
 
 Come again ? 
 
 Once more I have cried my cry, once more in vain 
 
 I have listen'd ; once more, for a moment, the ancient 
 pain 
 
 Is less, though I know that the year is dead and done. 
 
 Once more I bear 
 
 Under the sun the sadness, over the sadness the sun. 
 
 Bear ? I have borne, I shall bear. But what is a man 
 
 That his soul should be seen and heard in the trees and 
 flow'rs of the field ; [yield 
 
 Have I tinctured them mortal? or doth their mortality 
 
 Afe like a fragrance of autumn ? Ah ! passion of Eve, 
 
 Ah ! Eve of my passion, — which is it that aches to com- 
 plain ? 
 
 Oh, old old Minstrelsy, oh, wafty winds of Romaunt, 
 
 Blow me your harps. My sick soul cannot weave 
 
 These gossamers of feeling that remain 
 
 To any string whereon its ill may grieve. 
 
 Blow me your harps — harp, wind-harp, dulcimer, 
 
 Citerne, bataunt,
 
 AN A UTUMN MOOD. 293 
 
 And mandolin, and each string'd woe 
 
 Of the sweet olden world, and let them blow 
 
 By me, as in sea-streams the sea-gods see 
 
 The streaming, streaming hair 
 
 Of drowned girls, and every sorrowy sin 
 
 O' the sea. 
 
 And so let them blow out the din 
 
 Of daylight, and blow in, 
 
 With legendary song 
 
 Of buried maids, 
 
 The evening shades. 
 
 And when the thronging harps, and all 
 
 The murmurings of wild wind-harps, 
 
 Are still ; 
 
 And shimmer of dim dulcimer, 
 
 And thrill of trill'd citerne, 
 
 And plaint of quaint bataunt, and throb of long 
 
 Long silent mandolin, 
 
 And every other sound that grieves. 
 
 Hath dropt into its colour on the leaves. 
 
 In the silence let me hear 
 
 The round and heavy tear 
 
 Of orchards fall. 
 
 And as I listen let the air unseen 
 
 Be stirr'd with words ; 
 
 Let the ripe husk of what is gape open and shed 
 
 What has been ; 
 
 Through click of gates and the games 
 
 Of the living village at play, 
 
 I>et me hear forgotten names 
 
 Of ancient day. 
 
 Down like a drop of rain from the evening sky 
 
 Ivet somewhat be said ; 
 
 Up from the pool, Hke a bubble, let something reply. 
 
 In the tongue of the dead.
 
 294 AN A UTUMN MOOD. 
 
 Tlirough the swallows that fly their last 
 
 Round the grey spire of the past, 
 
 In the faded elms by the height, 
 
 Let the last hour of light 
 
 Strike, and the yellow chimes 
 
 Forget and remember 
 
 A dream of other times. 
 
 And above let the rocks be warm with the mystical day 
 
 that is not 
 To-day or to-morrow ; 
 
 And from the nest in the rock let me hear the croon 
 Of orphan-doves that yearn 
 For the wings that will never return. 
 And below the rocks, on the grassy slopes and scarps. 
 Let the tender flowering flame of the exquisite crocus of 
 
 sorrow 
 Sadden the green of the grass to the pathos ot gentle 
 
 .September. 
 And below the slopes and scarps, where the strangled 
 
 rill 
 Blackens to rot. 
 
 Let the unrest of the troublesome hour 
 Blossom on through the night, and the running flow'r 
 O' the fatuous fire flicker, and flicker and flare, 
 Through the aimless dark of disaster, the aimless light of 
 
 despair. 
 And meantime, let the serious evening star 
 Contemplative, enlarge her slow pale-brow'd 
 Regard, until she shake 
 
 With tears, and sudden, snatch a hasty cloud 
 To hide whate'er in those pure realms afar 
 Is likest human sadness ; and, full-soon, 
 Let night begin to slake 
 The west ; and many-headed daikness peer 
 From every copse and brake ;
 
 AN A UTUMN MOOD. 295 
 
 While from a cottage nigh, 
 
 Where the poor candle of dull Poverty 
 
 May barely serve to show 
 
 Her stony privilege of woe, 
 
 Or if, like her, it try 
 
 To leave the cabin'd precincts of its lot, 
 
 Steals trembling forth to struggle and expire ; 
 
 A milkless babe that shall not see the morn 
 
 Starves to the fretted ear. 
 
 With lullaby and lullaby. 
 
 And rocking shadow to and fro 
 
 Athwart the lattice low ; 
 
 And from yon western ridge, black as the bier 
 
 Of day, let a faint, far-off horn, 
 
 Mourning across the ravish'd fields forlorn, 
 
 Sound like a streak of sunset seen through the grief of the 
 
 moon. 
 And, further yet, from the slant of the seaward plain. 
 The bleating and lowing of many-voiced flocks and herds, 
 Forced from their fields, mix on the morning breeze 
 With sob of seas, 
 Till the long-rising wind be high, 
 And, from the distant main, 
 
 A gale sweep up the vale, and on the gale a wail 
 Of shipwreck fill and fail. 
 
 Fail and fill, fill and fail, like a sinking, sinking sail 
 In the rain ! 
 
 But ere all this to us let the dim smoke rise ! 
 To us from the nearest field, from the nearest pyre 
 Of stubbled corn, let the dim smoke rise ; and let 
 The fire that loosens the stubble corn 
 Loose the soul like smoke, and let tears in the eyes 
 Confuse the passionate sense till the heart forget 
 Wbether we be the world, or whether the fading v/orldbe 
 We.
 
 296 
 
 ON A 
 RECENTLY FINISHED STATUE. 
 
 1854. 
 
 Said Sculptor to immaculate marble — " Show 
 
 Thine essence ; into necessary space 
 
 Most pure, describe thine unshaped Purity ! " 
 
 And lo this Image ! As a bubble blowTi, 
 
 Swiftly her charms, dilating, went through all 
 
 The zones of sphered Perfection, till the stone 
 
 Smiled as to speak. Some coming thought half-shown 
 
 Forms on her parting lips, so that her face 
 
 Is as a white flow'r whence a drop of dew. 
 
 White with the fragrant flow'r, inclines to fall. 
 
 " Oh Everlasting Silence keep her so ! 
 
 Immortalise this moment, lest she grow 
 
 To such a living substance as can die ! " 
 
 He cried. Consent Eternal heard his cry.
 
 297 
 
 THE CONVALESCENT TO HER 
 PHYSICIAN. 
 
 Friend, by whose cancelling hand did Fate forgive 
 
 Her debtor, and rescribe her stern award, 
 
 Oh with that happier light wherein I live 
 
 May all thine after years be sunned and starred ! 
 
 May God, to Whom my daily bliss I give 
 
 In tribute, add it to thy day's reward. 
 
 And mine uncurrent joy may'st thou receive 
 
 Celestial sterling ! Aye and thou shalt thrive 
 
 Even by my vanished woes : for as the sea 
 
 Renders its griefs to Heaven, which fall in rains 
 
 Of sweeter plenty on the happy plains, 
 
 So have my tears exhaled ; and may it be 
 
 That from the favouring skies my lifted pains 
 
 Descend, oh friend, in blessings upon thee 1
 
 29S 
 
 ON THE 
 DEATH OF MRS. BROWNING. 
 
 Which of the Angels sang so well in Heaven 
 
 That the approving Archon of the quire 
 
 Cried, " Come up hither ! " and he, going higher, 
 
 Carried a note out of the choral seven ; 
 
 Whereat that cherub to whom choice is given 
 
 Among the singers that on earth aspire 
 
 Beckoned thee from us, and thou, and thy lyre 
 
 Sudden ascended out of sight ? Yet even 
 
 In Heaven thou weepest ! Well, tnie wife, to weep ! 
 
 Thy voice doth so betray that sweet oflence 
 
 That no new call should more exalt thee hence 
 
 But for thy harp. Ah lend it, and such grace 
 
 Shall still advance thy neighbour that thou keep 
 
 Thy seat, and at thy side a vacant place.
 
 299 
 
 TO 1862. 
 
 {Written late in December 1861, after the death of 
 Prime Albert, and in prospect ofwarivith America.) 
 
 Oh worst of years, by what signs shall we know 
 
 So dire an advent ? Let thy New-Year's-day 
 
 Be night. At the east gate let the sun lay 
 
 His crown : as thro' a temple hung with woe 
 
 Unkinged by mortal sorrow let him go 
 
 Down Ae black noon, whose wan astrology 
 
 Peoples the skyey windows with dismay, 
 
 To that dark charnel in the west where lo ! 
 
 The mobled Moon ! For so, at the dread van 
 
 Of wars like ours, the great humanity 
 
 In things not human should be wrought and wrung 
 
 Into our sight, and creatures without tongue 
 
 By the dumb passion of a visible cry 
 
 Confess the coming agony of Alaa.
 
 300 
 
 TO 1862. 
 
 Hark ! a far gun, like all war's guns in one, 
 Booms. At that sign, from the new monument 
 Of him who held the plough whereto he bent 
 His royal sword, and meekly laboured on. 
 Till when the verdict of mankind had gone 
 Against our peace, he, waiving our consent, 
 Carried the appeal to higher courts, and went 
 Himself to plead — She whom he loved and won, 
 The Queen of Earth and Sea, — her unrisen head 
 Bowed in a sorrowy cloud — takes her slow way 
 To her great throne, and, lifting up her day 
 Upon her land, and to that flag unfurl'd 
 Where wave the honour and the chastity 
 Of all our men and maidens living and dead, 
 Points westward, and thus breaks the silence of the 
 world.
 
 30I 
 
 'a QUEEN'S SPEECH. 
 
 "Since it is War, my England, and nor I 
 
 On you nor you on me have drawn down one 
 
 Drop of this bloody guilt, God's Will be done, 
 
 Here upon earth in woe, in bliss on high ! 
 
 Peace is but mortal and to live must die. 
 
 And, like that other creature of the sun. 
 
 Must die in fire. Therefore, my English, on ! 
 
 And burn it young again with victory ! 
 
 For me, in all your joys I have been first. 
 
 And in this woe my place I still shall keep, 
 
 I am the earliest widow that must weep. 
 
 My children the first orphans. The divine 
 
 Event of all God knows : but come the worst 
 
 It cannot leave your homes more dark than mine."
 
 303 
 
 TO A FRIEND IN BEREA VEMENT. 
 
 No comfort, nay, no comfort. Yet would I 
 
 In Sorrow's cause with Sorrow intercede. 
 
 Burst not the great heart, — this is all I plead — 
 
 Ah sentence it to suffer, not to die. 
 
 "Comfort?" If Jesus wept at Bethany, 
 
 — That doze and nap of Death — how may we bleed 
 
 Who watch the long sleep that is sleep indeed ! 
 
 Pointing to Heaven I but remind you why 
 
 On earth you still must mourn. He who, being bold 
 
 For life-to-come, is false to the past sweet 
 
 Of Mortal life, hath killed the world above. 
 
 For why to live again if not to meet ? 
 
 .\nd why to meet if not to meet in love ? 
 
 And why in love if not in that dear love of old ?
 
 303 
 
 JOHN BOHUN MARTIN. 
 
 (captain of "the LONDON.") 
 
 Keeping his word, the promised Roman kept 
 Enough of worded breath to live till now. 
 Our Regulus was free of plighted vow 
 Or tacit debt : skies fell, seas leapt, storms swept ; 
 Death yawned : with a mere step he might have slept 
 To Hfe. But the House-master would know how 
 To do the master's honours ; and did know, 
 And did them to the hour of rest, and slept 
 The last of all his house. Oh, thou heart's-core 
 Of Truth, how will the nations sentence thee ? 
 ■ Hark ! as loud Europe cries "Could man do more ? '' 
 Great England lifts her head from her distress, 
 And answers " But could Englishman do less?" 
 Ah, England ! goddess of the years to be ! 
 
 Fl-OP.ENCE, Fehrt(aiy 1 866.
 
 304 
 
 TO TOCHTERCHEN. 
 
 As one doth touch a flower wherein the dew 
 
 Trembles to fall, as one unplaits the ply 
 
 Of morning gossamer, so tenderly 
 
 My spirit touches thine. Yet, daughter true 
 
 And fair, great Launcelot's mighty nerve and tlicA 
 
 Best clove a king or caught a butterfly, 
 
 (Since each extreme is perfect mastery 
 
 — Accurate cause repaid in the fine due 
 
 Of just effect — ) and, child, it should be so 
 
 With Love. The same that nicely plundereth 
 
 The honeyed zephyrs for thy cates and wine 
 
 Should train thee with the tasks of toil and woe, 
 
 Or hold thee against adverse life and death. 
 
 Or give thee from my breast to dearer arms than n:inc.
 
 305 
 
 FRAGMENT OF A SLEEP-SONG* 
 
 Sister Simplicitie, 
 Sing, sing a song to me, 
 Sing me to sleep. 
 Some legend low and long, 
 Slow as the summer song 
 Of the dull Deep. 
 
 Some legend long and low. 
 Whose equal ebh and flow 
 To and fro creep 
 On the dim marge of grey 
 'Tween the soul's night and day^ 
 Washing "awake" away 
 Into "asleep." 
 
 Some legend low and long, 
 Never so weak or strong 
 As to let go 
 
 A\Tiile it can hold this heart 
 Withouten sigh or smart, 
 Or as to hold this heart 
 When it sighs "No." 
 
 * This and the following fragments were found in MS. aftm 
 the death of the writer. 
 
 020
 
 3o6 FRAGMENT OF A SLEEP-SONG. 
 
 Some long low swaying song, 
 As the swayed shadow long 
 Sways to and fro 
 Where, thro' the crowing cocks, 
 And by the swinging clocks. 
 Some weary mother rocks 
 Some wear)' woe. 
 
 Sing up and down to me 
 
 Like a dream-boat at sea. 
 
 So, and still so. 
 
 Float through the "then" and "when," 
 
 Rising from when to then, 
 
 Sinking from then to when 
 
 While the waves go. 
 
 Low and high, high and low. 
 
 Now and then, then and now. 
 
 Now, now ; 
 
 And when the now is then, and when the 
 
 then is now, 
 And when the low is high, and when the 
 
 high is low, 
 Low, low ; 
 
 Let me float, let the boat 
 Go, go ; 
 
 Let me glide, let me slide 
 Slow, slow ; 
 
 Gliding boat, sliding boat. 
 Slow, slow ; 
 Glide away, slide away 
 So, so.
 
 3or 
 
 BALLAD. 
 
 Oh Ladye fair, oh Ladye fair and mine, 
 
 Where'er thou be, 
 
 Canst thou divine 
 
 The Love that hungers thus in me ? 
 
 The secret cell where lone I lie and sigh for thee ? 
 
 Long, long I wait, but shall I wait in vain ? 
 
 How long the Summer waited for the Rose ! 
 
 Ah say, oh say I shall not wait in vain ! 
 
 How long, ah fairest ! must I keep 
 
 The vigil of unsleeping eyes ? 
 
 Summer's sighs avail, 
 
 Summer that sang himself to sleep, 
 
 Summer that piping in a grove all day 
 
 Played out his lovelorn soul upon the nightingale, 
 
 Oh songs more blest than mine, ah happier sighs ! 
 
 For at rich midnight all the bells 
 
 Of all the valley-lilies rang a tune 
 
 Like moonlight up and down the dells. 
 
 And June 
 
 As a naked maiden thro' the shades 
 
 Slipt thro' the woods and took her throne. 
 
 By this the east is red and while, 
 
 The queen of months is seen and known, 
 
 Like flocks of doves that soar and fall,
 
 3o8 BALLAD. 
 
 Like butterflies that hover and alight, 
 
 Like tears of ecstacy when tear on tear 
 
 From both wild eyes rains thro' the wreathW hands, 
 
 The blush of morning drops upon the lands, 
 
 The Rose, the Rose is here 1 
 
 And rapture, rapture crowns the passion of the year. 
 
 Hark, hark, 
 
 Something stirs the arching green, 
 
 Thro' the verdurous aisles the doves are cooing, 
 
 And the birds of smaller quire, 
 
 As fairies that do run and sing 
 
 Before the bridal of their queen, 
 
 Flittering and fondly twittering. 
 
 Lead thro' the languid air the sick delight of wooing. 
 
 Sure thro' the distance dim I see the morn again ! 
 Leaves that meet and part the hues of dawn disclose. 
 Has she heard my woes ? 
 Has she pitied all my pain ? 
 'Tis she ! 'tis she ! 
 As Summer waited for the Rose 
 I shall not wait in vain ! 
 As June soft slipping warms the purple Dark, 
 So thou slippest thro' the shades to me. 
 So throbs my throbbing heart its thickening throbs 
 to thee. 
 
 -K3<^^E>-
 
 309 
 
 LORD ROBERT. 
 
 Tall and young and light of tongue. 
 
 Gallantly riding by wood and lea, 
 
 He was ware of a maiden fair 
 
 And turned and whispered, " Remember me." 
 
 (Oh Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert, 
 
 Oh Lord Robert, 'tis I, 'tis I ; 
 
 Under their feet where the cross-roads meet 
 
 Dost thou think I can lie and lie. 
 
 Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert ?) 
 
 Day by day she walks that way 
 
 Never hoping by wood or lea 
 
 To be ware of the stranger gay 
 
 Who turned and whispered, " Remember me." 
 
 (Oh Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert, 
 
 Oh Lord Robert, 'tis I, 'tis I ; 
 
 Under their feet where the cross-roads meet 
 
 Dost thou think I can lie and lie, 
 
 Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert ?) 
 
 Chance for chance he rides that way, 
 
 And again by wood or by lea 
 
 He was ware of the maiden fair, 
 
 And again he whispered, " Remember me." 
 
 (Oh Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Roljert, 
 
 Oh Lord Robert, 'tis I, 'tis I ;
 
 310 LORD ROBERT. 
 
 Under their feet where the cross-roads meet 
 
 Dost thou think I can lie and lie, 
 
 Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert ?) 
 
 Chance for chance that way rode he. 
 
 And again where he was ware, 
 
 Debonnair to that maiden fair 
 
 He turned and said " You remember me." 
 
 (Oh Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert, 
 
 Oh Lord Robert, 'tis I, 'tis I ; 
 
 Under their feet where the cross roads meet 
 
 Dost thou think I can lie and lie, 
 
 Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert ?) 
 
 Chance for chance on a summer-day, 
 
 Meeting her still by wood and lea, 
 
 He leaped gay from his gallant grey 
 
 And said, "I see you remember me." 
 
 (Oh Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert, 
 
 Oh Lord Robert, 'tis I, 'tis I ; 
 
 Under their feet where the cross-roads meet 
 
 Dost thou think I can lie and lie, 
 
 Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert ?) 
 
 Chance for chance when they hap'd to meet 
 
 He pressed on her lip, he breathed in her ear, 
 
 Dear, dear words and kisses sweet. 
 
 Words and kisses too sweet, too dear. 
 
 (Oh Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert, 
 
 Oh Lord Robert, 'tis I, 'tis I ; 
 
 Under their feet where the cross-roads meet. 
 
 Dost thou think I can lie and lie. 
 
 Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert ?)
 
 LORD ROBERT. 3" 
 
 AVhen the morn enchants the east, 
 
 When the south is dazed with noon, 
 
 When the eve weeps to the west, 
 
 When the night beguiles the moon. 
 
 The maid moon that sat so lowly, 
 
 Sat so lowly with bended head, 
 
 Sat so lowly and rose so slowly, 
 
 Rose so slowly and walked so lowly, 
 
 Ever, ever, with bended head, 
 
 Till the black, black hour of the starless sky. 
 
 The black, black hour and the dark, dark bed. 
 
 And live maids weep as they turn in their sleep, 
 
 Weep in their sleep, and know not why. 
 
 And the white owls shriek and the dead men croon. 
 
 Now all ye gentlemen, grand and gay. 
 
 When you meet a maid by wood or lea, 
 
 Sir Knight, I pray, ride on thy way, 
 
 Nor turn and whisper, " Remember me." 
 
 Lest you drink no wine so strong or fine 
 
 But out of the cup, like a shell of the sea, 
 
 Thou shalt learn how slaves from their wormy graves 
 
 Can do that bidding, " Remember me." 
 
 (Oh Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert, 
 
 Oh Lord Robert, 'tis L 'tis I ; 
 
 Under their feet where the cross-roads meet 
 
 Dost thou think I can lie and lie. 
 
 Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert ?) 
 
 Lest never in hall when the knights stand tall 
 And the goblets flash and the ladies shine, 
 And thou risest up the king of them all. 
 To drink to wassail and woman and wine, 
 Risest up with thy jewelled cup.
 
 312 LORD ROBERT. 
 
 But out of the cup, like the sea in a shell, 
 
 A voice thou hast known by hill and wood, 
 
 A voice, a voice thou hast known too well ! 
 
 And the cold wine boils on the lip like blood, 
 
 And the blood streams cold to the heart like wine. 
 
 Cold and hot to the heart like wine. 
 
 (Oh Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert, 
 
 Oh Lord Robert, 'tis I, 'tis I ; 
 
 Under their feet where the cross-roads meet 
 
 Do you think I can lie and lie, 
 
 Lord Robert, Lord Robert, Lord Robert ?)
 
 3*3 
 
 FRAGMENT OF BALLAD. 
 
 How shall I sing ? the thing I crave 
 
 To say is speechless as a Lover's trance. 
 
 How shall I give to thee 
 
 What even now is all so wholly thine 
 
 That but by losing thee in me 
 
 Or me in thee it never can be mine ? 
 
 As a sliding wave of sliding sea 
 
 Before my following hand doth dance 
 
 Ever and ever onward to the shore, 
 
 And breaks and is a thousand things at once. 
 
 And from the moment's multiplicity 
 
 Takes itself up again into a wave : 
 
 So all I feel and see 
 
 Breaks to the thousand-fold of Fate and Chance; 
 
 But from the moment's multiplicity 
 
 Takes itself up into the thought of thee. 
 
 020 ■■
 
 314 
 
 SNOW-DROPS. 
 
 Fragment of a Poem that was to have described what the 
 sigM hears and the hearing sees in some of the natural facts of 
 Spring. (Barton End, 1874.) 
 
 Have you heard the Snow-drops ringing 
 
 Their bells to themselves? 
 
 Smaller and whiter than the singing 
 
 Of any fairy elves 
 
 Who follow Mab their Queen 
 
 When she is winging 
 
 On a moth across the night 
 
 And calls them all 
 
 With a far-twinkling call 
 
 Like the tiniest ray of tiniest starlight 
 
 That ever was seen ? 
 
 Far and near, high and low, 
 
 Don't you hear the little bells go? 
 
 Not in the big winds that blow 
 
 The roaring beeches to and fro, 
 
 Not in the lower rivers 
 
 Of the breeze 
 
 Below the trees, 
 
 When the stiff bracken shines. 
 
 And the thin bent quivers. 
 
 And the limp green waves to and fro, 
 
 You shall hear the little bells go.
 
 SNOW-DROPS. 315 
 
 But in the jets and rivulets 
 
 That sputter from the melting snows 
 
 When against the mighty bole 
 
 Of a beech they dash and swirl 
 
 And twist and twirl, 
 
 The licking leaves throw 
 
 A thousand airy drops invisible 
 
 Down the strong perpendicular 
 
 To where the snowdrops are ; 
 
 Tiny drops that fall and meet, 
 
 And swift and sweet 
 
 Run dim viewless course of fitful forcej 
 
 Like an airy waterfall 
 
 You shall hear the little bells go 
 
 All the liny snow-bells swinging, 
 
 Tiny chauntlets high and low.
 
 3i6 
 
 NEW YEARS EVE. 
 
 As when at twelve o'clock 
 Strong January opes the gates of Life 
 And we that were so cabined and so dark 
 Within the round tower of the rounded year 
 Feel the far Spring blown in on us and look 
 Straight to the primroses, and with the swallow 
 Skim thro' the dawns of daffodils and up 
 To bluebell skies, and from the bluebell skies, 
 Like a wild hawk upon a flight of doves, 
 Swoop upon June and Paradise, and on 
 Beyond the bounds of Eden to an Earth 
 Boss'd with great purples of new-clustered wine 
 Betwixt the tented harvests red and gold. 
 And so into a cloud, and know no more 
 
 THE WALTER SCOTT PRRSS, NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNE.
 
 The canterbury POETS. 
 
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 Photogravure Edition, 2/-. 
 
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 Sonnets of this Century 
 
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 Scott. Lady of the Lake, etc. 
 
 Praed. 
 
 Hogg, 
 
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 Mackay's Love Letters. 
 
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 Byron (3 Vols.). 
 
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 Early English Poetry. 
 
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 Poems of Wild Life. 
 
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 Greek Anthology. 
 
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 Imitation of Christ. 
 
 Toby's Birthday Book. 
 
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 Romance of King Arthur, 
 
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