R 
 
 r^M^^jC JC^iCirjfi' 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 MRS. MARY WOLFSOHN 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 
 HENRY WOLFSOHN 
 
MF 
 
 W4 
 
 9^m 
 
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2o-Zcrr2t 
 
 
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 POETICAL WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 {COMPLETE) 
 
 FROM THE TWELFTH LONDON EDITION. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED, 
 
 or THE 
 
 \^ r». Of 
 
 £5t 
 
 /ro- 
 
 TROY, N.Y. : 
 NIMS AND KNIGHT. 
 
h*-«-»H 
 
 I ♦ ■ »'l 
 
 COPYKIGHT BY 
 
 T. Y. CROWELL & CO., 
 1882. 
 
 JTrankUn y«aa : 
 
 RAND, AVERT, AND COMPANY. 
 BOSTON. 
 
\'d'd-2~ 
 
 I ^ I ■ I ^m I 
 
 i 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 TO MY FATHER. 
 
 When your eyes fall upon this page of dedication, and you start to 
 see to whom it is inscribed, your first thought will be of the time, far 
 off, when I was a child, and wrote verses, and when I dedicated them to 
 you, who were my public and my critic. Of all that such a recollection 
 implies of saddest and sweetest to both of us, it would become neither 
 of us to speak before the world ; nor would it be possible for us to 
 speak of it to one another with voices that did not falter. Enough, 
 that what is in my heart when I write thus will be fully known to 
 yours. 
 
 And my desii-e is, that you, who are a witness how, if this art of poetry 
 had been a less earnest object to me, it must have fallen from ex- 
 hausted hands before this day, — that you, who have shai-ed with me 
 in things bitter and sweet, softening or enhancing them, every day, — 
 that you, who hold with me, over all sense of loss and transiency, one 
 hope by one name, — may accept from me the inscription of these vol- 
 umes, the exponents of a few years of an existence which has been 
 sustained and comforted by you, as well as given. Somewhat more 
 faint-hearteil than I used to be, it is my fancy thus to seem to return 
 to a visilile personal dependence on you, as if indeed I were a child 
 again; to conjure your beloved image between myself and the public, 
 so as to be sure of one smile ; and to satisfy my heart, while I sanctify 
 my ambition, by associating with the great jiursuit of my life its ten- 
 derest and holiest affection. 
 
 Your 
 
 E. B. B. 
 London, 50 "Wimpole Street, 1844. 
 
ADYERTISEME^T. 
 
 This edition, including my earlier and later writings, I have en- 
 deavored to render as little unworthy as possible of tlie indulgence of 
 the public. Several poems I would willingly have withdrawn, if it 
 were not almost impossible to extricate what has been once caught and 
 involved in the machinery of the press. The alternative is a request' to 
 the generous reader that he may use the weakness of those earliei 
 verses, which no subsequent revision has succeeded in strengthening, 
 less as a reproach to the writer than as a means of marking some prog- 
 ress in lier other attempts. 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 London, 1856. 
 
 iv 
 
1 1 ■ < ^m I 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 AuBORA Leigh: — 
 
 First Book 1 
 
 Second Book t9 
 
 Third Book 40 
 
 Fourtli Book 60 
 
 Fifth Book 80 
 
 Sixth Book , . .100 
 
 Seventh Book 121 
 
 Eighth Book 142 
 
 Ninth Book 103 
 
 A Drama of Exile 179 
 
 The Seraphim 212 
 
 \Prometheus bound. From the 
 
 Greek of ^schylus .... 22-5 
 A Lament for Adonis. Froj( the 
 
 Greek of Bion 245 
 
 A Vision of Poets 247 
 
 The Poet's Vow 261 
 
 The Romaunt of Margret .... 268 
 
 IsoBEL's Child 271 
 
 The Romaunt of the Page .... 277 
 The Lay of the Brown Rosary . . 282 
 A Romance op the Ganges .... 290 
 Rhyme of the Duchess May' . . . 293 
 The Romance of the Swan's Ne?t . 302 
 
 Bertha in the Lane 303 
 
 Lady- Geraldine's Courtship . . . 306 
 The Runaway' Slave at 1'ilgri.m's 
 
 I'oint 317 
 
 Vl'nt; f'^y mr th^- niTTTppp^v .... .321 
 
 Jf A Child asleep . ' 323 
 
 The Fourfold Aspect 324 
 
 KiGHT AND THE MeRRY' MaN .... 326 
 
 Earth and her Praisers 327 
 
 The Virgin Mary to the Child 
 
 Jesus 330 
 
 An Island .332 
 
 The Soul's Travelling 335 
 
 To Bettine 338 
 
 Man and Nature 339 
 
 A Seaside AValk .339 
 
 The Sea-mew 340 
 
 Felicia Hemans 340 
 
 L. E. L.'s Last Question 341. 
 
 Crowned and wedded 342 
 
 Crowned and buried 344 
 
 To Flush, my Dog 347 
 
 The Deserted Garden .349 
 
 My' Doves 350 
 
 Hector in the Garden 351 
 
 Sleeping and Watching 3.52 
 
 Sounds 353 
 
 Page 
 
 Sonnets : — 
 
 The Soul's Expression 355 
 
 The Seraph and Poet 355 
 
 Bereavement 355 
 
 Consolation 356 
 
 To Mary Russell Mitford. In her 
 
 Garden 356 
 
 On a Portrait of Wordsworth by 
 
 B. R. Haydon 356 
 
 Past and Future 356 
 
 Irreparableness 357 
 
 Tears 357 
 
 Grief .357 
 
 , Substitutioii 357 
 
 Comfort 358 
 
 Perplexed Music .358 
 
 \Vork 358 
 
 Futurity 359 
 
 The Two Sayings 3-59 
 
 The Look 359 
 
 The Meaning of the Look .... 3-59 
 A Thought for a Lonely Death-bed . 360 
 Work and Contemplation .... 360 
 
 Pain in Pleasure 360 
 
 Fiiish or Faunus 360 
 
 Finite and Infinite 361 
 
 An Apprehension 361 
 
 Discontent 361 
 
 Patience taught by Nut lire .... 362 
 Cheerfuhiess taught by Reason . . 362 
 
 Exaggeration 362 
 
 Adequacy 362 
 
 To George Sand. A Desire . . .363 
 To George Sand. A Recognition . 363 
 
 The Prisoner 363 
 
 Insufficiency 363 
 
 Two Sketches. 1 364 
 
 Two Sketches. II 364 
 
 Mountaineer and Poet 364 
 
 The Poet 364 
 
 Hiram Powers' Greek Slave . . . 365 
 
 Life 365 
 
 Love 365 
 
 Heaven and Earth 366 
 
 The Prospect 366 
 
 Hugh Stuart Bovd. His Blindness. 366 
 Hugh Stuart Boyd. His Death . . 367 
 Hugh Stuart Boyd. Legacies . . 367 
 
 The Lost Bower 367 
 
 A Song against Singing 373 
 
 Wine of Cy'prus 374 
 
 A Rhapsody' of Life's Progress . . 876 
 
 V 
 
VI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 \-*-\\-*-{ 
 
 Page 
 A Lay of the Early Rose .... 379 
 The Po^t anb thk Rtrd . a Fable. 381 
 
 The Ory' of the Human 382 
 
 A Portrait 383 
 
 Confessions 384 
 
 Loved once .■^gSB 
 
 The House of Clouds 387 
 
 A Sabbath Morning at Sea . . . 388 
 
 A Flower in a Letter 389 
 
 The Mask . . 391 
 
 Calls on the Heart 391 
 
 Wisdom Unapplied 393 
 
 Memory- and Hope 394 
 
 Human Life's Mystery 395 
 
 A Child's Thought of God .... 396 
 
 The Claim 396 
 
 Song of the Rose 396 
 
 A Dead Rose 397 
 
 The Exile's Return 397 
 
 The Sleep 398 
 
 The Measure 399 
 
 Cowper's Grave 399 
 
 The "Weakest Thing 401 
 
 The Pet Name 401 
 
 The Mourning Mother 402 
 
 A Valediction 403 
 
 Lessons from the Goese .... 404 
 
 The Lady''s Yes 404 
 
 A Woman's Shortcomings .... 404 
 
 A Man's Requirements 405 
 
 A Year's Spinning 406 
 
 Change upon Change 406 
 
 That Day 407 
 
 A Reed 407 
 
 The Dead Pan 408 
 
 A "Child's Grave at Florence . . 411 
 
 CatarinjV to Camoens 413 
 
 Life and Love 415 
 
 A Denial 415 
 
 Proof and Disproof 416 
 
 Question and Answer 417 
 
 Inclusions 417 
 
 ^ Insufficiency 417 
 
 ■■•■ Sonnets from the Portuguese . . 418 
 
 \ Casa Guidi Windows 429 
 
 l^J'oEMS before Congress: — 
 
 Naijoleon III. in Italy 463 
 
 The Dance 467 
 
 A Tale of Villafranca 469 
 
 A Court Lady 470 
 
 An August Voice 471 
 
 Christmas Gifts 473 
 
 Italy and the World 473 
 
 A Curse for a Nation 476 
 
 JjAst Poems: — 
 
 Little Mattie 478 
 
 A False Step 479 
 
 Void in Law 479 
 
 493 
 495 
 
 Page 
 Last Poems : — 
 
 Lord Walter's Wife 480 
 
 Bianca among the Nightingales . . 482 
 
 My Kate 484 
 
 A Song for the Ragged-Schools of 
 
 London 485 
 
 May's Love 487 
 
 Amy's Cruelty ......... 487 
 
 My Heart and I 488 
 
 The Best Thing in the World . . .489 
 
 Where's Agnes ? 4S9 
 
 XDe Profundis 490 
 
 A Musical Instrum e n t 492 
 
 F'irsl i\ews irom Villafranca . . . 493 
 .-■'^ing Victor Emanuel entering Flor- 
 ence, April, 1860 
 
 The Sword of Castruccio Castracani 
 
 Summing up in Italy 495 
 
 " Died ..." 497 
 
 The Forced Recruit 497 
 
 Garibaldi 498 
 
 Only a Curl 499 
 
 A View across the Roman Campagna 500 
 
 The King's Gift 501 
 
 Parting Lovers 501 
 
 Mother and Poet 502 
 
 Nature's Remorses 504 
 
 The North and the South .... 506 
 Translations : — 
 
 From Theocritus: — 
 
 The Cyclops 507 
 
 XFrom Apuleius : — 
 
 Psyche gazing on Cupid . . 
 
 Psyche wafted by Zephyrus 
 
 Psyche and I'an 
 
 Psyche propitiating Ceres . 
 
 Psyche and the Eagle . . . 
 
 Psyche and Cerberus . . . 
 
 Psyche and Proserpine . . 
 
 Psyche and Venus .... 
 
 Mercury carries Psyche to Olym- 
 pus 512 
 
 Marriage of Psyche and Cupid . 512 
 From Noun us : — 
 
 How Bacchus finds Ariadne sleep- 
 ing 513 
 
 How Bacchus comforts Ariadne . 514 
 From Hesiod : — 
 
 Bacchus and A riadne 515 
 
 From Euripides : — 
 
 Aurora and Tithonus 515 
 
 From Homer : — 
 
 Hector and Andromache .... 516 
 
 The Daughters of Pandarus . . 518 
 
 Another Version 518 
 
 From Anacreon : — 
 
 Ode to the Swallow 518 
 
 From Heine 519 
 
 509 
 509 
 510 
 510 
 511 
 512 
 512 
 512 
 
 v 
 
 J^ 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 A POEM IN NINE BOOKS 
 
 Dedication to John Ken von, Esq. 
 
 The words " cousin " and " friend " are constantly recurring in this poem, 
 the last pages of which have been finished under the hosjiitality of your roof, 
 my own dearest cousin and friend, — cousin and friend in a sense of less 
 equality and greater disinterestedness than " Romney's." 
 
 Ending, therefore, and preparing once more to quit England, I venture to 
 leave in your hands this book, the most mature of my works, and the one 
 into which my highest convictions upon life and art have entered; that as, 
 through my A^arious efforts in literature, and steps in life, you have believed 
 in me, borne with me, and been generous to me, far beyond the common 
 uses of mere relationship or sympathy of mind, so you may kindly accept in 
 sight of the public this poor sign of esteem, gratitude, and affection from 
 
 Your unforgetting 
 
 39 Devonshire Place, 
 Oct. 17, 1856. 
 
 E. B. B. 
 
 AURORA LEIGH, 
 
 FIRST BOOK. 
 
 Of writing many books there is no 
 
 end ; 
 And I, who have written much in 
 
 prose and verse 
 For others' tases, will write now for 
 
 mine, — 
 Will write my story for my better 
 
 self. 
 As when you jiaint your portrait for a 
 
 friend, 
 Who keeps it in a drawer, and looks 
 
 at it 
 
 Long after he has ceased to love you, 
 
 just 
 To hold together what he was and is. 
 
 I, writing tlms, am still what men call 
 
 young : 
 I have not so far left the coasts of life 
 To travel inland, that I cannot hear 
 That murmiir of the outer Infinite 
 Which unweaned babies smile at in 
 
 their sleep 
 When wondered at for smiling ; not 
 
 so far. 
 But still I catch my mother at her 
 
 jiost 
 
 1 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Beside the nursery-door, with finger 
 
 np, 
 " Hush, hush, here's too mucli noise ! " 
 
 while her sweet eyes 
 Leap forward, taking part against her 
 
 word 
 In the chikl's riot. Still I sit, and feel 
 My father's slow hand, ^hen she had 
 
 left us both, 
 Stroke out my childish curls across 
 
 his knee. 
 And hear Assunta's daily jest (she 
 
 knew 
 He liked it better than a better jest) 
 Inquire how many golden scudi went 
 To make such ringlets. O my father's 
 
 hand, 
 Stroke heavily, heavily, the poor hair 
 
 down. 
 Draw, press the child's head closer to 
 
 thy knee ! 
 I'm still too young, too young, to sit 
 
 alone. 
 
 I write. My mother was a Florentine, 
 Whose rare blue eyes were shut from 
 
 seeing me 
 When scarcely I was four years old ; 
 
 my life 
 A poor spark snatched up from a fail- 
 ing lamp 
 AVhich went out therefore. She was 
 
 weak and frail ; 
 She could not bear the joy of giving 
 
 life ; 
 The mother's rapture slew her. If her 
 
 kiss 
 Had left a longer weight upon my lijis. 
 It might have steadied the uneasy 
 
 breath. 
 And reconciled and fraternized my 
 
 soul 
 AYith the new order. As it was, in- 
 deed, 
 I felt a mother-want about the world. 
 And still went seeking, like a bleating 
 
 lamb 
 Left out at night in shutting up the 
 
 fold, — 
 As restless as a nest-deserted bird 
 Grown chill through something being 
 
 away, though what 
 It knows not. I, Aurora Leigh, was 
 
 born 
 To make njy father sadder, and mv- 
 
 self 
 Not overjoyous, truly. Women know 
 The way to rear up children (to be 
 
 just) ; 
 
 They know a simple, merry, tender 
 
 knack 
 Of tying sashes, fitting baby-shoes. 
 And stringing jn-etty words" that make 
 
 no sense. 
 And kissing full sense into empty 
 
 words ; 
 Which things are corals to cut life 
 
 upon. 
 Although such trifles : children learn 
 
 by such. 
 Love's holy earnest in a pretty play, 
 And get not over-early solemnized. 
 But seeing, as in a ro'se-bush. Love's 
 
 Divine, 
 Which burns and hurts not,— not a 
 
 single bloom, — 
 Become aware and unafraid of love. 
 Such good do mothers. Fathers love 
 
 as well, — 
 Mine did, I know, — but still with 
 
 heavier brains. 
 And wills more consciously responsi- 
 ble. 
 And not as wiselj^ sintse less foolishly: 
 So mothers have God's license to be 
 
 missed. 
 
 My father was an austere Englishman, 
 
 Who, after a dry lifetime spent at 
 home 
 
 In college-learning, law, and i:)arish 
 talk, 
 
 Was flooded with a passion unaware, 
 
 His whole provisioned and compla- 
 cent iiast 
 
 Drowned out from him that moment. 
 As he stood 
 
 In Florence, where lie had come to 
 spend a month. 
 
 And note the secret of Da Vinci's 
 drains, 
 
 He musing somewhat absently per- 
 haps 
 
 Some English question . . . whether 
 men should pay 
 
 The unpopular but necessary tax 
 
 With left or right hand — in the alien 
 sun 
 
 In that great square of the Santissinia 
 
 There drifted past him (scarcely 
 marked enough 
 
 To move his comfortable island scorn) 
 
 A train of priestly banners, cross and 
 psalm. 
 
 The white-veiled, rose-crowned maid- 
 ens holding up 
 
 Tall tapers, weighty for such wrists, 
 aslant 
 
' I, a little child, would crouch 
 For hours upon the floor, with knees drawn up, 
 And gaze across them, half in terror, half 
 In adoration at the picture." —Page 3. 
 
] 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 3 
 
 To the blue luminous tremor of the 
 
 air, 
 Aucl letting drop the white wax as 
 
 they went 
 To eat the bishop's wafer at the 
 
 church ; 
 From which long trail of chanting 
 
 l^riests and girls 
 A face flashed like a cymbal on his 
 
 face, 
 And shook with silent clangor brain 
 
 and heart, 
 Transfiguring him to music. Thus, 
 
 even thus, 
 He, too, received his sacramental gift 
 With eucharistic meanings; for he 
 
 loved. 
 
 And thus beloved, she died. I've 
 
 heard it said 
 That but to see him, in the first sur- 
 prise 
 Of widower and father, nursing me, 
 Unmothered little cliild of four vears 
 
 old, — 
 His large man's hands afraid to totxch 
 
 my curls. 
 As if the gold would tarnish, his 
 
 grave lips 
 Contriving such a miserable smile 
 As if he knew needs must, or I 
 
 should die. 
 And yet 'twas hard, — would almost 
 
 "make the stones 
 Cry out for pity. There's a verse he 
 
 set 
 In Santa Croce to her memory, — 
 " Weep for an infant too young to 
 
 weep much 
 When death removed this mother," — 
 
 stops the mirth 
 To-day on women's faces when they 
 
 walk, 
 With rosy children hanging on their 
 
 gowns. 
 Under the cloister to escape the sun 
 That scorches in the piazza. After 
 
 which 
 He left our Florence, and made haste 
 
 to hide 
 Himself, his prattling child, and silent 
 
 grief, 
 Among the mountains above Pelago; 
 Because unmothered babes, he 
 
 thought, had need 
 Of mother-nature more than others 
 
 use. 
 And Pan's Avhite goats, with udders 
 
 warm, and full 
 
 Of mystic contemplations, come to 
 
 feed 
 Poor milkless lips of orphans like his 
 
 own. 
 Such scholar-scraps he talked, I've 
 
 heard from friends; 
 For even i^rosaic men who wear gr'-ef 
 
 long 
 Will get to wear it as a hat aside 
 With a flower stuck in't. Father, 
 
 then, and child. 
 We lived among the mountains many 
 
 years, 
 God's silence on the outside of the 
 
 house. 
 And we who did not speak too loud 
 
 within, 
 And old Assunta to make up the fire. 
 Crossing herself whene'er a sudden 
 
 flame 
 Which lightened from the firewood 
 
 made alive 
 That picture of my mother on the 
 
 wall. 
 
 The painter drew it after she was 
 
 dead ; 
 And when the face was finished, 
 
 throat and hands. 
 Her cameriera carried him, in hate 
 Of the English-fashioned shroud, the 
 
 last brocade 
 She dressed in at the Pitti. " He 
 
 should paint 
 No sadder thing than that," she 
 
 swore, " to wrong 
 Her poor signora." Therefore very 
 
 strange 
 The effect was. I, a little child, 
 
 would crouch 
 For hours upon the floor, with knees 
 
 drawn up, 
 And gaze across them, half in terror, 
 
 half 
 In adoration, at the picture there, — 
 That swan-like supernatural white 
 
 life 
 Just sailing upward from the red stiff 
 
 silk 
 Which seemed to have no part in it, 
 
 nor power 
 To keep it from quite breaking out 
 
 of bounds. * 
 
 For hours I sate and stared. Assun- 
 
 ta's awe 
 And my poor father's melancholy 
 
 eyes 
 Still pointed that way. That way 
 
 went my thoughts 
 
 i 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 When wandering beyond sight. And 
 
 as I gr«w 
 In years, I mixed, confused, nncon- 
 
 scionsl>-, 
 Whaterer I last read, or heard, or 
 
 <lreamed, — 
 AhbOrrent, admirable, heantifnl, 
 P^flietical, or ghastly, or grotesque, — 
 >^ith still that face . . . which did 
 
 not therefore change. 
 But kept the mystic level of all 
 
 forms, 
 Hates, fears, and admirations — was 
 
 by turns 
 Ghost, "fiend, and angel, fairy, witch, 
 
 and sprite; 
 A dauntless Muse who eyes a dread- 
 ful Fate; 
 A loving Psyche who loses sight of 
 
 Love ; 
 A still ISIedusa with mild milky 
 
 brows, 
 All curdled and all clothed upon with 
 
 snakes 
 Whose slime falls fast as sweat will; 
 
 or anon 
 Our Lady of the Passion, stabbed 
 
 with swords 
 Where the Babe sucked; or Lamia in 
 
 her first 
 Moonlighted ]iallor, ere she shrunk 
 
 and blinked, 
 And shuddering wriggled down to 
 
 the unclean; 
 Or my own mother, leaving her last 
 
 smile 
 In her last kiss upon the baby-mouth 
 My father pushed down on the bed 
 
 for that ; 
 Or my dead mother, without smile or 
 
 kiss. 
 Buried at Florence. All which im- 
 ages. 
 Concentred on the picture, glassed 
 
 themselves 
 Before my meditative childhood, as 
 The incoherencies of change and 
 
 death 
 Are represented fully, mixed and 
 
 merged. 
 In the smooth fair mystery of perpet- 
 ual life. 
 
 And while I stared away my childish 
 
 wits 
 Upon my mother's picture, (ah, poor 
 
 child!) 
 My father, who through love had 
 
 suddenly 
 
 Thrown off the old conventions, 
 broken loose 
 
 From chin-bands of the soul, like 
 Lazarus, 
 
 Yet had no time to learn to talk and 
 walk. 
 
 Or grow anew familiar with the 
 sun ; 
 
 Who had reached to freedom, not to 
 action, lived, 
 
 But lived as one entranced, with 
 thoughts, not aims; 
 
 Whom love had unmade from a com- 
 mon njan, 
 
 But not completed to an uncommon 
 man, — 
 
 My father taught me what he had 
 learnt the best 
 
 Before he ilied, and left me, — grief 
 and love. 
 
 And seeing we had books among the 
 hills. 
 
 Strong words of counselling souls 
 confederate 
 
 With vocal j)ines and waters, out of 
 books 
 
 He taught me all the ignorance of 
 men, 
 
 And how God laughs in heaven when 
 any man 
 
 Says, "Here-I"m learned; this I un- 
 derstand; 
 
 In that I am ncA^er caught at fault or 
 doubt." 
 
 He sent the schools to school, demon- 
 strating 
 
 A fool will pass for such through one 
 mistake, 
 
 AVhile a iihilosopher will pass for 
 such 
 
 Through said mistakes being ven- 
 tured in the gross, 
 
 And heaped iip to a sy.stem. 
 
 I am like. 
 
 They tell me, my dear father. Broad- 
 er brows 
 
 Howbeit, upon a slenderer under- 
 growth 
 
 Of delicate features, — imler, near as 
 grave ; 
 
 But then my mother's smile breaks 
 up the whole, 
 
 And makes it better sometimes than 
 itself. 
 
 So nine full years our days were hid 
 
 with God 
 Among his mountains. I was just 
 
 thirteen, 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Still growing like the plants from \\n- 
 
 seen roots 
 In tongue-tied springs, and suddenly 
 
 awoke 
 To full life and life's needs and ago- 
 nies, 
 With an intense, strong, struggling 
 
 heart, beside 
 A stone-dead father. Life, struck 
 
 sharp on death. 
 Makes awful lightning. His last 
 
 word was, " Love — 
 Love, my child, love, love! " — (then 
 
 he had done with grief) 
 " Love, my child." Ere I answered, 
 
 he was gone. 
 And none was left to love in all the 
 
 world. 
 
 There ended childhood. What suc- 
 ceeded next 
 I recollect, as, after fevers, men 
 Thread back the passage of delirium, 
 Missing the turn still, bafHed by the 
 
 door ; 
 Smooth, endless days, notched here 
 
 and there with knives, 
 A weary, wormy darkness, spurred 
 
 i' the flank 
 With flame, that it should eat and end 
 
 itself 
 Like some tormented scorjiion. Then 
 
 at last 
 I do remember clearly how there 
 
 came 
 A stranger with authority, not right 
 (I thought not), who commanded, 
 
 caught me up 
 From old Assunta's neck; how with 
 
 a shriek 
 She let me go, while I, with ears too 
 
 full 
 Of my father's silence to shriek back 
 
 a word. 
 In all a child's astonishment at 
 
 grief. 
 Stared at the wharf-edge where she 
 
 stood and moaned. 
 My poor Assunta, where she stood 
 
 and moaned! 
 The white walls, the blue hills, my 
 
 Italy, 
 Drawn backward from the shudder- 
 ing steamer-deck, 
 Like one in anger drawing back her 
 
 skirts 
 Which suppliants catch at. Then the 
 
 bitter sea 
 Inexorably pushed between us both. 
 
 And, sweeping up the ship with my 
 
 despair. 
 Threw us out as a pasture to the 
 
 stars. 
 
 Ten nights and days we voyaged on 
 
 the deep; 
 Ten nights and days without the com- 
 mon face 
 Of any day or night; the moon and 
 
 sun 
 Cut off from the green reconciling 
 
 earth , 
 To starve into a blind ferocity, 
 And glare unnatural ; the very sky 
 (Dropping its bell-net down upon the 
 
 sea 
 As if no human heart should 'scape 
 
 alive). 
 Bedraggled with the desolating salt. 
 Until it seemed no more that holy 
 
 heaven 
 To which my father went. All new 
 
 and strange; 
 The universe turned stranger, for a 
 
 child. 
 
 Then land! — then England! oh, the 
 
 frosty cliffs 
 Looked cold upon me. Could I find 
 
 a home 
 Among those mean red liouses through 
 
 the fog ? 
 And when I heard ujy father's lan- 
 guage first 
 From alien lips which had no kiss for 
 
 mine, 
 I wept alovid, then laughed, then 
 
 wept, then wept; 
 And some one near me said the child 
 
 was mad 
 Through much sea-sickness. The 
 
 train swept us on. 
 Was this my father's England ? the 
 
 great isle ? 
 The ground seemed cut up from the 
 
 fellowship 
 Of verdure, field from field, as man 
 
 from man: 
 The skies themselves looked low and 
 
 positive, 
 As almost you could touch them with 
 
 a hand. 
 And dared to do it, they were so far 
 
 off 
 From God's celestial crystals; all 
 
 things blurred 
 And dull and vague. Did Shakspeare 
 
 and his mates 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Absorb the light here ? Not a hill or 
 
 stone 
 With heart to strike a radiant color 
 
 up, 
 Or active outline on the indifferent 
 
 air. 
 
 I think I see my father's sister stand 
 
 Upon the hall-step of her country- 
 house 
 
 To give me welcome. She stood 
 straight and calm, 
 
 Her somewhat narrow forehead braid- 
 ed tight 
 
 As if for taming accidental thoughts 
 
 From possible pulses; brown hair 
 l>ricked with gray 
 
 By frigid use of life (she was not old, 
 
 Although my father's elder by a 
 year); 
 
 A nose drawn sharply, yet in delicate 
 lines; 
 
 A close mild mouth, a little soured 
 about 
 
 The ends, through speaking unrequit- 
 ed loves 
 
 Or, peradventure, niggardly half- 
 truths ; 
 
 Eyes of no color — once they might 
 have shoiled, 
 
 But never, never, have forgot them- 
 selves 
 
 In smiling; cheeks in which was yet 
 a rose 
 
 Of perished summers, like a rose in a 
 book. 
 
 Kept more for ruth than pleasure — 
 if past bloom. 
 
 Past fading also. 
 
 She liad lived, we'll say, 
 
 A harmless life, she called a virtuous 
 life, 
 
 A quiet life, which was not life at all 
 
 (But that, she had not lived enough 
 to know), 
 
 Between the vicar and the county 
 squires. 
 
 The lord-lieutenant looking down 
 sometimes 
 
 From the empyrean to assure their 
 soi;ls 
 
 Against chance vulgarisms, and, in 
 the abyss. 
 
 The apothecary looked on once a year 
 
 To prove their soundness of luiniility. 
 
 The poor-club exercised her Christian 
 gifts 
 
 Of knitting stockings, stitching petti- 
 coats, 
 
 Because we are of on* flesh, after all, 
 And ueed one flannel (with a proper 
 
 sense 
 Of difference in the quality); and 
 
 still 
 The book-club, guarded from your 
 
 modern trick 
 Of shaking dangerous questions from 
 
 the crease, 
 Preserved her intellectual. She had 
 
 lived 
 A sort of cage-bird life, born in a 
 
 cage, 
 Accounting that to leap from perch to 
 
 perch 
 AYas act and joy enoiigh for any bird. 
 Dear Heaven, how silly are the things 
 
 that live 
 In thickets, and eat berries! 
 
 I, alas ! 
 A wild bird scarcely fledged, was 
 
 brought to her cage. 
 And she was there to meet me. Very 
 
 kind. 
 Bring the clean water, give out the 
 
 fresh seed. 
 
 She stood upon the stejis to welcome 
 
 me. 
 Calm, in black garb. I clung about 
 
 her neck : 
 Yoiang babes, who catch at every 
 
 shred of wool 
 To draw the new light closer, catch 
 
 and cling 
 Less blindly. In my ears my father's 
 
 word 
 Hummed ignorantly, as the sea in 
 
 shells, — 
 " Love, love, my child." She, black 
 
 there with my grief. 
 Might feel my love: she was his sis- 
 ter once. 
 I clung to her. A moment she Beemed 
 
 moved, 
 Kissed me with cold lips, suffered me 
 
 to cling. 
 And drew me feebly through the hall 
 
 into 
 The room she sate in. There, with 
 
 some strange spasm 
 Of pain and passion, slie wrung loose 
 
 my hands 
 Imperiously, and held me at arm's- 
 
 lengtli, 
 And with two gray-steel naked-bladed 
 
 eyes 
 Searched through my face, — ay, 
 
 stabbed it through and through. 
 
 -J^ 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Through hrows and cheeks and chin, 
 
 as if to find 
 A wicked murderer in my innocent 
 
 face, 
 If not here, there perhaps. Then, 
 
 drawing breath. 
 She struggled for lier ordinary calm, 
 And missed it rather ; told me not to 
 
 shrink. 
 As if she had told me not to lie or 
 
 swear, 
 " She loved my father, and would love 
 
 me too 
 As long as I deserved it." Very 
 
 kind. 
 
 I understood her meaning afterward: 
 She thought to find my mother in my 
 
 face, 
 And questioned it for that. For she, 
 
 my aunt, 
 Had loved my father truly, as she 
 
 could. 
 And hated with the gall of gentle 
 
 souls 
 My Tuscan mother, who had fooled 
 
 awaj' 
 A wise man from wise courses, a good 
 
 man 
 From obvious duties, and depriving 
 
 her, 
 His sister, of the household prece- 
 dence, 
 Had wronged his tenants, robbed his 
 
 native land. 
 And made him mad, alike by life and 
 
 death, 
 In love and sorrow. She had pored 
 
 for years 
 What sort of woman Could be suitable 
 To her sort of hate, to entertain it 
 
 with. 
 And so her very curiosity 
 Became hate too, and all the idealism 
 She ever used in life was used for 
 
 hate. 
 Till hate, so nourished, did exceed at 
 
 last 
 The love from which it grew in 
 
 strength and heat, 
 And wrinkled her smooth conscience 
 
 with a sense 
 Of disputable virtue (say not sin) 
 When Christian doctrine was enforced 
 
 at church. 
 
 And thus my father's sister was to me 
 My mother's hater. From that day 
 she did 
 
 Her duty to me (I appreciate it 
 
 In her own word as spoken to herself). 
 
 Her duty in large measure, well 
 
 pressed out. 
 But measured always. She was gen- 
 erous, bland. 
 More courteous than was tender, gave 
 
 me still 
 The first place, as if fearful that 
 
 God's saints 
 "Would look down suddenly and say, 
 
 " Herein 
 You missed a jioint, I think, through 
 
 lack of love." 
 Alas ! a mother never is afraid 
 Of speaking angrily to any child, 
 Since love, she knows, is justified of 
 
 love. 
 
 And I — I was a good child, on the 
 whole, 
 
 A meek and manageable child. Why 
 not? 
 
 I did not live to have the faults of 
 life. 
 
 There seemed more true life in my 
 father's grave 
 
 Than in all England. Since that 
 threw me off 
 
 Who fain would cleave (his latest 
 will, they say, 
 
 Consigned me to his land), I only 
 thought 
 
 Of lying quiet there, where I was 
 thrown 
 
 Like seaweed on the rocks, and suf- 
 fering her 
 
 To prick me to a pattern with her pin, 
 
 Fibre from fibre, delicate leaf from 
 leaf. 
 
 And dry oiit from my drowned anat- 
 omy 
 
 The last sea-salt left in me. 
 
 ' So it was. 
 
 I broke the copious curls upon my 
 lie ad 
 
 In braids, because she liked smooth- 
 ordered hair. 
 
 I left off saying my sweet Tuscan 
 words 
 
 Which still at any stirring of the 
 heart 
 
 Came up to float across the English 
 phrase 
 
 As lilies {Bene or Che che), because 
 
 She liked my father's child to speak 
 his tongue. 
 
 I learnt the collects and the cate- 
 chism, 
 
! 
 
 8 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 The creeds, from Athanasius back to 
 
 Nice, 
 The Articles, the Tracts against the 
 
 times 
 (By no means Buouaventure's " Prick 
 
 of Love"), 
 And various popular synopses of 
 Inhuman doctrines never taught by 
 
 John, 
 Because she liked instructed pietJ^ 
 I learnt my comi^lement of classic 
 
 French 
 (Kept pure of Balzac and neologism) 
 And German also, since she liked a 
 
 range 
 Of liberal education, — tongues, not 
 
 books. 
 I learnt a little algebra, a little 
 Of the mathematics, brushed with 
 
 extreme Hounce 
 The circle of the sciences, because 
 She misliked women who are frivo- 
 lous. 
 I learnt the royal genealogies 
 Of Oviedo, the internal laws 
 Of the Burmese Empire, by how many 
 
 feet 
 Mount Chimborazo outsoars Tene- 
 
 rifife, 
 What navigable river joins itself 
 To Lara, and what census of the year 
 
 five 
 "Was taken atKlagenfurt, because she 
 
 liked 
 A gen-eral insight into useful facts. 
 I learnt much music, such as would 
 
 have been 
 As quite impossible in Johnson's day 
 As still it might be wished, fine 
 
 sleights of hand 
 And unimagined fingering, shuflSiug 
 
 off 
 The hearer's soul through hurricanes 
 
 of notes 
 To a noisy Tophet ; and I drew . . . 
 
 costumes 
 From French engravings, nereids 
 
 neatly draped 
 (With smirks of simmering godship). 
 
 I washed in 
 Landscapes from nature (rather saj-, 
 
 washed out). 
 I danced the polka and Cellariiis, 
 Spun glass, stuffed birds, and mod- 
 elled flowers in wax. 
 Because she liked accomplishments 
 
 in girls. 
 I read a score of books on woman- 
 hood, 
 
 To prove, if women do not think at 
 
 all, 
 They may teach thinking (to a 
 
 maiden-aunt, 
 Or else the author), — books that 
 
 boldly assert 
 Their right of comprehending hus- 
 band's talk 
 When not too deep, and even of an- 
 swering 
 With jiretty "may it please you," or 
 
 " so it is; " 
 Their rapid insight and fine aptitxide. 
 Particular worth and general mission- 
 
 ariness. 
 As long as they keep quiet by the fire, 
 And never say " no " when the world 
 
 says " aj'," 
 For that is fatal; their angelic reach 
 Of virtue, chiefly used to sit and darn. 
 And fatten household sinners; their, 
 
 in brief. 
 Potential faculty in every thing 
 Of abdicating power in it: she owned 
 She liked a woman to be womanly. 
 And English women, she thanked 
 
 God, and sighed 
 (Some people always sigh in thanking 
 
 God), 
 Were models to the universe. And 
 
 last 
 I learnt cross-stitch, because she did 
 
 not like 
 To see me wear the night with empty 
 
 hands, 
 A-doing nothing. So my shepherdess 
 Was something, after all (the jiastoral 
 
 saints 
 Be praised for't), leaning lovelorn, 
 
 witli pink eyes 
 To match her shoes, when I mistook 
 
 the silks. 
 Her head uncrushed by that round 
 
 weight of hat 
 So strangelv similar to the tortoise- 
 shell " 
 Which slew the tragic poet. 
 
 By the way. 
 The works of women are .symbolical. 
 We sew, sew, prick our fingers, dull 
 
 our sight, 
 Producing what ? A jiair of slippers, 
 
 sir, 
 To put on when you're weary, or a 
 
 stool 
 To stumble over, and vex vou . . . 
 
 " Curse that stool ! " 
 Or else, at best, a cushion, where you 
 
 lean 
 
 I 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 And sleep, and dr^m of something 
 we are not, 
 
 But would be for your sake. Alas, 
 alas ! 
 
 This hurts most, this, — that after all 
 we are paid 
 
 The worth of our work, perhaps. 
 
 In looking down 
 
 Those years of education (to return) 
 
 I wonder if Brinvilliers suffered more 
 
 In the water-torture . . . flood suc- 
 ceeding flood 
 
 To drench the incapable throat, and 
 split the veins . . . 
 
 Thau I did. Certain of your feel)ler 
 souls 
 
 Go out in such a process; many pine 
 
 To a sick, inodorous light; my own 
 endured: 
 
 I had relations in the Unseen, and 
 drew 
 
 The elemental nutriment and heat 
 
 From nature, as earth feels the sun 
 at nights. 
 
 Or as a babe sucks surely in the dark 
 
 I kept the life thrust on me, on the 
 outside 
 
 Of the inner life, with all its ample 
 room 
 
 For heart and lungs, for will and in- 
 tellect. 
 
 Inviolable by conventions. God, 
 
 I thank thee for that grace of thine ! 
 
 At first 
 
 I felt no life which was not patience; 
 did 
 
 The thing she bade me, without heed 
 to a thing 
 
 Beyond it; sate in just the chair she 
 placed, 
 
 "With back against the window, to ex- 
 clude 
 
 The sight of the great lime-tree on 
 the lawn. 
 
 Which seemed to have come on pur- 
 pose from the woods 
 
 To bring the house a message, — ay, 
 and walked 
 
 Demurely in her carpeted low rooms, 
 
 As if I should not, barkening my own 
 steps, 
 
 Misdoubt I was alive. I read her 
 books; 
 
 "Was civil to her cousin, Romney 
 Leigh; 
 
 Gave ear to her vicar, tea to her visit- 
 ors, 
 
 And heard them whisper, when I 
 changed a cup 
 
 (I blushed for joy at that), — "The 
 
 Italian child. 
 For all her blue eyes and her quiet 
 
 ways. 
 Thrives ill in England. She is paler 
 
 yet 
 Than when we came the last time: 
 
 she will die." , 
 
 " "Will die." My cousin Romney Leigh 
 
 blushed too, 
 "With sudden anger, and approaching 
 
 me. 
 Said low between his teeth, "You're 
 
 wicked now ! 
 You wish to die and leaA'e the world 
 
 a-dusk 
 For others, with your naughty light 
 
 blown out ? ' ' 
 I looked into his face defyingly. 
 He might have known, that, being 
 
 what I was, 
 'Twas natural to like to get away 
 As far as dead folk can; and then, in- 
 deed, 
 Some people make no trouble when 
 
 they die. 
 He turned and went abruptly, 
 
 slammed the door. 
 And shut his dog out. 
 
 Romney, Romney Leigh. 
 I have not named my cousin hitherto, 
 And yet I used him as a sort of 
 
 friend; 
 My elder by few years, but cold and 
 
 shy 
 And absent . . . tender, when he 
 
 thought of it, 
 Which scarcely was imperative, grave 
 
 betimes. 
 As well as early master of Leigh Hall, 
 Whereof the nightmare sate upon his 
 
 youth 
 Rejiressing all its seasonable delights. 
 And agonizing with a ghastly sense 
 Of iiniversal hideous want and wrong 
 To incriminate possession. When he 
 
 came 
 From college to the country, very oft 
 He crossed the hill on visits to my 
 
 aunt. 
 With gifts of blue grapes from the 
 
 hothouses, 
 A book in one hand, — mere statistics 
 
 (if 
 I chanced to lift the cover), count of 
 
 all 
 The goats whose beards grow sprout- 
 ing down toward hell 
 
i 
 
 10 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Against God's separative judgment- 
 hour. 
 
 And she, — she almost loved him ; 
 even allowed 
 
 That sometimes he should seem to 
 sigh my way: 
 
 It made him easier to be pitiful, 
 
 And sighing was his gift. So, undis- 
 turbed 
 
 At whiles, she let him shut my music 
 up. 
 
 And push my needles down, and lead 
 me out 
 
 To see in that south angle of the 
 house 
 
 Tiie figs grow black as if by a Tuscan 
 rock. 
 
 On some light pretext. She would 
 turn her head 
 
 At other moments, go to fetch a thing, 
 
 And leave me breath enough to speak 
 with him. 
 
 For his sake: it was simple. 
 
 Sometimes too 
 
 He would have saved me utterly, it 
 seemed. 
 
 He stood and looked so. 
 
 Once he stood so near 
 
 He dropped a sudden hand upon my 
 head 
 
 Bent down on woman's work, as soft 
 as rain ; 
 
 But then I rose, and .shook it ofi as 
 fire, — 
 
 The stranger's touch that took my 
 father's place. 
 
 Yet dared seem soft. 
 
 I used him for a friend 
 
 Before I ever knew him for a friend. 
 
 'Twas better, 'twas worse also, after- 
 ward : 
 
 We came so close, we saw our differ- 
 ences 
 
 Too intimately. Always Romney 
 Leigh 
 
 "Was looking for the worms, I for the 
 gods. 
 
 A godlike nature his : the gods look 
 down. 
 
 Incurious of themselves ; and cer- 
 tainly 
 
 'Tis well I should remember, how, 
 those days, 
 
 I was a worm too, and he looked on 
 me. 
 
 A little by his act jierhaps, yet more 
 By something in me, surelv not mv 
 will, 
 
 I did not die; but slowly, as one in 
 
 swoon, * 
 
 To whom life creeps back in the form 
 
 of death. 
 With a sense of separation, a blind 
 
 pain 
 Of blank obstruction, and a roar 
 
 i' the ears 
 Of visionary chariots which retreat 
 As earth grows clearer . . . slowly, 
 
 by degrees, 
 I woke, rose up . . . where was I ? in 
 
 the world ; 
 For uses therefore I must count worth 
 
 while. 
 
 I had a little chamber in the house, 
 As green as any jiriA'et-hedge a bird 
 Might choose to build in, though the 
 
 nest itself 
 Could show but dead-brown sticks 
 
 and straws. The walls 
 Were green ; the carpet was pure 
 
 green; the straight 
 Small bed was curtained greenly ; 
 
 and the folds 
 Hung green about the window, which 
 
 let in 
 The outdoor world with all its green- 
 ery. 
 You could not push your head out, 
 
 and escape 
 A dash of dawn-dew from the honey- 
 suckle. 
 But so you were baptized into the 
 
 grace 
 And privilege of seeing. . . . 
 
 First the lime 
 (I had enough there, of the lime, be 
 
 sure : 
 My morning-dream was often hummed 
 
 away 
 By the bees in it); i^aat the lime the 
 
 lawn. 
 Which, after sweeping broadly round 
 
 the house. 
 Went trickling through the shrulv- 
 
 beries in a stream 
 Of tender turf, and wore and lost 
 
 itself 
 Among the acacias, over which you 
 
 saw 
 The irregular line of elms by the deep 
 
 lane 
 Which stopped the grounds, and 
 
 dammed the overflow 
 Of arbutus and laurel. Out of sight 
 The lane was ; sunk so deep, no foreign 
 
 tramp, 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 11 
 
 Nor drover of wild ponies out of 
 Wales, 
 
 Could guess if lady's hall or tenant's 
 lodge 
 
 Dispensed such odors, though his 
 stick, well crooked, 
 
 Might reach the lowest trail of hlos- 
 soming lirier 
 
 Which dipped iipon the wall. Be- 
 hind the elms. 
 
 And through their tops, vou saw the 
 folded hills 
 
 Striped up and down with hedges 
 (burly oaks 
 
 Projecting from the line to show 
 themselves). 
 
 Through which my cousin Romney's 
 chimneys smoked, 
 
 As still as when a silent mouth in 
 frost 
 
 Breathes, showing where the wood- 
 lands hid Leigh Hall; 
 
 While, far above, a jut of table-land, 
 
 A promontory without water, 
 stretched. 
 
 You could not catch it if the days were 
 thick. 
 
 Or took it for a cloud; but, other- 
 wise. 
 
 The vigorous sun would catch it up at 
 eve, 
 
 And use it for an anvil till he had 
 filled 
 
 The shelves of heaven with Inirning 
 thunderbolts. 
 
 Protesting against night and dark- 
 ness ; then. 
 
 When all his setting trouble was re- 
 solved 
 
 To a trance of passive glory, you 
 inight see 
 
 In ajiiJarition on the golden sky, 
 
 (Alas, \m' Giotto's l)ackground !) the 
 sheef) run 
 
 Along the fine clear outline, small as 
 mice 
 
 That run along a witch's scarlet 
 thread. 
 
 Not a grand nature ; not my chestnut- 
 woods 
 
 Of Vallombrosa, cleaving by the 
 spurs 
 
 To the precipices; not my headlong 
 leai^s 
 
 Of waters, that cry out for joy ur 
 fear 
 
 In leaping through the palintating 
 pines, 
 
 Like a white soul tossed out to eter- 
 nity 
 
 With thrills of time upon it; not, in- 
 deed, 
 
 My multitudinous mountains, sitting 
 in 
 
 The magic circle, with the mutual 
 touch 
 
 Electric, panting from their full deeii 
 hearts 
 
 Beneath the influent heavens, and 
 waiting for 
 
 Communion and commission. Italj' 
 
 Is one thing, England one. 
 
 On English ground 
 
 You understand the letter, — ere the 
 fall 
 
 How Adam lived in a garden. All 
 the fields 
 
 Are tied up fast with hedges, nose- 
 gay-like; 
 
 The hills are crumpled plains, the 
 plains parterres; 
 
 The trees round, woolly, ready to be 
 clii^ped ; 
 
 And if you seek for any wilderness. 
 
 You find at best a park. A nature 
 tamed, 
 
 And grown domestic like a barn-door 
 fowl. 
 
 Which does not awe you with its 
 claws and beak. 
 
 Nor tempt you to an eyry too high 
 up, 
 
 But which in cackling sets you think- 
 ing of 
 
 Your eggs to-morrow at breakfast, in 
 the i:)ause 
 
 Of finer meditation. 
 
 Rather say, 
 
 A sweet familiar nature, stealing in 
 
 As a dog juight, or child, to touch 
 your hand. 
 
 Or pluck your gown, and humbly 
 mind you so 
 
 Of presence and affection, excellent 
 
 For inner uses, from the things with- 
 out. 
 
 I could not be unthankful, I who was 
 Entreated thus, and holpen. In the 
 
 room 
 I speak of, ere the house was well 
 
 awake, 
 And also after it was well asleep, 
 I sate alone, and drew the blessing 
 
 in 
 Of all that nature. With a gradual 
 
 step, 
 
12 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 A stir among the leaves, a breatli, a 
 
 ray, 
 It came in softly, while the angels 
 
 made 
 A place for it beside me The moon 
 
 came. 
 And swept my chamber clean of fool- 
 ish thonglits. 
 The sun came, saying, " Shall I lift 
 
 this light 
 Against the lime-tree, and you will 
 
 not look ? 
 I make the birds sing: listen! — but, 
 
 for you, 
 God never hears your voice, excepting 
 
 when 
 You lie upon the bed at nights, and 
 
 weep." 
 
 Then something moved jue. Then 
 
 I wakened up, 
 More slowly than I verily write 
 
 now ; 
 But wholly, at last, I wakened, 
 
 opened A^ide 
 The window and my soul, and let the 
 
 airs 
 And outdoor sights swec]) gradual 
 
 gospels in. 
 Regenerating what I was. O Life ! 
 How oft we throw it off, and think, 
 
 " Enough, 
 Enough of life in so much! — here's a 
 
 cause 
 For rupture; herein we must break 
 
 with Life, 
 Or be ourselves unworthy; here we 
 
 are wronged, 
 Maimed, spoiled for aspiration: fare- 
 well, Life!" 
 And so, as froward liabes, we hide 
 
 our eyes 
 And think all ended. Then Life calls 
 
 to us 
 In some transformed, apocalj-ptic 
 
 voice. 
 Above us, or below us, or around: 
 Perhaps we name it Nature's voice, 
 
 or Love's, 
 Tricking ourselves, because we are 
 
 more ashamed 
 To own our compensations than our 
 
 griefs : 
 Still Life's A^oice; still we make our 
 
 peace with Life. 
 
 And I, so young then, was not sullen. 
 
 Soon 
 I used to get up early just to sit 
 
 And watch the morning cpiicken in 
 the gray. 
 
 And hear the silence open like a 
 flower. 
 
 Leaf after leaf, and stroke with list- 
 less hand 
 
 The woodbine through the window, 
 till at last 
 
 I came to do it with a sort of love, 
 
 At foolish unaware: whereat I 
 smiled, 
 
 A melancholy smile, to catch myself 
 
 Smiling for joy. 
 
 Capacity for joy 
 
 Admits temptation. It seemed, next, 
 worth while 
 
 To dodge the sharja sword set against 
 my life, 
 
 To slip down stairs through all the 
 sleepy house, 
 
 As mute as any dream there, and es- 
 cape, 
 
 As a soul from the body, out of doors, 
 
 Glide through the shrubberies, drop 
 into the lane, 
 
 And wander on the hills an hour or 
 two. 
 
 Then back again, before the house 
 should stir. 
 
 Or else I sate on in my chamber 
 
 green. 
 And lived my life, and thought my 
 
 thoughts, and prayed 
 My iirayers without the vicar; read 
 
 my books. 
 Without considering whether thej' 
 
 were fit 
 To do me good. Mark there, j We 
 
 get no good "■ 
 
 By being ungenerous, even to a book. 
 And calculating profits, — so much 
 
 help 
 By so much reading. It is rather 
 
 when 
 We gloriously forget ourselves, and 
 
 plunge 
 Soul-forward, headlong, intt) a book's 
 
 profound. 
 Impassioned for its beauty and salt 
 
 of truth, — 
 'Tis then we get the right good from 
 
 a book. , 
 
 I read much. What my father taught 
 before 
 
 From many a volume, love re-em- 
 phasized 
 
 Upon the selfsame pages: Theojilirast 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 13 
 
 Grew tender with the memory of his 
 
 eyes, 
 And ^lian made mine wet. The 
 
 trick of Greelt 
 And Latin he had taught me, as he 
 
 woukl 
 Havfe taught me wrestling, or the 
 
 game of lives, 
 If such lie had I<;nown, — most like a 
 
 shipwrecked man, 
 AYho heaps his single platter with 
 
 goats' cheese 
 And scarlet berries; or like any man 
 Who loves but one, and so gives all 
 
 at once, 
 Because he has it, rather than be- 
 cause 
 He counts it worthy. Tlius my 
 
 father gave ; 
 And thus, as did the women formerly 
 Bj' young Achilles, when they pinned 
 
 a A'eil 
 Across the boy"s audacious front, and 
 
 swept 
 "With tuneful laughs the silver-fretted 
 
 rocks. 
 He wrapt his little daughter in his 
 
 large 
 Man's doublet, careless did it fit or 
 
 110. 
 
 But after I had read for memory 
 
 I read for hope. The path my father's 
 
 foot 
 Had trod me out (which suddenly 
 
 broke off 
 ^Yhat time he drojiped the wallet of 
 
 the flesh 
 And passed) alone I carried on, and 
 
 set 
 ^ly child-heart 'gainst the thorny un- 
 derwood, 
 To reach the grassy shelter of the 
 
 trees. 
 Ah babe i' the wood, without a 
 
 brother-babe ! 
 iSIy own self-jjity, like the redbreast 
 
 bird. 
 Flies back to cover all that past with 
 
 leaves. 
 
 Sublimest danger, over which none 
 
 weeps. 
 When any A'ouug wavfaring soul goes 
 
 forth' 
 Alone, unconscious of the perilous 
 
 road. 
 The day-sun dazzling in his limpid 
 
 eyes. 
 
 To thrust his own way, he an alien, 
 
 through 
 The world of books ! Ah, you ! — 
 
 you think it fine. 
 You clap hands — " A fair day ! " — 
 
 you cheer him on. 
 As if the worst could hajipen were to 
 
 rest 
 Too long beside a fountain. Y^et be- 
 hold. 
 Behold ! — the world of books is still 
 
 the world, 
 And worldlings in it are less merciful 
 And more puissant. For the wicked 
 
 there 
 Are winged like angels; every knife 
 
 that strikes 
 Is edged from elemental fire to assail 
 A si^iritual life; the beautiful seems 
 
 right 
 By force of beauty, and the feeble 
 
 wrong 
 Because of weakness ; power is justi- 
 fied, 
 Though armed against St. Michael; 
 
 many a crown 
 Covers bald foreheads. In the book- 
 world, true. 
 There's no lack, neither, of God's 
 
 saints and kings, 
 That shake the ashes of the grave 
 
 aside 
 From their calm locks, and, undis- 
 
 comfited. 
 Look steadfast truths against Time's 
 
 changing mask. 
 True, many a prophet teaches in the 
 
 roads ; 
 True, many a seer pulls down the 
 
 flaming heavens 
 Upon his own head in strong martj'r- 
 
 dom 
 In order to light men a moment's 
 
 sjjace. 
 But stay ! Who judges ? Who dis- 
 tinguishes 
 'Twixt Saul and Nahash justly, at 
 
 first sight, 
 And leaves King Saul precisely at the 
 
 sin. 
 To serve King David ? Who discerns 
 
 at once 
 The sound of the trumpets, when the 
 
 trumpets blow 
 For Alaric as well as Charlemagne ? 
 Who judges wizards, and can tell true 
 
 seers 
 From conjurers ? The child, there ? 
 
 Would you leave 
 
 [♦■♦I 
 
14 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 •That child to wander in a battle- 
 field, 
 
 And push his innocent smile against 
 the guns ? 
 
 Or even in a catacomb, his torch 
 
 Grown ragged in the fluttering air, 
 and ail 
 
 The dark a-mutter round him ? not a 
 child. 
 
 I read books bad and good, — some 
 
 bad and good 
 At once (good aims not always make 
 
 good books: 
 "Well-tempered spades turn up ill- 
 smelling soils 
 In digging vineyards even) ; books 
 
 that prove 
 God's being so definitely, that man's 
 
 doubt 
 Grows self-defined the other side the 
 
 line, 
 Made atheist by suggestion; moral 
 
 books, 
 Exasperating to license ; genial books, 
 Discounting from the human dignity ; 
 And merr,y books, which set you 
 
 weeping when 
 The sun shines ; ay, and melancholy 
 
 books, 
 Which make you laugh that any one 
 
 shoitid weep 
 In this disjointed life for one wrong 
 
 more. 
 
 The world of books is still the world, 
 I write ; 
 
 And both worlds have God's provi- 
 dence, thank God, 
 
 To keep and hearten. With some 
 struggle, indeed, 
 
 Among the breakers, some hard swim- 
 ming through 
 
 The deeps, I lost breath in my soul 
 sometimes. 
 
 And cried, " God save me, if there's 
 any God ! " 
 
 But, even so, God saved me; and, 
 being dashed 
 
 From error on to error, every turn 
 
 Still brought me nearer to the central 
 truth. 
 
 I thought so. All this anguish in the 
 
 thick 
 Of men's opinions . . . press and 
 
 counterpress. 
 Now up, now down, now underfoot, 
 
 and now 
 
 Emergent . . . all the best of it, per- 
 haps. 
 
 But throws you back upon a noble 
 trust 
 
 And use of your own instinct, — 
 merely proves 
 
 Pure reason stronger than bare infer- 
 ence 
 
 At strongest. Try it, — fix against 
 heaven's wall 
 
 The scaling-ladders of school logic, 
 mount 
 
 Step by step ! — sight goes faster ; that 
 still ray 
 
 "Which strikes out from you, how, you 
 cannot tell. 
 
 And why, you know not, (did you 
 eliminate. 
 
 That such as vou indeed should ana- 
 lyze ?) 
 
 Goes straight and fast as light, and 
 high as God. 
 
 / 
 
 The cygnet finds the water; but the 
 man 
 
 Is born in ignorance of his element, 
 
 And feels out, blind at first, disorgan- 
 ized 
 
 Bv sin i' the blood, his spirit-insight 
 dulled 
 
 And crossed by his sensations. Pres- 
 ently 
 
 He feels it quicken in the dark some- 
 times. 
 
 When, mark, lie reverent, be obedi- 
 ent. 
 
 For such dumb motions of imperfect 
 life 
 
 Are oracles of vital Deity, 
 
 Attesting the Hereafter. Let who 
 says 
 
 "The soul's a clean white jiaper," 
 rather say, 
 
 A palimpsest, a jirojihet's holograiih. 
 
 Defiled, erased, and covered by a 
 monk's, — 
 
 The apocalypse, by a Longus ! i^oring 
 on 
 
 Which obscene text, we may discern, 
 perhaps, 
 
 Some fair, fine trace of what was 
 written once. 
 
 Some upstroke of an alpha ajul omega 
 
 Expressing the old scripture. 
 
 Books, l)ooks, books ! 
 
 I had found the secret of a garret- 
 room. 
 
 Piled high with cases in my father's 
 name. 
 
 ! 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 15 
 
 Piled high, packed large, where, creei> 
 
 ing in and out 
 Among the giant fossils of my past, 
 Like some small nimble mouse be- 
 tween the ribs 
 Of a mastodon, I nibbled here and 
 
 there 
 At this or that box, pulling through 
 
 the gap 
 In heats of terror, haste, victorious 
 
 joy, 
 The first book first. And how I felt 
 
 it beat 
 Under my pillow in the morning's 
 
 dark, 
 An hour before the sun would let me 
 
 read ! 
 My books ! At last, because the time 
 
 was ripe, 
 I chanced upon the poets. 
 
 As the earth 
 Plunges in fury, when the internal 
 
 fires 
 Have reached and pricked her heart, 
 
 and throwing flat 
 The marts and temples, the triumphal 
 
 gates 
 And towers of observation, clears her- 
 self 
 To elemental freedom — thus, my 
 
 soul, 
 At poetry's divine first finger-touch, 
 Let go conventions, and sprang up 
 
 surprised, 
 Convicted of the great eternities 
 Before two worlds. 
 
 What's this, Aurora Leigh, 
 You write so of the poets, and not 
 
 laugh ? 
 Those virtuous liars, dreamers after 
 
 dark, 
 Exaggerators of the sun and moon, 
 And soothsayers in a tea-cuji ? 
 
 I write so 
 Of the only truth-tellers now left to 
 
 God,'^ 
 The only speakers of essential truth, 
 Opposed to relative, comjiarative. 
 And temjioral truths; the onlv holders 
 
 by 
 
 His sun-skirts, through conventional 
 gray glooms; 
 
 The onh' teachers who instruct man- 
 kind , 
 
 From just a shadow on a charnel- 
 wall, 
 
 To find man's veritable stature out 
 
 Erect, sublime, — the measure of a 
 man; 
 
 And that's the measure of an angel, 
 says 
 
 The apostle. Ay, and wliile your 
 common men 
 
 Lay telegraphs, gauge railroads, reign, 
 reap, dine. 
 
 And dust the flaunty carpets of the 
 world 
 
 For kings to walk on, or our presi- 
 dent, 
 
 The poet suddenly will catch them up 
 
 "With his voice like a thunder, — 
 " This is soul, 
 
 This is life, this word is being said in 
 heaven, 
 
 Here's God down on us! what are you 
 about?" 
 
 How all those workers start amid 
 their work, 
 
 Look round, look uji, and feel, a mo- 
 ment's space. 
 
 That carpet-dusting, though a pretty 
 trade, 
 
 Is not the imperative labor, after all ! 
 
 My own best poets, am I one with 
 you, 
 
 That thus I love you, — or but one 
 through love ? 
 
 Does all this smell of thvme about mv 
 feet 
 
 Conclude my visit to your holy hill 
 
 In personal presence, or but testify 
 
 The rustling of your vesture through 
 my dreams 
 
 With influent odors ? When my joy 
 and pain, 
 
 My thought and aspiration, like the 
 stops 
 
 Of pipe or flute, are absolutely dumb, 
 
 tJnless melodious, do you play on me. 
 
 My pipers? — and if, sooth, you did 
 not blow, 
 
 AVould no sound come ? or is the mu- 
 sic mine. 
 
 As a man's voice or breath is called 
 his own, 
 
 Inbreathed by the Life-breather ? 
 There's a doubt 
 
 For cloudy seasons! 
 
 But the sun was high 
 
 When first I felt my pulses set them- 
 selves 
 
 For concord ; when the rhythmic tur- 
 bulence 
 
 Of blood and brain swept outward 
 upon words, 
 
 As wind upon the alders, blanching 
 them 
 
16 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 By turning up their under-natures till 
 
 They trembled in dilation. O delight 
 
 And triumph of the poet, who would 
 say 
 
 A man's mere " yes," a woman's com- 
 mon " no," 
 
 A little human hope of that or this. 
 
 And says the word so that it burns 
 you through 
 
 With a special revelation, shakes the 
 heart 
 
 Of all the men and women in the 
 world, 
 
 As if one came back from the dead, 
 and spoke. 
 
 With eyes too happy, a familiar thing 
 
 Become divine i' the iitterance ! while 
 for him 
 
 The poet, speaker, he expands with 
 joy; 
 
 The palpitating angel in his flesh 
 
 Thrills inly with consenting fellow- 
 ship 
 
 To those innumerous spirits who sun 
 themselves 
 
 Outside of time. 
 
 O life ! O poetry, 
 
 — Which means life in lite! cognizant 
 of life 
 
 Beyond this blood-beat, passionate for 
 truth 
 
 Beyond these senses! — poetry, my 
 life. 
 
 My eagle, with lioth grap]jling feet 
 still hot 
 
 From Zeus's thunder, who hast rav- 
 ished me 
 
 Away from all the shepherds, sheep, 
 and dogs, 
 
 And set me in the Olympian roar and 
 round 
 
 Of luminous faces for a cup-bearer. 
 
 To keep the mouths of all the god- 
 heads moist 
 
 For everlasting laughters, — I myself 
 
 Half drunk across the -beaker "with 
 their eyes! 
 
 How those gods look! 
 
 Enough so, Ganymede, 
 
 We shall not bear above a round or 
 two. 
 
 We drop the golden cup at Here's 
 foot. 
 
 And swoon Itack to the earth, and 
 find ourselves 
 
 Face down among the pine-cones, cold 
 with dew, 
 
 While the dogs bark, and many a 
 shepherd scoffs, 
 
 " What's now come to the youth?" 
 
 Such \\\)S, and downs 
 Have poets. 
 
 Am I such indeed ? The name 
 Is royal, and to sign it like a queen 
 Is what I dare not, — thougli some 
 
 royal lilood 
 Would seem to tingle in me now and 
 
 then. 
 With sense of power and ache, — with 
 
 imposthumes 
 And manias usual to the race. How- 
 
 beit 
 I dare not: 'tis too easy to go mad 
 And ajie a Bourbon in a crown of 
 
 straws : 
 The thing's too common. 
 
 Many fervent souls 
 Strike rhyme on rhyme, wlio would 
 
 strike steel on steel, 
 If steel had offered, in a restless heat 
 Of doing something. Many tender 
 
 souls 
 Have strung their losses on a rliyming 
 
 thread. 
 As children, cowslips: the more pains 
 
 they take, 
 The work more withers. Young men, 
 
 ay, and maids, 
 Too often sow their wild oats in tame 
 
 verse, 
 Before they sit down under their own 
 
 vine. 
 And live for use. Alas! near all the 
 
 birds 
 Will sing at dawn ; and yet we do not 
 
 take 
 The chaiTering swallow for the holy 
 
 lark. 
 
 In those days, though, I never an- 
 alyzed, 
 
 Not even myself. Analysis comes 
 late. 
 
 You catch a sight of Nature earliest 
 
 In full front sun-face, and your eye- 
 lids wink 
 
 And drop Ijefore the wonder oft : you 
 miss 
 
 The form, through seeing the light. I 
 lived those days. 
 
 And wrote because I lived — unli- 
 censed else ; 
 
 My heart l)eat in my brain. Life's vio- 
 lent flood 
 
 Abolished bounds ; and which my 
 neighbor's field. 
 
 Which mine, what mattered ? It is 
 thus in vouth. 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 AVe play at leap-frog over the god 
 Term; 
 
 The love within us and the love with- 
 out 
 
 Are mixed, confounded : if we are 
 loved, or love. 
 
 We scarce distinguish. Thus with 
 other power ; 
 
 Being acted on and acting seem the 
 same. 
 
 lu that first onrush of life's chariot- 
 wheels, 
 
 We know not if the forests move, or 
 we. 
 
 And so, like most voung poets, in a 
 
 flush 
 Of individual life I poured myself 
 Along the A'eins of others, and 
 
 achieved 
 Mere lifeless imitations of live A-erse, 
 And made the living- answer for the 
 
 dead, 
 Profaning nature. " Touch not, do 
 
 not taste, 
 Nor handle," — Ave're too legal, who 
 
 write young : 
 We beat the phorminx till we hurt 
 
 our thumbs, 
 As if still ignorant of counterpoint ; 
 We call the Muse, — "O Muse, be- 
 nignant Muse ! ■' — 
 As if we had seen her jiurple-ljraided 
 
 head. 
 With the eyes in it, start between the 
 
 boughs 
 As often as a stag's. What make- 
 believe, 
 With so much earnest ! what effete 
 
 results 
 From virile efforts I what cold wire- 
 drawn odes. 
 From such white heats ! — bucolics, 
 
 where the cows 
 Would scare the writer if they 
 
 splashed the mud 
 In lashing oft" the flies ; didactics, 
 
 driven 
 Against the heels of what the master 
 
 said ; 
 And counterfeiting epics, shrill with 
 
 trumps 
 A babe might blow between two 
 
 straining cheeks 
 Of Ijubbled rose, to make his mother 
 
 laugh ; 
 And elegiac griefs, and songs of love, 
 Like cast-off nosegays jiicked up on 
 
 the road, 
 
 The worse for being warm: all these 
 
 things, writ 
 On happy mornings, with a morning 
 
 heart. 
 That leaps for love, is active for resolve, 
 Weak for art only. Oft the ancient 
 
 forms 
 Will thrill, indeed, in carrying the 
 
 young blood. 
 The wine-skins, now and then a little 
 
 warped. 
 Will crack even, as the new wine 
 
 gurgles in. 
 Spare the old bottles ! Spill not the 
 
 new wine. 
 
 By Keats's soul, the man who never 
 
 stepped 
 In gradual progress like another man, 
 But, turning grandly on his central 
 
 self, 
 Ensphered himself in twenty iierfect 
 
 years. 
 And died, not young (the life of a 
 
 long life 
 Distilled to a mere drop, falling like a 
 
 tear 
 Upon the world's cold cheek to make 
 
 it burn 
 Forever), — by that strong excepted 
 
 soul 
 I count it strange and hard to under- 
 stand 
 That nearly all young jjoets should 
 
 write old ; 
 That Poi^e was sexagenary at sixteen. 
 And beardless Bj-ron academical, 
 And so with others. It may be, jier- 
 
 haps, 
 Such have not settled long and deep 
 
 enough 
 In trance to attain to clairvoyance ; 
 
 and still 
 The memory mixes with the vision, 
 
 spoils, 
 And works it turbid. 
 
 Or perhaps, again. 
 In order to discover the Muse-Sphinx, 
 The melancholy desert must sweep 
 
 round, 
 Behind you as before. 
 
 For me, I wrote 
 False poems, like the rest, and thought 
 
 them true 
 Because myself was true in writing 
 
 them. 
 I, peradventure, have writ true ones 
 
 since 
 With less complacence. 
 
18 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 But I could not hide 
 
 My quickening inner life from those 
 at watch. 
 
 They saw a light at a window now 
 and then 
 
 They had not set there : who had set 
 it there ? 
 
 My father's sister started when she 
 caught 
 
 My soul agaze in my eyes. She could 
 not say 
 
 I had no husiness with a sort of soul ; 
 
 But plainly slie objected, and de- 
 murred 
 
 That souls were dangerous things to 
 carry straight 
 
 Through all the spilt saltpetre of the 
 world. 
 
 She said sometimes, "Aurora, have 
 you done 
 
 Your task this morning ? have you 
 read that book ? 
 
 And are you readv for the crochet 
 here?" — 
 
 As if she said, " I know there's some- 
 thing wrong ; 
 
 I know I iiave not ground you down 
 enough 
 
 To flatten and bake you to a whole- 
 some crust, 
 
 For household uses and proprieties. 
 
 Before the rain has got into my barn. 
 
 And set the grains a-sprouting. AVhat, 
 you're green 
 
 With outdoor impudence ? you al- 
 most grow ? ' ' 
 
 To which I answered, " Would she 
 hear my task, 
 
 And verify my abstract of the book? 
 
 Or should I sit down to the crochet- 
 work ? 
 
 Was such her jjleasure?" Then I 
 sate and teased 
 
 The i^atient needle till it spilt the 
 thread. 
 
 Which oozed off from it in meander- 
 ing lace 
 
 From hour to hour. I was not there- 
 fore sad ; 
 
 My sold was singing at a work apart. 
 
 Behind the wall of sense, as safe from 
 harm 
 
 As sings the lark when sucked \\\) out 
 of sight 
 
 In vortices of glory and blue air. 
 
 And so, through forced work and 
 
 sjjontaneous work. 
 The inner life informed the outer life, 
 
 Reduced the irregular blood to a set- 
 tled rhythm, 
 
 Made cool i\\e forehead with fresh- 
 sprinkling di-eams. 
 
 And rounding to the spheric soul the 
 thin. 
 
 Pined body, struck a color up the 
 cheeks, 
 
 Though somewhat faint. I clinched 
 my brows across 
 
 My blue eyes, greatening in tlie look- 
 ing-glass. 
 
 And said, " We'll live, Aurora ! we'll 
 be strong. 
 
 The dogs are on us ; but we will not 
 die." 
 
 Whoever lives true life will love true 
 love. 
 
 I learnt to love that England. Verv 
 oft, 
 
 Before the day was born, or otherwise 
 
 Through secret windings of the after- 
 noons, 
 
 I threw my hunters off, and plunged 
 myself 
 
 Among the deep hills, as a hunted 
 stag 
 
 Will take the w^aters, shivering with 
 the fear 
 
 And passion of the course. And 
 when at last 
 
 Escaped, so many a green slope built 
 on slope 
 
 Betwixt me and the enemy's house 
 behind, 
 
 I dared to rest, or wander in a rest 
 
 iSIade sweeter for the step upon the 
 grass, 
 
 And view the ground's most gentle 
 dimplement 
 
 (As if God's finger touched, but did 
 not press. 
 
 In making England); such an up-and- 
 down 
 
 Of verdure, nothing too much up or 
 down, 
 
 A ripple of land; such little hills the 
 sky 
 
 Can stoop to tenderly, and the wheat- 
 fields climb ; 
 
 Such nooks of valleys lined with 
 orchises, 
 
 Fed full of noises by invisible 
 streams ; 
 
 And open pastures where you scarce- 
 ly tell 
 
 White daisies from white dew; at 
 intervals 
 
 i 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 19 
 
 The mythic oaks and elm-trees stand- 
 ing out 
 
 Self-poised upon their prodigy of 
 shade, — 
 
 I thought my father's land was wor- 
 thy too 
 
 Of being my Shakspeare's. 
 
 Very oft alone, 
 
 Unlicensed; not unfrequently with 
 leave 
 
 To walk the tliird with Romney and 
 his friend 
 
 The rising painter, Vincent C'arring- 
 ton, 
 
 Whom men judge hardly as bee-bon- 
 neted, 
 
 Because he holds that, paint a body 
 well. 
 
 You paint a soul bj' implication, like 
 
 The grand first Master. Pleasant 
 walks: for if 
 
 He said, " When I was last in Italy," 
 
 It sounded as an instrument that's 
 played 
 
 Too far off for the tune, and yet it's fine 
 
 To listen. 
 
 Ofter we walked only two, 
 
 If cousin Romney pleased to walk 
 with me. 
 
 We read, or talked, or quarrelled, as 
 it chanced. 
 
 We were not loA-ers, nor even friends 
 well matched: 
 
 Say, rather, scholars upon different 
 tracks, 
 
 Aud thinkers disagreed, — he, over- 
 full 
 
 Of what is, and I, haply, overbold 
 
 For what might be. 
 
 But then the thrushes sang. 
 
 And shook my jjulses and the elm's 
 new leaves; 
 
 At which I turned, and held my fin- 
 ger lip, 
 
 And bade him mark, that howsoe'er 
 the world 
 
 Went ill, as he related, certainly 
 
 The thruslies still sang in it. At the 
 word 
 
 His brow would soften; and he bore 
 with me 
 
 In melancholy patience, not unkind, 
 
 While, breaking into voluble ecstasy, 
 
 I flattered all the beauteous country 
 round. 
 
 As poets use, — the skies, the clouds, 
 the fields. 
 
 The happy violets hiding from the 
 roads 
 
 The primroses run down to, carrying 
 gold ; 
 
 The tangled hedgerows, where the 
 cows push out 
 
 Impatient horns and tolerant churn- 
 ing mouths 
 
 'Twixt driijping ash-boughs; hedge- 
 rows all alive 
 
 With birds and gnats, and large white 
 butterflies 
 
 Which look as if the Mayflower had 
 caught life. 
 
 And palpitated forth upon the wind; 
 
 Hills, vales, woods, netted in a silver 
 mist; 
 
 Farms, granges, doubled up among 
 the hills; 
 
 And cattle grazing in the watered 
 vales ; 
 
 And cottage-chimneys smoking from 
 the woods; 
 
 And cottage-gardens smelling every- 
 where, 
 
 Confused with smell of orchards. 
 "See!" I said, 
 
 " Aud see! is not God with us on the 
 earth ? 
 
 And shall we put him down by aught 
 we do ? 
 
 W^ho says there's nothing for the poor 
 and vile 
 
 Save poverty and wickedness ? Be- 
 hold! '■' 
 
 Aud ankle-deeji in English grass I 
 leaped. 
 
 And clapped my hands, and called 
 all very fair. 
 
 In the beginning, when God called all 
 
 good, 
 Even then, was evil near us, it is 
 
 writ; 
 But we indeed who call things good 
 
 and fair, 
 The evil is upon us while we speak: 
 Deliver us from evil, let us pray. 
 
 SECOND BOOK. 
 
 Times followed one another. Came a 
 
 morn 
 I stood upon the brink of twenty 
 
 years. 
 And looked l)efore and after, as I 
 
 stood 
 Woman aud artist, either incomplete, 
 
^K*H 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Both credulous of completion. There 
 
 I lield 
 The whole creation in my little cup, 
 And smiled with thirstj' lips before I 
 
 drank 
 " Good health to you and me, sweet 
 
 neighbor mine, 
 And all tliese jieoples." 
 
 I was glad that day ; 
 The June was in me, with its multi- 
 tudes 
 Of nightingales all singing in the 
 
 dark, 
 And rosebuds reddening where the 
 
 calyx split. 
 I felt so young, so strong, so sure of 
 
 God, 
 So glad, I could not choose be very 
 
 wise, 
 And, old at twenty, was inclined to 
 
 pull 
 My childhood backward in a childish 
 
 jest 
 To see the face oft once more, and 
 
 farewell! 
 In which fantastic mood I bounded 
 
 forth 
 At early morning, would not wait so 
 
 long 
 As even to snatch my bonnet by the 
 
 strings, 
 But, brushing a green trail across the 
 
 lawn 
 With my gown in the dew, took will 
 
 and way 
 Among the acacias of the shrubber- 
 ies, 
 To fly my fancies in the open air. 
 And keep my birthday till my aunt 
 
 awoke 
 To stop good dreams. Meanwhile I 
 
 murmured on 
 As honeyed bees keep humming to 
 
 themselves, 
 " The worthiest poets have remained 
 
 uncrowned 
 Till death has bleached their fore- 
 heads to the bone; 
 And so with me it must be, unless I 
 
 prove 
 Unworthy of the grand adversity; 
 And certainly I would not fail so 
 
 much. 
 "What, therefore, if I crown myself to- 
 day 
 In sport, not pride, to learn the feel of 
 
 it 
 Before my brows be numbed as 
 
 Dante's own 
 
 To all the tender jiricking of such 
 
 leaves ? 
 Such leaves ! what leaves ? 
 
 I pulled the branches down 
 To choose from. 
 
 " Not the bay! I choose no bay, 
 (The fates deny us if we are overbold) 
 Nor myrtle, which means chiefly love; 
 
 and love 
 Is something awful, which one dares 
 
 not touch 
 So early o' mornings. This verbena 
 
 strains 
 The point of passionate fragrance; 
 
 and hard by 
 This guelder-rose, at far too slight a 
 
 beck 
 Of the wind, will toss about her 
 
 flower-apples. 
 Ah, there's my choice, that ivy on the 
 
 wall, 
 That headlong ivy ! not a leaf will 
 
 grow 
 But thinking of a wreath. Large 
 
 leaves, smooth leaves, 
 Serrated like ray vines, and half as 
 
 green. 
 I like such \\y, bold to leap a height 
 'Twas strong to climb; as good to 
 
 grow on graves 
 As twist about a thyrsus; pretty too, 
 (And that's not ill) when twisted 
 
 round a comb." 
 
 Thus speaking to mvself, half singing 
 
 it. 
 Because some thoughts are fashioned 
 
 like a bell. 
 To ring with once being touched, I 
 
 drew a wreath 
 Drenched, blinding me with dew, 
 
 across my brow. 
 And, fastening it behind so, turning, 
 
 faced 
 . . . My public! — cousin Romney — 
 
 with a mouth 
 Twice graver than his eyes. 
 
 I stood there fixed, 
 My arms up, like the caryatid, sole 
 Of some abolished temple, helplessly 
 Persistent in a gesture which derides 
 A former purpose. Yet my blush was 
 
 flame. 
 As if from liax, not stone. 
 
 " Aurora Leigh, 
 The earliest of Auroras! " 
 
 ' Hand stretched out 
 
 I clasped, as shipwrecked men will 
 
 clasp a hand. 
 
 I 
 
" I stood there fixed, 
 My arms up, like the caryatid." — Page ao. 
 
Of *r><- 
 
 of 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 21 
 
 Indifferent to the sort of palm. The 
 
 tide 
 Had caught me at my pastime, writing 
 
 down 
 My foolish name too near upon the sea, 
 Which drowned me with a blush as 
 
 foolish. " You, 
 My cousin! " 
 
 The smile died out in his eyes, 
 And dropped upon his lips, a cold 
 
 dead weight, 
 For just a moment, " Here's a book 
 
 I found ; 
 No name writ on it — poems, by the 
 
 form ; 
 Some Greek upon the margin; lady's 
 
 Greek 
 Without the accents. Read it ? Not 
 
 a word. 
 I saw at once the thing had witchcraft 
 
 in't. 
 Whereof the reading calls up danger- 
 ous spirits: 
 I rather bring it to the witch." 
 
 " My book. 
 You found it" . . . 
 
 " In the hollow by the stream 
 That beech leans down into, of which 
 
 you said 
 The Oread in it has a Naiad's heart. 
 And pines for waters." 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 " Thanks to you 
 
 My cousin, that I have seen you not 
 
 too much 
 Witch, scholar, poet, dreamer, and 
 
 the rest, 
 To be a woman also." 
 
 With a glance 
 The smile rose in his eyes again, and 
 
 touched 
 The ivy on my forehead, light as air. 
 I answered gravely, " Poets needs 
 
 must be. 
 Or men or women, more's the pity." 
 
 "Ah, 
 But men, and still less women, hap- 
 pily. 
 Scarce need be poets. Keep to the 
 
 green wreath. 
 Since even dreaming of the stone and 
 
 bronze 
 Brings headaches, pretty cousin, and 
 
 defiles 
 The clean white morning dresses." 
 
 " So you judge, 
 Because I love the beautiful I must 
 Love pleasure chiefly, and be over- 
 charged 
 
 For ease and whiteness ! well, you 
 
 know the world. 
 And only miss your cousin: 'tis not 
 
 much. 
 But learn this: I would rather take 
 
 my part 
 With God's dead, who afford to walk 
 
 in white. 
 Yet spread his glory, than keep quiet 
 
 here. 
 And gather up my feet from even a 
 
 step. 
 For fear to soil my gown in so much 
 
 dust. 
 I choose to walk at all risks. Here, 
 
 if heads 
 That hold a rhythmic thought must 
 
 ache perforce. 
 For my part I choose headaches, — 
 
 and to-day's my birthday." 
 " Dear Aurora, choose instead 
 To cure them. You have balsams." 
 
 " I perceive. 
 The headache is too noble for my sex. 
 You think the heartache would sound 
 
 decenter. 
 Since that's the woman's special, 
 
 proper ache, 
 And altogether tolerable, except 
 To a woman." 
 
 Saying which, I loosed my wreath. 
 And swinging it beside me as I 
 
 walked. 
 Half petulant, half playful, as we 
 
 walked, 
 I sent a sidelong look to find his 
 
 thought. 
 As falcon set on falconer's finger 
 
 may. 
 With sidelong head, and startled, 
 
 braving eye. 
 Which means, " You'll see, you'll 
 
 see I I'll soon take flight. 
 You shall not hinder." He, as shak- 
 ing out 
 His hand, and answering, " Fly, 
 
 then," did not speak. 
 Except by such a gesture. Silently 
 We paced, until, just coming into 
 
 sight 
 Of the house-windows, he abruptly 
 
 caught 
 At one end of the swinging wreath, 
 
 and said, 
 "Aurora!" There I stopped short, 
 
 breath and all. 
 
 " Aurora, let's be serious, and throw 
 
 by 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 This game of head and heart. Life 
 
 means, be sure, 
 Both heart and head, — both active, 
 
 both complete, 
 And both in earnest. Men and wo- 
 men make 
 The world, as head and heart make 
 
 human life. 
 Work, man, work, woman, since 
 
 there's work to do 
 In this beleaguered earth for head 
 
 and heart; 
 And thought can never do the work 
 
 of love: 
 But work for ends, I mean for uses, 
 
 not 
 For such sleek fringes (do you call 
 
 them ends, 
 Still less God's glory ?) as we sew our- 
 selves 
 Upon the velvet of those baldaquins 
 Held 'twixt us and the sun. That 
 
 book of yours 
 I haA^e not read a page of ; Vjut I toss 
 A rose up — it falls calyx down, you 
 
 see ! 
 The chances are, that being a woman, 
 
 young 
 And pure, with such a pair of large, 
 
 calm eyes. 
 You write as well . . . and ill . . . 
 
 upon the whole, 
 As other women. If as well, what 
 
 then ? 
 If even a little better . . . still, what 
 
 then? 
 We want the best in art now, or no 
 
 art. 
 The time is done for facile settings-up 
 Of minnow-gods, nymphs here, and 
 
 tritons there: 
 The polytheists have gone out in 
 
 God, 
 That unity of bests. No best, no 
 
 God! 
 And so with art, we say. Give art's 
 
 divine, 
 Direct, indubitable, real as grief. 
 Or, leave us to the grief, we grow our- 
 selves 
 Divine by overcoming with mere hope 
 And most i^rosaic patience. You, 
 
 you are young 
 As Eve with nature's daybreak on 
 
 her face ; 
 But this same world you are come to, 
 
 dearest coz. 
 Has done with keeping birthdays, 
 
 saves her wreaths 
 
 To hang upon her ruins, and forgets 
 To rhyme the cry with which she still 
 
 beats back 
 Those savage, hungry dogs that hunt 
 
 her down 
 To the empty grave of Christ. The 
 
 world's hard pressed: 
 The sweat of labor in the early curse 
 Has (turning acrid in six thousand 
 
 years) 
 Become the sweat of torture. Who 
 
 has time. 
 An hour's time . . . think ! — to sit 
 
 upon a bank, 
 And hear the cymbal tinkle in white 
 
 hands ? 
 When Egypt's slain, I say, let Miriam 
 
 sing ! — 
 Before — where's Moses ? " 
 
 " Ah, exactly that. 
 Where's Moses? Is a Moses to be 
 
 found ? 
 You'll seek him vainly in the bul- 
 rushes, 
 While I in vain touch cymbals. Yet 
 
 concede, 
 Such sounding brass has done some 
 
 actual good 
 (The application in a woman's hand, 
 If that were credible, being scarcely 
 
 spoilt), 
 In colonizing beehives." 
 
 "There it is ! 
 You play beside a death-bed like a 
 
 child, 
 Yet measure to yourself a prophet's 
 
 place 
 To teach the living. None of all these 
 
 things 
 Can women understand. You gen- 
 eralize, 
 Oh, nothing, — not even grief ! Your 
 
 (juick-breathed heai'ts, 
 So sympathetic to the personal pang, 
 Close on each separate knife-stroke, 
 
 yielding up 
 A whole life at each wound, incapable 
 Of deepening, widening a large lap of 
 
 life 
 To hold the world-full woe. The 
 
 human race 
 To you means such a child, or such a 
 
 man, 
 You saw one morning waiting in the 
 
 cold 
 Beside that gate, perhaps. You 
 
 gather up 
 A few such cases, and when strong 
 
 sometimes 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 23 
 
 Will write of factories and of slaves, 
 as if 
 
 Your father were a negro, and your 
 son 
 
 A spinner in the mills. All's yours 
 and you, 
 
 All colored with your blood, or other- 
 wise 
 
 Just nothing to you. Why, 1 call 
 you hard 
 
 To general suffering. Here's the 
 world half-blind 
 
 With intellectual light, half-brutal- 
 ized 
 
 With civilization, having caught the 
 plague 
 
 In silks from Tarsus, shrieking east 
 and west 
 
 Along a thousand railroads, mad with 
 l^ain 
 
 And sin too ! . . . does one woman 
 of you all 
 
 (You who weep easily) grow pale to 
 see 
 
 This tiger shake his cage ? Does one 
 of you 
 
 Stand still from daucing, stop from 
 stringing jiearls, 
 
 And pine and die, because of the 
 great sum 
 
 Of universal anguish? Show me a tear 
 
 Wet as Cordelia's in eyes bright as 
 yours. 
 
 Because the world is mad. You can- 
 not count 
 
 That you should weep for this ac- 
 count, not you! 
 
 You weep for what you know. A red- 
 haired child 
 
 Sick in a fever, if you touch him 
 once, 
 
 Though but so little as with a finger- 
 tip, 
 
 Will set you weeping; but a million 
 sick . . . 
 
 You could as soon weep for the rule 
 of three 
 
 Or compound fractions. Therefore 
 this same world 
 
 Uncomprehended by you, must re- 
 main 
 
 Uninfluenced by you. Women as 
 you are. 
 
 Mere women, personal and passion- 
 ate. 
 
 You give us doating mothers, and 
 perfect wives. 
 
 Sublime Madonnas, and enduring 
 saints: 
 
 We get no Christ from you, and verily 
 We shall not get a poet, in my mind." 
 
 "With which conclusion you con- 
 clude "... 
 
 "But this: 
 
 That you, Aurora, with the large live 
 brow 
 
 And steady eyelids, cannot conde- 
 scend 
 
 To play at art, as children play at 
 swords, 
 
 To show a pretty spirit, chiefly ad- 
 mired 
 
 Because true action is impossible. 
 
 You never can be satisfied with praise 
 
 Which men give women when they 
 judge a book 
 
 Not as mere work, but as mere wo- 
 man's work. 
 
 Expressing the comparative resjject. 
 
 Which means the absolute scorn. 
 ' Oh, excellent! 
 
 What grace, what facile turns, what 
 fluent sweeps, 
 
 What delicate discernment ... al- 
 most thought! 
 
 The book does honor to the sex, we 
 hold. 
 
 Among our female authors we make 
 room 
 
 For this fair writer, and congratulate 
 
 The country that produces in these 
 times 
 
 Such women, competent to ' . . . 
 spell." 
 
 " Stop there," 
 
 I answered, burning through his 
 thread of talk 
 
 With a quick flame of emotion, — 
 " you have read 
 
 My soul, if not my book, and argue 
 well 
 
 I would not condescend . . . we will 
 not say 
 
 To such a kind of praise (a worthless 
 end 
 
 Is praise of all kinds), but to such a 
 use 
 
 Of holy art and golden life. I am 
 young. 
 
 And peradventure weak — you tell 
 me so — 
 
 Through being a woman. And for 
 all the rest. 
 
 Take thanks for justice. I would 
 rather dance 
 
 At fairs on tight-rope, till the babies 
 dropped 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Their gingerbread for joy, than shift 
 
 the types 
 For tolerable verse, intolerable 
 To men who act and suffer. Better 
 
 far 
 Pursue a frivolous trade by serious 
 
 means. 
 Than a sublime art frivolously." 
 
 " You 
 Choose nobler work than either, O 
 
 moist eyes, 
 And hurrying lips, and heaving heart! 
 
 We are young, 
 Aurora, you and I. The world, — 
 
 look round, — 
 The world we're come to late is 
 
 swollen hard 
 With perished generations and their 
 
 sins: 
 The civilizer's spade grinds horribly 
 On dead men's bones, and cannot 
 
 turn up soil 
 That's otherwise than fetid. All 
 
 success 
 Proves partial failure; all advance 
 
 implies 
 What's left behind; all triumph, 
 
 something crushed 
 At the chariot-wheels; all govern- 
 ment, some wrong; 
 And rich men make the poor, who 
 
 curse the rich, 
 Who agonize together, rich and 
 
 poor, 
 Under and over, in the social spasm 
 And crisis of the ages. Here's an 
 
 age 
 That makes its own vocation; here 
 
 we have stepped 
 Across the bounds of time; here's 
 
 nought to see, 
 But just the rich man and just Laza- 
 rus, 
 And both in torments with a mediate 
 
 giilf, 
 Though not a hint of Abraham's 
 
 bosom. Who, 
 Being man, Aurora, can stand calmly 
 
 by 
 And view these things, and never 
 
 tease his soul 
 For some great cure ? No physic for 
 
 this grief. 
 In all the earth and heavens too ? " 
 
 " You believe 
 In God, for your part? — ay? that 
 
 He who makes 
 Can make good things from ill things, 
 
 best from worst. 
 
 As men plant tulips upon dunghins 
 
 when 
 They wish them finest ? " 
 
 " True. A death-heat is 
 The same as life-heat, to be accurate ; 
 And in all nature is no death at all, 
 As men account of death, so long as 
 
 God 
 Stands witnessing for life perpetuallj'. 
 By being just God. That's abstract 
 
 truth, I know, 
 Philosophy, or sympathy with God; 
 But I, I sympathize with man, not 
 
 God, 
 (I think I was a man for chiefly this,) 
 And, when I stand beside a dying 
 
 bed, 
 'Tis death to me. Observe: it had 
 
 not much 
 Consoled the race of mastodons to 
 
 know. 
 Before they went to fossil, that anon 
 Their place would quicken with the 
 
 elephant: 
 They were not elephants, but masto- 
 dons; 
 And I, a man, as men are now, and 
 
 not 
 As men may be hereafter, feel with 
 
 men 
 In the agonizing present." 
 
 "Is it so," 
 I said, " my cousin ? Is the world so 
 
 bad, 
 While I hear nothing of it through 
 
 the trees ? 
 The world was always evil, — but so 
 
 bad?" 
 
 "So bad, Aurora. Dear, my soul is 
 
 gray 
 With poring over the long sum of ill; 
 So much for vice, so much for discon- 
 tent. 
 So much for the necessities of power, 
 So much for the connivances of fear, 
 Coherent in statistical despairs 
 With such a total of distracted life . . . 
 To see it down in figures on a page. 
 Plain, silent, clear, as God sees 
 
 through the earth 
 The sense of all the graves, — that's 
 
 terrible 
 For one who is not God, and cannot 
 
 right 
 The wrong he looks on. May I 
 
 choose indeed 
 But vow away my years, my means, 
 
 my aims, 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 25 
 
 Among the helpers, if there's any help 
 In such a social strait ? The common 
 
 blood 
 That swings along my veins is strong 
 
 enough 
 To draw me to this duty." 
 
 Then I spoke : 
 " I have not stood long on the strand 
 
 of life, 
 And these salt waters have had 
 
 scarcely time 
 To creep so high up as to wet my 
 
 feet : 
 I cannot judge these tides — I shall, 
 
 perhaps. 
 A woman's always younger than a 
 
 man 
 At equal years, because she is disal- 
 lowed 
 Maturing by the outdoor sun and air. 
 And kept in long-clothes past the age 
 
 to walk. 
 Ah, well ! I know you men judge 
 
 otherwise. 
 You think a woman ripens as a peach, 
 In the cheeks, chiefly. Pass it to me 
 
 now^ : 
 I'm young in age, and younger still, 
 
 I think, 
 As a woman. But a child may say 
 
 amen 
 To a bishop's prayer, and feel tlie way 
 
 it goes. 
 And I, incapable to loose the knot 
 Of social questions, can approve, ap- 
 plaud 
 August compassion, Christian 
 
 thoughts that shoot 
 Bej'ond the vulgar white of personal 
 
 aims. 
 Accept my teverence." 
 
 There he glowed on me 
 With all his face and eyes. " No 
 
 other help?" 
 Said he, "no more than so ? " 
 
 " What help ? " I asked. 
 " You'd scorn my help, as Nature's 
 
 self, you say. 
 Has scorned to put her music in my 
 
 mouth, 
 Because a woman's. Do you now 
 
 turn round 
 And ask for w^hat a woman cannot 
 
 give?" 
 
 " For what she only can, I turn and 
 
 ask," 
 He answered, catching up my hands 
 
 in his, 
 
 And dropping on me from his high- 
 eaved brow 
 
 The full weight of his soul. " I ask 
 for love. 
 
 And that, she can ; for life in fellow- 
 ship 
 
 Through bitter duties, that, I know 
 she can ; 
 
 For wifehood — will she ? " 
 
 " Now," I said, " may God 
 
 Be witness 'twixt us two ! " and with 
 the word, 
 
 Meseemed I floated into a sudden 
 light 
 
 Above his stature, — "am I proved 
 too weak 
 
 To stand alone, yet strong enough to 
 bear 
 
 Such leaners on my shoulder ? poor 
 to think, 
 
 Yet rich enough to sympathize with 
 thought ? 
 
 Incompetent to sing, as blackbirds 
 can. 
 
 Yet competent to love, like him ? " 
 
 I paused ; 
 
 Perhaps I darkened, as the light- 
 house will 
 
 That turns upon the sea. "It's al- 
 ways so. 
 
 Any thing does for a wife." 
 
 " Aurora dear, 
 
 And dearly honored," he pressed in 
 at once 
 
 With eager utterance, " you trans- 
 late me ill. 
 
 I do not contradict my thought of you, 
 
 Which is most reverent, with another 
 thought 
 
 Found less so. If your sex is weak 
 for art, 
 
 (And I who said so did but honor 
 you 
 
 By using truth in courtship,) it is 
 strong 
 
 For life and duty. Place your fecund 
 heart 
 
 In mine, and let us blossom for the 
 world 
 
 That wants love's color in the gray of 
 time. 
 
 My talk, meanwhile, is arid to you, 
 ay. 
 
 Since all my talk can only set you 
 where 
 
 You look down coldly on the arena- 
 heaps 
 
 Of headless bodies, shapeless, indis- 
 tinct. 
 
26 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 The judgment-angel scarce would find 
 his way 
 
 Through such a heap of generalized 
 distress 
 
 To the individual man with lips and 
 eyes, 
 
 Much less Aurora. Ah, my sweet, 
 come down, 
 
 And hand in hand we'll go where 
 yours shall touch 
 
 These victims one by one, till, one by 
 one, 
 
 The formless, nameless trunk of every 
 man 
 
 Shall seem to wear a head with hair 
 you know. 
 
 And every woman catch your moth- 
 er's face 
 
 To melt you into passion." 
 
 " I am a girl," 
 
 I answered slowly : " you do well to 
 name 
 
 My mother's face. Though far too 
 early, alas ! 
 
 God's hand did interpose 'twixt it 
 and me, 
 
 I know so much of love as used to 
 shine 
 
 In that face and another ; just so 
 much. 
 
 No more, indeed, at all. I have not 
 seen 
 
 So much love since, I pray you par- 
 don me, 
 
 As answers even to make a marriage 
 with 
 
 In this cold land of England. What 
 you love 
 
 Is not a woman, Romney, but a cause : 
 
 You want a helpmate, not a mistress, 
 sir ; 
 
 A wife to help your ends, in her no end . 
 
 Your cause is noble, your ends ex- 
 cellent ; 
 
 But I, being most unworthy of these 
 and that, 
 
 Do otherwise conceive of love. Fare- 
 well ! " 
 
 "Farewell, Aurora? you reject me 
 
 thus?" 
 He said. 
 
 " Sir, you were married long ago. 
 You have a wife already whom you 
 
 love, — 
 Your social theory. Bless you both, 
 
 I say. 
 For my part, I am scarcely meek 
 
 enough 
 
 To be the handmaid of a lawful 
 
 spouse. 
 Do I look a Hagar, think you ? " 
 
 " So you jest." 
 " Nay, so I speak in earnest," I re- 
 plied. 
 " You treat of marriage too much like, 
 
 at least, 
 A chief apostle : you would bear with 
 
 you 
 A wife ... a sister . . . shall we 
 
 speak it out ? — 
 A sister of charity." 
 
 " Then must it be. 
 Indeed, farewell ? And was I so far 
 
 wrong 
 In hope and in illusion, when I 
 
 took 
 The woman to be nobler than the 
 
 man. 
 Yourself the noblest woman in the 
 
 use 
 And comprehension of what love is, — 
 
 love 
 That generates the likeness of itself 
 Through all heroic duties ? so far 
 
 wrong 
 In saying bluntly, venturing truth on 
 
 love, 
 ' Come, human creature, love and 
 
 work with me,' 
 Instead of, ' Lady, thou art wondrous 
 
 fair, 
 And, where the Graces walk before, 
 
 the Muse 
 Will follow at the lightning of their 
 
 eyes, 
 And where the Muse walks, lovers 
 
 need to creep: 
 Turn round and love me, or I die of 
 
 love?'" 
 
 With quiet indignation I broke in, 
 " You misconceive the question like a 
 
 man. 
 Who sees a woman as the comple- 
 ment 
 Of his sex merely. You forget too 
 
 much 
 That every creature, female as the 
 
 male. 
 Stands single in responsible act and 
 
 thought 
 As also in birth and death. Whoever 
 
 says 
 To a loyal woman, ' Love and work 
 
 with me,' 
 Will get fair answers, if the work and 
 
 love, 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 27 
 
 Being good themselves, are good for 
 
 her, — the best 
 She was born for. Women of a softer 
 
 mood, 
 Surprised by men when scarcely 
 
 awake to life. 
 Will sometimes only hear the first 
 
 word, love. 
 And catch up with it any kind of 
 
 work, 
 Indifferent, so that dear love go with 
 
 it. 
 I do not blame such women, though 
 
 for love 
 They pick much oakum: earth's fa- 
 natics make 
 Too frequently heaven's saints. But 
 
 me your work 
 Js not the best for, nor your love the 
 
 best, 
 t^or able to commend the kind of 
 
 work 
 For love's sake merely. Ah ! you 
 
 force me, sir. 
 To be over-bold in speaking of my- 
 self: 
 I, too, have my vocation, — work to 
 
 do. 
 The heavens and earth have set me 
 
 since I changed 
 My father's face for theirs, and, though 
 
 your world 
 Were twice as wretched as you repre- 
 sent. 
 Most serious work, most necessary 
 
 work 
 As any of the economists'. Reform, 
 Make trade a Christian possibility. 
 And individual right no general 
 
 wrong, 
 Wipe out earth's furrows of the thine 
 
 and mine. 
 And leave one green for men to play 
 
 at bowls, 
 With innings for them all ! . . . what 
 
 then, indeed. 
 If mortals are not greater by the head 
 Than any of their prosperities ? what 
 
 then. 
 Unless the artist keep up open roads 
 Betwixt the seen and unseen, burst- 
 ing through 
 The best of your conventions with his 
 
 best, 
 The speakable, imaginable best 
 God bids him speak, to prove what 
 
 lies beyond 
 Both speech and imagination ? A 
 
 starved man 
 
 Exceeds a fat beast: we'll not barter, 
 
 sir, 
 The beautiful for barley. And, even 
 
 so, 
 I hold you will not compass your poor 
 
 ends 
 Of barley-feeding and material ease 
 Without a poet's individualism 
 To work your universal. It takes a 
 
 soul 
 To move a body : it takes a high-souled 
 
 man 
 To move the masses even to a cleaner 
 
 sty: 
 It takes the ideal to blow a hair'.s- 
 
 breadth off 
 The dust of the actual. Ah ! your 
 
 Fouriers failed. 
 Because not poets enough to under- 
 stand 
 That life develops from within. For 
 
 me. 
 Perhaps I am not worthy, as you say, 
 Of work like this: perhaps a woman's 
 
 soul 
 Aspires, and not creates: yet we as- 
 pire. 
 And yet I'll try out your perhapses, 
 
 sir, 
 And if I fail . . . why, burn me up 
 
 my straw 
 Like other false works. I'll not ask 
 
 for grace : 
 Your scorn is better, cousin Rom- 
 
 ney. I 
 Who love my art would never wish 
 
 it lower 
 To suit my stature. I may love my 
 
 art. 
 You'll grant that even a woman may 
 
 love art. 
 Seeing that to waste true love on any 
 
 thing 
 Is womanly, past question." 
 
 I retain 
 The very last word which I said that 
 
 day. 
 As you the creaking of the door, years 
 
 past, 
 Which let upon you such disabling 
 
 news 
 You ever after have been graver. He, 
 His eyes, the motions in his silent 
 
 mouth. 
 Were fiery points on which my words 
 
 were caught. 
 Transfixed forever in my memory 
 For his sake, not their own. And yet 
 
 I know 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 I did not love him . . . nor he me . . 
 
 that's sure . . . 
 And what I said is unrepented of, 
 As truth is always. Yet . . . a prince- 
 ly man — 
 If hard to me, heroic for himself. 
 He bears down on me through the 
 
 slanting years, 
 The stronger for the distance. If he 
 
 had loved, 
 Ay, loved me, with that retributive 
 
 face, . . . 
 I might have been a common woman 
 
 now. 
 And happier, less known, and less left 
 
 alone. 
 Perhaps a better woman, after all. 
 With chubby children hanging on my 
 
 neck 
 To keep me low and wise. Ah me ! 
 
 the vines 
 That hear such fruit are proud to 
 
 stoop with it. 
 The palm stands ui>right in a realm 
 
 of sand. 
 
 And I, who spoke the truth then, 
 
 stand upright, 
 Still worthy of having spoken out the 
 
 truth. 
 By being content I spoke it, though it 
 
 set 
 Him there, me here. Oh, woman's 
 
 vile remorse, 
 To hanker after a mere name, a show, 
 A supposition, a potential love ! 
 Does every man who names love in 
 
 our lives 
 Become a power for that? Is love's 
 
 true thing 
 So much best to us, that what person- 
 ates love 
 Is next best ? A potential love for- 
 sooth ! 
 I'm not so vile. No, no! He cleaves, 
 
 I think. 
 This man, this image, chiefly for the 
 
 wrong 
 And shock he gave my life in finding 
 
 me 
 Precisely where the devil of my youth 
 Had set me on those mountain peaks 
 
 of hope. 
 All glittering ^vith the dawn-dew, all 
 
 erect. 
 And famished for the noon, exclaim- 
 ing, while 
 I looked for empire and much tribute, 
 
 " Come, 
 
 I have some worthy work for thee be- 
 low. 
 
 Come, sweep my barns, and keep my 
 hospitals. 
 
 And I will pay thee with a current 
 coin 
 
 "Which men give women." 
 
 As we spoke, the grass 
 
 "Was trod in haste beside us, and my 
 aunt, 
 
 "With smile distorted by the sun, — 
 face, voice. 
 
 As mucli at issue with the summer- 
 day 
 
 As if you brought a candle out of 
 doors, — 
 
 Broke in with, " Romney, here! — My 
 child, entreat 
 
 Your cousin to the house, and have 
 your talk, 
 
 If girls must talk upon their birth- 
 days. Come." 
 
 He answered for me calmly, with pale 
 lips 
 
 That seemed to motion for a smile in 
 vain. 
 
 " The talk is ended, madam, where 
 we stand. 
 
 Your brother's daughter has dismissed 
 me here ; 
 
 And all my answer can be better said 
 
 Beneath the trees than wrong by 
 such a word 
 
 Your house's hospitalities. Fare- 
 well." 
 
 With that he vanished. I could hear 
 
 his heel 
 Ring bluntly in the lane as down he 
 
 leapt 
 The short way from us. Then a 
 
 measured speech 
 Withdrew me. "What means this, 
 
 Aurora Leigh ? 
 My brother's daughter has dismissed 
 
 my guests?" 
 
 The lion in me felt the keeper's 
 
 voice 
 Through all its quivering dewlaps: I 
 
 was quelled 
 Before her, meekened to the child she 
 
 knew: 
 I i^rayed her pardon, said "I had 
 
 little thouglit 
 To give dismissal to a guest of hers 
 In letting go a friend of mine who 
 
 came 
 
 I! 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 29 
 
 To take me into service as a wife, — 
 No more than that, indeed." 
 
 " No more, no more ? 
 Pray Heaven," she answered, "that 
 
 I was not mad. 
 I could not mean to tell her to her 
 
 face 
 That Romney Leigh had asked me for 
 
 a wife, 
 And I refused him ? " 
 
 "Did he ask?" I said. 
 " I think he rather stoojied to take 
 
 me up 
 For certain uses which lie found to do 
 For something called a wife. He 
 
 never asked." 
 
 "What stuff!" she answered. "Are 
 
 they queens, these girls ? 
 They must have mantles stitched 
 
 with twenty silks. 
 Spread out upon the ground, before 
 
 they'll step 
 One footstep for the noblest lover 
 
 born." 
 
 "But I am born," I said with firm- 
 ness, " I, 
 
 To walk another way than his, dear 
 aunt." 
 
 "You walk, you walk! A babe at 
 
 thirteen months 
 Will walk as well as you," she cried 
 
 in haste, 
 " Without a steadying finger. Why, 
 
 you child, 
 God help you ! you are groping in the 
 
 dark. 
 For all this sunlight. You suppose, 
 
 perhaps. 
 That you, sole offspring of an opulent 
 
 man. 
 Are rich, and free to choose a way to 
 
 walk ? 
 You think, and it's a reasonable 
 
 thought, 
 That I, beside, being well to do in 
 
 life. 
 Will leave my handful in my niece's 
 
 hand 
 When death shall paralyze these fin- 
 gers ? Pray, 
 Pray, child, albeit I know you love 
 
 me not. 
 As if you loved me, that I may not 
 
 die; 
 For when I die and leave you, out 
 
 you go, 
 
 (Unless I make room for you in my 
 
 grave,) 
 Unhoused, unfed, my dear, poor broth- 
 er's lamb, 
 (Ah, heaven 1 that pains) without a 
 
 right to crop 
 A single blade of grass beneath these 
 
 trees, 
 Or cast a lamb's small shadow on the 
 
 lawn, 
 Unfed, unfolded. Ah, ray brother, 
 
 here's 
 The fruit you planted in your foreign 
 
 loves ! 
 Ay, there's the fruit he planted ! Never 
 
 look 
 Astonished at me with your mother's 
 
 eyes. 
 For it was they who set you where 
 
 you are, 
 An undowered orphan. Child, your 
 
 father's choice 
 Of that said mother disinherited 
 His daughter, his and hers. Men do 
 
 not think 
 Of sons and daughters when they fall 
 
 in love. 
 So much more than of sisters: other- 
 wise 
 He would have paused to ponder 
 
 what he did. 
 And shrunk before that clause in the 
 
 entail 
 Excluding offspring by a foreign wife, 
 (The clause set up a hundred years 
 
 ago 
 By a Leigh who wedded a French 
 
 dancing-girl, 
 And had his heart danced over in re- 
 turn;) 
 But this man shrank at nothing, never 
 
 thought 
 Of you, Aurora, any more than me. 
 Y'our mother must have been a pretty 
 
 thing. 
 For all the coarse Italian blacks and 
 
 browns. 
 To make a good man, which my broth- 
 er was, 
 Unchary of the duties to his house; 
 But so it fell indeed. Our cousin 
 
 Vane, 
 Vane Leigh, tlie father of this llom- 
 
 ney, wrote. 
 Directly on your birth, to Italy: 
 ' I ask your baby-daughter for my 
 
 son. 
 In whom the entail now merges by 
 
 the law. 
 
AURORA LEIGTI. 
 
 Betroth her to us out of love, in- 
 stead 
 Of colder reasons, and she shall not 
 
 lose 
 By love or law from henceforth: ' so 
 
 he wrote. 
 A generous cousin was my cousin 
 
 Vane. 
 Remember how he drew you to his 
 
 knee 
 The year you came here, just before 
 
 he died, 
 And hollowed out his hands to hold 
 
 your cheeks, 
 And wished them redder : you re- 
 member Vane? 
 And now his son, who represents our 
 
 house. 
 And holds the fiefs and manors in his 
 
 place, 
 To whom reverts my pittance when I 
 
 die, 
 (Except a few books and a pair of 
 
 shawls) — 
 The boy is generous like him, and 
 
 prepared 
 To carry out his kindest word and 
 
 thought 
 To you, Aurora. Yes, a fine young 
 
 man 
 Is Romney Leigh, although the sun 
 
 of youth 
 Has shone too straight upon his brain, 
 
 I know. 
 And fevered him with dreams of doing 
 
 good 
 To good-for-nothing people. But a 
 
 wife 
 Will put all right, and stroke his tem- 
 ples cool 
 "With healthy touches." . . . 
 
 I broke in at that. 
 I could not lift my heavy heart to 
 
 breathe 
 Till then; but then I raised it, and it 
 
 fell 
 In broken words like these, — "No 
 
 need to wait: 
 The dream of doing good to . . . me, 
 
 at least, 
 Is ended, without waiting for a wife 
 To cool the fever for him. We've 
 
 escaped 
 That danger — thank Heaven for it." 
 " You," she cried, 
 " Have got a fever. What, I talk and 
 
 talk 
 An hour long to you, I instruct you 
 how 
 
 You cannot eat, or drink, or stand, or 
 
 sit, 
 Or even die, like any decent wretch 
 In all this unroofed and unfurnished 
 
 world. 
 Without your cousin, and you still 
 
 maintain 
 There's room 'twixt him and you for 
 
 flirting fans, 
 And running knots in eyebrows? 
 
 You must have 
 A pattern lover sighing on his 
 
 knee ? 
 You do not count enough a noble 
 
 heart 
 (Above book-patterns) which this very 
 
 morn 
 Unclosed itself in two dear fathers' 
 
 names 
 To embrace your orphaned life ? Fie, 
 
 fie ! But stay, 
 I write a word, and counteract this 
 
 sin." 
 
 She would have turned to leave me, 
 
 but I clung. 
 " Oh, sweet my father's sister, hear 
 
 my word 
 Before you write yours. Cousin Vane 
 
 did well, 
 And cousin Romney well, and I well 
 
 too. 
 In casting back with all my strength 
 
 and will 
 The good they meant me. O my God, 
 
 my God ! 
 God meant me good, too, when he 
 
 hindered me 
 From saying ' yes ' this morning. If 
 
 you write 
 A word, it shall be ' no.' I say no, 
 
 no ! 
 I tie up ' no ' upon his altar-horns 
 Qiute out of reach of perjury ! At 
 
 least 
 My soul is not a pauper : I can live 
 At least my soul's life, without alms 
 
 from men; 
 And if it must be in heaven instead 
 
 of earth. 
 Let heaven look to it: I am not 
 
 afraid." 
 
 She seized my hands with both hers, 
 strained them fast. 
 
 And drew her probing and unscrupu- 
 lous eyes 
 
 Right through me, body and heart. 
 " Yet, foolish sweet. 
 
\ 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 31 
 
 You love this man, I've watched you 
 
 when he came, 
 And when he went, and when we've 
 
 talked of him. 
 I am not old for nothing; I can tell 
 The weather-signs of love: you love 
 
 this man." 
 
 Girls blush sometimes because they 
 
 are alive. 
 Half wishing they were dead to save 
 
 the shame. 
 The sudden blush devours them, neck 
 
 and brow: 
 They have drawn too near the fire of 
 
 life, like gnats. 
 And flare up bodily, wings and all. 
 
 What then ? 
 Who's sorry for a gnat ... or girl ? 
 
 I blushed. 
 I feel the brand upon my forehead 
 
 now 
 Strike hot, sear deep, as guiltless 
 
 men may feel 
 The felon's iron, say, and scorn the 
 
 mark 
 Of what they are not. Most illogical. 
 Irrational nature of our womanhood. 
 That blushes one way, feels another 
 
 way. 
 And prays, perhaps, another. After 
 
 all. 
 We cannot be the equal of the male. 
 Who rules his blood a little. 
 
 For although 
 I blushed indeed, as if I loved the 
 
 man. 
 And her incisive smile, accrediting 
 That treason of false witness in my 
 
 blush, 
 Did bow me downward like a swathe 
 
 of grass 
 Below its level that struck me, I at- 
 test 
 The conscious skies and all their daily 
 
 suns, 
 I think I loved him not, — nor then, 
 
 nor since, 
 Nor ever. Do we love the school- 
 master, 
 Being busy in the woods ? much less, 
 
 being poor. 
 The overseer of the parish? Do we 
 
 keep 
 Our love to pay our debts with ? 
 
 White and cold 
 I grew next moment. As my blood 
 
 recoiled 
 From that imputed ignominy, I made 
 
 My heart great with it. Then, at last, 
 I spoke, 
 
 Spoke veritable words, but passion- 
 ate. 
 
 Too passionate perhaps . . . ground 
 up with sobs 
 
 To shapeless endings. She let fall 
 my hands 
 
 And took her smile off in sedate dis- 
 gust. 
 
 As peradventure she had touched a 
 snake, — 
 
 A dead snake, mind I — and, turning 
 round, replied, 
 
 " We'll leave Italian manners, if you 
 please. 
 
 I think you had an English father, 
 child. 
 
 And ought to lind it possible to speak 
 
 A quiet 'yes' or 'no,' like English 
 girls. 
 
 Without convulsions. In another 
 month 
 
 We'll take another answer, — no, or 
 yes." 
 
 With that, she left me in the garden- 
 walk. 
 
 I had a father ! yes, but long ago, — 
 How long it seemed that moment ! 
 
 Oh, how far, 
 How far and safe, God, dost thou 
 
 keep thy saints. 
 When once gone from us ! We may 
 
 call against 
 The lighted windows of thy fair June 
 
 heaven, 
 Where all the souls are happy, and 
 
 not one, 
 Not even my father, look from work 
 
 or play 
 To ask, " Who is it that cries after us 
 Below there, in the dusk ? " Yet for- 
 merly 
 He turned his face upon me quick 
 
 enough, 
 If I said, " Father." Now I might cry 
 
 loud : 
 The little lark reached higher with 
 
 his song 
 Than I with crying. Oh, alone, 
 
 alone, 
 Not trouTiling any in heaven, nor any 
 
 on earth, 
 I stood there in the garden, and 
 
 looked up 
 The deaf blue sky that brings the 
 
 roses out 
 On such June mornings. 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 You who keep account 
 Of crisis and transition in this life, 
 Set down the first time Nature says 
 
 plain " no " 
 To some "yes" in you, and walks 
 
 over you 
 In gorgeous sweeps of scorn. We all 
 
 begin 
 By singing with the birds, and run- 
 ning fast 
 "With June days, hand in hand; but 
 
 once, for all, 
 The birds must sing against us, and 
 
 the sun 
 Strike down upon us like a friend's 
 
 sword caught 
 By an enemy to slay us. while we 
 
 read 
 The dear name on the blade which 
 
 bites at us ! 
 That's bitter and convincing. After 
 
 that, 
 We seldom doubt that something in 
 
 the large. 
 Smooth order of creation, though no 
 
 more 
 Than haply a man's footstep, has 
 
 gone wrong. 
 
 Some tears fell down my cheeks, and 
 
 then I smiled. 
 As those smile who have no face in 
 
 the world 
 To smile back to them. I had lost a 
 
 friend 
 In liomney Leigh. The thing was 
 
 sure, — a friend 
 Who had looked at me most gently 
 
 now and then. 
 And spoken of my favorite books, 
 
 our books," 
 With such a voice I Well, voice and 
 
 look were now 
 More utterly shut out from me, I felt, 
 Than even my father's. Komney 
 
 now was turned 
 To a benefactor, to a generous man. 
 Who had tied himself to marry . , . 
 
 me, instead 
 Of such a woman, with low timorous 
 
 lids 
 He lifted with a sudden word one day, 
 And left, perhaps, for my sake. Ah, 
 
 self-tied 
 By a contract, male Iphigenia bound 
 At a fatal Aulis for the winds to 
 
 change, 
 (But loose him, they'll not change,) 
 
 he well might seem 
 
 A little cold and dominant iri love ; 
 He liad a right to be dogmatical, 
 This iioor, good Romney. Love to 
 
 him was made 
 A simple law-clause. If I married 
 
 him, 
 I should not dare to call my soul my 
 
 own 
 Which so he had bought and paid 
 
 for : every thought 
 And every heart-beat down there in 
 
 the bill ; 
 Not one found honestly deductible 
 From any use that pleased him ! He 
 
 might cut 
 My body into coins to give away 
 Among his other paupers ; change 
 
 my sons. 
 While I stood dumb as Griseld, for 
 
 black babes 
 Or piteous foundlings ; might un- 
 questioned set 
 My right hand teaching in the ragged 
 
 schools, 
 My left hand washing in the public 
 
 baths. 
 What time my angel of the Ideal 
 
 stretched 
 Both his to me in vain. I could not 
 
 claim 
 The poor right of a mouse in a trap t<? 
 
 squeal, 
 And take so much as pity from my 
 
 self. 
 
 Farewell, good Romney ! if I loved 
 
 you even, 
 I could but ill afford to let you be 
 So generous to me. Farewell, friend, 
 
 since friend 
 Betwixt us two, forsooth, mxist be a 
 
 word 
 So heavily overladen. And, since 
 
 help 
 Must come to me from those who lovt 
 
 me not, 
 Farewell, all helpers : I must help 
 
 myself. 
 And am alone from henceforth. Then 
 
 I stooped 
 And lifted the soiled garland from 
 
 ■ the earth. 
 And set it on my head as bitterly 
 As when the Spanish monarch 
 
 crowned the bones 
 Of his dead love. So be it. I pre- 
 serve 
 That crown still, in the drawel 
 
 there : 'twas the first ; 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 33 
 
 The rest are like it, those Olympian 
 
 crowns 
 We run for till we lose sight of the 
 
 sun 
 In the dust of the racing chariots. 
 
 After that, 
 Before the evening fell, I had a note. 
 Which ran, — "Aurora, sweet Chal- 
 
 dsean, you read 
 My meaning backward, like your east- 
 ern books, 
 While I am from the west, dear. Read 
 
 me now 
 A little plainer. Did you hate me 
 
 quite 
 But yesterday ? I loved you for my 
 
 part; 
 I love you. If I spoke untenderly 
 This morning, my beloved, pardon it, 
 And comprehend me that I loved 
 
 you so 
 I set you on the level of my soul, 
 And overwashed you with the bitter 
 
 brine 
 Of some habitual thoughts. Hence- 
 forth, my flower, 
 Be planted out of reach of any such. 
 And lean the side you iilease with all 
 
 your leaves. 
 Write woman's verses and dream 
 
 woman's dreams ; 
 But let me feel your perfume in my 
 
 home 
 To make my sabbath after working- 
 days. 
 Bloom out your youth beside me ; be 
 
 my wife." 
 
 I wrote in answer : "We Chaldaeans 
 
 discern 
 Still further than ive read. I know 
 
 your heart, 
 And shut it like the holy book it is, 
 Reserved for mild-eyed saints to pore 
 
 upon 
 Betwixt their prayers at vespers. 
 
 Well, you're right, 
 I did not surely hate you yesterday ; 
 And yet I do not love you enough 
 
 to-day 
 To wed you, cousin Roraney. Take 
 
 this word, 
 And let it stop you as a generous man 
 From speaking further. You may 
 
 tease, indeed. 
 And blow about my feelings, or my 
 
 leaves ; 
 And liere's my aunt will help you 
 
 with east winds. 
 
 And break a stalk, perhaps, torment- 
 ing me : 
 But certain flowers grow near as deep 
 
 as trees : 
 And, cousin, you'll not move my 
 
 root, not you, 
 With all your confluent storms. Then 
 
 let me grow 
 Within my wayside hedge, and pass 
 
 your way. 
 This flower has never as much to say 
 
 to you 
 As the antique tomb which said to 
 
 travellers, ' Pause,' 
 ' Siste, viator.'" Ending thus, I 
 
 sighed. 
 
 The next week passed in silence, so 
 
 the next, 
 And several after : Romney did not 
 
 come. 
 Nor my aunt chide me. I lived on 
 
 and on, 
 A.s if my heart were kejit beneath a 
 
 glass. 
 And everybody stood, all eyes and 
 
 ears 
 To see and hear it tick. I could not 
 
 sit. 
 Nor walk, nor take a book, nor lay it 
 
 down, 
 Nor sew on steadily, nor drop a stitch 
 And a sigh with it, but I felt her looks 
 Still cleaving to me, like the sucking 
 
 asp 
 To Cleopatra's breast, persistently 
 Through the intermittent pantings. 
 
 Being observed 
 When observation is not sympathy 
 Is just being tortured. If she said a 
 
 word, 
 A "thank you," or an "if it please 
 
 you, dear," 
 She meant a commination, or at best 
 An exorcism against the devildom 
 Which plainly held me. So with all 
 
 the house. 
 Susannah could not stand and twist 
 
 my hair. 
 Without such glancing at the looking- 
 glass 
 To see my face there, that she missed 
 
 the plait. 
 And John — I never sent my plate for 
 
 soup, 
 Or did not send it, but the foolish 
 
 John 
 Resolved the problem, 'twixt his nap- 
 
 Idned thumbs, 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Of what was signified by taking souiJ, 
 Or choosing mackerel. Neighbors 
 
 who dropped in 
 On morning visits, feeling a joint 
 
 wrong, 
 Smiled admonition, sate uneasily, 
 And talked with measured, empha- 
 sized reserve. 
 Of parish news, like doctors to the 
 
 sick. 
 When not called iu, — as if, with leave 
 
 to speak. 
 They might say something. Nay, the 
 
 very dog 
 Would watch me from his sun-patch 
 
 on the floor, 
 In alternation with the large black fiy 
 Not yet in reach of snapping. So I 
 
 lived. 
 
 A Roman died so, — smeared with 
 honey, teased 
 
 By insects, stared to torture by the 
 noon; 
 
 And many patient souls 'neath Eng- 
 lish roofs 
 
 Have died like Romans. I, in look- 
 ing back. 
 
 Wish only now I had borne the 
 plague of all 
 
 With meeker spirits than were rife at 
 Rome. 
 
 For on the sixth week the dead sea 
 broke up. 
 
 Dashed suddenly through beneath 
 the heel of Him 
 
 Who stands upon the sea and earth, 
 and swears 
 
 Time shall be nevermore. The clock 
 struck nine 
 
 That morning too; no lark was out 
 of tune; 
 
 The hidden farms among the hills 
 breathed straight 
 
 Their smoke toward heaven ; the lime- 
 tree scarcely stirred 
 
 Beneath the blue weight of the cloud- 
 less sky. 
 
 Though still the July air came float- 
 ing through 
 
 The woodbine at my window, iu and 
 out. 
 
 With touches of the outdoor coun- 
 try news 
 
 For a bending forehead. There I 
 sate, and wishecj 
 
 That morning-truce of God would 
 last till eve, 
 
 Or longer. " Sleep," I thought, " late 
 
 sleepers; sleep. 
 And spare me yet the burden of your 
 
 eyes." 
 
 Then suddenly a single ghastly shriek 
 
 Tore upward from the bottom of the 
 house. 
 
 Like one who wakens in a grave, and 
 shrieks. 
 
 The still house seemed to shriek it- 
 self alive. 
 
 And shudder through its passages 
 and stairs. 
 
 With slam of doors and clash of bells. 
 I sprang, 
 
 I stood up in the middle of the room. 
 
 And there confronted at my chamber- 
 door 
 
 A white face, shivering, ineffectual 
 lips. 
 
 " Come, come ! " they tried to utter, 
 
 and I went. 
 As if a ghost had drawn me at the 
 
 point 
 Of a liery finger through the uneven 
 
 dark, 
 I went with reeling footsteps down 
 
 the stair. 
 Nor asked a question. 
 
 There she sate, my aunt, 
 Bolt upright in the chair beside her 
 
 bed. 
 Whose pillow had no dint. She had 
 
 used uo bed 
 For that night's sleeping, yet slept 
 
 well. My God! 
 The dumb derision of that gray, 
 
 peaked face 
 Concluded something grave against 
 
 the sun, 
 Which filled the chamber with its 
 
 July burst. 
 When Susan drew the curtains, igno- 
 rant 
 Of who sate open-eyed behind her. 
 
 There 
 She sate ... it sate . . . we said 
 
 " she " yesterday . . . 
 And held a letter with unbroken seal. 
 As Susan gave it to her hand last 
 
 night. 
 All night she had held it. If its news 
 
 referred 
 To duchies or to dunghills, not an 
 
 inch 
 She'd budge, 'twas obvious, for such 
 
 worthless odds ; 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 35 
 
 Nor, though the stars were suns, and 
 overburned 
 
 Their spheric limitations, swallowing 
 up 
 
 Like wax the azure spaces, could they 
 force 
 
 Those open eyes to wink once. What 
 last sight 
 
 Had left them blank and flat so, draw- 
 ing out 
 
 The faculty of vision from the roots, 
 
 As nothing more, worth seeing, re- 
 mained behind ? 
 
 Were those the eyes that watched me, 
 
 worried me ? 
 That dogged me up and down the 
 
 hours and days, 
 A beaten, breathless, miserable soul ? 
 And did I pray, a half-hour back, but 
 
 so. 
 To escape the burden of those eyes 
 
 . . . those eyes? 
 "Sleep late," I said? 
 
 Why now, indeed, they sleep. 
 God answers sharp and sudden on 
 
 some prayers. 
 And thrusts the thing we have prayed 
 
 for in our face, 
 A gauntlet with a gift in't. Every 
 
 wish 
 Is like a prayer, with God. 
 
 I had my wish, 
 To read and meditate the thing I 
 
 would, 
 To fashion all my life upon my 
 
 thought, 
 And marry, or not marry. Hence- 
 forth none 
 Could disapprove me, vex me, hamper 
 
 me. 
 Full ground-room in this desert new- 
 ly made. 
 For Babylon or Balbec, when the 
 
 breath. 
 Now choked with sand, returns for 
 
 building towns. 
 
 The heir came over on the funeral 
 
 day. 
 And we two cousins met before the 
 
 dead 
 With two pale faces. Was it death, 
 
 or life. 
 That moved us ? When the will was 
 
 read and done. 
 The oificial guests and witnesses 
 
 withdrawn. 
 We rose up, in a silence almost hard. 
 
 And looked at one another. Then I 
 
 said, 
 " Farewell, my cousin." 
 
 But he touched, just touched 
 My hatstrings tied for going (at the 
 
 door 
 The carriage stood to take me), and 
 
 said low. 
 His voice a little unsteady through 
 
 his smile, 
 " Siste, viator." 
 
 " Is there time," I asked, 
 " In these last days of railroads, to 
 
 stop short. 
 Like CjEsar's chariot (weighing half a 
 
 ton,) 
 On the Appian road, for morals ? " 
 
 " There is time," 
 He answered grave, " for necessary 
 
 words, 
 Inclusive, trust me, of no epitaph 
 On man or act, my cousin. We have 
 
 read 
 A will which gives you all the per- 
 sonal goods 
 And funded moneys of your aunt." 
 
 " I thank 
 Her memory for it. With three hun- 
 dred pounds, 
 We buy in England, even, clear 
 
 standing-room 
 To stand and work in. Only two 
 
 hours since 
 I fancied I was poor." 
 
 " And, cousin, still 
 You're richer than you fancy. The 
 
 will says, 
 Three hundred pounds, and any other 
 
 sian 
 Of which the said testatrix dies })os- 
 
 sessed. 
 1 say she died possessed of other 
 
 sums." 
 
 " Dear Romney, need we chronicle 
 the jjence ? 
 
 I'm richer than I thought : that's evi- 
 dent. 
 
 Enough so." 
 
 " Listen, rather. You've to do 
 
 With business and a cousin," he re- 
 sumed; 
 
 "And both, I fear, need patience. 
 Here's the fact. 
 
 The other sum (there is another 
 sum, 
 
 Unspecified in any will which dates 
 
 After possession, yet bequeathed as 
 much 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 And clearly as those said tliree hun- 
 dred pounds) 
 
 Is thirty thousand. You will have it 
 paid 
 
 When ? . . . where ? My duty trou- 
 bles you with words." 
 
 He struck the iron when the bar was 
 hot: 
 
 No wonder if my eyes sent out some 
 sparks. 
 
 "Pause there! I thank you. You 
 are delicate 
 
 In glozing gifts ; but I, who share your 
 blood, 
 
 Am rather made for giving, like your- 
 self, 
 
 Than taking, like your pensioners. 
 Farewell." 
 
 He stopped me with a gesture of calm 
 pride. 
 
 " A Leigh," he said, "gives largesse, 
 and gives love, 
 
 But glozes never: if a Leigh could 
 gloze. 
 
 He would not do it, moreover, to a 
 Leigh, 
 
 With blood trained up along nine cen- 
 turies 
 
 To hound and hate a lie from eyes 
 like yours. 
 
 And now we'll make the rest a.s clear. 
 Your aunt 
 
 Possessed these moneys." 
 
 " You will make it clear. 
 
 My cousin, as the honor of us both, 
 
 Or one of us si^eaks vainly. That's 
 not I. 
 
 My avint possessed this sum — inher- 
 ited 
 
 From whom, and when ? Bring docu- 
 uments, prove dates." 
 
 " Why, now indeed you throw your 
 
 bonnet off 
 As if you liad time left for a loga- 
 rithm ! 
 The faith's the want. Dear cousin, 
 
 give me faith, 
 And you shall walk this road with 
 
 silken shoes. 
 As clean as any lady of our house 
 Supposed the proudest. Oh, I com- 
 
 preheud 
 The whole position from your point 
 
 of sight. 
 I oust you from your father's halls 
 
 and lauds, 
 
 And make you poor by getting rich — 
 that's law; 
 
 Considering which, in common cir- 
 cumstance 
 
 You would not scruple to accept from 
 me 
 
 Some compensation, some sufficiency 
 
 Of income — that were justice; but, 
 alas! 
 
 I love you — that's mere nature; you 
 reject 
 
 My love — that's nature also ; and at 
 once 
 
 You cannot, from a suitor disallowed, 
 
 A hand thrown back, as mine is, into 
 yours. 
 
 Receive a doit, a farthing, — not for 
 the world! 
 
 That's woman's etiquette, and obvi- 
 ously 
 
 Exceeds the claim of nature, law, and 
 right. 
 
 Unanswerable to all. I grant, you see, 
 
 The case as you conceive it; leave 
 you room 
 
 To sweep your ample skirts of wo- 
 manhood. 
 
 While, standing humbly squeezed 
 against the wall, 
 
 I own myself exchided from being 
 just, 
 
 Restrained from paying indubitable 
 debts. 
 
 Because denied from giving you my 
 soul. 
 
 That's my misfortune. I submit to it 
 
 As if, in some more reasonable age, 
 
 'Twould not be less inevitable. 
 Enough. 
 
 You'll trust me, cousin, as a gentle- 
 man, 
 
 To keep your honor, as you count it, 
 pure. 
 
 Your scruples (just as if I thought 
 them wise) 
 
 Safe, and inviolate from gifts of 
 mine." 
 
 I answered mild but earnest: " I be- 
 lieve 
 
 In no one's honor which another 
 keeps. 
 
 Nor man's nor woman's. As I keep, 
 myself. 
 
 My truth and my religion, I depute 
 
 No father, though I had one this side 
 death. 
 
 Nor brother, though I had twenty, 
 much less you. 
 
 -I — I ■ I ^ 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 37 
 
 Though twice my cousin, and once 
 Romney Leigh, 
 
 To keep my honor pure. You face 
 to-day 
 
 A man who wants instruction, mark 
 me, not 
 
 A woman who wants protection. As 
 to a man, 
 
 Show manhood, speak out plainly, 
 be precise 
 
 "With facts and dates. My aunt in- 
 herited 
 
 This sum, you say " — 
 
 " I said slie died possessed 
 
 Of this, dear cousin." 
 
 " Not by heritage. 
 
 Thank you: we're getting to the facts 
 at last. 
 
 Perhaps she played at commerce with 
 a ship 
 
 Which cauiG in heavy with Austra- 
 lian gold ? 
 
 Or touched a lottery with her tinger- 
 end, 
 
 AVhich tumbled on a sudden into her 
 lap 
 
 Some old Rhine tower or principal- 
 ity? 
 
 Perhajis she had to do with a marine 
 
 Sub-transatlantic railroad which pre- 
 pays 
 
 As well as presupposes ? or perhaps 
 
 Some stale ancestral debt was after- 
 paid 
 
 By a hundred years, and took her by 
 surprise ? 
 
 You shake your head, my cousin: I 
 guess ill." 
 
 " You need not guess, Aurora, nor de- 
 ride : 
 
 The truth is not afraid of hurting you. 
 
 You'll find no cause in all your scru- 
 ples, why 
 
 Your aunt should cavil at a deed of 
 gift 
 
 'Twixt her and me." 
 
 "Ithought so — ah! a gift." 
 
 "You naturally thought so," he re- 
 sumed. 
 
 " A very natural gift." 
 
 " A gift, a gift! 
 
 Her individual life being stranded 
 high 
 
 Above all want, approaching opu- 
 lence, 
 
 Too haughty was she to accept a 
 gift 
 
 "Without some ultimate aim. Ah, ah, 
 
 I see! — 
 A gift intended plainly for her 
 
 heirs. 
 And so accepted ... if accepted . . . 
 
 ah, 
 Indeed that might be: I am snared 
 
 perhaps 
 Just so. But, cousin, shall I pardon 
 
 you. 
 If thus you have caught me with a 
 
 cruel springe? " 
 
 He answered gently, " Need you 
 tremble and pant 
 
 Like a netted lioness ? Is't my fault, 
 mine, 
 
 That you're a grand wild creature of 
 the woods, 
 
 And hate the stall built for j-ou? Any 
 way. 
 
 Though triply netted, need you glare 
 at me ? 
 
 I do not hold the cords of such a net: 
 
 You're free from me, Aurora." 
 
 " Now may God 
 
 Deliver me from this strait ! This 
 gift of yours 
 
 Was tendered . . . when ? accepted 
 . . . when ? " I asked. 
 
 "A month ... a fortnight since? 
 Six weeks ago 
 
 It was not tendered: by a word she 
 dropped 
 
 I know it was not tendered nor re- 
 ceived. 
 
 When was it ? Bring your dates." 
 
 " What matters when ? 
 
 A half-hour ere she died, or a half- 
 year. 
 
 Secured the gift, maintains the heri- 
 tage 
 
 Inviolable with law. As easy pluck 
 
 The golden stars from heaven's em- 
 broidered stole 
 
 To pin them on the gray side of this 
 earth, 
 
 As make you poor again, thank 
 God ! " 
 
 " Not poor 
 
 Nor clean again from henceforth, you 
 thank God ? 
 
 Well, sir — I ask you ... I insist at 
 need . . . 
 
 Vouchsafe the special date, the spe- 
 cial date." 
 
 " The day before her death-day," he 
 replied, 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 " The gift was in lier hands. We'll 
 find that deed, 
 
 And certify that date to you." 
 
 As one 
 
 Who has climbed a mountain-height, 
 and carried up 
 
 His own heart climbing, panting, in 
 his throat 
 
 With the toil of the ascent, takes 
 breath at last, 
 
 Looks back in triumph, so I stood 
 and looked. 
 
 " Dear cousin Romney, we have 
 reached the toji 
 
 Of this steep question, and may rest, 
 I think. 
 
 But first, I pray jou pardon that the 
 shock 
 
 And surge of natural feeling and 
 event 
 
 Has made me oblivious of acquaint- 
 ing you 
 
 That this — this letter (unread, mark, 
 still sealed) 
 
 Was found infolded in the poor dead 
 hand. 
 
 That sjiirit of hers had gone beyond 
 the address, 
 
 Which could not find her, though you 
 wrote it clear. 
 
 I know your writing, Romney, — rec- 
 ognize 
 
 The oisen-hearted A, the liberal sweep 
 
 Of the (t. Now listen. Let us under- 
 stand : 
 
 You will not find that famous deed 
 of gift, 
 
 Unless you find it in the letter here. 
 
 Which, not being mine, I give you 
 back. Refuse 
 
 To take the letter ? Well, then, you 
 and I, 
 
 As writer and as heiress, open it 
 
 Together, by your leave. Exactly 
 so: 
 
 The words in which the noble offer- 
 ing's made 
 
 Are nobler still, my cousin; and i 
 own 
 
 The i^roudest and most delicate heart 
 alive. 
 
 Distracted from the measure of the 
 gift 
 
 By such a grace in giving, might ac- 
 cejit 
 
 Your largesse without thinking any 
 more 
 
 Of the burthen of it than King Solo- 
 mon 
 
 Considered, when he wore his holy 
 ring 
 
 Charactered over with the ineffable 
 spell. 
 
 How many carats of fine gold made 
 up 
 
 Its money-value. So Leigh gives to 
 Leigh ! 
 
 Or rather might have given, observe, 
 — for that's 
 
 The point we come to. Here's a 
 proof of gift; 
 
 But here's no proof, sir, of accep- 
 tancy. 
 
 But, rather, disjiroof. Death's black 
 dust, being blown, 
 
 Infiltrated through every secret fold 
 
 Of this sealed letter by a puff of fate. 
 
 Dried up forever the fresh-written 
 ink, 
 
 Annulled the gift, disutilized the 
 grace, 
 
 And left these fragments." 
 
 As I spoke, I tore 
 
 The paper uyi and down, and down 
 and up, 
 
 And crosswise, till it fluttered fi'om 
 my hands, 
 
 As forest-leaves, strijijied suddenly, 
 and rajit 
 
 By a whirlwind on Valdarno, drop 
 again , — 
 
 Drop slow, and strew the melancholy 
 ground 
 
 Before the amazed hills . . . why so, 
 indeed, 
 
 I'm writing like a poet, somewhat 
 large 
 
 In the type of the image, and exag- 
 gerate 
 
 A small thing with a great thing, top- 
 ping it; 
 
 But then I'm thinking how his eyes 
 looked, his. 
 
 With what despondent and suri>rised 
 rejiroach ! 
 
 I think the tears were in them as he 
 looked; 
 
 I think the manlv mouth just trem- 
 bled. Then 
 
 He broke the silence. 
 
 " I may ask, perhaps. 
 
 Although no stranger . . . only Rom- 
 ney Leigh, 
 
 AVhich means still less . . . than Vin- 
 cent Carrington, 
 
 Your iilaus in going henoe, and where 
 you go. 
 
 This cannot he a secret." 
 
 I ^m I ■-♦-^^' 
 
' As I spoke I tore the paper up and down 
 
 — till it fluttered from my hands." — Page 3S, 
 
' or Tw: 
 
AURORA LEIGB. 
 
 " All my life 
 Is open to you, cousin. I go hence 
 To London, to the gathering-place of 
 
 soiils, 
 To live mine straight out. vocally, in 
 
 books ; 
 Harmoniously for others, if indeed 
 A woman's soul, like man's. l>e wide 
 
 enough 
 To carry the whole octave (that's to 
 
 prove); 
 Or, if I fail, still purely for myself. 
 Pray God be with me, Roraney." 
 
 " Ah, poor child ! 
 "Who flglit against the mother's 'tiring 
 
 liand, 
 And choose the headsman's. May 
 
 God change hi.s world 
 For your sake, sweet, and make it 
 
 mild as heaven, 
 And juster than I have found you." 
 
 But I paused. 
 ■■ And von, my cousin ? " 
 
 " i," lie said — " you ask ? 
 You care to ask ? Well, girls have 
 
 curious minds. 
 And fain would know the end of 
 
 every thing, 
 Of cousins, therefore, with the rest. 
 
 For me, 
 Aurora, I've my work: yon know my 
 
 work : 
 And, having missed this year some 
 
 personal hope. 
 I must beware the rather that I miss 
 No reasonable duty. While you sing 
 Your happy pastorals of the meads 
 
 and trees, 
 Bethink you tliat I go to impress and 
 
 prove 
 On stifled brains and deafened ears, 
 
 stunned deaf, 
 Crushed dull with grief, that nature 
 
 sings itself. 
 And needs no mediate poet, lute, or 
 
 voice 
 To make it vocal. While you ask of 
 
 men 
 Your audience, I may get their leave, 
 
 perhaps. 
 For hungry orphans to say audibly, 
 ' We're hungry, see : ' for T)eaten and 
 
 bullied wives 
 To hold their unweancd babies up in 
 
 sight. 
 Whom orphanage would better ; and 
 
 for all 
 To speak and claim their portion . . . 
 
 bv no means 
 
 Of the soil . . . but of the sweat in 
 
 tilling it ; 
 Since this is nowadays turned privi- 
 lege. 
 To have only God's curse on ns, and 
 
 not man's. 
 Such work I have for doing, elbow- 
 deep 
 In social problems, as yon tie your 
 
 rhymes, 
 To draw my uses to cohere Avith 
 
 needs. 
 And bring the uneven world back to 
 
 its round, 
 Or, failing so mncli, fill up, bridge at 
 
 least 
 To smoother issues, some abysmal 
 
 cracks 
 And feuds of earth intestine heats 
 
 have made 
 To keep men separate, using sorry 
 
 shifts 
 Of hospitals, almshouses, infant 
 
 schools, 
 And other practical stuff of partial 
 
 good 
 You lovers of the beautiful and whole 
 Despise by system." 
 
 " I despise ? The scorn 
 Is yours, my cousin. Poets become 
 
 such 
 Through scorning nothing. You de- 
 cry them for 
 The good of beauty sung and taught 
 
 by them ; 
 While they respect your practical 
 
 partial good 
 As being a part of beauty's self. 
 
 Adieu ! 
 When God helps all the workers for 
 
 his world. 
 The singers shall have help of him, 
 
 not last." 
 
 He smiled as men smile when they 
 
 will not speak 
 Because of something bitter in the 
 
 thought ; 
 And still I feel his melancholy eyes 
 Look judgment on me. It is seven 
 
 years since. 
 I know not if 'twas jiity or 'twas 
 
 scorn 
 Has made them so far-reaching: 
 
 judge it, ye 
 Who have had to do with pity 7uore 
 
 than love. 
 And scorn than hatred. T am used. 
 
 since then. 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 To other ways from equal men. But 
 so, 
 
 Even so, we let go hands, my cousin 
 and I, 
 
 And in between us rushed the torrent- 
 world 
 
 To blanch our faces like divided 
 rocks, 
 
 And bar forever mutual sight and 
 touch. 
 
 Except through swirl of spray and all 
 that roar. 
 
 THIRD BOOK. 
 
 " To-day thou girdest up thy loins 
 
 thyself, 
 And goest where thou wouldest : 
 
 presently 
 Others shall gird thee," said the 
 
 Lord, " to go 
 Where thou wouldst not." He spoke 
 
 to Peter thus, 
 To signify the death which he should 
 
 die 
 When crucified head downward. 
 
 If he spoke 
 To Peter then, he speaks to us the 
 
 same. 
 The word suits many different mar- 
 tyrdoms. 
 And signifies a multiform of death. 
 Although we scarcely die apostles, we, 
 And have mislaid the keys of heaven 
 
 and earth. 
 
 For 'tis not in mere death that men 
 
 die most; 
 And, after our first girding of the 
 
 loins 
 In youth's fine linen and fair broidery 
 To run up hill and meet the rising 
 
 sun, 
 We are apt to sit tired, patient as a 
 
 fool, 
 While others gird us with the violent 
 
 bands 
 Of social figments, feints, and formal- 
 isms, 
 Reversing our straight nature, lifting 
 
 up 
 Our base needs, keeping down our 
 
 lofty thoughts. 
 Head downward on the cross-sticks 
 
 of the world. 
 
 Yet he can pluck us from that shame- 
 ful cross. 
 
 God, set our feet low and our forehead 
 high, 
 
 And show us how a man was made to 
 walk ! 
 
 Leave the lamp, Susan, and go up to 
 
 bed : 
 The room does very well. I have to ' 
 
 write 
 Beyond the stroke of midnight. Get 
 
 away : 
 Your steps, forever buzzing in the 
 
 room. 
 Tease me like gnats. Ah, letters ! 
 
 Throw them down 
 At once, as I must have them, to be 
 
 sure. 
 Whether I bid you never bring me 
 
 such 
 At such an hour, or bid you. No ex- 
 cuse : 
 You choose to bring them, as I choose, 
 
 perhaps, 
 To throw them in the fire. Now get 
 
 to bed. 
 And dream, if possible, I am no( 
 
 cross. 
 
 Why, what a i^ettish, petty thing ] 
 
 grow 
 
 A mere, mere woman, a mere flaccid 
 nerve, 
 
 A kerchief left out all night in the 
 rain. 
 
 Turned soft so, — overtasked and over- 
 strained 
 
 And overlived in this close London 
 life. 
 
 And yet I should be stronger. 
 
 Never burn 
 
 Your letters, poor Aurora ; for they 
 stare 
 
 With red seals from the table, saying 
 each, 
 
 " Here's something that you know 
 not." Out, alas ! 
 
 'Tis scarcely that the world's more 
 good and wise. 
 
 Or even straighter and more conse- 
 quent. 
 
 Since yesterday at this time; yet, 
 again. 
 
 If but one angel spoke from Ararat, 
 
 I should be very sorry not to hear: 
 
 So open all the letters, let me read. 
 
 Blanche Ord, the writer in the 
 "Lady's Fan," 
 
 [-♦-•-•H 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 41 
 
 Requests my judgmeut on . . . that, 
 
 afterwards. 
 Kate Ward desires the model of my 
 
 cloak, 
 And signs, " Elisha to you." Priugle 
 
 Sharpe 
 Presents his work on " Social Con- 
 duct," craves 
 A little money for his pressing 
 
 debts . . . 
 From me, who scarce have money for 
 
 my needs; 
 Art's fiery chariot which we journey 
 
 in 
 Being apt to singe our singing-robes 
 
 to holes. 
 Although you ask me for my cloak, 
 
 Kate Ward. 
 Here's Rudgely knows it, editor and 
 
 scribe: 
 He's " forced to marry where his 
 
 heart is not, 
 Because the purse lacks where he lost 
 
 bis heart." 
 Ah — ■ lost it because no one ijicked it 
 
 up: 
 That's really loss (and passable im- 
 pudence). 
 My critic Hammond flatters prettily, 
 And wants another volume like the 
 
 last. 
 My critic Belfair wants another book 
 Entirely different, which will sell, 
 
 (and live ?) 
 A striking book, yet not a startling 
 
 book. 
 The public blames originalities, 
 (You must not pump spring-water 
 
 unawares 
 Upon a gracious public full of nerves :) 
 Good things, not subtle, new yet or- 
 thodox. 
 As easy reading as the dog-eared page 
 That's fingered by said public fifty 
 
 years. 
 Since first taught spelling by its 
 
 grandmother, 
 And yet a revelation in some sort : 
 That's hard, my critic Belfair. So — 
 
 what next? 
 My critic Stokes objects to abstract 
 
 thoughts. 
 " Call a man John, a woman Joan," 
 
 says he 
 " And do not prate so of humanities : " 
 Whereat I call my critic simply 
 
 Stokes. 
 My critic Jobson recommends more 
 
 mirth. 
 
 Because a cheerful genius suits the 
 
 times. 
 And all true poets laugh unquencha- 
 
 bly 
 Like Shakspeare and the gods. That's 
 
 very hard. 
 The gods may laugh, and Shakspeare; 
 
 Dante smiled 
 With such a needy heart on two pale 
 
 lips. 
 We cry, " Weeji, rather, Dante." 
 
 Poems are 
 Men, if true i^oems; and who dares 
 
 exclaim 
 At any man's door, "Here, 'tis un- 
 derstood 
 The thunder fell last week and killed 
 
 a wife. 
 And scared a sickly husband: what 
 
 of that? 
 Get np, be merry, shout, and claji 
 
 your hands. 
 Because a cheerful genius suits the 
 
 times ? 
 None says so to the man ; and why, 
 
 indeed. 
 Should any to the ijoem ? A ninth 
 
 seal ; 
 The apocalypse is drawing to a close. 
 Ha — this from Vincent Carrington, 
 
 — '* Dear friend, 
 I want good counsel. Will you lend 
 
 me wings 
 To raise me to the subject in a sketch 
 I'll bring to-morrow — may I? — at 
 
 eleven ? 
 A poet's only born to turn to use, 
 So save you ! for the world . . . and 
 
 Carrington." 
 (Writ after.) "Have you heard of 
 
 Romney Leigh, 
 Beyond what's said of him in news- 
 papers, 
 His phalansteries there, his speeches 
 
 here, 
 His pamphlets, pleas, and statements 
 
 everywhere ? 
 He drojjped me long ago ; but no one 
 
 droits 
 A golden apple, though, indeed, one 
 
 day 
 You hinted that, but jested. Well, 
 
 at least 
 You know Lord Howe, who sees him 
 
 . . . whom he sees. 
 And you see, and I hate to see, — for 
 
 Howe 
 Stands high upon the brink of theo- 
 ries, 
 
AUROEA LEIGH. 
 
 Observes the swimmers, and cries, 
 
 ' Very fine ! ' 
 But keeps dry linen equally, — unlike 
 That gallant Lreaster, Romney. 
 
 Strange it is, 
 Such sudden madness seizing a young 
 
 man 
 To make earth over again, Avhile I'm 
 
 content 
 To make the jiictures. Let me bring 
 
 the sketch: 
 A tiptoe Danae, overbold and hot, 
 Both arms aflame to meet her wish- 
 ing Jove 
 Halfway, and burn him faster down; 
 
 the face 
 And breasts upturned and straining, 
 
 the loose locks 
 All glowing with the auticii^atedgold. 
 Or here's another on the self-same 
 
 theme. 
 She lies here, flat iij^on her jirison- 
 
 floor. 
 The long hair swathed about her to 
 
 the heel 
 Like wet seaweed. Yon dimly see 
 
 her through 
 The glittering haze of that prodigious 
 
 rain, 
 Half blotted out of nature by a love 
 As heavy as fate. I'll bring you 
 
 either sketch. 
 I think, myself, the second indicates 
 More passion." 
 
 Surely. Self is i>ut away, 
 And calm -with abdication. She is 
 
 Jove, 
 And no more Danae — greater thus. 
 
 Perhaps 
 The painter symbolizes unaware 
 Two states of the recipient artist- 
 soul. 
 One, forward, jiersonal, wanting rev- 
 erence, 
 Becavise aspiring only. We'll be 
 
 calm, 
 And know, that, when indeed our 
 
 Joves come down, 
 We all turn stiller than we liave ever 
 
 been. 
 
 Kind Vincent Carrington. I"ll let 
 
 him come. 
 He talks of Florence, and may say a 
 
 word 
 Of something as it chanced seven 
 
 years ago, — 
 A hedgehog in the ])atb, or a hime 
 
 bird, 
 
 In those green country walks, in that 
 good time 
 
 When certainlv I was so misera- 
 ble .. . 
 
 I seem to haA^e missed a blessing ever 
 since. 
 
 The music soars within the little lark. 
 
 And the lark soars. It is not thus 
 with men. 
 
 We do not make our j^laces with our 
 strains, 
 
 Content, while they rise, to remain 
 behind 
 
 Alone on earth, instead of so in heav- 
 en. 
 
 No matter: I bear on my broken tale. 
 
 When Romney Leigh and I had 
 
 l^arted thus, 
 I took a chamber tip three flights of 
 
 stairs 
 Not far from being as steep as some 
 
 larks climb, 
 And there, in a certain house in Ken- 
 sington, 
 Three years I lived and Avorked. Get 
 
 leave to work 
 In this Avorld — 'tis the best vou get 
 
 at all ; 
 For God, in cur-sing, gives ns better 
 
 gifts 
 Than men in benediction. God savs, 
 
 " Sweat 
 For foreheads: " men say, " CroAvns." 
 
 And so we are crowned, 
 Ay, gashed by some tormenting circle 
 
 of steel 
 Which snaps with a secret sj^ring. 
 
 Cret work, get work ! 
 Be sure 'tis better than what a^ou Avork 
 
 to get. 
 
 Serene, and unafraid of solitude, 
 
 I worked the short days out, and 
 
 Avatched the sun 
 On lurid morns or monstrous after- 
 noons 
 (Like some Druidic idol's fiery brass, 
 With fixed unflickcring outline of 
 
 dead heat. 
 From Avliich the blood tpf Avretches 
 
 jient inside 
 Seems oozing forth to incarnadine the 
 
 air) 
 Push out through fog Avith his dilated 
 
 disk. 
 And startle the slant roofs and cliini- 
 
 ney-pots 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 With splashes of fierce color. Or I 
 
 saw 
 Fog only — the great tawny weltering 
 
 fog — 
 Involve the passive city, strangle it 
 Alive, and draw it off into the void, — 
 Spires, bridges, streets, and s(]nar('S, — 
 
 as if a sponge 
 Had wiped out London, or as noon 
 
 and night 
 Had clapped together, and utterly 
 
 struck out 
 The intermediate time, undoing them- 
 selves 
 In the act. Your city poets see such 
 
 things 
 Not desi^icable. Mountains of the 
 
 south, 
 AVhen, drunk and mad with elemental 
 
 wines 
 They rend the seamless mist, and 
 
 stand tip bare. 
 Make fewer singers, haply. No one 
 
 sings, 
 Descending Sinai: on Parnassus- 
 mount 
 You take a mule to climb, and not a 
 
 muse, 
 Except in fable and figure: forests 
 
 chant 
 Their anthems to themselves, and 
 
 leave you dumb. 
 But sit in London iit the day's de- 
 cline, 
 And view the city perish in the 
 
 mist 
 Like Pharaoh's armaments in the 
 
 deep Red Sea, 
 The chariots, horsemen, footmen, all 
 
 the host, 
 Sucked down and choked to silence — 
 
 then, surprised 
 By a sudden sense of vision and of 
 
 tune, 
 A'ou feel as conquerors, though you 
 
 did not fight ; 
 And you and Israel's other singing 
 
 girls, 
 Ay, iviiriam with them, sing the song 
 
 you choose. 
 
 I worked with patience, ■which means 
 almost power. 
 
 I <lid some excellent things indiffer- 
 ently. 
 
 Some bad things excellently. Both 
 were praised, 
 
 The latter loudest. And by .such a 
 time 
 
 That I myself liad set them down as 
 
 sins 
 Scarce worth the price of sackcloth, 
 
 week by week 
 Arrived some letter through the sedu- 
 lous i^ost. 
 Like these I've read, and yet dis.simi- 
 
 lar. 
 With pretty maiden seals, — initials 
 
 twined 
 Of lilies, or a heart marked Emily, 
 (Convicting Emily of being all heart;) 
 Or rarer tokens from young bache- 
 lors. 
 Who wrote from college with the 
 
 same goosequill, 
 Sujjpose, they had just been plucked 
 
 of, and a snatch 
 From Horace, " Collegisse juvat," 
 
 'set 
 l'l>on the first page. Many a letter, 
 
 signed 
 Or unsigned, showing the writers at 
 
 eighteen 
 Had lived too long, although a muse 
 
 should help 
 Their dawn liy holding candles, — 
 
 compliments 
 To smile or sigh at. Such could pass 
 
 with me 
 No more than coins from Moscow cir- 
 culate 
 At Paris: would ten roubles Vmy a 
 
 tag 
 Of ribbon on the boulevard, worth a 
 
 sou ? 
 I smiled that all this youth should 
 
 love me, sighe<l 
 That such a love could scarcely raise 
 
 them up 
 To love what was more worthy than 
 
 myself; 
 Then sighed again, again, less genei'- 
 
 ously. 
 To think the very love they lavished 
 
 so 
 Proved me inferior. Tlie strong loved 
 
 me not, 
 And he . . . my cousin Romney . . . 
 
 did not write. 
 I felt the silent finger of his scorn 
 Prick every bubble of my frivolous 
 
 fame 
 As my breath blew it, and resolve it 
 
 back 
 To the air it came from. Oh, I justi- 
 fied 
 The measure lie had taken of my 
 
 height : 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 The thing was plain — he was not 
 wrong a line ; 
 
 I played at art, made thrusts with a 
 toy-sword, 
 
 Amused the lads and maidens. 
 
 Came a sigh 
 
 Deep, hoarse with resolution, — I 
 would work 
 
 To better ends, or play in earnest. 
 " Heavens, 
 
 I think I should be almost popu- 
 lar 
 
 If this went on!" — I ripped my 
 verses up. 
 
 And found no blood upon the rapier's 
 point ; 
 
 The heart in them was just an em- 
 bryo's heart, 
 
 Which never yet had beat, that it 
 should die; 
 
 Just gasijs of make-believe galvanic 
 life; 
 
 Mere tones, inorganized to any tune. 
 
 And yet I felt it in me where it 
 
 burnt. 
 Like those hot fire-seeds of creation 
 
 held 
 In Jove's clenched palm before the 
 
 worlds were sown; 
 But I — I was not Juno even ! my 
 
 hand 
 Was shut in weak convulsion, wo- 
 man's ill; 
 And when I yearned to loose a finger 
 
 — lo. 
 The nerve revolted. 'Tis the same 
 
 even now: 
 This hand may never haply open 
 
 large, 
 Before the sjiark is quenched, or the 
 
 palm charred. 
 To prove the power not else than by 
 
 the pain. 
 
 It burnt, it burns — my whole life 
 burnt with it; 
 
 And light, not sunlight and not torch- 
 light, flashed 
 
 My steps out through the slow and 
 difficult road. 
 
 I had grown distrustful of too forward 
 springs. 
 
 The season's books in drear signifi- 
 cance 
 
 Of morals, dropping round me. Live- 
 ly books ? 
 
 The ash has livelier verdure than the 
 yew; 
 
 And yet the yew's gi-een longer, and 
 alone 
 
 Found worthy of the holy Christmas 
 time: 
 
 We'll plant more yews if possible, 
 albeit 
 
 We plant the graveyards with them. 
 
 Day and night 
 
 I worked my rhythmic thought, and 
 furrowed up 
 
 Both watch and slumber with long 
 lines of life 
 
 Which did not suit their season. The 
 rose fell 
 
 From either cheek, my eyes globed 
 luminous 
 
 Through orbits of blue shadow, and 
 my pulse 
 
 Would shudder along the purple- 
 veined wrist 
 
 Like a shot bird. Youth's stern, set 
 face to face 
 
 With youth's ideal; and when peo- 
 ple came 
 
 And said, " You work too much, you 
 are looking ill," 
 
 I smiled for pity of them who pitied 
 me, 
 
 And thought I should be better soou, 
 perhaps, 
 
 For those ill looks. Observe, " I " 
 means in youth 
 
 Just /, the conscious and eternal soul 
 
 With all its ends, and not the out- 
 side life, 
 
 The parcel-man, the doublet of the 
 flesh, 
 
 The so much liver, lung, integument. 
 
 Which make the sum of "I" here- 
 after, when 
 
 World-talkers talk of doing well or 
 ill. 
 
 / prosper if I gain a step, although 
 
 A nail then pierced my foot: although 
 my brain. 
 
 Embracing any truth, froze para- 
 lyzed, 
 
 I prosper: I but change my instru- 
 ment; 
 
 I break the spade off, digging deep 
 for gold. 
 
 And catch the mattock up. 
 
 I worked on, on. 
 
 Through all the bristling fence of 
 nights and days 
 
 Which hedges time in from the eter- 
 nities 
 
 I struggled, never stopped to note 
 the stakes 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 45 
 
 Which hurt me in my course. The 
 midnight oil 
 
 Would stink sometimes; there came 
 some vulgar needs: 
 
 I had to live that therefore I might 
 work, 
 
 And, being but poor, I was con- 
 strained, for life, 
 
 To work with one hand for the book- 
 sellers 
 
 While working with the other for mv- 
 self 
 
 And art: you swim with feet, as well 
 as hands, 
 
 Or make small way. I apprehended 
 this. 
 
 In England no one lives by verse that 
 lives ; 
 
 And, apprehending, I resolved by 
 prose 
 
 To make a space to sphere my living 
 verse. 
 
 I wrote for cyclop.nedias, magazines, 
 
 And weekly papers, holding up my 
 name 
 
 To keep it from the mud. I learnt 
 the use 
 
 Of the editorial " we " in a review. 
 
 As courtly ladies the fine trick of 
 trains, 
 
 And swept it grandly through the 
 ojien doors. 
 
 As if one could not pass through 
 doors at all, 
 
 Save so encumbered. I wrote tales 
 beside. 
 
 Carved many an article on cherry- 
 stones 
 
 To suit light readers, — something in 
 the lines 
 
 Revealing, it was said, the mallet- 
 hand; 
 
 But that I'll never vouch for. What 
 you do 
 
 For bread will taste of common grain, 
 not grapes. 
 
 Although you have a vineyard in 
 Champagne, 
 
 Much less in Nephelococcygia, 
 
 As mine was, peradventure. 
 
 Having bread 
 
 For just so many days, just breathing- 
 room 
 
 For body and verse, I stood up 
 straight, and worked 
 
 My veritable work. And as the 
 soul 
 
 Wliich grows within a child makes 
 the child grow, 
 
 Or as the fiery sap, the touch from 
 God, 
 
 Careering through a tree, dilates the 
 bark, 
 
 And roughs with scale and knob, be- 
 fore it strikes 
 
 The summer-foliage out in a green 
 flame, 
 
 So life, in deepening with me, deep- 
 ened all 
 
 The course I took, the work I did. 
 Indeed, 
 
 The academic law convinced of sin : 
 
 The critics cried out on the falling off. 
 
 Regretting the first manner. But I 
 felt 
 
 My heart's life throbbing in my verse 
 to show 
 
 It lived, it also — certes incomplete. 
 
 Disordered with all Adam in the 
 blood. 
 
 But even its very tumors, warts, and 
 wens 
 
 Still organized by and implying life. 
 
 A lady called upon me on such a day. 
 
 She had the low voice of your Eng- 
 lish dames, — 
 
 Unused, it seems, to need rise half a 
 note 
 
 To catch attention, — and their quiet 
 mood. 
 
 As if they lived too high above the 
 earth 
 
 For that to put them out in anything: 
 
 So gentle, because verily so proud; 
 
 So wary and afraid of hurting you. 
 
 By no means that you are not really 
 vile. 
 
 But that they would not touch you 
 with their foot 
 
 To push you to your place; so self- 
 possessed. 
 
 Yet gracious and conciliating, it takes 
 
 An effort in their presence to speak 
 truth : 
 
 You know the sort of woman, — bril- 
 liant stuff. 
 
 And out of nature. " Lady Walde- 
 mar." 
 
 She said her name quite simply, as if 
 it meant 
 
 Not much, indeed, but something; 
 took my hands, 
 
 And smiled as if her smile could help 
 my case. 
 
 And dropped her eyes on me, and let 
 them melt. 
 
 " Is this," she said, " the muse ? " 
 
46 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 " No sibyl, even," 
 I answered, " since she fails to guess 
 
 the cause 
 Which taxed yon with this visit, 
 
 madam." 
 
 " Good," 
 She said. " I value what's sincere at 
 
 once. 
 Perhaps, if I had found a literal muse, 
 The visit might have taxed me. As 
 
 it is, 
 You w^ear your blue so chiefly in your 
 
 eyes. 
 My fair Aurora, in a frank, good way, 
 It comforts me entirely for your fame. 
 As well as for the trouble of ascent 
 To this Olyminis." 
 
 There a silver laugh 
 Ran ripjiling through her quickened 
 
 little breaths 
 The steep stair somewhat justified. 
 
 " But still 
 Your ladyship has left me curious why 
 You dared the risk of finding the said 
 
 muse ? ' ' 
 
 " Ah, keep me, notwithstanding, to 
 
 the point. 
 Like any pedant ? Is the blue in eyes 
 As awful as in stockings, after all, 
 I wonder, that j'ou'd have my busi- 
 ness out 
 Before I breathe — exact the epic 
 
 plunge 
 In spite of gasps? Well, naturally 
 
 you think 
 I've come here, as the lion-hunters go 
 To deserts, to secure you with a trap 
 For exhibition in my drawing-rooms 
 On zoologic soirees? not in the least. 
 Roar softly at me: I am frivolous, 
 I dare say; I liave jilayed at wild- 
 beast shows 
 Like other M'omen of my class, — but 
 
 now 
 I meet my lion simply as Androcles 
 Met his , . . when at his mercy." 
 
 So, she bent 
 Her head as queens may mock, then, 
 
 lifting up 
 Her eyelids with a real grave queenly 
 
 look, 
 Which ruled, and would not spare, 
 
 not even herself, — 
 " I think you have a cousin, — Rom- 
 ney Leigli." 
 
 " You bring a word from him ?" — my 
 eyes leapt up 
 
 To the very height of hers, — "a word 
 from him'/ " 
 
 " I bring a word about him actually. 
 But first" (she jiressed me with her 
 
 urgent eyes), 
 " You do not love him, — you ? " 
 
 " You're frank at least 
 In 2^ letting questions, madam," I 
 
 reiilied. 
 "I love my cousin cousinly — no 
 
 more." 
 
 "I guessed as much. I'm ready to 
 
 be frank 
 In answering also, if you'll question 
 
 me. 
 Or even for something less. You 
 
 stand outside, 
 You artist women, of the common 
 
 .sex; 
 You share not with us, and exceed lis 
 
 so 
 Perhaps by what you're mulcted in, 
 
 your hearts 
 Being starved to make your heads: 
 
 so run tlie old 
 Traditions of yon. I can therefore 
 
 speak 
 Without the natural shame which 
 
 creatures feel, 
 When speaking on their level, to 
 
 their like. 
 There's many a papist she, would 
 
 rather die 
 Than own to her maid she put a rib- 
 bon on 
 To catch the indifferent eye of such a 
 
 man. 
 Who yet would count adulteries on 
 
 her beads 
 At holy Mary's shrine, and never 
 
 blush. 
 Because the saints are so far off we 
 
 lose 
 All modesty before them. Thus to- 
 day. 
 'Tis /love Roinney Leigh." 
 
 "Forbear! " I cried. 
 ■' If here's no muse, still less is any 
 
 saint. 
 Nor even a friend, that Lady Walde- 
 
 mar 
 Should make confessions '" . . . 
 
 " That's unkindly said. 
 If no friend, what forbids to make a 
 
 friend 
 To join to our confession, ere we have 
 
 done ? 
 
i 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 47 
 
 I love your cousin. If it seems un- 
 wise 
 To say so, it's still foolislier (we're 
 
 frank) 
 To feel so. My first husband left me 
 
 young, 
 And pretty enough, so please you, 
 
 and rich enough 
 To keep my booth in May-fair with 
 
 the rest 
 To happy issues. There are mar- 
 quises 
 AVould serve seven years to call me 
 
 wife, I know, 
 And after seven I might consider it, 
 For there's some comfort in a mar- 
 
 quisate, 
 When all's said, — yes, but after the 
 
 seven years ; 
 I now love Romney. You put up 
 
 your lip 
 So like a Leigh ! so like him I Par- 
 don me, 
 I'm well aware I do not derogate 
 In loving Romney Leigh. The name 
 
 is good, 
 The means are excellent; but the 
 
 man, the man — 
 Heaven help us both, — I am near as 
 
 mad as he 
 In loving such an one." 
 
 She slowly swung 
 Her heavy ringlets till they touched 
 
 her smile. 
 As reasonably sorry for herself, 
 And thus continued: — 
 
 "Of a truth, Miss Leigh, 
 I have not without struggle come to 
 
 this. 
 I took a master in the tlerraan tongue, 
 I gamed a little, went to Paris twice; 
 But, after all, this love ! . . . you eat 
 
 of love. 
 And do as vile a thing as if you ate 
 Of garlic, which, whatever else you 
 
 eat. 
 Tastes uniformly acrid, till your peach 
 Reminds you of your onion. Am I 
 
 coarse ? 
 "Well, love's coarse, nature's coarse. 
 
 Ah, there's the rub ! 
 We fair fine ladies, who park out our 
 
 lives 
 From common sheep-paths, cannot 
 
 help the crows 
 From flying over: we're as natural 
 
 still 
 As Blowsaliuda. Drape us perfectly 
 In Lyons velvet, we are not for that 
 
 Lay-tigui-es, look you: we have hearts 
 within, — 
 
 Warm, live, improvident, indecent 
 hearts, 
 
 As ready for outrageous ends ami 
 acts 
 
 As any distressed seamstress of them 
 all 
 
 That Romney groans and toils for. 
 We catch love. 
 
 And other fevers, in the vulgar way. 
 
 Love will not be outwitted by our 
 wit. 
 
 Nor outrun by our equijiages: mine 
 
 Persisted, spite of efforts. All my 
 cards 
 
 Turned up but Romney Leigh; my 
 German stopped 
 
 At germane Wertherism; my Pariij 
 rounds 
 
 Returned me from the Champs Ely> 
 sees just 
 
 A ghost, and sighing like Dido's. J 
 came home 
 
 Uucured, convicted rather to myself 
 
 Of being in love ... in love ! That's 
 coarse, you'll say, 
 
 I'm talking garlic." 
 
 Coldly I replied: 
 
 " Apologize for atheism, not love ! 
 
 For me, I do believe in love, and God. 
 
 I know my cousin; Lady Waldemar 
 
 I know not: yet I say as much as 
 this, — 
 
 Whoever loves him, let her not ex- 
 cuse. 
 
 But cleanse herself, that, loving such 
 a man. 
 
 She may not do it with such unwor- 
 thy love 
 
 He cannot stoop and take it." 
 
 "That is said 
 
 Austerely, like a youthful prophetess. 
 
 Who knits her brows across her pret- 
 ty eyes 
 
 To keep them back from following 
 the gray flight 
 
 Of doves between the temple-col- 
 umns. Dear, 
 
 Be kinder with me: let us two be 
 friends. 
 
 I'm a mere woman, — the more weak, 
 perhaps. 
 
 Through being so proud ; you're bet- 
 ter; as for him. 
 
 He's best. Indeed, he builds his 
 goodness up 
 
 So high, it topples down to the other 
 side. 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 And makes a sort of badness: there's 
 
 the worst 
 I have to say against your cousin's 
 
 best. 
 And so be mild, Aurora, with my 
 
 worst, 
 For his sake, if not mine." 
 
 "I own myself 
 Incredulous of confidence like this 
 Availing him or you." 
 
 "And I, myself, 
 Of being worthy of him with any love: 
 In your sense I am not so ; let it 
 
 pass. 
 And yet I save him if I marry him; 
 Let that pass too." 
 
 " Pass, pass! we play jjolice 
 Upon my cousin's life to indicate 
 What may or may not pass ? " I cried. 
 
 " He knows 
 What's worthy of him : the choice re- 
 mains with him ; 
 And what he chooses, act or wife, I 
 
 think 
 I shall not call unworthy, I, for one." 
 
 " 'Tis somewhat rashly said," she an- 
 swered slow. 
 "Now let's talk reason, though we 
 
 talk of love. 
 Your cousin Romney Leigh's a mon- 
 ster: there, 
 The word's out fairly, let me prove 
 
 the fact. 
 We'll take, say, that most perfect of 
 
 antiques 
 They call the Genius of the Vatican, 
 (Which seems too beauteous to endure 
 
 itself 
 In this mixed world, and fasten it for 
 
 once 
 Upon the torso of the Dancing Faun, 
 (Who might limp, surely, if he did not 
 
 dance,) 
 Instead of Buonarroti's mask: what 
 
 then ? 
 We show the sort of monster Romney 
 
 is. 
 With godlike virtues and heroic aims 
 Subjoined to limijing possibilities 
 Of mismade human nature. Grant 
 
 the man 
 Twice godlike, twice heroic, still he 
 
 limps ; 
 And here's the point we come to." 
 
 "Pardon me; 
 But, Lady Waldemar, the point's the 
 
 thing 
 We never come to." 
 
 " Caustic, insolent 
 At need! I like you," — (there she 
 
 took my hands) 
 " And now, my lioness, help Andro- 
 
 cles. 
 For all your roaring. Help me! for 
 
 myself 
 I would not say so, but for him. He 
 
 limps 
 So certainly, he'll fall into the pit 
 A week hence, — so I lose him, so he 
 
 is lost! 
 For when he's fairly married, he a 
 
 Leigh, 
 To a girl of doubtful life, undoubtful 
 
 birth, 
 Starved out in London till her coarse- 
 grained hands 
 Are whiter than her morals, even 
 
 you 
 May call his choice unworthy." 
 
 " Married! lost! 
 He . . . Romney! " 
 
 " Ah, you're moved at last, she said. 
 " These monsters, set out in the open 
 
 sun. 
 Of course throw monstrous shadows: 
 
 those who think 
 Awry will scarce act straightly. Who 
 
 but he ? 
 And who but you can wonder ? He 
 
 has been mad, 
 The whole world knows, since first, a 
 
 nominal man. 
 He soured the proctors, tried the 
 
 gownsmen's wits 
 With equal scorn of triangles and 
 
 wine. 
 And took no honors, vet was honora- 
 ble. 
 They'll tell you he lost count of Ho- 
 mer's ships 
 In Melbourne's poor-bills, Ashley's 
 
 factory-bills; 
 Ignored the Aspasia we all dare to 
 
 praise. 
 For other women, dear, we could not 
 
 name 
 Because we're decent. Well, he had 
 
 some right 
 On his side, probably : men always 
 
 have. 
 Who go absurdly wrong. The living 
 
 boor 
 Who brews your ale exceeds in vital 
 
 worth 
 Dead Caesar who ' stojis bungholes ' iu 
 
 the cask. 
 And also, to do good is excellent, 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 49 
 
 For persons of his income, even to 
 
 boors. 
 I sympathize with all such things. 
 
 But he 
 "Went luad upon them . . , madder 
 
 and more mad 
 From college times to these, as, going 
 
 down hill, 
 The faster still, the farther. You 
 
 must know 
 Your Leigh by heart: he has sown his 
 
 black young curls 
 With bleaching cares of half a million 
 
 men 
 Already. If j'^ou do not starve, or 
 
 sin. 
 You're nothing to him: pay the in- 
 come-tax, 
 And break your heart upon't, he'll 
 
 scarce be touched ; 
 But come upon the parish, qualified 
 For the parish stocks, and Romney 
 
 will be there 
 To call you brother, sister, or perhaps 
 A tenderer name still. Had I any 
 
 chance 
 With Mister Leigh, who am Lady 
 
 Waldemar, 
 And never committed felony ? " 
 
 " You speak 
 Too bitterly," I said, "for the literal 
 
 truth." 
 
 "The truth is bitter. Here's a man 
 
 who looks 
 Forever on the ground. You must be 
 
 low. 
 Or else a pictured ceiling overhead, 
 Good painting thrown away. For me, 
 
 I've done 
 What women may: we're somewhat 
 
 limited. 
 We modest women; but I've done my 
 
 best. 
 — How men are perjured when they 
 
 swear our eyes 
 Have meaning in them! They're just 
 
 blue or brown, 
 They just can drop their lids a little. 
 
 And yet 
 Mine did more ; for I read half Fou- 
 rier through, 
 Proudhon, Considerant, and Louis 
 
 Blanc, 
 With various others of his socialists, 
 And, if I had been a fathom less in 
 
 love. 
 Had cured myself with gaping. As 
 
 it was. 
 
 I quoted from them jirettily enough. 
 
 Perhaps, to make them .sound half 
 rational 
 
 To a saner man than he whene'er we 
 talked, 
 
 (For which I dodged occasion;) learnt 
 by heart 
 
 His speeches in the Commons and 
 elsewhere 
 
 Upon the social question; heaped re- 
 ports 
 
 Of wicked women and penitentia- 
 ries 
 
 On all my tables (with a place for 
 Sue); 
 
 And gave my name to swell svibscrip- 
 tion-lists 
 
 Toward keeping up the sun at nights 
 in heaven, 
 
 And other possiblo ends. All things 
 I did. 
 
 Except the impossible . . . such as 
 wearing gowns 
 
 Provided by the Ten Hours' move- 
 ment: there 
 
 I stopped — we must stop somewhere. 
 He, meanwhile, 
 
 Unmoved as the Indian tortoise 'neath 
 the world. 
 
 Let all that noise go on upon his 
 back. 
 
 He would not disconcert or throw me 
 out; 
 
 'Twas well to see a woman of my 
 class 
 
 With such a dawn of conscience. For 
 the heart 
 
 Made firewood for his sake, and flam- 
 ing up 
 
 To his face, — he merely warmed his 
 feet at it: 
 
 Just deigned to let my carriage stop 
 him short 
 
 In i^ark or street, he leaning on the 
 door 
 
 With news of the committee which 
 sate last 
 
 On pickpockets at suck." 
 
 " You jest, you jest." 
 
 " As martyrs jest, dear (if you read 
 
 their lives) 
 Upon the axe which kills them. 
 
 When all's done 
 By me . . . for him — you'll ask him 
 
 presently 
 The color of my hair: he cannot tell, 
 Or answers, ' Dark,' at random ; while, 
 
 be sure, 
 
AURORA LEIGJf. 
 
 He's absolute on the figure, live or 
 
 ten, 
 Of ray last subscription. Is it beara- 
 ble, 
 And I a woman ? " 
 
 " Is it reparable, 
 Though I were a man ? " 
 
 " I know not. That's to prove. 
 But first, this shameful marriage ? " 
 
 "Ay?" I cried, 
 " Then really there's a marriage ? " 
 
 " Yesterday 
 I held him fast upon it. ' Mister 
 
 Leigh,' 
 Said I, ' shut up a thing, it makes 
 
 more noise. 
 The boiling town keeps secrets ill: 
 
 I've known 
 Yours since last week. Forgive my 
 
 knowledge so: 
 You feel I'm not the woman of tlie 
 
 world 
 Tlie world thinks; you have borne 
 
 with me before. 
 And used me in your noble work, our 
 
 work. 
 And now you shall not cast me' off 
 
 because 
 You're at the diificult point, the join. 
 
 'Tis true 
 Even I can scarce admit the cogency 
 Of such a marriage . . . where you 
 
 do not love, 
 (Except the class) yet marry, and 
 
 throw your name 
 Down to the gutter, for a fire-escape 
 To future generations ! 'tis sublime, 
 A great example, a true genesis 
 Of the opening social era. But take 
 
 heed : 
 Tliis virtuous act must have a patent 
 
 weight, 
 Or loses half its virtue. Make it tell. 
 Interpret it, and set in the light. 
 And do not muttie it in a winter-cloak 
 As a vulgar bit of shame, — as if, at 
 
 best, 
 A Leigh had made a misalliance, and 
 
 blushed 
 A Howard should know it.' Then I 
 
 pressed him more: 
 ■ He would not choose,' I said, ' that 
 
 even his kin . . . 
 Aurora Leigh, even . . . should con- 
 ceive liis act 
 Less sacrifice, more fantasy.' At 
 
 which 
 He grew so i^ale, dear ... to the 
 
 lijjs, I knew 
 
 I had touched him. ' Do you know 
 
 her,' he inquired, 
 ' My cousin Aurora ? ' — ' Yes,' I said, 
 
 and lied, 
 (But truly we all know you by your 
 
 books) 
 And so I offered to come straight to 
 
 you. 
 Explain the subject, justify the cause, 
 And take you with me to St. Marga- 
 ret's Court 
 To see this miracle, this Marian Erie, 
 This drover's daughter (she's not 
 
 pretty, he swears). 
 Upon whose finger, exquisitely 
 
 pricked 
 By a hundred needles, we're to Jiang 
 
 the tie 
 'Twixt class and class in England, — 
 
 thus indeed 
 By such a presence, yours and mine, 
 
 to lift 
 The match up from the doubtful 
 
 place. At once 
 He thanked me, sighing, murmured to 
 
 himself, 
 ' She'll do it, perhaps: she's noble,' — 
 
 tliauked me twice, 
 And promised, as my guerdon, to iiut 
 
 off 
 His marriage for a month." 
 
 I answered then, 
 " I understand your drift imperfectly. 
 You wisli to lead me to my cousin's 
 
 betrothed. 
 To touch her hand if worthy, and hold 
 
 her liand 
 If feeble, tlms to justify his match. 
 So be it, then. But how this serves 
 
 j'our ends. 
 And how the strange confession of 
 
 your love 
 Serves this, I have to learn — I can- 
 not see." 
 
 She knit her restless forehead. 
 
 " Tlien, despite 
 Aurora, that most radiant morning 
 
 name, 
 You're dull as any Loudon afternoon. 
 I wanted time, and gained it; want' 
 
 ed you, 
 And gain j'ou ! You will come and 
 
 see the girl 
 In whose most prodigal eyes the lineal 
 
 pearl 
 And pride of all j-our lofty race of 
 
 Leighs 
 Is destined to solution. Authorized 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 51 
 
 By sight and knowledge, then, you'll 
 
 speak your mind. 
 And jirove to Romney, in your bril- 
 liant way, 
 He'll wrong the people and posterity, 
 (Say such a thing is bad for me and 
 
 you. 
 And you fail utterly) by concluding 
 
 thus 
 An execrable marriage. Break it up, 
 Disroot it; perad venture presently 
 "We'll plant a better fortune in its 
 
 place. 
 Be good to me, Aurora, scorn me less 
 For saying the thing I should not. 
 
 Well I know 
 I should not. I have kept, as others 
 
 have. 
 The iron rule of womanly reserve 
 In lip and life, till now: I wept a 
 
 week 
 Before I came here." Ending, she 
 
 was pale. 
 The last words, haughtily said, were 
 
 tremulous. 
 This palfrey pranced in harness, 
 
 arched her neck, 
 And only by the foam upon the bit 
 You saw- she champed against it. 
 
 Then I rose. 
 " I love love: truth's no cleaner thing 
 
 than love. 
 I comprehend a love so fiery hot 
 It burns its natui-al veil of august 
 
 shame. 
 And stands sublimely in the nude, as 
 
 chaste 
 As Medicean Venus. But I know, 
 A love that burns through veils will 
 
 burn through masks, 
 And shrivel up treachery. What, love 
 
 and lie ! 
 Nay. Go to the opera ! Your love's 
 
 curable." 
 
 " I love and lie ? " she said, — "I lie, 
 
 forsooth ? " 
 And beat her taper foot upon the 
 
 floor. 
 And smiled against the shoe, — 
 
 " You're hard. Miss Leigh, 
 Unversed in current phrases. Bowl- 
 ing-greens 
 Of poets are fresher than the world's 
 
 highways. 
 Forgive me that I rashly blew the 
 
 dust 
 Which dims our hedges even, in your 
 
 eyes. 
 
 And vexed you so much. You find, 
 
 probably, 
 No evil in this marriage, rather good 
 Of innocence, to pastoralize in song. 
 You'll give the bond your signature, 
 
 perhaps. 
 Beneath the lady's mark, indifferent 
 That Romney chose -a wife could 
 
 write her name. 
 In witnessing he loved her." 
 
 " Loved ! " I cried. 
 " Who tells you that he wants a wife 
 
 to love ? 
 He gets a horse to use, not love, I 
 
 think: 
 There's work for wives, as well, — 
 
 and after, straw. 
 When men are liberal. For myself, 
 
 you err 
 Sui^posing power in me to break this 
 
 match. 
 I could not do it to save Romney's 
 
 life, 
 And would not to save mine." 
 
 '•' You take it so," 
 She said: "farewell, then. Write 
 
 your books in j^eace, 
 As far as may be for some secret stir 
 Now obvious to me; for, most obvi- 
 ously. 
 In coming hither I mistook the way." 
 Whereat she touched my hand, and 
 
 bent her head. 
 And floated from me like a silent 
 
 cloud 
 That leaves the sense of thunder. 
 
 I drew breath. 
 Oppressed in my deliverance. After 
 
 all. 
 This woman breaks her social system 
 
 up 
 For love, so counted, — the love possi- 
 ble 
 To siicli; and lilies are still lilies, 
 
 pulled 
 By smutty hands, thovigh spotted 
 
 from their w-liite; 
 And thus she is better haply, of her 
 
 kind, 
 Than Romney Leigh, who lives by 
 
 diagrams. 
 And crosses out the sijoutaneities 
 Of all his individual, personal life 
 With formal universals. As if man 
 AYere set upon a high stool at a desk 
 To keep God's books for him in red 
 
 and black. 
 And feel by millions ! What if even 
 
 God 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Were chiefly God bv living out him- 
 self 
 
 To an individualism of the infinite, 
 
 Eterne, intense, profuse, — still 
 throwing up 
 
 The golden spray of- multitudinous 
 worlds 
 
 In measure to the proclive weight 
 and rush 
 
 Of his inner nature, — the spontane- 
 ous love 
 
 Still jiroof and outflow of spontane- 
 ous life ? 
 
 Then live, Aurora. 
 
 Two hours afterward, 
 
 Within St. Margarefs Court I stood 
 alone, 
 
 Close- veiled. A siek child, from an 
 ague-fit. 
 
 Whose wasted right hand gambolled 
 'gainst his left 
 
 With an old brass l)utton in a blot of 
 sun. 
 
 Jeered weakly at me as I passed 
 across 
 
 The uneven pavement; while a wo- 
 man rouged 
 
 Upon the angular cheek-boues, ker- 
 chief torn. 
 
 Thin dangling locks, and flat lascivi- 
 ous mouth, 
 
 Cursed at a window lioth ways, in 
 and out. 
 
 By turns some Ijed-rid creature and 
 myself, — 
 
 " Lie still there, mother ! liker the 
 dead dog 
 
 You'll be to-morrow. What, we pick 
 our way, 
 
 Fine, madam, with those damnable 
 small feet ! 
 
 We cover up our face from doing good, 
 
 As if it were our purse ! What 
 brings you here, 
 
 My lady? is't to find my gentleman 
 
 Who visits his tame pigeon in the 
 eaves ? 
 
 Our cholera catch you with its cramps 
 and spasms, 
 
 And tumble up your good clothes, 
 veil and all, 
 
 And turn your whiteness dead-blue! " 
 I looked up: 
 
 I tliink I could have walked through 
 hell that day. 
 
 And never flinched. " The dear 
 Christ comfort you," 
 
 I said, " you must have been most 
 miserable, 
 
 To be so cruel; " and I emjitied out 
 
 My purse upon the stones: when, as 
 I had cast 
 
 The last charm ia the caldron, the 
 whole court 
 
 Went boiling, bubbling up, from all 
 its doors . 
 
 And windows, with a hideous wail of 
 laughs, 
 
 And roar of oaths, and Idows per- 
 haps ... I passed 
 
 Too quickly for distinguishing . . . 
 and pushed 
 
 A little side-door hanging on a hinge. 
 
 And plunged into the dark, and 
 groped and climbed 
 
 The long, steep, narrow stair 'twixt 
 broken rail 
 
 And mildewed wall that let the plas- 
 ter drop 
 
 To startle me in the blackness. Still, 
 
 up, up 
 
 So high lived liomney's bride. I 
 
 paused at last 
 Before a low door in the roof, and 
 
 knocked: 
 Tliere came an answer like a hurried 
 
 dove, — 
 '■ So soon ? can that be Mister Leigh ? 
 
 so soon ? 
 And as I entered an ineffable face 
 Met mine upon the threshold. "Oh, 
 
 not you, 
 Not you ! " The drojiiiing of the 
 
 voice implied, 
 "Then, if not you, for me not any- 
 one." 
 I looked her in the eyes, and held 
 
 her hands. 
 And said, "I am his cousin, — Rom- 
 
 ney Leigh's ; 
 And here I come to see my cousin 
 
 too." 
 She touched me with her face and 
 
 with her voice. 
 This daughter of the people. Such 
 
 soft flowers. 
 From such rough roots ■' the people 
 
 under there, 
 Can sin so, curse so, look so, smell so 
 
 , . . faugh ! 
 Yet have such daughters ? 
 
 Nowise beautiful 
 Was Marian Erie. She was not white 
 
 nor brown. 
 But could look either, like a mist 
 
 that changed 
 According to being shoue on more or 
 
 less. 
 
MARIAN ERL£. 
 
^r the' >'^ 
 
 \ 
 
 ^NlV^f^ 
 
 or 
 
 SITY 
 
 '<Ll^o 
 
 RNIX 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 The hair, too, ran its opulence of 
 
 curls 
 In doubt 'twixt dark and bright, nor 
 
 left you clear 
 To name the color. Too much hair, 
 
 perhaps, 
 (Til name a fault here) for so small a 
 
 head, 
 Which seemed to drooji on that side 
 
 and on this, 
 As a full-blown rose uneasy with its 
 
 weight, 
 Though not a wind should trouble it. 
 
 Again, 
 The dimple in the cheek had Ijetter 
 
 gone 
 "With redder, fuller rounds; and 
 
 somewhat large 
 The mouth was, though the milky 
 
 little teeth 
 Dissolved it to so infantine a smile. 
 For soon it smiled at me; tlie eyes 
 
 smiled too. 
 But 'twas as if remembering they had 
 
 wept. 
 And knowing they should some day 
 
 weep again. 
 
 We talked. She told me all her 
 story out. 
 
 Which I'll retell with fuller utter- 
 ance. 
 
 As colored and confirmed in after- 
 times 
 
 Bj' others and herself too. Marian 
 Erie 
 
 AVas born ui)on the ledge of Malvern 
 Hill, 
 
 To eastward, in a hut built up at 
 night, 
 
 To evade the landlord's eye, of nnul 
 and turf; 
 
 Still liable, if once he looked that 
 way. 
 
 To being straight levelled, scattered 
 by his foot, 
 
 Like any other anthill. Born, I say. 
 
 God sent her to his world commis- 
 sioned right. 
 
 Her himian testimonials fully signed ; 
 
 Not scant in soul, complete'in linea- 
 ments : 
 
 But others had to swindle her a jjlace 
 
 To wail in when she had come. No 
 place for her. 
 
 By man's law ! Born an outlaw was 
 this babe : 
 
 Her first cry in our strange and stran- 
 gling air, 
 
 When cast in sjiasms out by the shud- 
 dering womb, 
 
 Was wrong against the social code, — 
 forced wrong: 
 
 What business had the babj" to crv 
 there ? 
 
 I tell her story and grow jiassionate. 
 She, Marian, did not tell it so, but 
 
 used 
 Meek words that made no wonder of 
 
 herself 
 For being so a sad creature. " Mister 
 
 Leigh 
 Considered truly that such things 
 
 .should change. 
 Thej' loill, in heaven — but meantime, 
 
 on the earth. 
 There's none can like a nettle as a 
 
 2Hnk, 
 Except himself. We're nettles, some 
 
 of us. 
 And give offence by the act of spring- 
 ing up; 
 And, if we leave the damp side of the 
 
 wall. 
 The hoes, of course, are on us." So 
 
 she said. 
 Her father earned his life by random 
 
 jobs 
 Desi>ised by steadier workmen, — 
 
 keeping swine 
 On commons, picking hops, or hurry- 
 ing on 
 The harvest at wet seasons, or, at 
 
 need, 
 Assisting the Welsh drovers, when a 
 
 drove 
 Of startled horses plunged into the 
 
 mist 
 Below the mountain-road, and sowed 
 
 the wind 
 ^^■itll wandering neighings. In be- 
 tween the gajis 
 Of such irregular work he drank and 
 
 slept, 
 And cursed his wife because, the pence 
 
 being out, 
 She could not buy more drink. At 
 
 which she turned, 
 (The worm) and Ijeat her baby in re- 
 venge 
 For her own broken heart. There's 
 
 not a crime 
 But takes its proper change out still in 
 
 crime 
 If once rung on the counter of this 
 
 world : 
 Let sinners look to it. 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Yet the outcast child, 
 For whom the very mother's face fore- 
 went 
 The mother's special patience, lived 
 
 and grew; 
 Learnt early to cry low, and walk 
 
 alone, 
 Witli that pathetic, vacillating roll 
 Of the infant body on the uncertain 
 
 feet, 
 (The earth being felt unstable ground 
 
 so soon,) 
 At which most women's arms unclose 
 
 at once 
 With irrepressive instinct. Thus at 
 
 three 
 This i^oor weaned kid would run off 
 
 from the fold, 
 This babe would steal off from the 
 
 mother's chair. 
 And, creeping through the golden 
 
 walls of gorse, 
 "Would find some keyhole toward the 
 
 secrecy 
 Of heaven's high blue, and, nestling 
 
 down, peer out — 
 Oh, not to catch the angels at their 
 
 games. 
 She had never heard of angels, — but 
 
 to gaze 
 She knew not why, to see she knew 
 
 not what, 
 A-hungering outward from the barren 
 
 earth 
 For something like a joy. She liked, 
 
 she said. 
 To dazzle black her sight against the 
 
 sky; 
 For then, it seemed, some grand blind 
 
 Love came down. 
 And groped her out, and clasped her 
 
 with a kiss. 
 She learnt God that way, and was 
 
 beat for it 
 Whenever she went home, yet came 
 
 again. 
 As surely as the trapped hare, get- 
 ting free, 
 Returns to his form. This grand 
 
 blintl Love, she said. 
 This skyey father and mother both in 
 
 one, 
 Instructed her and civilized her 
 
 more 
 Than even Sunday school did after- 
 ward, 
 To which a lady sent her to learn 
 
 books. 
 And sit upon a long bench in a row 
 
 With other children. Well, she 
 
 laughed sometimes 
 To see them laugh and laugh, and 
 
 maul their texts; 
 But ofter she was sorrowful with 
 
 noise. 
 And wondered if their mothers beat 
 
 them hard 
 That ever tliey should laugh so. 
 
 There was one 
 She loved indeed, — Rose Bell, a seven 
 
 years' child 
 So pretty and clever, who read sylla- 
 bles 
 When Marian was at letters : she 
 
 would laugh 
 At nothing, hold your finger up, she 
 
 laughed, 
 Then shook her curls down over eyes 
 
 and mouth 
 To hide her make-mirth from the 
 
 schoolmaster. 
 And Rose's pelting glee, as frank as 
 
 rain 
 On cherry-blossoms, brightened Mar- 
 
 rian too. 
 To see another merry whom she loved. 
 She whispered once (the children side 
 
 by side, 
 With mutual arms intwined about 
 
 their necks) 
 " Your mother lets you laugh so?" 
 
 " Ay," said Rose, 
 "' She lets me. She was dug into the 
 
 ground 
 Six years since, I being but a yearling 
 
 wean. 
 Such mothers let vis play, and lose our 
 
 time. 
 And never scold nor beat us. Don't 
 
 you wish 
 You iiad one like that?" There 
 
 Marian breaking off 
 Looked suddenly in my face. " Poor 
 
 Rose ! ' ' said she : 
 " I heard her laugh last night in Ox- 
 ford Street. 
 I'd jDour out half my blood to stop 
 
 that laugh. 
 Poor Rose, jioor Rose ! " said Marian. 
 
 She resumed. 
 It tried her, when she had learnt at 
 
 Sunday school 
 What God was, what lie wanted from 
 
 us all. 
 And how in choosing sin we vexed 
 
 the Christ, 
 To go straight liome, and hear her 
 
 father i^uU 
 
 I ^ I ■ I ^ 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 The Name clown on us from the thim- 
 
 der-shelf, 
 Then drink away his soul into the 
 
 dark 
 From seeing judgment. Father, 
 
 mother, liome. 
 Were God and heaven reversed to 
 
 her: the more 
 She knew of right, tlie more she 
 
 guessed their wrong : 
 Her price paid down for knowledge 
 
 was to know 
 The vileness of her kindred: through 
 
 her heart, 
 Her filial and tormented heart, hence- 
 forth, 
 They struck their lilows at virtue. 
 
 Oh ! 'tis hard 
 To learn you have a father up in 
 
 heaven 
 Ey a gathering certain sense of being, 
 
 on earth. 
 Still worse than orphaned: 'tis too 
 
 heavy a grief 
 The having to thank God for such a 
 
 joy. 
 
 And so passed Marian's life from year 
 to year. 
 
 Her parents took her with them when 
 they tramped, 
 
 Dodged lanes and heaths, frequented 
 towns and fairs, 
 
 And once went farther, and saw Man- 
 chester, 
 
 And once the sea, — that blue end of 
 the world, 
 
 That fair scroll-finis of a wicked 
 book, — 
 
 And twice a prison, back at inter- 
 vals, 
 
 Returning to the hills. Hills draw 
 like heaven. 
 
 And stronger sometimes, holding out 
 their hands 
 
 To pull you from the vile flats up to 
 them. 
 
 And though, perhaps, these strollers 
 still strolled back, 
 
 As sheep do, simply that they knew 
 the way, 
 
 They certainly felt bettered un- 
 aware. 
 
 Emerging from the social smut of 
 towns. 
 
 To wipe their feet clean on the moun- 
 tain turf. 
 
 In which long wanderings Marian 
 lived and learned, 
 
 Endured and learned. Tlie people on 
 
 the roads 
 .Would stop, and ask her why her 
 
 eyes outgrew 
 Her cheeks, and if she meant to lodge 
 
 the birds 
 In all that hair ; and then they lifted 
 
 her, — 
 The miller in his cart a mile or twain. 
 The butcher's boy on horseback. Of- 
 ten, too. 
 The jjeddler stopped, and tapped her 
 
 on the head 
 With absolute forefinger, brown and 
 
 ringed. 
 And asked, if peradventure she could 
 
 read ; 
 And when she answered, "Ay," 
 
 would toss her down 
 Some stray odd volume from his 
 
 heavy pack, — 
 A " Thomson's Seasons," mulcted of 
 
 the spring. 
 Or half a play of Shakspeare's, torn 
 
 across, 
 (She had to guess the bottom of a page 
 By just the top, sometimes ; as diffi- 
 cult 
 As, sitting on the moon, to guess the 
 
 earth !) 
 Or else a sheaf of leaves (for that 
 
 small Ruth's 
 Small gleanings) torn out from the 
 
 heart of books. 
 From Churchyard Elegies and Edens 
 
 Lost, 
 From Burns, and Bunyan, Selkirk, 
 
 and Tom Jones. 
 'Twas somewhat hard to keep the 
 
 things distinct; 
 And oft the jangling influence jarred 
 
 the cliild. 
 Like looking at a sunset full of grace 
 Through a pothouse window, while 
 
 the drunken oaths 
 Went on behind her. But she weeded 
 
 out 
 Her book-leaves, threw away the 
 
 leaves that hurt, 
 (First tore them small, tliat none 
 
 should find a word) 
 And made a nosegay of the sweet and 
 
 good 
 To fold within her breast, and pore 
 
 upon 
 At broken moments of the noontide 
 
 glare. 
 When leave was given her to untie 
 
 her cloak. 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 And rest iijion the dusty highway's 
 bank 
 
 From the road's dust : or oft, the 
 journey done, 
 
 Some city friend would lead her by 
 the hand 
 
 To hear a lecture at an institute. 
 
 And thus she had grown, this Marian 
 Erie of ours. 
 
 To no book-learning. She was igno- 
 rant 
 
 Of authors ; not in earshot of the 
 things 
 
 Outspoken o'er the heads of common 
 men 
 
 Bymenwho are uncommon, but within 
 
 The cadenced hum of such, and ca- 
 pable 
 
 Of catching from the fringes of the 
 wing 
 
 Some fragmentary phrases here and 
 there 
 
 Of that fine music, which, being car- 
 ried in 
 
 To lier soul, had reproduced itself 
 afresh 
 
 In finer motions of the lips and fids. 
 
 She said, in speaking of it, " If a 
 
 flower 
 "Were thrown you out of heaven at 
 
 intervals. 
 You'd soon attain to a trick of look- 
 ing up " 
 And so with her. She counted me 
 
 her years, 
 Till / felt old ; and then she counted 
 
 me 
 Her sorrowful pleasures, till I felt 
 
 ashamed. 
 She told me she was fortunate and 
 
 calm 
 On such and such a season, sate and 
 
 sewed. 
 With no one to break up her crystal 
 
 thoughts, 
 While rhymes from lovely poems span 
 
 around 
 Their ringing circles of ecstatic tune. 
 Beneath the moistened linger of the 
 
 hour. 
 Her parents called her a strange, 
 
 sickly child. 
 Not good for much, and given to sulk 
 
 and stare, 
 And smile into the hedges and the 
 
 clouds, 
 And tremble if one shook her from 
 
 her fit 
 
 By any blow, or word even. Outdoor 
 jobs 
 
 Went ill with her, and household 
 quiet work 
 
 She was not born to. Had they kept 
 the north, 
 
 They might have had their penny- 
 worth out of her, 
 
 Like other jjarents, in the factories, 
 
 (Your children work for yon, not you 
 for them, 
 
 Or else they better had been choked 
 with air 
 
 The first breath drawn ;) but, in this 
 tramping life. 
 
 Was nothing to be done with such a 
 child 
 
 But tramp and tramp. And yet she 
 knitted hose 
 
 Not ill, and was not dull at needle- 
 work ; 
 
 Antl all the country people gave her 
 pence 
 
 For darning stockings past their natu- 
 ral age, 
 
 And patching petticoats from old to 
 new. 
 
 And other light work done for thrifty 
 wives. 
 
 One day, said Marian, — the sun shone 
 
 that day, — 
 Her mother had been badly beat, and 
 
 felt 
 The bruises sore about her wretched 
 
 soul, 
 (That must have been) : she came in 
 
 suddenly. 
 And snatching in a sort of breathless 
 
 rage 
 Her daiighter's headgear comb, let 
 
 down the hair 
 Upon her like a sudden waterfall. 
 Then drew her drenched and passive 
 
 l)y the arm 
 Outside the hut they lived in. When 
 
 the child 
 Could clear her blinded face from all 
 
 that stream 
 Of tresses . . . there a man stood, 
 
 with beast's eyes. 
 That seemed as they would swallow 
 
 her alive. 
 Complete in body and spirit, hair and 
 
 all. 
 And T)urning stertorous breath that 
 
 hurt her cheek. 
 He breathed so near. The mother 
 
 held her tight. 
 
"A wagoner had found her in a ditch." — Page' £7- 
 

 '<Lii6 
 
 RH\K 
 
I 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Saying hard between her teeth, "Why, 
 
 wench, why, wench. 
 The squire speaks to you now ! the 
 
 squire's too good : 
 He means to set you up, and comfort 
 
 us. 
 Be mannerly at least." The child 
 
 turned round 
 And looked up piteous in the mother's 
 
 face, 
 (Be sure that mother's death-bed will 
 
 not want 
 Another devil to damn, than such a 
 
 look) 
 " O mother ! " Then, with desperate 
 
 glance to heaven, 
 " God, free me from my mother ! " 
 
 she shrieked out, 
 "These mothers are too dreadful." 
 
 And, with force 
 As ijassionate as fear, she tore her 
 
 hands, 
 Like lilies from the rocks, from hers 
 
 and his, 
 And sprang down, bounded headlong 
 
 down the steep. 
 Away from both — away, if possible. 
 As far as God, — away ! They yelled 
 
 at her. 
 As famished hounds at a hare. She 
 
 heard them yell ; 
 She felt her name hiss after her from 
 
 the hills. 
 Like shot from guns. On, on. And 
 
 now she had cast 
 The voices off with tlie uplands. On. 
 
 Mad fear 
 Was running in her feet, and killing 
 
 the ground ; 
 The white roads curled as if she 
 
 burnt them up; 
 The green fields melted; wayside 
 
 trees fell back 
 To make room for her. Then her 
 
 head grew vexed ; 
 Trees, fields, turned on her and ran 
 
 after her; 
 She heard the quick pants of the hills 
 
 behind, 
 Their keen air pricked her neck: she 
 
 had lost her feet, 
 Could run no more, yet somehow 
 
 went as fast. 
 The horizon red 'twixt steeples in the 
 
 east 
 So sucked lier forward, forward, 
 
 while her heart 
 Kept swelling, swelling, till it swelled 
 
 ao big 
 
 It seemed to fill her body, wlien it 
 
 burst, 
 And overflowed the world, and 
 
 swamped the light: 
 "And now I am dead and safe," 
 
 thought Marian Erie. 
 She had dropped, she had fainted. 
 
 As the sense returned. 
 The night had passed, — not life's 
 
 night. She was 'ware 
 Of heavy tumbling motions, creaking 
 
 wheels. 
 The driver shouting to the lazy team 
 That swung their rankling bells 
 
 against her brain. 
 While through the wagon's cover- 
 ture and chinks 
 The cruel yellow morning pecked at 
 
 her. 
 Alive or dead upon the straw inside; 
 At which her soul ached back into 
 
 the dark 
 And prayed, "No more of that." A 
 
 wagoner 
 Had found her in a ditch beneath tlie 
 
 moon. 
 As white as moonshine, save for the 
 
 oozing blood. 
 At first he thought her dead; but 
 
 when he had wix)ed 
 The mouth, and heard it sigh, he 
 
 raised her up. 
 And laid her in his wagon in the 
 
 straw. 
 And so conveyed her to the distant 
 
 town 
 To which his business called himself, 
 
 and left 
 That heap of misery at the hospital. 
 
 She stirred: the place seemed new 
 
 and strange as de^th. 
 The white strait bed, with others 
 
 strait and white. 
 Like graves dug side by side at meas- 
 ured lengths. 
 And quiet people walking in and out 
 With wonderful low voices and soft 
 
 steps. 
 And apparitional equal care for each. 
 Astonished her with order, silence, 
 
 law; 
 And when a gentle hand held out a 
 
 cup. 
 She took it, as you do at sacrament. 
 Half awed, half melted, not being 
 
 used, indeed. 
 To so much love as makes the form 
 
 of love 
 

 58 
 
 A U ROE A LEIGH. 
 
 And courtesy of manners. Delicate 
 
 drinks, 
 And rare white bread, to wliicb some 
 
 dying eyes 
 Were turned in observation. O my 
 
 God, 
 How sick we must be ere we make 
 
 men just ! 
 I think it frets tlie saints in heaven 
 
 to see 
 How many desolate creatures on the 
 
 eartii 
 Have learnt the simple dues of fel- 
 lowship 
 And social comfort, in a hospital, 
 As Marian did. She lay there, 
 
 stunned, half tranced, 
 And wished, at intervals of growing 
 
 sense, 
 She might be sicker yet, if sickness 
 
 made 
 The world so marvellous kind, the 
 
 air so hushed, 
 And all her wake-time quiet as a 
 
 sleep; 
 For now she understood (as such 
 
 things were) 
 How sickness ended very oft in heav- 
 en 
 Among the unsjioken raptures — yet 
 
 more sick. 
 And surelier happy. Then she 
 
 dropped her lids, 
 And, folding up her hands as flowers 
 
 at night, 
 >yould lose no moment of the blessed 
 
 time. 
 
 She lay and seethed in fever many 
 
 weeks. 
 But youth was strong, and overcame 
 
 the test: 
 Revolted soul and flesh were recon- 
 ciled. 
 And fetched back to the necessary 
 
 day 
 And daylight duties. She could creep 
 
 about 
 The long bare rooms, and stare out 
 
 drearily 
 From any narrow window on the 
 
 street, 
 Till some one wlio had nursed her as 
 
 a friend 
 Said coldly to her, as an enemy, 
 " She had leave to go next week, 
 
 being well enough," 
 (While only her heart ached.) " Go 
 
 next week," thought she. 
 
 ' ' Next week ! how would it be with 
 
 her next week. 
 Let out into that terrible street alone 
 Among the i^ushing people ... to go 
 
 . . . where ? " 
 
 One day, the last before the dreaded 
 
 last, 
 Among the convalescents, like herself 
 Prepared to go next morning, she 
 
 sate dumb. 
 And heard half absently the women 
 
 talk, — 
 How one was famished for her baby's 
 
 cheeks, 
 " The little wretch would know lier ! 
 
 a year old 
 And livel}% like his father; " one was 
 
 keen 
 To get to work, and fill some clamor- 
 ous mouths; 
 And one was tender for her dear 
 
 goodman 
 Who had missed her sorely ; and one, 
 
 querulous . . . 
 " Would iiay backbiting neighbors 
 
 who had dared 
 To talk about her as already dead; " 
 And one was i^roud ..." and if her 
 
 sweetheart Luke 
 Had left her for a ruddier face than 
 
 hers, 
 (The gossip would be seen through at 
 
 a glance) 
 Sweet riddance of such sweethearts 
 
 — let him hang ! 
 'Twere good to have been sick for 
 
 such an end." 
 
 And while they talked, and Marian 
 
 felt the worse 
 For having missed the worst of all 
 
 their wrongs, 
 A visitor was, ushered through the 
 
 wards 
 And paused among the talkers. 
 
 " When he looked 
 It was as if he sjioke, and when he 
 
 spoke 
 He sang perhaps," said ISfarian; 
 
 "could she tell? 
 She onlj^ knew" (so much she had 
 
 chronicled, 
 As seraphs might the making of the 
 
 sun) 
 " That he who came and spake was 
 
 Romney Leigh, 
 And then and there she saw and heard 
 
 him first." 
 
 i 
 
 II 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 And when it was her turn to have the 
 
 face 
 Upon her, all those buzzhig pallid 
 
 lips 
 Being satisfleel with comfort — when 
 
 he changed 
 To Marian, saying, "And yov ? yon'ro 
 
 going, wliere ? " 
 She, moveless as a worm l)eneath a 
 
 stone 
 AVhich some one's stumbling foot has 
 
 spurned aside, 
 "Writhed suddenly, astonished with 
 
 the light. 
 And breakinginto sobs cried, " Where 
 
 Igo? 
 None asked nic till this moment. 
 
 Can I say 
 Where J go, when it has not seemed 
 
 worth while 
 To God himself, who thinks of every 
 
 one. 
 To think of me, and fix where I shall 
 
 go?" 
 
 ■'So young," he gently asked lier, 
 
 ' ' you have lost 
 Your fatlier and vour mother ? " 
 
 " Both," she said, 
 "Both lost! My father was burnt up 
 
 witli gin 
 Or ever I sucked milk, and so is lost. 
 ^ly mother sold me to a man last 
 
 month, 
 And so my mother's lost, 'tis mani- 
 fest. 
 And I, who fled from her for miles 
 
 and miles, 
 As if I had caught sight of the fire of 
 
 hell 
 Through some wild gap, (she was my 
 
 mother, sir) 
 It seems I shall be lost too presently: 
 And so we end, all three of us." 
 
 "Poor child! " 
 He said, with such a pity in his 
 
 voice. 
 It soothed her more than her own 
 
 tears, — " i:)oor child! 
 'Tis simple that betrayal by mother's 
 
 love 
 Should bring despair of frod's too. 
 
 Yet be taught, 
 He's better to us than many mothers 
 
 are. 
 And children cannot wander beyond 
 
 reach 
 Of the sweep of his white raiment. 
 
 Touch and hold ! 
 
 And, if you weep still, weep where 
 
 John was laid 
 While Jesus loved him." 
 
 " She could say the words," 
 She told me, " exactly as he \ittered 
 
 them 
 A year back, since in any doulit or 
 
 dark 
 They came out like the stars, and 
 
 shone on her 
 With just their comfort. Common 
 
 words, perhaps 
 The ministers in church might say 
 
 the same ; 
 But he, he made the church with what 
 
 he spoke : 
 The difference was the miracle," said 
 
 she. 
 
 Then catching up her smile to ravish- 
 ment. 
 
 She added quickly, "I repeat his 
 words. 
 
 But not his tones: can any one re- 
 peat 
 
 The music of an organ out of church '? 
 
 And when he said, 'Poor child!' I 
 shut my eyes 
 
 To feel how tenderly his voice broke 
 through, 
 
 As the ointment-box broke on the 
 Holy feet 
 
 To let out the rich medicative nard." 
 
 She told me how he had raised and 
 rescued her 
 
 With reverent pity, as in touching 
 grief 
 
 He touched the wounds of Christ, 
 and made her feel 
 
 More self-respecting. Hope he called 
 belief 
 
 In God; work, worship: therefore let 
 us pray. 
 
 And thus, to snatch her soul from 
 atheism, 
 
 And keep it stainless from her moth- 
 er's face, 
 
 He sent her to a famous seamstress- 
 house 
 
 Far off in London, there to work and 
 hope. 
 
 With that they parted. She kept 
 
 sight of heaven. 
 But not of Eomney. He had good 
 
 to do 
 To others. Through the days and 
 
 through the lughts 
 
60 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 She sewed and sewed and sewed. 
 
 She drooped sometimes, 
 And wondered, while along tlie tawny 
 
 light 
 She struck the new thread into her 
 
 needle's eye, 
 How people without mothers on the 
 
 hills 
 Could choose the town to live in; then 
 
 she drew 
 The stitch, and mused how Romney's 
 
 face would look. 
 And if 'twere likely he'd remember 
 
 hers 
 When they two had their meeting 
 
 after death. « 
 
 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 They met still sooner. 'Twas a year 
 
 from thence 
 That Lucy Gresham — the sick seam- 
 stress girl, 
 Who sewed by Marian's chair so still 
 
 and quick. 
 And leant her head upon its back to 
 
 cough 
 More freely, wdien, the mistress turn- 
 ing round. 
 The others took occasion to laugh out — 
 Gave up at last. Among the workers 
 
 spoke 
 A bold girl with lilaek eyebrows and 
 
 red lips: 
 " You know the news ? Who's dying, 
 
 do you think ? 
 Our Lucy Gresham. I expected it 
 As little as Nell Hart's wedding. — 
 
 Blush not, Nell, 
 Thy curls be red enough without thy 
 
 cheeks. 
 And some day there'll l^e found a 
 
 man to dote 
 On red curls. Lucy Gresham swooned 
 
 last night, 
 Dropped sudden in the street while 
 
 going home ; 
 And now the baker says, who took 
 
 her up 
 And laid her by her grandmother in 
 
 bed. 
 He'll give her a week to die in. Pass 
 
 the silk. 
 Let's hope he gave her a loaf too, 
 
 within reach; 
 
 For otherwise they'll starve before 
 
 they die. 
 That f unnv pair of bedfellows ! — Miss 
 
 Beir, 
 I'll thank you for the scissors. The 
 
 old crone 
 Is paralytic; that's the reason why 
 Our Lucy's thread went faster than 
 
 her breath. 
 Which went too quick, we all know. 
 
 — Marian Erie ! 
 Why, Marian Erie, you're not the fool 
 
 to cry ? 
 Your tears spoil Lady Waldemar's 
 
 new dress, 
 You piece of pity ! ' ' 
 
 Marian rose up straight, 
 And, breaking through the talk and 
 
 through the work, 
 AVent outward, in the face of their 
 
 surprise, 
 To Lucv's home, to nurse her back to 
 
 life 
 Or down to death. She knew, bj- 
 
 such an act, 
 All ])lace and grace were forfeit in 
 
 the house. 
 Whose mistress would supplj' the 
 
 missing hand 
 With necessary not inhuman haste, 
 And take no blame. But pity, too, 
 
 had dues. 
 She coiild not leave a solitary soul 
 To founder in the dark, while she sate 
 
 still 
 And lavished stitches on a lady's 
 
 hem, 
 As if no other work were paramount. 
 " Why, God," thought Marian, " has 
 
 a missing hand 
 This moment: Lucy wants a drink, 
 
 perhaps. 
 Let others miss me ! never miss me, 
 
 God! " 
 
 So Marian sate by Lucy's bed, con- 
 tent 
 
 With duty, and was strong, for recom- 
 pense, 
 
 To hold the lanqi of Innnan love arm- 
 high. 
 
 To catch the death-strained eyes, and 
 comfort them. 
 
 Until the angels, on the luminous 
 side 
 
 Of death, had got theirs ready. And 
 she said. 
 
 If Lucy thanked her sometimes, called 
 her kind, 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 It touched her strangely. "Marian 
 Erie, called kind ! 
 
 What Marian, beaten and sold, who 
 could not die ! 
 
 'Tis verily good fortune to be kind. 
 
 Ah, you!" she said, " who are born 
 to such a grace. 
 
 Be sorry for the unlicensed class, the 
 poor, 
 
 Reduced to think the best good for- 
 tune means 
 
 That others simply should be kind 
 to them." 
 
 From sleep to sleep when Lucy had 
 
 slid away 
 So gently, like the light upon a hill. 
 Of which none names the moment 
 
 that it goes 
 Though all see when 'tis gone, a 
 
 man came in 
 And stood beside the bed. The old 
 
 idiot wretch 
 Screamed feebly, like a baby over- 
 lain, 
 " Sir, sir, you won't mistake me for 
 
 the corpse ? 
 Don't look at me, sir ! never bury 
 
 me I 
 Although I lie here, I'm alive as yoTi, 
 Except my legs and arms, — I eat and 
 
 drink 
 And imderstand, — (that you're the 
 
 gentleman 
 Who tits the funerals ui). Heaven 
 
 speed you, sir,) 
 And certainlv I should be livelier 
 
 still 
 If Lucy here . . . sir, Lucy is the 
 
 corpse . . . 
 Had worked more properly to Iniy me 
 
 wine; 
 But Lucj% sir, was always slow at 
 
 work, . 
 I sha'n't lose much by Liicv. — Marian 
 
 Erie, 
 Speak up, and show the gentleman the 
 
 corpse." 
 
 And then a voice said, " Marian Erie." 
 She rose ; 
 
 It was the hour for angels — there 
 stood hers ! 
 
 She scarcely marvelled to see liomney 
 Leigh. 
 
 As light November snows to empty 
 nests. 
 
 As grass to graves, as moss to mil- 
 dewed stones, 
 
 As July suns to ruins, through the 
 
 rents. 
 As ministering spirits to mourners, 
 
 through a loss. 
 As Heaven itself to men, through 
 
 Jiangs of death. 
 He came uncalled wherever grief had 
 
 come. 
 "And so," said Marian Erie, "we 
 
 met anew," 
 And added softly, "so, we shall not 
 
 part." 
 
 He was not angry that she had left 
 
 the house 
 Wherein he placed her. Well, she 
 
 had feared it might 
 Have vexed him. Also, when he 
 
 found her set 
 On keeping, though the dead was out 
 
 of sight. 
 That half-dead, half-live body left be- 
 hind 
 With cankerous heart and flesh, 
 
 which took your best, 
 And cursed vou tor the little good it 
 
 did, 
 (Could any leave the bedrid wretch 
 
 alone. 
 So jojdess she was thankless even to 
 
 God, 
 ]Much more to you ?) he did not say 
 
 'twas well. 
 Yet Marian thought he did not take it 
 
 ill, 
 Since day by day he came, and every 
 
 day 
 She felt withiji his utterance and liis 
 
 eyes 
 A closer, tenderer presence of the 
 
 soul. 
 Until at last he said, " We shall not 
 
 part." 
 
 On that same day was Marian's work 
 
 complete: 
 She had smoothed the empty bed, and 
 
 swept the floor 
 Of cotifln sawdust, set the chairs anew 
 The dead had ended gossip in, and 
 
 stood 
 In that poor room so cold and orderly; 
 The door-key in her hand, prepared 
 
 to go 
 As they had, howbeit not their way. 
 
 He spoke. 
 
 " Dear Marian, of one clay God made 
 us all ; 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 And though men push and poke and 
 
 paddle in't, 
 (As children play at fashioning dirt- 
 pies) 
 And call their fancies by the name of 
 
 facts, 
 Assuming difference, lordship, jirivi- 
 
 lege, 
 When all's plain dirt, they come back 
 
 to it at last: 
 The first grave-digger proves it with 
 
 a spade, 
 And pats all even. Need we wait for 
 
 this, 
 You MariaH, and I Romney ? " 
 
 She, at that. 
 Looked blindly in his face, as when 
 
 one looks 
 Through driving aiitumn-raius to find 
 
 the sky. 
 He went on speaking: 
 
 " Marian, I being born 
 What men call noble, and you issued 
 
 from 
 The noble people, though the tyran- 
 nous sword 
 Which pierced Christ's heart has cleft 
 
 the world in twain 
 'Twixt class and class, opposing rich 
 
 to poor, 
 Shall M-e keep parted? Not so. Let 
 
 us lean 
 And strain together rather, each to 
 
 each, 
 Compress the red lips of this gaping 
 
 wound 
 As far as two souls can, ay, lean and 
 
 league, — 
 I from my superabundance, from your 
 
 want 
 You, — joining in a protest 'gainst the 
 
 wrong 
 On both sides." 
 
 All the rest he held her hand 
 In speaking, which confused the sense 
 
 of much. 
 Her heart against his words beat out 
 
 so thick. 
 They might as well be written on the 
 
 dust 
 Where some poor bird, escaping from 
 
 hawk's beak. 
 Has dropped, and beats its shudder- 
 ing wings, the lines 
 Are rubbed so; yet 'twas something 
 
 like to this: 
 ' • That they two, standing at the two 
 
 extremes 
 Of social classes, had received one seal. 
 
 Been dedicate and drawn beyond 
 themselves 
 
 To mercy and ministration, — he, in- 
 deed, 
 
 Through what he knew, and she, 
 through what she felt; 
 
 He, by man's conscience, she, by wo- 
 man's heart. 
 
 Relinquishing their several 'vantage 
 posts 
 
 Of wealthy ease and honorable toil. 
 
 To work with God at love. And since 
 God willed. 
 
 That, putting out his hand to touch 
 this ark, 
 
 He found a woman's hand there, he'd 
 accept 
 
 The sign too, hold the tender fingers 
 fast. 
 
 And say, ' My fellow-worker, be my 
 w'ite ! • '■' 
 
 She told the tale with simple, rustic 
 
 turn.s. 
 Strong leaps of meaning in her sud- 
 den eyes 
 That took the gaps of any imperfect 
 
 phrase 
 Of the unschooled speaker: I have 
 
 rather writ 
 The thing I understood so than the 
 
 thing 
 I heard so. And I cannot render 
 
 right 
 Her quick gesticulation, wild yet 
 
 soft, 
 Self-startled from the habitual mood 
 
 she used. 
 Half sad, half languid, — like dumb 
 
 creatures (now 
 A rustling bird, and now a wandering 
 
 deer. 
 Or squirrel 'gainst the oak-gloom flash- 
 ing up 
 His sidelong, burnished head, in just 
 
 her way 
 Of savage spontaneity,) that stir 
 Abruptly the green silence of the 
 
 woods. 
 And make it stranger, holier, more 
 
 profound ; 
 As Nature's general heart confessed 
 
 itself 
 Of life, and then fell backward on 
 
 repose. 
 
 I kissed the lips that ended. 
 
 indeed , 
 He loves vou. Marian ? " 
 
 ■So, 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 63 
 
 " Loves iiie ! " She looked up 
 With a child's wonder when you ask 
 
 him first 
 Who made the sun, — a puzzled blush, 
 
 that grew, 
 Then broke off in a rapid, radiant 
 
 smile 
 Of sure solution. " Loves me ! He 
 
 loves all. 
 And me, of course. He had not 
 
 asked me else 
 To work with him forever, and be his 
 
 wife." 
 
 Her words reproved me. This, per- 
 haps, was love, — 
 To have its hands too full of gifts to 
 
 give, 
 For putting out a hand to take a gift; 
 To love so much, the perfect round of 
 
 love 
 Includes in strict conclusion being 
 
 loved; 
 As Eden-dew went up, and fell again. 
 Enough for watering Eden. Obvi- 
 ously 
 She had not thought about his love at 
 
 all. 
 The cataracts of her soul had poured 
 
 themselves, 
 And risen self-crowned in rainbow: 
 
 would she ask 
 Who crowned her ? It sufficed that 
 
 she was crowned. 
 With women of my class 'tis other- 
 wise : 
 We haggle for the small change of 
 
 our gold. 
 And so much love accord for so much 
 
 love, 
 Rialto-prices. Are we therefore 
 
 wrong ? 
 If marriage be a contract, look to it 
 
 then. 
 Contracting parties should be equal, 
 
 just; 
 But if, a simple fealty on one side, 
 A mere religion, right to give, is 
 
 all. 
 And certain brides of Europe duly 
 
 ask 
 To mount the pile as Indian widows 
 
 do. 
 The spices of their tender youth 
 
 heaped up. 
 The jewels of their gracious virtues 
 
 worn. 
 More gems, more glory, to consume 
 
 entire 
 
 For a living husband: as the man'-s 
 
 alive. 
 Not dead, the woman's duty by so 
 
 much 
 Advanced in England beyond Hindo- 
 
 stan. 
 
 I sate there musing, till slie touched 
 
 my hand 
 With hers, as softly as a strange white 
 
 bird 
 She feared to startle in touching. 
 
 " You are kind. 
 But are you, peradventure, vexed at 
 
 heart 
 Because your cousin takes me for a 
 
 wife? 
 I know I am not worthy — nay, in 
 
 truth, 
 I'm glad on't, since, for that, he 
 
 chooses me. 
 He likes the poor things of the world 
 
 the best; 
 I would not, therefore, if I could, be 
 
 rich. 
 It pleasures him to stoop for buttei-- 
 
 cups. 
 I would not be a rose upon the wall 
 A queen might stop at, near the pal- 
 ace-door. 
 To say to a courtier, ' Pluck that rose 
 
 for me: 
 It's prettier than the rest.' O Rom- 
 
 ney Leigh! 
 I'd rather far be trodden l)y his foot 
 Than lie in a great queen's bosom." 
 
 Out of breath. 
 She paused. 
 
 " Sweet Marian, do you disavow 
 The roses with that face ? " 
 
 She dropt her heati 
 As if the wind had caught that flower 
 
 of her 
 And bent it in the garden, then 
 
 looked up 
 With grave assurance. " Well, you 
 
 think me bold ; 
 But so we all are, when we're pray- 
 ing God. 
 And if I'm bold, yet, lady, credit me. 
 That since I know myself for what I 
 
 am, — 
 Much fitter for his handmaid than his 
 
 wife, — 
 I'll prove the handmaid and the wife 
 
 at once. 
 Serve tenderly, and love obediently. 
 And be a worthier mate, perhaps, 
 
 than some 
 
64 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 "Who are wooed in silk among their 
 
 learned books; 
 While I shall set myself to read his 
 
 eyes, 
 Till such grow plainer to me than the 
 
 French 
 To wisest ladies. Do you think I'll 
 
 miss 
 S. letter in the spelling of his mind ? 
 No more than they do when they sit 
 
 and write 
 Their flying words with flickering 
 
 wild-fowl tails, 
 Nor ever pau^e to find how many 
 
 Should that be y or i, they know't so 
 well : 
 
 I've seen them writing, when I 
 brought a dress 
 
 And waited, floating out their soft 
 white hands 
 
 On shining paper. But they're hard 
 sometimes. 
 
 For all those hands. We've used out 
 many nights. 
 
 And worn the yellow daylight into 
 shreds 
 
 Which flapped and shivered down our 
 aching eyes 
 
 Till night appeared more tolerable, 
 just 
 
 That pretty ladies might look beau- 
 tiful, 
 
 Who said at last . . . ' You're lazy 
 in that house! 
 
 You're slow in sending home the 
 work: I count 
 
 I've waited near an hourfor't.' Par- 
 don me, 
 
 I do not blame them, madam, nor 
 misprise : 
 
 They are fair and gracious; ay, but 
 not like you. 
 
 Since none but you has Mister Leigh's 
 own blood. 
 
 Both noble and gentle, — and with- 
 out it . . . well, 
 
 They are fair, I said ; so fair, it scarce 
 seems strange 
 
 That, flashing out in any looking- 
 glass 
 
 The wonder of their glorious brows 
 and breasts. 
 
 They're charmed so, they forget to 
 look behind, 
 
 And mark how pale we've grown, we 
 pitiful 
 
 Remainders of the world. And so 
 perhaps 
 
 If Mister Leigh had chosen a wife 
 
 from these. 
 She might, although he's better than 
 
 her best. 
 And dearly she would know it, steal 
 
 a thought 
 Which should be all his, an eye-glance 
 
 from his face. 
 To plunge into the mirror opposite 
 In search of her own beauty's pearl : 
 
 while I . . . 
 Ah, dearest lady, serge will outweigh 
 
 silk 
 For winter-wear, when bodies feel 
 
 a^cold. 
 And I'll be a true wife to your cousin 
 
 Leigh." 
 
 Before I answered, he was there him- 
 self. 
 
 I think he had been standing in the 
 room. 
 
 And listened probably to half her 
 talk. 
 
 Arrested, turned to stone, — as white 
 as stone. 
 
 Will tender sayings make men look 
 so white ? 
 
 He loves her then profoundly. 
 
 " You are here, 
 
 Aurora? Here I meet you!" We 
 clasped hands. 
 
 " Even so, dearRomney. Lady Wal- 
 
 demar 
 Has sent me in haste to find a cousin 
 
 of mine 
 Who shall be." 
 
 " Lady Waldemar is good." 
 
 " Here's one, at least, who is good," 
 I sighed, and touched 
 
 Poor Marian's happy head, as dog- 
 like she. 
 
 Most passionately patient, waited on, 
 
 A-tremble for her turn of greeting 
 words ; 
 
 " I've sate a full hour with your Mar- 
 ian Erie, 
 
 And learnt the thing by heart, and 
 from my heart 
 
 Am therefore competent to give you 
 thanks 
 
 For such a cousin." 
 
 " You accept at last 
 
 A gift from me, Aurora, without 
 scorn ? 
 
 At last I please you ? " How his 
 voice was changed! 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 65 
 
 " You cannot please a woman against 
 her will, 
 
 And once you vexed me. Shall we 
 speak of that ? 
 
 We'll say, then, you were noble in 
 it all, 
 
 And I not ignorant — let it pass ! 
 And now 
 
 You please me, Romney, when you 
 please yourself: 
 
 So, please you, be fanatical in love, 
 
 And I'm well pleased. Ah, cousin ! 
 at the old hall. 
 
 Among the gallery portraits of our 
 Leighs, 
 
 We shall not find a sweeter signory 
 
 Thau this pure forehead's." 
 
 Not a word he said. 
 
 How arrogant men are! Even philan- 
 thropists — 
 
 Who try to take a wife up in the way 
 
 They put down a subscription-check, 
 if once 
 
 She turns, and says, "I will not tax 
 you so, 
 
 Most charitable sir " — feel ill at ease. 
 
 As though she had wronged them 
 somehow. I suppose 
 
 We women should remember what 
 we are, 
 
 And not throw back an obolus in- 
 scribed 
 
 With Csesar's image lightly. I re- 
 sumed. 
 
 " It strikes me, some of those sub- 
 lime Vandykes 
 
 Were not too proud to make good 
 saints in heaven ; 
 
 And, if so, then they're not too proud 
 to-day, 
 
 To bow down (now the ruffs are off 
 their necks) 
 
 And own this good, true, noble Mar- 
 ian, yours. 
 
 And mine I'll say! For poets, (bear 
 the word). 
 
 Half-poets even, are still whole demo- 
 crats, — 
 
 Oh, not that we're disloyal to the 
 high, 
 
 But loyal to the low, and cognizant 
 
 Of the less scrutable majesties. For 
 me, 
 
 I comprehend your choice, I justify 
 
 Your right in choosing." 
 
 " No, no, no! " he sighed, 
 
 With a sort of melancholy impatient 
 scorn. 
 
 As some grown man who never had 
 a child 
 
 Puts by some child who plays at be- 
 ing a man, 
 
 " You md not, do not, can not com- 
 prehend 
 
 My choice, my ends, my motives, nor 
 myself: 
 
 No matter now — we'll let it pass, you 
 say. 
 
 I thank you for your generous cousin- 
 ship 
 
 Which helps this present: I accept 
 for her 
 
 Your favorable thoughts. We're fall- 
 en on days, 
 
 We two who are not poets, when to 
 wed 
 
 Requires less mutual love than com- 
 mon love 
 
 For two together to bear out at once 
 
 Upon the loveless many. Work in 
 pairs. 
 
 In galley-couplings or in marriage- 
 rings. 
 
 The difference lies in the honor, not 
 the work, — 
 
 And such we're bound to, I and she. 
 But love, 
 
 (You poets are benighted in this 
 age, 
 
 The hour's too late for catching even 
 moths. 
 
 You've gnats instead,) love ! — love's 
 fool-paradise 
 
 Is out of date, like Adam's. Set a 
 swan 
 
 To swim the Trenton rather than 
 true loA^e 
 
 To float its fabulous plumage safely 
 down 
 
 The cataracts of this loud transition- 
 time, 
 
 Whose roar forever henceforth in my 
 ears 
 
 Must keep me deaf to music." 
 
 There, I turned 
 
 And kissed poor Marian, out of dis- 
 content. 
 
 The man had baffled, chafed me, till 
 I flung 
 
 For refuge to the woman, as some- 
 times, 
 
 Impatient of some crowded room's 
 close smell. 
 
 You throw a window open, and lean 
 out 
 
 To breathe a long breath in the dewy 
 night. 
 
G6 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 And cool your angry forehead. She, 
 at least, 
 
 Was not built up as walls are, brick 
 by brick, 
 
 Each fancy squared, each feeling 
 ranged by line, 
 
 The very heat of burning youth ap- 
 plied 
 
 To indurate form and system ! excel- 
 lent bricks, 
 
 A well-built wall, which stops you 
 on the road. 
 
 And into which you cannot see an 
 inch 
 
 Although you beat your head against 
 it — pshaw ! 
 
 " Adieu," I said, " for this time, cous- 
 ins both, 
 
 And cousin Romney, pardon me the 
 word. 
 
 Be happy, — oh ! in some esoteric 
 sense 
 
 Of course, — I mean no harm in wish- 
 ing well. 
 
 Adieu, my Marian. May she come 
 to me. 
 
 Dear Romney, and be married from 
 my house ? 
 
 It is not part of your philosophy 
 
 To keep your bird upon the black- 
 thorn ? " 
 
 "Ay, 
 
 He answered; " but it is. I take my 
 wife 
 
 Directly from the people; and she 
 comes. 
 
 As Austria's daughter to imperial 
 France, 
 
 Betwixt her eagles, blinking not her 
 race. 
 
 From Margaret's Court at garret- 
 height, to meet 
 
 And wed me at St. James's, nor put 
 off 
 
 Her gown of serge for that. The 
 things we do. 
 
 We do: we'll wear no mask, as if we 
 blushed." 
 
 "Dear Romney, you're the poet," I 
 
 replied. 
 But felt my smile too mournful for 
 
 my word, 
 And turned and went. Ay, masks, I 
 
 thought, — beware 
 Of tragic masks we tie before the 
 
 glass. 
 Uplifted on the cothurn half r yard 
 
 Above the natural stature ! we would 
 
 play 
 Heroic parts to ourselves, and end, 
 
 perhaps. 
 As impotently as Athenian wives 
 Who shrieked in fits at the Eumeni- 
 
 des. 
 
 His foot pursued me down the stair. 
 
 " At least 
 You'll suffer me to walk with you 
 
 beyond 
 These hideous streets, these graves, 
 
 where men alive, 
 Packed close with earthworms, burr 
 
 unconsciously 
 About the plague that slew them : let 
 
 me go. 
 The very women pelt their souls in 
 
 mud 
 At any woman who walks here alone. 
 How came you here alone ? — you are 
 
 ignorant." 
 
 We had a strange and melancholy 
 walk: 
 
 The night came drizzling downward 
 in dark rain. 
 
 And as we walked, the color of the 
 time. 
 
 The act, the presence, my hand upon 
 his arm. 
 
 His voice in my ear, and mine to my 
 own sense. 
 
 Appeared unnatural. We talked 
 modern books 
 
 And daily papers, Spanish marriage- 
 schemes 
 
 And English climate — was't so cold 
 last year ? 
 
 And will the wind change by to-mor- 
 row morn ? 
 
 Can Guizot .stand? is London full? 
 is trade 
 
 Competitive ? has Dickens turned his 
 hinge 
 
 A-pinch upon the fingers of the great ? 
 
 And are potatoes to grow mythical 
 
 Like moly ? will the apple die out too ? 
 
 Which way is the wind to-night? 
 south-east ? due east ? 
 
 We talked on fast, while every com- 
 mon word 
 
 Seemed tangled with the thunder at 
 one end. 
 
 And ready to pull down uijon our 
 heads 
 
 A terror out of sight. And yet to 
 pause 
 
 i 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 G7 
 
 Were surelier mortal : we tore greedi- 
 ily up 
 
 All silence, all the innocent breath- 
 ing-points, 
 
 As if, like pale conspirators in haste, 
 
 We tore up impers where our signa- 
 tures 
 
 Imperilled us to an ugly shame or 
 death. 
 
 I cannot tell you why it was. 'Tis 
 plain 
 
 "We had not loved nor hated: where- 
 fore dread 
 
 To spill gunpowder on ground safe 
 from fire ? 
 
 Perhaps we had lived too closely to 
 diverge 
 
 Ko absolutely: leave two clocks, they 
 say. 
 
 Wound up to different hours, iipon 
 one shelf, 
 
 And slowly, througli the interior 
 wheels of each, 
 
 The blind mechanic motion sets itself 
 
 A-throb to feel out for the mutual 
 time. 
 
 It was not so with us, indeed: while 
 he 
 
 Struck midnight, I kept striking six 
 at dawn ; 
 
 While he marked judgment, I, re- 
 demption-day: 
 
 And such exception to a general law 
 
 Imperious upon inert matter even, 
 
 IVIight make us, each to either, inse- 
 cure, 
 
 A beckoning mystery, or a troubling 
 fear. 
 
 I mind me, when we i)arted at the 
 door. 
 
 How strange his good-night sounded, 
 — like good-night 
 
 Beside a deathbed, where the mor- 
 row's sun 
 
 Is sure to come too late for more good 
 days. 
 
 And all that night I thought . . . 
 " Good-night," said he. 
 
 And so a month passed. Let me set 
 
 it down 
 At once, — I have been wrong, I liave 
 
 been wrong. 
 We are wrong always when we think 
 
 too much 
 Of what we think or are: albeit our 
 
 thoughts 
 
 Be verily bitter as self-sacrifice. 
 We're no less selfish. If we sleep on 
 
 rocks 
 Or roses, sleeping past the hour of 
 
 noon. 
 We're lazv. This I write against mj-- 
 
 self,' 
 I had done a duty in the visit paid 
 To Marian, and was ready otherwise 
 To give the witness of my presence 
 
 and name 
 Whenever she should marry. Which, 
 
 I thought. 
 Sufficed. I even had cast int(j the 
 
 scale 
 An overweight of justice toward the 
 
 match. 
 The Lady Waldemar liad missed her 
 
 tool. 
 And broken it in the lock as being too 
 
 straight 
 For a crooked purpose; while poor 
 
 Marian Erie , 
 
 Missed nothing in my accents or my 
 
 acts : 
 I had not been ungenerous on the 
 
 whole, 
 Nor yet untender : so enough. I 
 
 felt 
 Tired, overworked: this marriage 
 
 somewhat jarred ; 
 Or, if it did not, all the bridal noise. 
 The pricking of the map of life with 
 
 pins, 
 In schemes of ... " Here we'll go," 
 
 and " There we'll stay," 
 And " Everywhere we'll prosper in 
 
 our love," 
 Was scarce my business: let them 
 
 order it: 
 Who else should care ? I threw my- 
 self aside. 
 As one who had done her work, and 
 
 shuts her eyes 
 To rest the better. 
 
 I, who should have known, 
 Forereckoned mischief 1 Where we 
 
 disavow 
 Being keeper to our brother, we're his 
 
 Cain. 
 
 I might have held that poor child to 
 
 ■my heart 
 A little longer ! 'twould have hurt 
 
 me much 
 To have hastened by its beats the 
 
 marriage-day, 
 And kept her safe meantime from 
 
 tampering hands, 
 
 t 
 
 I 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Or, peradventure, traps. What drew 
 
 me back 
 Prom telling Romney plainly the de- 
 signs 
 Of Lady Waldemar, as spoken out 
 To me . . . me ? had I any right, ay, 
 
 right, 
 With womanly compassion and re- 
 serve 
 To break the fall of woman's impu- 
 dence? — 
 To stand by calmly, knowing what I 
 
 knew, 
 And hear him call her good ? 
 
 Distrust that word. 
 " There is none good save God," said 
 
 Jesus Christ 
 If he once, in the first creation-week. 
 Called creatures good, forever after- 
 ward. 
 The Devil only has done it, and his 
 
 heirs. 
 The knaves who win so, and the fools 
 
 who lose : 
 The word's grown dangerous. In the 
 
 middle age 
 I think they called malignant fays 
 
 and imps 
 Good people. A good neighbor, even 
 
 in this. 
 Is fatal sometimes, cuts your morning 
 
 up 
 To mince-meat of the very smallest 
 
 talk. 
 Then helps to sugar her bohea at 
 
 night 
 With your reputation . I have known 
 
 good wives, 
 As chaste, or nearly so, as Potiphar's; 
 And good, good mothers, who would 
 
 use a child 
 To better an intrigue ; good friends, 
 
 beside, 
 (Very good) who hung succinctly 
 
 round your neck 
 And sucked your breath, as cats are 
 
 fabled to do 
 By sleeping infants. And we all have 
 
 known 
 Good critics who have stamped out 
 
 poet's hope. 
 Good statesmen who pulled ruin on 
 
 the state. 
 Good patriots who for a theory risked 
 
 a cause, 
 Good kings who disembowelled for a 
 
 tax, 
 Good popes who brought all good to 
 
 jeopardy, 
 
 Good Christians who sate still in easy- 
 chairs 
 
 And damned the general world for 
 standing up. 
 
 Now may the good God pardon all 
 good men ! 
 
 How bitterly I speak ! how certainly 
 The innocent white milk in us is 
 
 turned 
 By much persistent shining of the 
 
 sun ! 
 Shake up the sweetest in us long 
 
 enough 
 With men, it drops to foolish curd, 
 
 too sour 
 To feed the most untender of Christ's 
 
 lambs. 
 
 I should have thought, — a woman of 
 the world 
 
 Like her I'm meaning, centre to her- 
 self 
 
 Who has wheeled on her own pivot 
 half a life 
 
 In isolated self-love and self-will, 
 
 As a windmill seen at distance radi- 
 ating 
 
 Its delicate white vans against the 
 sky, 
 
 So soft and soundless, simply beauti- 
 ful, 
 
 Seen nearer, — what a roar and tear 
 it makes. 
 
 How it grinds and bruises ! — if she 
 loves at last. 
 
 Her love's a re-adjustment of self- 
 love, 
 
 No more, — a need felt of another's 
 use 
 
 To her one advantage, as the mill 
 wants grain, 
 
 The fire wants fuel, the very wolf 
 wants prey. 
 
 And none of these is more unscrupu- 
 lous 
 
 Than such a charming woman when 
 she loves. 
 
 She'll not be thwarted by an obstacle 
 
 So trifling as . . . her soul is . . . 
 much less yours ! — 
 
 Is God a consideration? — she loves 
 you, 
 
 Not God : she will not flinch for him 
 indeed : 
 
 She did not for the Marchioness of 
 Perth, 
 
 When wanting tickets for the fancy 
 ball. 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 She loves yon, sir, with passion, to 
 
 lunacy. 
 She loves you like her diamonds . . . 
 
 almost. 
 
 Well, 
 A month passed so, and then the no- 
 tice came. 
 On such a day the marriage at the 
 
 church: 
 I was not backward. 
 
 Half Saint Giles in frieze 
 "Was bidden to meet Saint James in 
 
 cloth-of-gold, 
 And, after contract at the altar, pass 
 To eat a marriage-feast on Hamp- 
 
 stead Heath. 
 Of course the people came in uncom- 
 
 pelled, 
 Lame, blind, and worse; sick, sor- 
 rowful, and worse; 
 The humors of the peccant social 
 
 wound 
 All pressed out, poured down upon 
 
 Pimlico, 
 Exasperating the unaccustomed air 
 With a hideous interfusion. You'd 
 
 suppose 
 A finished generation, dead of plague, 
 Swept outward from theii" graves into 
 
 the sun. 
 The moil of death upon them. What 
 
 a sight! 
 A holiday of miseralile men 
 Is sadder than a burial-day of kings. 
 
 They clogged the streets, they oozed 
 into the church 
 
 In a dark slow stream, like blood. 
 To see that sight, 
 
 The noble ladies stood up in their 
 pews. 
 
 Some pale for fear, a few as red for 
 hate, 
 
 Some simply curious, some just inso- 
 lent. 
 
 And some in wondering scorn, " What 
 next ? what next ? " 
 
 These crushed their delicate rose lips 
 from the smile 
 
 That misbecame them in a holy 
 place, 
 
 With l)roidered hems of perfumed 
 handkerchiefs ; 
 
 Those passed the salts, with confi- 
 dence of eyes, 
 
 And simultaneous shiver of moire 
 silk; 
 
 While all the aisles, alive and black 
 with heads. 
 
 Crawled slowly toward the altar from 
 
 the street. 
 As bruised snakes crawl and hiss out 
 
 of a hole 
 With shuddering involution, swaying 
 
 slow 
 From right to left, and then from left 
 
 to right. 
 In pants and pauses. What an ugly 
 
 crest 
 Of faces rose upon you everywhere 
 From that crammed mass ! you did 
 
 not usually 
 See faces like them in the open 
 
 day : 
 They hide in cellars, not to make you 
 
 mad 
 As Romney Leigh is. Faces ! O my 
 
 God, 
 We call those faces ? — men's and wo- 
 men 's . . . ay. 
 And children's; babies, hanging like 
 
 a rag 
 Forgotten on their mother's neck — 
 
 poor mouths. 
 Wiped clean of mother's milk by 
 
 mother's blow 
 Before they are taught her cursing. 
 
 Faces ? . . . phew. 
 We'll call them vices, festering to 
 
 despairs. 
 Or sorrows, petrifying to vices; not 
 A finger-touch of God left whole on 
 
 them. 
 All ruined, lost, the countenance worn 
 
 out 
 As the garment, the will dissolute as 
 
 the act. 
 The passions loose and draggling in 
 
 the dirt. 
 To trip a foot up at the first free 
 
 step ! 
 Those faces ? — 'twas as if you had 
 
 stirred up hell 
 To heave its lowest dreg-fiends upper- 
 most 
 In fiery swirls of slime, such strangled 
 
 fronts, 
 Such obdurate jaws, were thrown up 
 
 constantly 
 To twit you with your race, corrupt 
 
 your blood. 
 And grind to devilish colors all your 
 
 dreams 
 Henceforth, though haply you should 
 
 drop asleep 
 By clink of silver waters, in a muse 
 On Raffael's mild Madonna of the 
 
 Bird. 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 I've waked and slept through many 
 
 nights and days 
 Since then ; but still that day will 
 
 catch my breath 
 Like a nightmare. There are fatal 
 
 days, indeed, 
 In which the fibrous years have taken 
 
 root 
 So deeply, that they quiver to their 
 
 tops 
 Whene'er you stir the dust of such a 
 
 day. 
 
 My cousin met me with his eyes and 
 hand , 
 
 And then, with just a word, . . . that 
 "Marian Erie 
 
 "Was coming with her bridesmaids 
 presently," 
 
 Made haste to place me by the altar- 
 stair 
 
 Where he and other noble gentlemen 
 
 And high-born ladies waited for the 
 bride. 
 
 We waited. It was early: there. was 
 time 
 
 For greeting and the morning's com- 
 pliment; 
 
 And gradually a ripple of women's 
 talk 
 
 Arose and fell, and tossed about a 
 spray 
 
 Of English ss, soft as a silent hush, 
 
 And, notwithstanding, quite as au- 
 dible 
 
 As louder phrases thrown out by the 
 men. 
 
 — " Yes, really, if Ave need to wait in 
 church 
 
 We need to talk there." — " She ? 'tis 
 Lady Ayr, 
 
 In blue, not purple! that's the dow- 
 ager." 
 
 "She looks as young" — "She flirts 
 as young, you mean. 
 
 Why, if you had seen her upon Thurs- 
 day night. 
 
 You'd call Miss Norris modest." — 
 " You again ! 
 
 I waltzed with you three hours back. 
 Uj) at six. 
 
 Up still at ten ; scarce time to change 
 one's shoes: 
 
 I feel as white and sulky as a ghost. 
 
 So prav don't speak to me. Lord 
 Belcher." — " No, 
 
 I'll look at you instead, and it's 
 enough 
 
 While you have that face." — "In 
 church, my lord! fie, fie! " 
 
 — "Adair, you staid for the Divis- 
 
 ion?"— "Lost 
 By one." — " The devil it is! I'm sorry 
 
 for't. 
 And if I had not promised Mistress 
 
 Grove" . . . 
 " You nught have kept your word to 
 
 Liverpool." 
 
 — "Constituents must remember, 
 
 after all, 
 We're mortal." — "We remind them 
 
 of it." — "Hark, 
 The bride comes! here she comes in 
 
 a stream of milk! " 
 
 — "There? Dear, you are asleep 
 
 still: don't you know 
 The live Miss Granvilles ? always 
 
 dressed in white 
 To show they're ready to be married." 
 
 "Lower! 
 The aunt is at your elbow." — " Lady 
 
 Maud, 
 Did Lady Waldemar tell you she had 
 
 seen 
 This girl of Leigh's ? "— " No — wait! 
 
 'twas Mistress Brookes 
 Who told me Lady Waldemar told 
 
 her — 
 No, ' twasn't Mistress Brookes." — 
 
 "She's pretty ? " — " Who ? 
 Mistress Brookes? Lady Walde- 
 mar ?—" How hot ! 
 Pray is't the law to-day we're not to 
 
 breathe ? 
 You're treading on my shawl — I 
 
 thank you, sir." 
 — " Thej' say the bride's a mere child, 
 
 who can't read, 
 But knows the things she shouldn't, 
 
 with wide-awake 
 Great eyes. I'd go through fire to 
 
 look at her." 
 
 — "You do, I think." — "And Lady 
 
 Waldemar 
 (You see her; sitting close to Romney 
 
 Leigh. 
 How beautiful she looks, a little 
 
 flushed!) 
 Has taken up the girl, and methodized 
 Leigh's folly. Should I have come 
 
 here, you suppose, 
 Except she'd ask me?" — "She'd 
 
 have served him more 
 By marrying him herself." 
 
 " Ah — there she comes, 
 The bride, at last! " 
 
 " Indeed, no. Past eleven. 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 She puts off her patched petticoat to- 
 day 
 
 And puts on May-fair manners, so 
 begins 
 
 By setting us to wait." — "Yes, yes, 
 this Leigh 
 
 Was always odd: it's in the blood, 
 I think. 
 
 His father's uncle's cousin's second 
 son 
 
 "Was, was . . . you understand me; 
 and for hiui, 
 
 He's stark — has turned quite lunatic 
 upon 
 
 This modern question of the poor — 
 the poor. 
 
 An excellent subject when you're 
 moderate. 
 
 You've seen Prince Albert's model 
 lodging-house ? 
 
 Does honor to his Royal Highness. 
 Good ! 
 
 But would he stop his carriage in 
 Cheapside 
 
 To shake a common fellow by the fist 
 
 Whose name was . . . Shakspeare? 
 no. We draw a line; 
 
 And if we stand not by our order, we 
 
 In England, we fall headlong. Here's 
 a sight, — 
 
 A hideous sight, a most indecent 
 sight ! 
 
 My wife would come, sir, or I bad 
 kept her back. 
 
 By heaven, sir, when poor Damiens' 
 trunk and limbs 
 
 Were torn by horses, women of the 
 court 
 
 Stood by and stared, exactly as to-day 
 
 On this dismembering of society. 
 
 With pretty, troubled faces." 
 
 " Now, at last. 
 
 She comes now." 
 
 " Where ? who sees ? you push me, 
 sir. 
 
 Beyond the point of what is manner- 
 ly- 
 
 You're standing, madam, on my sec- 
 ond flounce. 
 
 I do beseech you "... 
 
 " No — it's not the bride. 
 
 Half-past eleven. How late ! The 
 bridegroom, mark, 
 
 Gets anxious and goes out." 
 
 "And, as I said, 
 
 These Leighs ! our best blood running 
 in the rut ! 
 
 It's something awful. We had par- 
 doned hira 
 
 A simple misalliance got up aside 
 
 For a pair of sky-blue eyes: the House 
 of Lords 
 
 Has winked at such things, and we've 
 all been young. 
 
 But here's an intermarriage reasoned 
 out, 
 
 A contract (carried Ijoldly to the light 
 
 To challenge observation, pioneer 
 
 Good acts by a great example) 'twixt 
 the extremes 
 
 Of martyrized society, — on the left 
 
 The well-born, on the right the mer- 
 est mob. 
 
 To treat as equals ! — 'tis anarchical; 
 
 It means more than it says; 'tis dam- 
 nable. 
 
 Why, sir, we can't have even our cof- 
 fee good, 
 
 Unless we strain it." 
 
 " Here, Miss Leigh ! " 
 " Lord Howe, 
 
 You're Romney's friend. What's all 
 tliis waiting for? " 
 
 "I cannot tell. The bride has lost 
 her head 
 
 (And way, perhaps) to prove her sym- 
 pathy 
 
 With the bridegroom." 
 
 " What, — you also disapprove ! " 
 
 " Oh, / approve of nothing in the 
 
 world," 
 He answered, " not of you, still less 
 
 of me. 
 Nor even of Romney, though he's 
 
 worth us both. 
 We're all gone wrong. The tune in 
 
 us is lost; 
 And whistling down back alleys to 
 
 the moon 
 W^ill never catch it." 
 
 Let me draw Lord Howe. 
 A born aristocrat, bred radical, 
 And educated socialist, who still 
 Goes floating, on traditions of his 
 
 kind. 
 Across the theoretic flood from 
 
 France, 
 Though, like a drenched Noah on a 
 
 rotten deck, 
 Scarce safer for his place there. He, 
 
 at least, 
 Will never land on Ararat, he knows, 
 To recommence the world on the new 
 
 plan: 
 Indeed, he thinks said world liad bet< 
 
 ter end. 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 He sympathizes rather with the fish 
 
 Outside than with the drowned 
 paired beasts witliiu, 
 
 Who cannot couple again or multi- 
 ply, — 
 
 And that's the sort of Noah he is, 
 Lord Howe. 
 
 He never could be any thing com- 
 plete, 
 
 Except a loyal, upright gentleman, 
 
 A liberal landlord, graceful diner-out, 
 
 And entertainer more than hospita- 
 ble, 
 
 Whom authors dine with, and forget 
 the hock. 
 
 Whatever he believes, and it is much. 
 
 But nowise certain, now here and 
 now there. 
 
 He still has sympathies beyond his 
 creed 
 
 Diverting him from action. In the 
 House 
 
 No party counts upon him, while for 
 all 
 
 His speeches have a noticeable 
 weight. 
 
 Men like his books too (he has writ- 
 ten books). 
 
 Which, safe to lie beside a bishop's 
 chair, 
 
 At times outreach themselves with 
 jets of lire 
 
 At which the foremost of the progress- 
 ists 
 
 May warm audacious hands in pass- 
 ing by. 
 
 Of stature over-tall, lounging for 
 ease; 
 
 Light hair, that seems to carry a wind 
 in it; 
 
 And eyes, that, when they look on 
 you, will lean 
 
 Their whole weight, half in indolence, 
 and half 
 
 In wishing you unmitigated good. 
 
 Until you know not if to flinch from 
 him. 
 
 Or thank him. — 'Tis Lord Howe. 
 
 " We're all gone wrong," 
 
 Said he; "and Romney, that dear 
 friend of ours, 
 
 Is nowise right. There's one true 
 thing on earth. 
 
 That's love: he takes it up, and 
 dresses it. 
 
 And acts a play with it, as Hamlet 
 did, 
 
 To show what cruel uncles we have 
 been, 
 
 And how we should be uneasy in our 
 
 minds, 
 While he. Prince Hamlet, weds a 
 
 pretty maid 
 (Who keeps us too long waiting we'll 
 
 confess) 
 By symbol to instruct us formally 
 To fill the ditches up 'twixt class and 
 
 class, 
 And live together in phalansteries. 
 What then ? — he's mad, our Hamlet ! 
 
 clap his play, 
 And bind him." 
 
 " Ah, Lord Howe ! this spectacle 
 Pulls stronger at us than the Dane's. 
 
 See there ! 
 The crammed aisles heave and strain 
 
 and steam with life. 
 Dear Heaven, what life ! " 
 
 " Why, yes, — a poet sees; 
 Which makes him different from a 
 
 common man. 
 I, too, see somewhat, though I can- 
 not sing: 
 I should have been a poet, only that 
 My mother took fright at the ugly 
 
 world, 
 And bore me tongue-tied. If you'll 
 
 grant me now 
 That Romney gives us a fine actor- 
 piece 
 To make us merry on his marriage- 
 morn, 
 The fable's worse than Hamlet's I'll 
 
 concede. 
 The terrible people, old and poor and 
 
 blind. 
 Their eyes eat out with plague and 
 
 poverty 
 From seeing beautiful and cheerful 
 
 sights, 
 We'll liken to a brutalized King Lear, 
 Led out, — by no means to clear 
 
 scores with wrongs, — 
 His wrongs are so far back, he has 
 
 forgot 
 (All's past like youth); but just to 
 
 witness here 
 A simple contract, — he upon his side, 
 And Kegan with her sister Goneril, 
 And all the dappled courtiers and 
 
 court-fools, 
 On their side. Not that any of these 
 
 would say 
 They're sorry, neither. What is done 
 
 is done. 
 And violence is now turned privilege, 
 As cream turns cheese, if buried long 
 
 enough. 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 73 
 
 What could such lovely ladies have 
 
 to do 
 With the old man there in those ill- 
 odorous rags, 
 Except to keep the wind-side of him ? 
 
 Lear 
 Is flat and quiet, as a decent 
 
 grave : 
 He does not curse his daughters in 
 
 the least. 
 Be these his daughters ? Lear is 
 
 thinking of 
 His porridge chiefly ... is it getting 
 
 cold 
 At Hampstead? will the ale be 
 
 served in pots ? 
 Poor Lear, poor daughters ! Bravo, 
 
 Romney's play." 
 
 A murmur and a movement drew 
 
 around ; 
 A naked whisper touched us. Some- 
 thing wrong ! 
 What's wrong? The black crowd, 
 
 as an overstrained 
 Cord, quivered in vibration, and I 
 
 saw . . . 
 Was that his face I saw ? . . . his 
 
 . . . Romney Leigh's . . . 
 Which tossed a sudden horror like a 
 
 sponge 
 Into all eyes, while himself stood 
 
 white upon 
 The topmost altar-stair, and tried to 
 
 speak. 
 And failed, and lifted higher above 
 
 his head 
 A letter ... as a man who drowns 
 
 and gasps. 
 
 " My brothers, bear with me ! I am 
 
 very weak. 
 I meant but only good. Perhaps I 
 
 meant 
 Too proudly, and God snatched the 
 
 circumstance. 
 And changed it therefore. There's 
 
 no marriage — none. 
 She leaves me, — she deimrls, — she 
 
 disappears, 
 I lose her. Yet I never forced her 
 
 'ay,' 
 To have her 'no' so cast into my 
 
 teeth 
 In manner of an accusation, thus. 
 My friends you are dismissed. Go, 
 
 eat and drink 
 According to the programme — and 
 
 farewell ! " 
 
 He ended. There was silence in the 
 
 church. 
 We heard a baby sucking in its sleep 
 At the farthest end of the aisle. Then 
 
 spoke a man, 
 "Now, look to it, coves, that all the 
 
 beef and drink 
 Be not filched from us, like the other 
 
 fun; 
 For beer's spilt easier than a wo- 
 man's lost ! 
 This gentry is not honest with the 
 
 poor: 
 They bring us up, to trick us." — "Go 
 
 it, Jim ! " 
 A woman screamed back. " I"m a 
 
 tender soul ; 
 I never banged a child at two years 
 
 old. 
 And drew blood from him, but I 
 
 sobbed for it 
 Next moment, and I've had a plague 
 
 of seven. 
 I'm tender: I've no stomach even for 
 
 beef, 
 Until I know about the girl that's 
 
 lost, 
 That's killed mayhap. I did mis- 
 doubt at first. 
 The flue lord meant no good by her 
 
 or us. 
 He, maybe, got the upper hand of her 
 By holding up a wedding-ring, and 
 
 then . . . 
 A choking finger on her throat last 
 
 night. 
 And just a clever tale to keep us still, 
 As she is, poor lost innocent. 'Dis- 
 appear ! ' 
 Who ever disappears, except a ghost? 
 And who believes a story of a ghost ? 
 I ask you, would a girl go off, instead 
 Of staying to be married ? A fine 
 
 tale! 
 A wicked man, I say, a wicked man I 
 For my part I would rather starve on 
 
 gin 
 Than make my dinner on his beef and 
 
 beer." 
 At which a cry rose up, " We'll have 
 
 our rights. 
 We'll have the girl, the girl ! Your 
 
 ladies there 
 Are married safely and smoothly 
 
 every day. 
 And she shall not drop through into a 
 
 trap 
 Because she's poor and of the people. 
 
 Shame ! 
 
i 
 
 74 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 We'll have no tricks played off by 
 
 gentle folks. 
 We'll see her righted." 
 
 Through the rage and roar 
 I heard the broken words which Rom- 
 
 ney flung 
 Among the turbulent masses, from 
 
 the ground 
 He held still with his masterful pale 
 
 face, 
 As huntsmen throw the ration to the 
 
 pack, 
 Who, falling on it headlong dog on 
 
 dog 
 In heaps of fury, rend it, swallow it 
 
 up 
 With yelling hound-jaws, — his in- 
 dignant words, 
 His suppliant words, his most pa- 
 thetic words. 
 Whereof I caught the meaning here 
 
 and there 
 By his gesture . . . torn in morsels, 
 
 yelled across. 
 And so devoured. From end to end, 
 
 the church 
 Rocked round us like the sea in 
 
 storm, and then 
 Broke up like the earth in earth- 
 quake. Men cried out, 
 " Police ! " and women stood, and 
 
 shrieked for God, 
 Or dropt and swooned ; or, like a herd 
 
 of deer, 
 (For whom the black woods suddenly 
 
 grow alive, 
 Unleashing their wild shadows down 
 
 the wind 
 To hunt the creatures into corners, 
 
 back 
 And forward), madly fled, or blindly 
 
 fell. 
 Trod screeching underneath the feet 
 
 of those 
 Who fled and screeched. 
 
 The last sight left to me 
 Was Romney's terrible calm face 
 
 above 
 The tumult. The last sound was, 
 
 " Pull him down ! 
 Strike — kill him!" Stretching my 
 
 unreasoning arms, 
 As men in dreams, who vainly inter- 
 pose 
 'Twixt gods and their undoing, with 
 
 a cry 
 I struggled to precipitate myself 
 Headforemost to the rescue of my 
 
 soul 
 
 In that white face . . . till some one 
 
 caught me back. 
 And so the world went out, — I felt 
 
 no more. 
 
 What followed was told after by Lord 
 Howe, 
 
 Who bore me senseless from the 
 strangling crowd 
 
 In church and street, and then re- 
 turned alone 
 
 To see the tumult quelled. The men 
 of law 
 
 Had fallen as thunder on a roaring 
 fire, 
 
 And made all silent, while the peo- 
 ple's smoke 
 
 Passed eddying slowly from the emp- 
 tied aisles. 
 
 Here's Marian's letter, which a rag- 
 ged child 
 Brouglit running, just as Romney at 
 
 the porch 
 Looked out expectant of the bride. 
 
 He sent 
 The letter to me by his friend, Lord 
 
 Howe, 
 Some two hours after, folded in a 
 
 sheet 
 On which his well-known hand had 
 
 left a word. 
 Here's Marian's letter. 
 
 " Noble friend, dear saint, 
 Be patient with me. Never think me 
 
 vile. 
 Who might to-morrow morning be 
 
 your wife 
 But that I loved you more than such 
 
 a name. 
 Farewell, my Romney. Let me write 
 
 it once, — 
 My Romney. 
 
 " 'Tis so pretty a coupled word, 
 I have no heart to pluck it with a 
 
 blot. 
 We say, ' My God ' sometimes, upon 
 
 our knees. 
 Who is not therefore vexed : so bear 
 
 with it . . . 
 And me. I know I'm foolish, weak, 
 
 and vain ; 
 Yet most of all I'm angry with myself 
 For losing your last footstep on the 
 
 stair 
 That last time of your coming, — yes- 
 terday ! 
 The very first time I lost step of 
 
 yours. 
 
AURORA LETGH. 
 
 (Its sweetness comes the iiuxt to what 
 
 yoti speak,) 
 But yesterday sobs took me by the 
 
 throat 
 And cut me off from music. 
 
 " Mister Leigh, 
 You'll set me down as wrong in many 
 
 things. 
 You've praised me, sir, for truth — 
 
 and now you'll learn 
 I had not courage to be rightly true. 
 I once began to tell you how she 
 
 came, 
 The woman . . . and you stared upon 
 
 the floor 
 In one of your fixed thoughts . . . 
 
 which put me out 
 For that day. After, some one spoke 
 
 of me 
 So wisely, and of you so tenderly. 
 Persuading me to silence for your 
 
 sake . . . 
 Well, well ! it seems this moment I 
 
 was wrong 
 In keeping back from telling you the 
 
 truth : 
 There might be truth betwixt us two, 
 
 at least. 
 If nothing else. And yet 'twas dan- 
 gerous. 
 Suppose a real angel came from 
 
 heaven 
 To live with men and women ! he'd 
 
 go mad, 
 If no considerate hand should tie a 
 
 blind 
 Across his piercing eyes. 'Tis thus 
 
 with you: 
 You see us too much in your heavenly 
 
 light. 
 I always thought so, angel, and in- 
 deed 
 There's danger that you beat yourself 
 
 to death 
 Against the edges of this alien world, 
 In some divine and fluttering pity. 
 
 "Yes, 
 It would be dreadful for a friend of 
 
 yours 
 To see all England thrust you out of 
 
 doors, 
 And mock you from the windows. 
 
 You might say, 
 Or think (that's worse), ' There's some 
 
 one in the house 
 I miss and love still.' Dreadful ! 
 
 " Very kind, 
 I pray you, mark, was Lady Walde- 
 
 mar. 
 
 She came to see me nine times, rather 
 
 ten — 
 So beautiful, she hurts one like the 
 
 day 
 Let suddenly on sick eyes. 
 
 " Most kind of all. 
 Your cousin — ah, most like you I 
 
 Ere you came 
 She kissed me mouth to mouth: I 
 
 felt her soul 
 Dip through her serious lips in holy 
 
 fire. 
 God help me; but it made me arro- 
 gant. 
 I almost told her that you would not 
 
 lose 
 By taking me to wife; though ever 
 
 since 
 I've pondered much a certain thing 
 
 she asked . . . 
 'He loves you, Marian?' ... in a 
 
 sort of mild 
 Derisive sadness ... as a mother 
 
 asks 
 Her babe, 'You'll touch that star, 
 
 you think ? ' 
 
 " Farewell ! 
 I know I never touched it. 
 
 " This is worst: 
 Babes grow, and lose the hope of 
 
 things above: 
 A silver threepence sets them leaping 
 
 high — 
 But no more stars ! mark that. 
 
 " I've writ all night. 
 Yet told you nothing. God, if I could 
 
 die. 
 And let this letter break off innocent 
 Just here ! But no — for your 
 
 " Here's the last: 
 I never could be happy as your wife, 
 I never could be harmless as your 
 
 friend, 
 I never will look more into your face 
 Till God says, ' Look ! ' I charge you 
 
 seek me not, 
 Nor vex yourself with lamentable 
 
 thoughts 
 That i^erad venture I have come to 
 
 grief; 
 Be sure I'm well, I'm merry, I'm at 
 
 ease, 
 But such a long way, long way, long 
 
 way off, 
 I think you'll find me sooner in my 
 
 grave. 
 And that's my choice, observe. For 
 
 what remains. 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 An over-generous friend will care for 
 
 me, 
 And keep me happy . . . happier . . . 
 " There's a blot ! 
 This ink runs thick . . . we light 
 
 girls lightly weep . . . 
 And keep me happier . . . was the 
 
 thing to say, 
 Than as your wife I could be. — Oh, 
 
 my star, 
 My saint, my soul ! for surely you're 
 
 my soul, 
 Through whom God touched me ! I 
 
 am not so lost 
 I cannot thank you for the good you 
 
 did. 
 The tears you stopped, which fell 
 
 down bitterly, 
 Like these — the times you made me 
 
 weep for joy 
 At hoping I should learn to write 
 
 your notes, 
 And save the tiring of your eyes at 
 
 night; 
 And most for that sweet thrice you 
 
 kissed my lips. 
 Saying, ' Dear Marian.' 
 
 " 'T would be hard to read, 
 This letter, for a reader half as 
 
 learned ; 
 But you'll be sure to master it in 
 
 spite 
 Of ups and downs. My hand shakes, 
 
 I am blind; 
 I'm poor at writing at the best — and 
 
 yet 
 I tried to make my ^s the way you 
 
 showed. 
 Farewell ! Christ love you ! Say, 
 
 ' Poor Marian ! ' now." 
 
 Poor Marian! — wanton Marian! — 
 
 was it so. 
 Or so? For days, her touching, fool- 
 ish lines 
 We mused on with conjectural fan- 
 tasy. 
 As if some riddle of a summer-cloud 
 On which one tries unlike similitudes, 
 Of now a spotted hydra-skin cast off. 
 And now a screen of carven ivory 
 That shuts the heavens' conventual 
 
 secrets up 
 From mortals over-bold. We sought 
 
 the sense. 
 She loved him so perhaps (such words 
 
 mean love,) 
 That, worked on by some shrewd per- 
 fidious tongue, 
 
 (And then I thought of Lady Walde- 
 mar) 
 
 She left him not to hurt him; or per- 
 haps 
 
 She loved one in her class; or did not 
 love. 
 
 But mused upon her wild bad tramp- 
 ing life. 
 
 Until the free blood fluttered at her 
 heart. 
 
 And black bread eaten by the road- 
 side hedge 
 
 Seemed sweeter than being put to 
 Romney's school 
 
 Of philanthropical self-sacrifice 
 
 Irrevocably. Girls are girls, be- 
 side. 
 
 Thought I, and like a wedding by one 
 rule. 
 
 You seldom catch these birds except 
 with chaff. 
 
 They feel it almost an immoral thing 
 
 To go out and be married in broad 
 day. 
 
 Unless some winning special flattery 
 should 
 
 Excuse them to themselves for't. . . . 
 " No one parts 
 
 Her hair with such a silver line as 
 you. 
 
 One moonbeam from tlie forehead to 
 the crown! " 
 
 Or else ..." You bite your lip in 
 such a way 
 
 It spoils me for the smiling of the 
 rest; " 
 
 And so on. Then a worthless gaud or 
 two 
 
 To keep for love, — a ribbon for the 
 neck. 
 
 Or some glass pin, — they have their 
 weight with girls. 
 
 And Romney sought her many days 
 
 and weeks. 
 He sifted all the refuse of the town, 
 Explored the trains, inquired among 
 
 the ships, 
 And felt the country through from 
 
 end to end; 
 No Marian! Though I hinted what 
 
 I knew, — 
 A friend of his had reasons of her 
 
 own 
 For throwing back the match, — he 
 
 would not hear: 
 The lady had been ailing ever since, 
 The shock had harmed her. Some- 
 thing in his tone 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 i i 
 
 Repressed me ; something in me 
 shamed my doubt 
 
 To a sigh repressed too. He went on 
 to say, 
 
 That, putting questions where his 
 Marian lodged. 
 
 He found she had received for vis- 
 itors — 
 
 Besides himself and Lady Waldemar, 
 
 And, that once, me — a dubious wo- 
 man dressed 
 
 Beyond us both: the rings upon her 
 hands 
 
 Had dazed the children when she 
 threw them pence; 
 
 " She wore her bonnet as the queen 
 might hers, 
 
 To show the crown," they said, — "a 
 scarlet crown 
 
 Of roses that had never been in bud." 
 
 "When Romney told me that, for now 
 
 and then 
 He came to tell me how the search 
 
 advanced, 
 His voice dropped. I bent forward for 
 
 the rest. 
 The woman had been with her, it ajv 
 
 peared. 
 At first from week to week, then day 
 
 by day 
 And last, 'twas sure . . . 
 
 I looked upon the ground 
 To escape the anguish of his eyes, and 
 
 asked, 
 As low as when you speak to mourn- 
 ers new 
 Of those they cannot bear yet to call 
 
 dead, 
 " If Marian had as much as named to 
 
 him 
 A certain Rose, an early friend of 
 
 hers, 
 A ruined creature." 
 
 " Never! " Starting up, 
 He strode from side to side about the 
 
 room. 
 Most like some prisoned lion sprung 
 
 awake. 
 Who has felt the desert sting him 
 
 through his dreams. 
 " What was I to lier, that she should 
 
 tell me aught ? 
 A friend! was I a friend? I see all 
 
 clear. 
 Such devils would pull angels out of 
 
 heaven. 
 Provided they could reach them: 'tis 
 
 their pride, 
 
 And that's the odds 'twixt soul and 
 
 body plague! 
 The veriest slave who drops in Cairo's 
 
 street 
 Cries, "Stand off from me!" to the 
 
 passengers; 
 While these blotched souls are eager 
 
 to infect. 
 And blow their bad breath in a sister's 
 
 face, 
 As if they got some ease by it." 
 
 I broke through. 
 
 " Some natures catch no plagues. I've 
 read of babes 
 
 Found whole, and sleeping by the 
 sjiotted breast 
 
 Of one a full day dead. I hold it 
 true, 
 
 As I'm a woman and know woman- 
 hood, 
 
 That Marian Erie, however lured from 
 place, 
 
 Deceived in way, keeps pure in aim 
 and heart 
 
 As snow that's drifted from the gar- 
 den-bank 
 
 To the open road." 
 
 'Twas hard to hear him laugh. 
 
 "The figure's hapjjy. Well, a dozen 
 carts 
 
 And trampers will secure you pres- 
 ently 
 
 A fine white snow-drift. Leave it 
 there, your snow! 
 
 'Twill pass for soot ere sunset. Pure 
 in aim ? 
 
 She's pure in aim, I grant you, like 
 myself. 
 
 Who thought to take the world upon 
 my back 
 
 To carrj' it o'er a chasm of social 
 ill. 
 
 And end by letting slip, through im- 
 potence, 
 
 A single soul, a child's Aveight in a 
 soul. 
 
 Straight down the pit of hell! Yes, I 
 and she 
 
 Have reason to be proud of our pure 
 aims." 
 
 Then softly, as the last repenting 
 drops 
 
 Of a thunder-shower, he added, " The 
 poor child. 
 
 Poor Marian! 'twas a luckless day for 
 her. 
 
 When first she chanced on my philan- 
 thropy." 
 
 I 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 He drew a chair beside me, and sate 
 
 down ; 
 And I instinctively — as women use 
 Before a sweet friend's grief, when 
 
 in his ear 
 They hum the tune of comfort, though 
 
 themselves 
 Most ignorant of the special words of 
 
 such, 
 And quiet so and fortify his brain, 
 And give it time and strength for feel- 
 ing out 
 To reach the availing sense beyond 
 
 that sound — 
 "Went murmuring to him what, if 
 
 written here, 
 Would seem not much, yet fetched 
 
 him better help 
 Than peradventure if it had been 
 
 more. 
 
 I've known the pregnant thinkers of 
 
 our time, 
 And stood by breathless, hanging on 
 
 their lips. 
 When some chromatic sequence of 
 
 fine thought 
 In learned modulation phrased itself 
 To an iinconjectured harmony of 
 
 truth ; 
 And yet I've been more moved, more 
 
 raised, I say, 
 By a simple word ... a broken, easy 
 
 thing 
 A three-years infant might at need 
 
 repeat, 
 A look, a sigh, a touch upon the palm. 
 Which meant less than " I love you," 
 
 than by all 
 The full-voiced rhetoric of those mas- 
 ter-mouths. 
 
 " Ah, dear Aurora," he began at last. 
 His pale lips fumbling for a sort of 
 
 smile, 
 " Your i^rinter's devils have not spoilt 
 
 your heart: 
 That's well. And who knows, but 
 
 long years ago 
 When you and I talked, you were 
 
 somewhat right 
 In being so peevish with me ? You, 
 
 at least. 
 Have ruined no one through your 
 
 dreams. Instead, 
 You've helped the facile youth to live 
 
 youth's day 
 With innocent distraction, still, per- 
 haps 
 
 Suggestive of things better than your 
 
 rhymes. 
 The little shepherd-maiden, eight 
 
 years old, 
 I've seen upon the mountains of Vau- 
 
 cluse. 
 Asleep i' the sun, her head upon her 
 
 knees. 
 The flocks all scattered, is more lau- 
 dable 
 Than any sheep-dog trained imper- 
 fectly. 
 Who bites the kids through too much 
 
 zeal." 
 
 " I look 
 As if I had slept, then ? " 
 
 He was toixched at once 
 By something in my face. Indeed, 
 
 'twas sure 
 That he and I, despite a year or two 
 Of younger life on my side, and on 
 
 his 
 The heaping of the years' work on 
 
 the days, 
 The three-hour speeches from the 
 
 member's seat. 
 The hot committees in and out of 
 
 doors, 
 The pamphlets, "Arguments," "Col- 
 lective Views," 
 Tossed out as straw before sick 
 
 houses, just 
 To show one's sick, and so be trod to 
 
 dirt. 
 And no more use, — through this 
 
 world's underground 
 The burrowing, groping effort. 
 
 whence the arm 
 And heart come torn, — 'twas sure 
 
 that he and I 
 Were, after all, unequally fatigued; 
 That he, in his developed manhood, 
 
 stood 
 A little sunburnt by the glare of 
 
 life, 
 While I ... it seemed no sun had 
 
 shone on me, 
 So many seasons I had missed my 
 
 springs. 
 My cheeks had pined and perished 
 
 from their orbs. 
 And all the youth-blood in them had 
 
 grown white 
 As dew on autumn cyclamens: alone 
 My eyes and forehead answered for 
 
 my face. 
 
 He said, " Aurora, you are changed 
 — are ill!" 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 " Not so, luy cousin, — only not 
 asleep," 
 
 I answered, smiling gently. " Let it 
 be. 
 
 You scarcely found the poet of Vau- 
 cluse 
 
 As drowsy as the shepherds. What 
 is art 
 
 But life upon the larger scale, the 
 higher, 
 
 "When, graduating up in a spiral line 
 
 Of still expanding and ascending 
 gyres, 
 
 It pushes toward the intense signifi- 
 cance 
 
 Of all things, hungry for the Infinite? 
 
 Art's life; and where we live, we suf- 
 fer and toil." 
 
 He seemed to sift me with his painful 
 eyes. 
 
 "You take it gravely, cousin: you 
 refuse 
 
 Your dreamland's right of common, 
 and green rest. 
 
 You break the mythic turf where 
 danced the ftymphs. 
 
 With crooked ploughs of actual life, 
 let in 
 
 The axes to the legendary woods. 
 
 To pay the poll-tax. You are fallen 
 indeed 
 
 On evil days, you poets, if your- 
 selves 
 
 Can praise that art of yours no other- 
 wise; 
 
 And if you cannot . . . better take 
 a trade 
 
 And be of use: 'twere cheaper for 
 your youth." 
 
 " Of use ! " I softly echoed, " there's 
 
 the point 
 We sweep about forever in argument, 
 Like swallows which the exasperate, 
 
 dying year 
 Sets spinning in black circles, round 
 
 and round. 
 Preparing for far flights o'er unknown 
 
 seas. 
 And we — where tend we ? " 
 
 "Where?" he said, and sighed. 
 " The whole creation, from the hour 
 
 we are born, 
 Perplexes us with questions. Not a 
 
 stone 
 But cries behind us, every weary step, 
 ' Where, where ? ' I leave stones to 
 
 reply to stones. 
 
 Enough for me and for my Heshly 
 
 heart 
 To hearken the invocations of my 
 
 kind, 
 When men catch liold upon my shud- 
 dering nerves. 
 And shriek, ' What help? what hope ? 
 
 what bread i' the house ? 
 What fire 1' the frost ? ' There must 
 
 be some response, 
 Though mine fail iitterly. This social 
 
 Sphinx 
 Who sits between the sepulchres and 
 
 stews. 
 Makes mock and mow against the 
 
 crystal heavens, 
 And bullies God, — exacts a word at 
 
 least 
 From each man standing on the side 
 
 of God, 
 However paying a sphinx-price for 
 
 it. 
 We pay it also, if we hold our peace, 
 In pangs and pity. Let me speak 
 
 and die. 
 Alas ! you'll say I speak and kill in- 
 stead." 
 
 I pressed in there. "The best men, 
 doing their best. 
 
 Know peradventure least of what 
 they do; 
 
 Men usefuUest i' the world are simply 
 used; 
 
 The nail tlaat holds the wood must 
 pierce it first; 
 
 And he alone who wields the ham- 
 mer sees 
 
 The work advanced by the earliest 
 blow. Take heart." 
 
 " Ah, if I could have taken yours ! " 
 
 he said — 
 " But that's past now." Then rising, 
 
 — " I will take 
 At least your kindness and encour- 
 agement. 
 I thank you. Dear, be happy. Sing 
 
 your songs, 
 If that's your way; but sometimes 
 
 slumber too. 
 Nor tire too much with following, out 
 
 of breath, 
 The rhymes upon your mountains of 
 
 Delight. 
 Reflect, if art be in truth the higher 
 
 life. 
 You need the lower life to stand upon 
 In order to reach up unto that higher; 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 And none can stand a-tiptoe in the 
 
 place 
 He cannot stand in with two stable 
 
 feet. 
 Remember then ! for art's sake hold 
 , your life. 
 
 We parted so. I held him in respect. 
 1 comprehended what he was in heart 
 And sacrificial gteatness. Ay, but 
 
 he 
 Supposed me a thing too small to 
 
 deign to know. 
 He blew me, plainly, from the cruci- 
 ble 
 As some intruding, interrupting fly, 
 Not worth the pains of his analysis 
 Absorbed on nobler subjects. Hurt 
 
 a fly! 
 He would not for the world: he s 
 
 pitiful 
 To flies even. " Sing," says he, " and 
 
 tease me still. 
 If that's your way, poor insect." 
 
 That's your way ! 
 
 FIFTH BOOK. 
 
 Aurora Leigh, be humble. Shall I 
 hope 
 
 To speak my poems in mysterious 
 tune 
 
 With man and nature ? with the lava- 
 lymph 
 
 That trickles from successive galaxies 
 
 Still drop by drop adown the finger 
 of God 
 
 In still new worlds? with summer- 
 days in this 
 
 That scarce dare breathe, they are so 
 beautiful ? 
 
 With spring's delicious trouble in the 
 ground, 
 
 Tormented by the quickened blood of 
 roots. 
 
 And softly pricked by golden crocus- 
 sheaves 
 
 In token of the harvest-time of flow- 
 ers ? 
 
 With winters and with autumns, and 
 beyond 
 
 With the human heart's large sea- 
 sons, when it hopes 
 
 And fears, joys, grieves, and loves ? 
 with all that strain 
 
 Of sexual passion, which devours the 
 
 flesh 
 In a sacrament of souls ? with moth- 
 er's breasts, 
 Which, round the new-made crea- 
 tures hanging there. 
 Throb luminous and harmonious like 
 
 pure sjjheres ? 
 With multitudinous life, and, finally, 
 With the great escapings of ecstatic 
 
 souls. 
 Who, in a rush of too long prisoned 
 
 flame. 
 Their radiant faces upward, burn 
 
 away 
 This dark of the bodj , issuing on a 
 
 world 
 Beyond our mortal ? Can i speak my 
 
 verse 
 So plainly in tune to these things and 
 
 the rest, 
 That men shall feel it catch them on 
 
 the quick. 
 As having the same warrant over 
 
 them 
 To hold and move them, if they will 
 
 or no. 
 Alike imperious as the primal rhythm 
 Of that theurgic nature ? I must fail, 
 Who fail at the beginning to hold and 
 
 move 
 One man, and he my cousin, and he 
 
 my friend, 
 And he born tender, made intelligent. 
 Inclined to ponder the precipitous 
 
 sides 
 Of difficult questions, yet obtuse to 
 
 me, 
 Of me, incurious ! likes me very 
 
 well. 
 And wishes me a paradise of good, — 
 Good looks, good means, and good 
 
 digestion, — ay. 
 But otherwise evades me, puts me ofE 
 With kindness, with a tolerant gen- 
 tleness, — 
 Too light a book for a grave man's 
 
 reading ! Go, 
 Aurora Leigh: be humble. 
 
 There it is, 
 We women are too apt to look to one. 
 Which proves a certain impotence in 
 
 art. 
 We strain our natures at doing some- 
 thing great. 
 Far less because it's something great 
 
 to do 
 Than haply that we, so, commend 
 
 ourselves 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 As being not small, and more appre- 
 ciable 
 
 To some one friend. We must bave 
 mediators 
 
 Betwixt our highest conscience and 
 the judge ; 
 
 Some sweet saint's blood must quick- 
 en in our palms, 
 
 Or all the life in heaven seems slow 
 and cold; 
 
 Good only being perceived as the end 
 of good, 
 
 And God alone pleased, — that's too 
 poor, we think. 
 
 And not enough for us by any means. 
 
 Ay, Romney, I remember, told me 
 once 
 
 We miss the abstract when we com- 
 prehend; 
 
 We miss it most when we aspire, — 
 and fail. 
 
 Yet, so, I will not. This vile wo- 
 man's way 
 
 Of trailing garments shall not trip 
 me up: 
 
 I'll have no traffic with the personal 
 thought 
 
 In art's pure temple. Must I work 
 in vain. 
 
 Without the approbation of a man ? 
 
 It cannot be; it shall not. Fame it- 
 self, 
 
 That approbation of the general 
 race. 
 
 Presents a poor end, (though the ar- 
 row speed 
 
 Shot straight with vigorous finger to 
 the white,) 
 
 And the highest fame was never 
 reached except 
 
 By what was aimed above it. Art for 
 art. 
 
 And good for God himself, the essen- 
 tial Good ! 
 
 We'll keep our aims sublime, our 
 eyes erect, 
 
 Although our woman-hands should 
 shake and fail; 
 
 And if we fail . . . But must we ? — 
 
 Shall I fail ? 
 
 The Greeks said grandly in their 
 tragic phrase, 
 
 " Let no one be called happy till his 
 death." 
 
 To which I add. Let no one till his 
 death 
 
 Be called unhappy. Measure not the 
 work 
 
 Until the da^^'s out and the labor 
 done ; 
 
 Then bring your gauges. If the day's 
 work's scant, 
 
 Why, call it scant; affect no compro- 
 mise; 
 
 And, in that we've nobly striven at 
 least. 
 
 Deal with us nobly, women though 
 we be. 
 
 And honor us with truth, if not with 
 praise. 
 
 My ballads prospered; but the bal- 
 lad's race 
 
 Is rapid for a poet who bears weights 
 
 Of thought and golden image. He 
 can stand 
 
 Like Atlas, in the sonnet, and sup- 
 port 
 
 His own heavei:8 pregnant with dy- 
 nastic stars; 
 
 But then he must stand still, nor take 
 a step. 
 
 In that descriptive poem called " The 
 Hills," 
 
 The prospects were too far and indis- 
 tinct. 
 
 'Tis true my critics said, " A fine 
 view, that ! " 
 
 The public scarcely cared to climb my 
 book 
 
 For even the finest, and the public's 
 right: 
 
 A tree's mere firewood, unless hu- 
 manized; 
 
 Which well the Greeks knew when 
 they stirred its bark 
 
 With close-pressed bosoms of subsid- 
 ing nymphs, 
 
 And made the forest-rivers garru- 
 lous 
 
 With babble of gods. For us, we are 
 called to mark 
 
 A still more intimate humanity 
 
 In this inferior nature, or our- 
 selves 
 
 Must fall like dead leaves trodden 
 underfoot 
 
 By veritable artists. Earth (shut 
 up 
 
 By Adam, like a fakir in a box 
 
 Left too long buried) remained stiff 
 and dry, 
 
 A mere dumb corpse, till Christ the 
 Lord came down. 
 
 Unlocked the doors, forced open the 
 blank eyes, 
 
82 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 And used his kiygly chrism to 
 
 straighten out 
 The leathery tongue turned hack into 
 
 the throat; 
 Since when, she lives, remembers, 
 
 palpitates 
 In every limb, aspires in every 
 
 breath, 
 Embraces infinite relations. Now 
 "We want no half-gods, Panomphiean 
 
 Joves, 
 Fauns, Naiads, Tritons, Oreads, and 
 
 the rest. 
 To take possession of a senseless 
 
 world 
 To unnatural vampire-uses. See the 
 
 earth. 
 The body of our body, the green 
 
 earth, 
 "indubitably human like this flesh 
 And these articulated veins through 
 
 which 
 Our heart drives blood ! There's not 
 
 a flower of spring 
 That dies ere June, but vaunts itself 
 
 allied 
 By issue and symbol, by significance 
 And correspondence, to that spirit- 
 world 
 Outside the limits of our space and 
 
 time. 
 Whereto we are bound. Let poets 
 
 give it voice 
 With human meanings, else they 
 
 miss the thought. 
 And henceforth step down lower, 
 
 stand confessed 
 Instructed poorly for interpreters, 
 Thrown out by an easy cowslip in the 
 
 text. 
 
 Even so my pastoral failed: it was a 
 book 
 
 Of surface-pictures, pretty, cold, and 
 false 
 
 With literal transcript, — the worse 
 done, I think, 
 
 For being not ill done : let me set my 
 mark 
 
 Against such doings, and do other- 
 wise. 
 
 This strikes me. — If the public whom 
 we know 
 
 Could catch me at such admissions, I 
 should pass 
 
 For being right modest. Yet how 
 proud we are 
 
 In daring to look down upon our- 
 selves ! 
 
 The critics say that epics have died 
 out 
 
 With Agamemnon and the goat- 
 nursed gods: 
 
 I'll not believe it. I could never deem, 
 
 As Payne Knight did, (the mythic 
 mountaineer 
 
 Who travelled higher than he was 
 born to live. 
 
 And showed sometimes the goitre in 
 his throat 
 
 Discoursing of an image seen through 
 
 fog,) 
 
 That Homer's heroes measured 
 twelve feet high. 
 
 They were but men: his Helen's 
 hair turned gray 
 
 Like any plain Miss Smith's who 
 wears a front ; 
 
 And Hector's infant whimpered at a 
 plume 
 
 As yours last Friday at a turkey- 
 cock. 
 
 All actual heroes are essential men. 
 
 And all men possible heroes: every 
 age, 
 
 Heroic in proportions, double-faced, 
 
 Looks backward and before, expects 
 a morn 
 
 And claims an epos. 
 
 Ay; but every age 
 
 Appears to souls who live in't (ask 
 Carlyle) 
 
 Most unheroic. Ours, for instance, 
 ours — 
 
 The thinkers scout it, and the poets 
 aboiind 
 
 Who scorn to touch it with a finger- 
 tip — 
 
 A pewter age, mixed metal, silver- 
 washed — 
 
 An age of scum, spooned off the richer 
 past, — 
 
 An age of patches for old gaberdines, 
 
 An age of mere transition, meaning 
 nought 
 
 Except that what succeeds must 
 shame it quite 
 
 If God please. That's wrong think- 
 ing, to my mind. 
 
 And wrong thoughts make poor po- 
 ems. 
 
 Every age. 
 
 Through being beheld too close, is ill 
 discerned 
 
 By those who have not lived past it. 
 We'll suppose 
 
 Mount Athos carved, as Alexander 
 schemed, 
 
 i 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 To some colossal statue of a man. 
 
 The peasants, gathering brushwood 
 in his ear, 
 
 Had guessed as little as the browsing 
 goats 
 
 Of form or feature of humanitj' 
 
 Up there, — in fact, had travelled five 
 miles off 
 
 Or ere the giant image broke on them, 
 
 Full human profile, nose and chin 
 distinct. 
 
 Mouth muttering rhythms of silence 
 up the sky, 
 \ And feci at evening with the blood of 
 
 sons; 
 
 Grand torso, — hand tliat flung per- 
 petually 
 
 The largesse of a silver river down 
 
 To all the country pastures. 'Tis 
 even thus 
 
 With times we live in, — evermore 
 too great 
 
 To be apprehended near. 
 
 But poets should 
 
 Exert a double vision; should have 
 eyes 
 
 To see' near things as comprehen- 
 sively 
 
 As if afar they took their point of 
 sight. 
 
 And distant things as intimately deep 
 
 As if they touched tliem. Let us 
 strive for this. 
 
 I do distrust the poet who discerns 
 
 No character or glory in his times, 
 
 And trundles back his soul five hun- 
 dred years, 
 
 Past moat and drawbridge, into a 
 castle-court. 
 
 To sing — oh, not of lizard or of toad 
 
 Alive i' the ditch there, — 'twere ex- 
 cusable. 
 
 But of some black chief, half knight, 
 half sheep-lifter. 
 
 Some beauteous dame, half chattel 
 and half queen, 
 I As dead as must he, for the greater 
 
 part. 
 
 The poems made on their chivalric 
 bones ; 
 
 And that's no wonder: death inherits 
 death. 
 ■ ) 
 
 Nay, if there's room for poets in this 
 world 
 
 A little overgrown, (I think there is) 
 
 Their sole work is to represent the age, 
 
 Their age, not Charlemagne's,— this 
 live, throbbing age, 
 
 That brawls, cheats, maddens, calcu- 
 lates, asi^ires, 
 
 And spends more passion, more hero- 
 ic heat, 
 
 Betwixt the mirrors of its drawing- 
 rooms. 
 
 Than Roland with his knights at 
 Roncesvalles. 
 
 To flinch from modern varnish, coat, 
 or flounce. 
 
 Cry out for togas and the picturesque, 
 
 Is fatal, — foolish too. King Arthur's 
 self 
 
 Was commonplace to Lady Guinevere ; 
 
 And Camelot to minstrels seemed as 
 flat 
 
 As Fleet Street to our poets. 
 
 Never flinch. 
 
 But still, unscrupvilously epic, catch 
 
 Upon the burning lava of a song 
 
 The full-veined, heaving, double- 
 breasted age. 
 
 That, when the next shall come, the 
 . men of that 
 
 May touch the impress with reverent 
 hand, and say, 
 
 " Behold, behold, the paps we all 
 have sucked ! 
 
 This bosom seems to beat still, or at 
 least 
 
 It sets ours beating: this is living art, 
 
 Which thus presents and thus records 
 true life." 
 
 What form is best for poems ? Let 
 
 me think 
 Of forms less, and the external 
 
 Trust the spirit. 
 As sovran natiire does, to make the 
 
 form; 
 For otherwise we only imprison 
 
 spirit 
 And not embody. Inward evermore 
 To outward, — so in life, and so in art. 
 Which still is life. 
 
 Five acts to make a play. 
 And why not fifteen ? why not ten ? 
 
 or seven ? 
 What matter for the number of the 
 
 leaves, 
 Supposing the tree lives and grows ? 
 
 exact 
 The literal unities of time and place. 
 When 'tis the essence of passion to 
 
 ignore 
 Both time and place ? Absurd. Keep 
 
 up the fire. 
 And leave the generous flames to 
 
 shape themselves. 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 'Ti8 true the stage requires obsequi- 
 ousness 
 To this or that convention; "exit" 
 
 here 
 And "enter" there; the points for 
 
 clapping fixed, 
 Like Jacob's white-jieeled rods before 
 
 the rams; 
 And all the close-curled imagery 
 
 clipped 
 In manner of their fleece at shearing- 
 time. 
 Forget to prick tlie galleries to the 
 
 heart 
 Precisely at the fourth act, culminate 
 Our five i>yramidal acts with one act 
 
 more, 
 We're lost so: Shakspeare's ghost 
 
 could scarcely plead 
 Against our just damnation. Stand 
 
 aside; 
 We'll muse, for comfort, that last 
 
 century, 
 On this same tragic stage on which 
 
 we have failed, 
 A wigless Hamlet v^^ould have failed 
 
 the same. 
 
 And whosoever writes good poetry 
 Looks just to art. He does not write 
 
 for you 
 Or me, for Loudon or for Edinburgh; 
 He will not suffer the best critic 
 
 known 
 To step into his sunshine of free 
 
 thought 
 And self-absorbed conception, and 
 
 exact 
 An inch-long swerving of the holy 
 
 lines. 
 If virtue done for ijopularity 
 Defiles like vice, can art, for praise or 
 
 hire, 
 Still keep its splendor, and remain 
 
 pure art ? 
 Eschew such serfdom. What the 
 
 poet writes. 
 He writes. Mankind accepts it if it 
 
 suits. 
 And that's success: if not, the poem's 
 
 passed 
 From hand to hand, and yet from 
 
 hand to hand. 
 Until the unborn snatch it, crying out 
 In pity on their father's being so dull; 
 And that's success too. 
 
 I will write no plays. 
 Because the drama, less sublime in 
 
 this. 
 
 Makes lower appeals; submits more 
 menially; , 
 
 Adopts the standard of the public 
 taste 
 
 To chalk its height on ; wears a dog- 
 chain round 
 
 Its regal neck, and learns to carry 
 and fetch 
 
 The fashions of the day to please the 
 day; 
 
 Fawns close on pit and boxes, who 
 clap hands, 
 
 Commending chiefly its docility 
 
 And humor in stage-tricks; or else, 
 indeed. 
 
 Gets hissed at, howled at, stamped at 
 like a dog. 
 
 Or worse, we'll say. For dogs, un- 
 justly kicked. 
 
 Yell, bite at need; but if your drama- 
 tist 
 
 (Being wronged by some five hundred 
 nobodies, 
 
 Because their grosser brains most 
 naturally 
 
 Misjudge the fineness of his subtle 
 wit) 
 
 Shows teeth an almond's breath, pro- 
 tests the length 
 
 Of a modest phrase, " My gentle 
 countrymen, 
 
 There's something in it haply of your 
 fault," 
 
 Why then, besides five hundred no- 
 bodies, 
 
 He'll have five thousand and five 
 thousand more 
 
 Against him, — the whole public, all 
 the hoofs 
 
 Of King Saul's father's asses, in full 
 drove. 
 
 And obviously deserve it. He ap- 
 pealed 
 
 To these, and why say more if they 
 condemn. 
 
 Than if they praise him ? Weep, my 
 iEschylus, 
 
 But low and far, upon Sicilian shores ! 
 
 For since 'twas Athens (so I read the 
 myth) 
 
 Who gave commission to that fatal 
 weight 
 
 The tortoise, cold and hard, to drop 
 on thee 
 
 And crush thee, better cover thy bald 
 head. 
 
 She'll hear the softest hum of Hyblan 
 bee 
 
 Before thy loudest protestation. 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 85 
 
 Then 
 
 The risk's still worse upon the mod- 
 ern stage : 
 
 I could not, for so little, accept suc- 
 cess; 
 
 Nor would I risk so much, in ease 
 and calm, 
 
 For manifester gains: let those who 
 prize 
 
 Pursue them: I stand off. And yet 
 forbid 
 \ That any irreverent fancy or conceit 
 
 Should litter in the drama's throne- 
 room where 
 
 The rulers of our art, in whose full 
 veins 
 
 Dynastic glories mingle, sit in 
 strength 
 
 And do their kingly work, conceive, 
 command. 
 
 And from the imagination's crucial 
 heat 
 
 Catch up their men and women all 
 aflame 
 
 For action, all alive, and forced to 
 prove 
 
 Their life by living out heart, brain, 
 and nerve, 
 
 Until mankind makes witness, " These 
 be men 
 
 As we are," and vouchsafes the greet- 
 ing due 
 
 To Imogen and Juliet, — sweetest kin 
 
 On art's side. 
 
 'Tis that, honoring to its worth 
 
 The drama, I would fear to keep it 
 down 
 
 To the level of the footlights. Dies 
 no more 
 
 The sacrificial goat, for Bacchus slain. 
 
 His filmed eyes fluttered by the 
 whirling Avhite 
 
 Of choral vestures, troubled in his 
 blood, 
 
 While tragic voices that clanged keen 
 as swords, 
 
 Leapt high together with the altar- 
 flame. 
 
 And made the blue air wink. The 
 waxen mask, 
 
 Which set the grand, still front of 
 Themis' son 
 
 Upon the puckered visage of a player; 
 
 The buskin, which he rose upon and 
 moved. 
 
 As some tall ship, first conscious of 
 the wind. 
 
 Sweeps slowly past the piers; the 
 mouthpiece, where 
 
 The mere man's voice, with all its 
 
 breaths and breaks. 
 Went sheathed in brass, and clashed 
 
 on even heights 
 Its phrased thunders, — these things 
 
 are no more. 
 Which once were. And concluding, 
 
 which is clear, 
 The growing drama has outgrown 
 
 such toys 
 Of simulated stature, face, and sjieech, 
 It also peradventure may outgrow 
 The simulation of the painted scene, 
 Boards, actors, prompters, gaslight, 
 
 and costume. 
 And take for a worthier stage the 
 
 soul itself, 
 Its shifting fancies and celestial 
 
 lights. 
 With all its grand orchestral silences 
 To keep the pauses of its rhythmic 
 
 sounds. 
 
 Alas ! I still see something to be 
 
 done, 
 And what I do falls short of what I 
 
 see. 
 Though I waste myself on doing. 
 
 Long green days. 
 Worn bare of grass and sunshine; 
 
 long calm nights, 
 From which the silken sleeps were 
 
 fretted out, — 
 Be witness for me, with no amateur's 
 Irreverent haste and busy idleness 
 I set myself to art ! What then ? 
 
 what's done ? 
 What's done, at last ? 
 
 Behold, at last, a book. 
 If life-blood's necessary, which it is, — 
 (By that blue vein a-throb on Ma- 
 homet's brow, 
 Each prophet-poet's book must show 
 
 man's blood !) 
 If life-blood's fertilizing, I wrung 
 
 mine 
 On every leaf of this, unless the drops 
 Slid heavily on one side, and left it 
 
 dry. 
 That chances often. Many a fervid 
 
 man 
 Writes books as cold and flat as 
 
 graveyard stones 
 From which the lichen's scraped; and 
 
 if St. Preux 
 Had written his own letters, as he 
 
 might. 
 We had never wept to think of the 
 
 little mole 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 'Neath Julie's drooping eyelid. Pas- 
 sion is 
 But something suffered, after all. 
 
 While art 
 Sets action on the top of suffering, 
 The artist's part is both to be and 
 
 do, 
 Transfixing with a special central 
 
 power 
 The flat experience of the common 
 
 man. 
 And turning outward, with a sud- 
 den wrench, 
 Half agony, half ecstasy, the thing 
 He feels the inmost, — never felt the 
 
 less 
 Because he sings it. Does a torch 
 
 less burn 
 For burning next reflectors of blue 
 
 steel, 
 That he should be the colder for his 
 
 place 
 'Twixt two incessant fires, — his per- 
 sonal life's. 
 And that intense refraction which 
 
 burns back 
 Perpetually against him from ■ the 
 
 round 
 Of crystal conscience he was born 
 
 into. 
 If artist-born? Oh, sorrowful, great 
 
 gift 
 Conferred on poets, of a twofold life. 
 When one life has been found enough 
 
 for pain ! 
 We, staggering 'neath our burden as 
 
 mere men, 
 Being called to stand up straight as 
 
 demigods. 
 Support the intolerable strain and 
 
 stress 
 Of the universal, and send clearly 
 
 up 
 With voices broken by the human 
 
 sob, 
 Our poems to find rhymes among the 
 
 stars ! 
 But soft, — a "poet" is a word soon 
 
 said, 
 A book's a thing soon written. Nay, 
 
 indeed, 
 The more the poet shall be questiona- 
 ble, 
 The more unquestionably comes his 
 
 book. 
 And this of mine — well, granting to 
 
 myself 
 Some passion in it, furrowing up the 
 
 flats, 
 
 Mere passion will not prove a volume 
 
 worth 
 Its gall and rags even. Bubbles 
 
 round a keel 
 Mean nought, excepting that the ves- 
 sel moves. 
 There's more than passion goes to 
 
 make a man 
 Or book, which is a man too. 
 
 I am sad. 
 I wonder if Pygmalion had these 
 
 doubts. 
 And, feeling the hard marble first 
 
 relent, 
 Grow supple to the straining of his 
 
 arms, 
 And tingle through its cold to his 
 
 burning lip, 
 Supposed his senses mocked, sup- 
 posed the toil 
 Of stretching past the known and 
 
 seen to reach 
 The archetypal beauty out of sight, 
 Had made his heart beat fast enough 
 
 for two, 
 And with his own life dazed and 
 
 blinded him ! 
 Not so. Pygmalion loved ; and whoso 
 
 loves 
 Believes the impossible. 
 
 But I am sad : 
 I cannot thoroughly love a work 
 
 of mine, 
 Since none seems worthy of my 
 
 thought and hope 
 More highly mated. He has shot 
 
 them down, 
 Mj' Phoebus Apollo, soul within my 
 
 soul, 
 Who judges by the attempted what's 
 
 attained. 
 And with the silver arrow from his 
 
 height 
 Has struck down all my works before 
 
 my face, 
 While I said nothing. Is there aught 
 
 to say ? 
 I called the artist but a greatened 
 
 man. 
 He may be childless also, like a man. 
 
 I labored on alone. Tlie wind and 
 
 dust 
 And sun of the world beat blistering 
 
 in my face; 
 And hope, now for me, now against 
 
 me, dragged 
 My spirits onward, as some fallen 
 
 balloon, 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 ^Yhich, whether caught by blossom- 
 ing tree or bare, 
 Is torn alike. I sometimes touched 
 
 my aim, 
 Or seemed, and generous souls cried 
 
 out, " Be strong, 
 Take courage ; now you're on our 
 
 level — now ! 
 The next step saves you." I was 
 
 flushed with praise ; 
 But, pausing just a moment to draw 
 
 breath, 
 I could not choose but murmur to 
 
 myself, 
 " Is this all ? all that's done ? and all 
 
 that's gained ? 
 If this, then, be success, 'tis dismaller 
 Than any failure." 
 
 O my God, my God, 
 O supreme Artist, who, as sole return 
 For all the cosmic wonder of thy 
 
 work, 
 Demandest of us just a word ... a 
 
 name, 
 "My Father! " thou hast knowledge, 
 
 only thou, 
 How dreary 'tis for women to sit 
 
 still 
 On winter nights, by solitary fires, 
 And hear the nations praising them 
 
 far off, 
 Too far ! ay, praising our quick sense 
 
 of love. 
 Our very heart of passionate woman- 
 hood, 
 Which could not beat so in the verse, 
 
 without 
 Being present also in the iinkissed 
 
 lips, 
 And eyes undried, because there's 
 
 none to ask 
 The reason they grew moist. 
 
 To sit alone. 
 And think for comfort, how that very 
 
 night 
 Affianced lovers, leaning face to face, 
 "With sweet half-listenings for each 
 
 other's breath, 
 A.re reading haply from a page of ours, 
 To pause with a thrill (as if their 
 
 cheeks had touched) 
 When such a stanza, level to their 
 
 mood. 
 Seems floating their own thought out 
 
 — "So I feel 
 For thee," — "And I, for thee: this 
 
 poet knows 
 What everlasting love is!" — how 
 
 that night 
 
 Some father, issuing from the misty 
 
 roads 
 Upon the luminous round of lamp 
 
 and hearth. 
 And happy children, having caught 
 
 up first 
 The youngest there, until it shrink 
 
 and shriek 
 To feel the cold chin prick its dim- 
 ples through 
 With winter from the hills, may throw 
 
 i' the lap 
 Of the eldest (who has learnt to drop 
 
 her lids 
 To hide some sweetness newer than 
 
 last year's) 
 Our book, and cry ... " Ah, you, 
 
 you care for rhymes : 
 So here be rhymes to pore on under 
 
 trees, 
 When April comes to let yon I I've 
 
 been told 
 They are not idle, as so many are, 
 Butset hearts beating pure, as well as 
 
 fast. 
 'Tis yours, the book : I'll write your 
 
 name in it. 
 That so you may not lose, however 
 
 lost 
 In poet's lore and charming revery, 
 The thought of how your father 
 
 thought of yov 
 In riding from the town." 
 
 To have our books 
 Appraised by love, associated with 
 
 love. 
 While ive sit loveless ! is it hard, you 
 
 think ? 
 At least 'tis mournful. Fame, indeed, 
 
 'twas said. 
 Means simply love. It was a man 
 
 said that. 
 And then there's love and love : the 
 
 love of all 
 (To risk in turn a woman's paradox) 
 Is but a small thing to the love of 
 
 one. 
 You bid a hungry child be satisfied 
 With a heritage of many cornfields : 
 
 nay, 
 He says he's hungry ; he would rather 
 
 have 
 That little barley-cake yon keep from 
 
 him 
 While reckoning up his harvests. So 
 
 with us ; 
 (Here, Romney, too, we fail to gener- 
 alize !) 
 We're hungry. 
 
88 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Hungry ! But it's pitiful 
 To wail like unweaned babes, and 
 
 suck our thumbs, 
 Because we're hungry. Who in all 
 
 this world 
 (Wherein we are haply set to pray and 
 
 fast, 
 And learn what good is by its oppo- 
 site) 
 Has never hungered ? Woe to him 
 
 who has found 
 The meal enough ! If Ugolino's full. 
 His teeth have crunched some foul 
 
 unnatural thing; 
 For here satiety proves penury 
 More utterly irremediable. And since 
 We needs must hunger, better, for 
 
 man's love 
 Than God's truth ! better, for com- 
 panions sweet 
 Than great convictions ! Let us bear 
 
 our weights. 
 Preferring dreary hearths to desert 
 
 souls. 
 Well, well ! they say we're envious, 
 
 we who rhyme ; 
 But I — because I am a woman, per- 
 haps. 
 And so rhyme ill— am ill at envying. 
 I never envied Graham his breadth of 
 
 style, 
 Which gives you, with a random 
 
 smutch or two, 
 (Near-sighted critics analyze to 
 
 smutch) 
 Such delicate perspectives of full 
 
 life; 
 Nor Belmore, for the unity of aim 
 To which he cuts his cedarn poems, 
 
 fine. 
 As sketchers do their pencils; nor 
 
 Mark Gage, 
 For that caressing color and tran- 
 cing tone 
 Whereby you're swept away, and 
 
 melted in 
 The sensual element, which, with a 
 
 back wave, 
 Restores you to the level of pure 
 
 souls, 
 And leaves you with Plotinus. None 
 
 of these. 
 For native gifts or popular applause, 
 I've envied; but for this, — that when 
 
 by chance 
 Says some one, ^ There goes Belmore, 
 
 a great man ! 
 He leaves clean work behind him, 
 
 and requires 
 
 No sweeper-up of the chips," ... a 
 
 girl I know, 
 Who answers nothing, save with her 
 
 brown eyes. 
 Smiles unaware, as if a guardian saint 
 Smiled in her; for this, too, that Gage 
 
 comes home, 
 And lays his last book's prodigal re- 
 view 
 Upon his mother's knee, where, years 
 
 ago. 
 He laid his childish spelling-book, 
 
 and learned 
 To chirp, and peck the letters from 
 
 her mouth. 
 As young birds must. " Well done," 
 
 she murmured then: 
 She will not say it now more won- 
 
 deringly. 
 And yet the last " Well done " will 
 
 touch him more. 
 As catching up to-day and yesterday 
 In a perfect chord of love. And so, 
 
 Mark Gage, 
 I envy you your mother — and you, 
 
 Graham, 
 Because you have a wife who loves 
 
 you so. 
 She half forgets, at moments, to be 
 
 proud 
 Of being Graham's wife, until a friend 
 
 observes, 
 "The boy here has his father's mas- 
 sive brow. 
 Done small in wax ... if we push 
 
 back the curls." 
 
 Who loves me? Dearest father, 
 
 mother sweet, — 
 I speak the names out sometimes by 
 
 myself, 
 And make the silence shiver. They 
 
 sound strange. 
 As Hindostanee to an Ind-born man 
 Accustomed many years to Englisli 
 
 speech; 
 Or lovely poet-words grown obsolete. 
 Which will not leave off singing. Up 
 
 in heaven 
 I have my father, with my mother's 
 
 face 
 Beside him in a blotch of heavenly 
 
 light; 
 No more for earth's familiar, house- 
 hold use. 
 No more. The best verse written by 
 
 this hand 
 Can never reach them where they 
 
 sit, to seem 
 
 i 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 89 
 
 Well done to them. Death quite un- 
 fellows us, 
 
 Sets dreadful odds betwixt the live 
 and dead, 
 
 And makes us part, as those at Babel 
 did 
 
 Through sudden ignorance of a com- 
 mon tongue. 
 
 A living Csesar would not dare to 
 play 
 
 At bowls with such as my dead father 
 is. 
 
 And yet this may be less so than ap- 
 pears. 
 
 This change and separation. Spar- 
 rows five 
 
 For just two farthings, and God cares 
 for each. 
 
 If God is not too great for little 
 cares. 
 
 Is any creature, because gone to God ? 
 
 I've seen some men, veracious, no- 
 wise mad, 
 
 "Who have thought or dreamed, de- 
 clared and testified, 
 
 They heard the dead a-ticking like a 
 clock 
 
 Which strikes the hours of the eter- 
 nities, 
 
 Beside them, with their natural ears, 
 and known 
 
 That human spirits feel the human 
 way. 
 
 And hate the unreasoning awe which 
 waves them off 
 
 From possible communion. It may 
 be. 
 
 At least, earth separates as well as 
 
 heaven. 
 For instance, I have not seen Rom- 
 
 ney Leigh 
 Full eighteen months . . . add six, 
 
 you get two years. 
 They say he's very busy with good 
 
 works. 
 Has parted Leigh Hall into alms- 
 houses. 
 He made one day an almshouse of 
 
 his heart, 
 Which ever since is loose upon the 
 
 latch 
 For those who pull the string. — I 
 
 never did. 
 
 It always makes me sad to go abroad. 
 And now I'm sadder that I went to- 
 night 
 
 Among the lights and talkers at Lord 
 Howe's. 
 
 His wife is gracious, with her gloss j' 
 braids, 
 
 And even voice, and gorgeous eye- 
 balls, calm 
 
 As her other jewels. If she's some- 
 what cold, 
 
 Who wonders, when her blood has 
 stood so long 
 
 In the ducal reservoir she calls her 
 line 
 
 By no means arrogantly ? She's not 
 proud ; 
 
 Not prouder than the swan is of the 
 lake 
 
 He has always swum in : 'tis her ele- 
 ment, 
 
 And so she takes it with a natural 
 grace. 
 
 Ignoring tadpoles. She just knows, 
 perhaps, 
 
 There are who travel without out- 
 riders. 
 
 Which isn't her fault. Ah, to watch 
 her face. 
 
 When good Lord Howe expounds his 
 theories 
 
 Of social justice and equality ! 
 
 'Tis curious what a tender, tolerant 
 bend 
 
 Her neck takes; for she loves him, 
 likes his talk, 
 
 "Such clever talk — that dear odd 
 Algernon ! " 
 
 She listens on, exactly as if he talked 
 
 Some Scandinavian myth of Lemures, 
 
 Too pretty to dispute, and too absurd. 
 
 She's gracious to me as her husband's 
 
 friend. 
 And would be gracious were I not a 
 
 Leigh, 
 Being used to smile just so, without 
 
 her eyes. 
 On Joseph Strangways, the Leeds 
 
 mesmerist, 
 And Delia Dobbs, the lecturer from 
 
 "the States" 
 Upon the "Woman's question." 
 
 Then, for him — 
 I like him: he's my friend. And all 
 
 the rooms 
 Were full of crinkling silks that 
 
 swept about 
 The fine dust of most subtle courte- 
 sies. 
 What then ? Why, then we coma 
 
 home to be sad. 
 
 
90 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 How lovely one I love not looked to- 
 night ! 
 
 She's very pretty, Lady Waldemar. 
 
 Her maid must use both hands to 
 twist that coil 
 
 Of tresses, then be careful lest the 
 rich 
 
 Bronze rounds should slip: she missed, 
 though, a gray hair, 
 
 A single one, — I saw it ; otherwise 
 
 The woman looked immortal. How 
 tliey told, 
 
 Those alabaster shoulders and bare 
 lir easts. 
 
 On which the pearls, drowned out of 
 sight in milk. 
 
 Were lost, excepting for the ruby 
 clasp. 
 
 They split the amaranth velvet bod- 
 dice down 
 
 To the waist, or nearly, with the auda- 
 cious press 
 
 Of full-breathed beauty. If the heart 
 within 
 
 "Were half as white ! — but, if it were, 
 perhaps 
 
 The breast were closer covered, and 
 the sight 
 
 Less aspectable by half, too. 
 
 I heard 
 
 The young man with the German 
 student's look — 
 
 A sharp face, like a knife in a cleft 
 stick, 
 
 Which shot up straight against the 
 parting line 
 
 So equally dividing the long hair — 
 
 Saj' softly to his neighbor (thirty- 
 five 
 
 And mediteval), " Look that way, Sir 
 Blaise. 
 
 She's Lady Waldemar, — to the left 
 — in red, — 
 
 Whom Romney Leigh, our ablest 
 man just now. 
 
 Is soon about to marry." 
 
 Then replied 
 
 Sir Blaise Delorme, with quiet, priest- 
 like voice, 
 
 Too used to syllable damnations 
 round 
 
 To make a natural emphasis worth 
 while, 
 
 "Is Leigh your ablest man? — the 
 same, I think, 
 
 Once jilted by a recreant pretty 
 maid 
 
 Adopted from the people? Now, iu 
 change, 
 
 He seems to have plucked a flower 
 
 from the other side 
 Of the social hedge." 
 
 " A flower, a flower ! " exclaimed 
 My German student, his own eyes 
 
 full blown 
 Bent on her. He was twenty, cer- 
 tainly. 
 
 Sir Blaise resumed with gentle arro- 
 gance, 
 As if he had dropped his alms into a 
 
 hat 
 And gained the right to counsel, " My 
 
 young friend, 
 I doubt your ablest man's ability 
 To get the least good or help meet for 
 
 him. 
 For Pagan phalanstery or Christian 
 
 home. 
 From such a flowery creature." 
 
 "Beautiful!" 
 My student murmured, rapt. " Mark 
 
 how she stirs ! 
 Just waves her head, as if a flower 
 
 indeed, 
 Touched far off by the vain breath of 
 
 our talk." 
 
 At which that bilious Grimwald (he 
 who writes 
 
 For the Renovator), who had seemed 
 absorbed 
 
 Upon the table-book of autograjihs, 
 
 (I dare say mentally he crunched the 
 bones 
 
 Of all those writers, wishing them 
 alive 
 
 To feel his tooth in earnest), turned 
 short round 
 
 With low carnivorous laugh, — "A 
 flower, of course ! 
 
 She neither sews nor spins, and takes 
 no thought 
 
 Of her garments . . . falling off." 
 
 The student flinched ; 
 
 Sir Blaise the same; then both, draw- 
 ing back their chairs 
 
 As if they spied black-beetles on the 
 floor. 
 
 Pursued their talk, without a word 
 being thrown 
 
 To the critic. 
 
 Good Sir Blaise's brow is high, 
 
 And noticeably narrow : a strong 
 wind. 
 
 You fancy, might unroof him sud- 
 denly, 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 91 
 
 And blow that great top attic off bis 
 head 
 
 So piled with feudal relics. You ad- 
 mire 
 
 His nose in profile, though you miss 
 his chin ; 
 
 But, though you miss his chin, you 
 seldom miss 
 
 His ebon cross worn innermostly, 
 (carved 
 
 For penance by a saintly Styrian 
 monk 
 
 "Whose flesh was too much with him,) 
 slipping through 
 
 Some unaware unbuttoned casualty 
 
 Of the under waistcoat. With an ab- 
 sent air 
 
 Sir Blaise sate fingering it, and speak- 
 ing low, 
 
 While I upon the sofa heard it all. 
 
 "My dear young friend, if we could 
 
 bear our eyes, 
 Like blessedest St. Lucy, on a plate. 
 They would not trick us into choos- 
 ing wives. 
 As doublets, by the color. Otherwise 
 Our fathers chose; and therefore, 
 
 when they had hung 
 Their household keys about a lady's 
 
 waist, 
 The sense of duty gave her dignity : 
 She kept her bosom holy to her 
 
 babes. 
 And, if a moralist reproved her dress, 
 "Twas, "Too much starch!" and 
 not, "Too little lawn !" 
 
 " Now, pshaw ! " returned the other 
 
 in a heat, 
 A little fretted by being called 
 
 " Young friend," 
 Or so I took it, — " for St. Lucy's sake, 
 If she's the saint to swear by, let us 
 
 leave 
 Our fathers, — plagued enough about 
 
 our sons ! " 
 (He stroked his beardless chin) " yes, 
 
 plagued, sir, plagued: 
 The future generations lie on us 
 As heavy as the nightmare of a seer; 
 Our meat and drink grow painful 
 
 prophecy. 
 I ask you, have we leisure, if we 
 
 liked. 
 To hollow out our weary hands to 
 
 keep 
 Your intermittent rushlight of the 
 
 past 
 
 From draughts in lobbies ? Prejudice 
 of sex 
 
 And marriage-law . . . the socket 
 drops them through 
 
 While we two speak, however may 
 protest 
 
 Some over-delicate nostrils like your 
 own, 
 
 'Gainst odors thence arising." 
 
 " You are young," 
 
 Sir Blaise objected. 
 
 " If I am," he said 
 
 With fire, " though somewhat less so 
 than I seem. 
 
 The young run on before, and see the 
 thing 
 
 That's coming. ' Reverence for the 
 young ! ' I cry. 
 
 In that new church for which the 
 world's near rij^e, 
 
 You'll have the yovxnger in the eld- 
 er's chair. 
 
 Presiding with his ivory front of hope 
 
 O'er foreheads clawed by cruel car- 
 rion birds 
 
 Of life's experience." 
 
 " Pray your blessing, sir," 
 
 Sir Blaise replied good-humoredly. 
 " I plucked 
 
 A silver hair this morning from my 
 beard. 
 
 Which left me your inferior. Would 
 I were 
 
 Eighteen, and worthy to admonish 
 you ! 
 
 If young men of your order run be- 
 fore 
 
 To see such sights as sexual preju- 
 dice 
 
 And marriage-law dissolved, — in 
 plainer words, 
 
 A general concubinage expressed 
 
 In a universal ]3ruriency, — the thing 
 
 Is scarce worth running fast for, and 
 you'd gain 
 
 Bv loitering with your elders." 
 
 " Ah ! " he said, 
 
 " Who, getting to the top of Pisgah- 
 hill, 
 
 Can talk with one at bottom of the 
 view. 
 
 To make it comprehensible? Why, 
 Leigh 
 
 Himself, although our ablest man, I 
 said. 
 
 Is scarce advanced to see as far as 
 this; 
 
 Which some are. He takes up imper- 
 fectly 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 The social question, —by one handle, 
 
 — leaves 
 Tlie rest to trail. A Christian socialist 
 Is Romney Leigh, you understand." 
 
 " Not I. 
 I disbelieve in Christian-Pagans, 
 
 much 
 As you in women-fishes. If we mix 
 Two colors, we lose both, and make a 
 
 third, 
 Distinct from either. Mark you ! to 
 
 mistake 
 A color is the sign of a sick brain. 
 And mine, I thank the saints, is clear 
 
 and cool : 
 A neutral tint is here impossible. 
 The church — and by the church, I 
 
 mean, of course. 
 The catholic, apostolic, mother- 
 church — 
 Draws lines as plain and straight as 
 
 her own wall. 
 Inside of which are Christians, obvi- 
 ously. 
 And outside . . . dogs." 
 
 " We thank you. "Well I know 
 The ancient mother-church would 
 
 fain still bite. 
 For all her toothless gums, as Leigh 
 
 himself 
 AVould fain be a Christian still, for all 
 
 his wit. 
 Pass that: you two may settle it for 
 
 me. 
 You're slow in England. In a month 
 
 I learnt 
 At Gottingen enough philosophy 
 To stock your English schools for 
 
 fifty years ; 
 Pass that too. Here alone, I stop 
 
 you short, 
 — Supposing a true man like Leigh 
 
 could stand 
 Unequal in the statvire of his life 
 To the height of his opinions. Choose 
 
 a wife 
 Because of a smooth skin ? Not he, 
 
 not he ! 
 He'd rail at Venus' self for creaking 
 
 shoes. 
 Unless she walked his way of right- 
 eousness ; 
 And if he takes a Venus Meretrix 
 (No imputation on the lady there) 
 Be sure, that, by some sleight of 
 
 Christian art. 
 He has metamorphosed and converted 
 
 her 
 To a Blessed Virgin." 
 
 " Soft ! " Sir Blaise drew breath 
 
 As if it hurt him, — " Soft! no blasphe- 
 my, 
 
 I pray you ! " 
 " The first Christians did the thing: 
 
 Why not the last ? " asked he of Got- 
 tingen, 
 
 Witli just that shade of sneering on 
 the lip, 
 
 Compensates for the lagging of the 
 beard, — 
 
 " And so the case is. If that fairest 
 fair 
 
 Is talked of as the future wife of 
 Leigh, 
 
 She's talked of too, at least as cer- 
 tainly. 
 
 As Leigh's disciple. You may find 
 her name 
 
 On all his missions and commissions, 
 schools. 
 
 Asylums, hospitals: he had her 
 down. 
 
 With other ladies whom her starry 
 lead 
 
 Persuaded from -their spheres, to his 
 country-place 
 
 In Shropshire, to the famed phalan- 
 stery 
 
 At Leigh Hall, christianized from 
 Fourier's own, 
 
 (In which he has planted out his sap- 
 ling stocks 
 
 Of knowledge into social nurseries) 
 
 And there they say she has tarried 
 half a week. 
 
 And milked the cows, and churned, 
 and pressed the curd, 
 
 And said ' My sister ' to the lowest 
 drab 
 
 Of all the assembled castaways: such 
 girls ! 
 
 Ay, sided with them at the washing- 
 tub — 
 
 Conceive, Sir Blaise, those naked 
 perfect arms. 
 
 Round glittering arms, plunged el- 
 bow-deep in suds. 
 
 Like wild swans hid in Hlies all 
 a-shake." 
 
 Lord Howe came up. " What, talk- 
 ing poetry 
 
 So near the image of the unfavoring 
 Muse? 
 
 That's you. Miss Leigh: I've watched 
 you half an hour, 
 
 Precisely as I watched the statue 
 called 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 93 
 
 A Pallas in the Vatican. — You mind 
 The face, Sir Blaise ? — intensely calm 
 
 and sad, 
 As wisdom cut it off from fellow- 
 ship. 
 But that spoke louder. — Not a word 
 
 from you ! 
 And these two gentleman were bold, 
 
 I marked, 
 And unabashed by even your si- 
 lence." 
 
 " Ah," 
 Said I, " my dear Lord Howe, you 
 
 shall not speak 
 To a printing woman who has lost her 
 
 place 
 (The sweet safe corner of the house- 
 hold fire • 
 Behind the heads of children) com- 
 
 l)liments, 
 As if she were a woman. "We who 
 
 have dipt 
 The curls before our eyes may see at 
 
 least 
 As plain as men do. Speak out, man 
 
 to man. 
 No compliments, beseech you." 
 
 " Friend to friend, 
 Let that be. "We are sad to-night, I 
 
 saw, 
 ( — Good-night, Sir Blaise ! ah. Smith 
 
 — he has slipped away) 
 I saw you across the room, and staid. 
 
 Miss Leigh, 
 To keep a crowd of lion-hunters off, 
 "With faces toward your jungle. There 
 
 were three : 
 A spacious lady, five feet ten, and fat, 
 "Who has the devil in her (and there's 
 
 room) 
 For walking to and fro upon the 
 
 earth. 
 From Chijipewa to China ; she requires 
 Your autograph upon a tinted leaf 
 'Twixt Queen Pomare's and Emperor 
 
 Soulouque's. 
 Pray give it ! she has energies, though 
 
 fat: 
 For me I'd rather see a rick on fire 
 Than such a woman angry. Then a 
 
 youth 
 Fresh from the backwoods, green as 
 
 the underboughs, 
 Asks modestly. Miss Leigh, to kiss 
 
 your shoe. 
 And adds he has an epic in twelve 
 
 parts, 
 "Which when you've read, you'll do it 
 
 for his boot: 
 
 All which I saved you, and absorb 
 
 next week 
 Both manuscript and man, — because 
 
 a lord 
 Is still more potent than a poetess 
 "With any extreme Republican. Ah, 
 
 ah, 
 You smile at last, then." 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 " Leave the smile. 
 I'll lose the thanks for't, ay, and 
 
 throw you in 
 My transatlantic girl, with golden 
 
 eyes, 
 That draw you to her splendid white- 
 ness as 
 The pistil of a water-lily draws, 
 Adust with gold. Those girls across 
 
 the sea 
 Are tyrannously pretty, and I swore 
 (She seemed to me an innocent frank 
 
 girl) 
 To bring her to you for a woman's 
 
 kiss; 
 Not now, but on some other day or 
 
 week: 
 — "We'll call it jierjury; I give her up." 
 
 " No, bring her." 
 
 " Now," said he, " you make it hard 
 To touch such goodness with a grimy 
 
 palm. 
 I thought to tease you well, and fret 
 
 you cross, 
 And steel myself, when rightly vexed 
 
 with you. 
 For telling you a thing to tease you 
 
 more." 
 
 "Of Romney?" 
 
 " No, no: nothing worse," he cried, 
 " Of Romney Leigh than what is 
 
 buzzed about, — 
 That he is taken in an eye-trap too, 
 Like many half as wise. The thing 
 
 I mean 
 Refers to you, not him." 
 
 "Refers to me." 
 
 He echoed, — "'Me' ! Y''ou sound it 
 like a stone 
 
 Dropped down a dry well very list- 
 lessly 
 
 By one who never thinks about the 
 toad 
 
 Alive at the bottom. Presently per- 
 haps 
 
 You'll sound vour ' me ' more proud- 
 ly- till I shrink." 
 

 94 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 " Lord Howe's the toad, then, in this 
 
 question ? " 
 
 "Brief, 
 We'll take it graver. Give me sofa^ 
 
 room. 
 And quiet hearing. You know Eg- 
 
 linton, — 
 John Eglinton of Eglinton in Kent ? " 
 
 "Is he the toad? He's rather like 
 
 the snail, 
 Known chiefly for the house upon his 
 
 back: 
 Divide the man and house, you kill 
 
 the man: 
 That's Eglinton of Eglinton, Lord 
 
 Howe." 
 
 He answered grave: "A reputable 
 man. 
 
 An excellent landlord of the olden 
 stamp 
 
 If somewhat slack in new philanthro- 
 pies. 
 
 Who keeps his birthdays with a ten- 
 ants' dance. 
 
 Is hard upon them when they miss 
 the church 
 
 Or hold their children back from cate- 
 chism, 
 
 But not ungentle when the aged poor 
 
 Pick sticks at hedgesides: nay, I've 
 heard him say, 
 
 ' The old dame has a twinge because 
 she stoops: 
 
 That's punishment enough for felo- 
 ny.'" 
 
 " O tender-hearted landlord ! may I 
 
 take 
 My long lease with him, when the 
 
 time arrives 
 For gathering winter-fagots ! ' ' 
 
 "He likes art; 
 Buys books and pictures ... of a 
 
 certain kind; 
 Neglects no j^atent duty; a good 
 
 son "... 
 
 " To a most obedient mother. Born 
 to wear 
 
 His father's shoes, he wears her hus- 
 band's too: 
 
 Indeed I've heard it's touching. 
 Dear Lord Howe, 
 
 You shall not praise me so agaiust 
 your heart 
 
 When I'm at worst for praise and 
 fagots." 
 
 "Be 
 
 Less bitter with me; for . . . in short," 
 
 he said, 
 " I have a letter, which he urged me 
 
 so 
 To bring you ... I could scarcely 
 
 choose but yield ; 
 Insisting that a new love, passing 
 
 through 
 The hand of an old friendship, caught 
 
 from it 
 Some reconciling odor." 
 
 " Love, you say ? 
 My lord, I cannot love: I only find 
 The rhyme for love; and that's not 
 
 love, my lord. 
 Take back your letter." 
 
 " Pause. You'll read it first ? " 
 
 "I will not read it: it is stereotyped, 
 
 The same he wrote to, — anybody's 
 name, 
 
 Anne Blythe the actress, when she 
 died so true 
 
 A duchess fainted in a private box ; 
 
 Pauline the dancer, after the great 
 pas 
 
 In which her little feet winked over- 
 head 
 
 Like other fireflies, and amazed the 
 pit; 
 
 Or Baldinacci, when her F in alt 
 
 Had touched the silver tops of heaven 
 itself 
 
 With such a pungent spirit-dart, the 
 Queen 
 
 Laid softly, each to each, her white- 
 gloved palms. 
 
 And sighed for joy ; or else (I thank 
 your friend) 
 
 Aurora Leigh, when some indifferent 
 rhymes, 
 
 Like those the boys sang round the 
 holy ox 
 
 On Memphis-highway, chance per- 
 haps to set 
 
 Our Apis-publlc lowing. Oh, he 
 wants. 
 
 Instead of any worthy wife at home, 
 
 A star upon his stage of Eglinton ? 
 
 Advise him that he is not over- 
 shrewd 
 
 In being so little modest: a dropped 
 star 
 
 Makes bitter waters, says a Book I've 
 read, — 
 
 And there's his unread letter." 
 
 " My dear friend," 
 
 Lord Howe began . . . 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 In haste I tore the phrase. 
 " You mean your friend of Eglinton, 
 or me? " 
 
 "I mean you, yon!" he answered 
 
 with some fire. 
 " A happy life means prudent com- 
 promise; 
 The tare runs through the farmer's 
 
 garnered sheaves, 
 And, thougli the gleaner's apron holds 
 
 pure wheat 
 We count her poorer. Tare with 
 
 wheat, we cry. 
 And good with drawbacks. You, you 
 
 love your art, 
 And, certain of vocation, set your 
 
 soul 
 On utterance. Only, in this world 
 
 we have made, 
 (They say God made it first, but if he 
 
 did 
 'Twas so long since, and, since, we 
 
 have spoiled it so. 
 He scarce would know it, if he looked 
 
 this way, 
 From hells we preach of, with the 
 
 flames blown out,) 
 — In this bad, twisted, topsy-turvy 
 
 world. 
 Where all the heaviest wrongs get 
 
 uppermost, — 
 In this uneven, unfostering England 
 
 here. 
 Where ledger-strokes and sword- 
 strokes count indeed. 
 But soul-strokes merely tell upon the 
 
 flesh 
 They strike from, — it is hard to stand 
 
 for art, 
 Unless some golden tripod from the sea 
 Be fished up, by Apollo's divine 
 
 chance. 
 To throne such feet as yours, my 
 
 prophetess, 
 At Delphi. Think, — the god comes 
 
 down as fierce 
 As twenty bloodhounds, shakes you, 
 
 strangles you. 
 Until the oracular shriek shall ooze in 
 
 froth ! 
 At best 'tis not all ease; at worst 
 
 too hard. 
 A place to stand on is a 'vantage 
 
 gained, 
 And here's your tripod. To be plain, 
 
 dear friend, 
 You're poor, except in what you rich- 
 ly give ; 
 
 Y'ou labor for 3 our own bread pain- 
 fully, 
 
 Or ere you pour our wine. For art's 
 sake, pause." 
 
 I answered slow, — as some wayfar- 
 ing man. 
 
 Who feels himself at night too far 
 from home. 
 
 Makes steadfast face against the bitter 
 wind, — 
 
 " Is art so less a thing than virtue 
 is, 
 
 That artists first must cater for their 
 ease. 
 
 Or ever they make issue past them- 
 selves 
 
 To generous use ? Alas ! and is it so, 
 
 That we who would be somewhat 
 clean must sweep 
 
 Our ways, as well as walk them, and 
 no friend 
 
 Confirm us nobly, — ' Leave results 
 to God, 
 
 But you, be clean ! ' What ! ' pru- 
 dent compromise 
 
 Makes acceptable life,' you say in- 
 stead, — 
 
 You, you, Lord Howe? — in things 
 indifferent, well. 
 
 For instance, compromise the wheaten 
 bread 
 
 For rye, the meat for lentils, silk for 
 serge, 
 
 And sleep on down, if needs, for sleep 
 on straw ; 
 
 But there end compromise. I will 
 not bate 
 
 One artist-dream on straw or down, 
 my lord. 
 
 Nor pinch my liberal soul, though I 
 be poor. 
 
 Nor cease to love high, though I live 
 thus low." 
 
 So speaking, with less anger in my 
 voice 
 
 Than sorrow, I rose quickly to de- 
 part ; 
 
 While he, thrown back upon the noble 
 shame 
 
 Of such high stumbling natures, mur- 
 mured words, — 
 
 The right words after wrong ones. 
 Ah, the man 
 
 Is worthy, but so given to entertain 
 
 Impossible plans of superhuman life. 
 
 He sets his virtues on so raised a 
 shelf, 
 
 I 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 To keep them at the grand millennial 
 
 height, 
 He has to mount a stool to get at 
 
 them, 
 And meantime lives on q.uite the 
 
 common way. 
 With everybody's morals. 
 
 As we passed, 
 Lord Howe insisting that his friendly 
 
 arm 
 Should oar me across the sparkling, 
 
 brawling stream 
 Which swept from room to room, we 
 
 fell at once 
 On Lady Waldemar. " Miss Leigh," 
 
 she said, 
 And gave me such a smile, — so cold 
 
 and bright. 
 As if she tried it in a 'tiring glass 
 And liked it, — "all to-night I've 
 
 strained at you 
 As babes at bawbles held up out of 
 
 reach 
 By spiteful nurses, (' Never snatch,' 
 
 they say,) 
 And there you sate, most perfectly 
 
 shut in 
 By good Sir Blaise and clever Mister 
 
 Smith, 
 And then our dear Lord Howe ! At 
 
 last indeed 
 I Almost snatched. I have a world to 
 
 speak 
 About your cousin's place in Shrop- 
 shire where 
 I've been to see his work . . . our 
 
 work, — you heard 
 I went? . . . and of a letter yester- 
 day. 
 In which if I should read a page or 
 
 two 
 You might feel interest, though you're 
 
 locked of course 
 In literary toil. — You'll like to 
 
 hear 
 Your last book lies at the phalan- 
 stery, 
 As judged innocuous for the elder 
 
 girls 
 And younger women who still care 
 
 for books. 
 We all must read, you see, before we 
 
 live. 
 Till slowly the ineffable light comes 
 
 up 
 And as it deepens drowns the written 
 
 word: 
 So said your cousin, while we stood 
 
 and felt 
 
 A sunset from his favorite beech-tree 
 
 seat. 
 He might have been a poet if he 
 
 would ; 
 But then he saw the higher thing al 
 
 once 
 And climbed to it. I think he looks 
 
 well now, 
 Has quite got over that unfortu- 
 nate . . . 
 Ah, ah ... I know it moved you. 
 
 Tender-heart ! 
 You took a liking to the wretched 
 
 girl. 
 Perhaps you thought the marriage 
 
 suitable, 
 Who knows ? A poet hankers for ro- 
 mance. 
 And so on. As for Romney Leigh, 
 
 'tis sure 
 He never loved her, — never. By the 
 
 way. 
 You have not heard of her . . . ? 
 
 Quite out of sight, 
 And out of saving? Lost in every 
 
 sense ? " 
 
 She might have gone on talking half 
 
 an hour 
 And I stood still, and cold, and pale, 
 
 I think, 
 As a garden-statue a child pelts with 
 
 snow 
 For pretty pastime. Every now and 
 
 then 
 I put in "yes" or "no," I scarce 
 
 knew why: 
 The blind man walks wherever the 
 
 dog pulls, 
 And so I answered. Till Lord Howe 
 
 broke in: 
 " What i^enance takes the wretch who 
 
 interrupts 
 The talk of charming women ? I at 
 
 last 
 Must brave it. Pardon, Lady Walde- 
 mar ! 
 The lady on my arm is tired, unwell, 
 And loyally I've promised she shall 
 
 saj' 
 No harder word this evening than . . . 
 
 good-night: 
 The rest her face speaks for her." — 
 
 Then we went. 
 
 And I breathe large at home. I drop 
 
 my cloak, 
 Unclasp my girdle, loose the band 
 
 that ties 
 
" We fell at once on Lady Waldemar." — Page 96. 
 
#ER8fTy 
 or 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 97 
 
 My hair . . . now could I but unloose 
 
 my soul ! 
 "We are sepulchred alive in this close 
 
 world, 
 And want more room. 
 
 The charming woman there — 
 This reckoning u^) and writing down 
 
 her talk 
 Affects me singularly. How .she 
 
 talked 
 To pain me ! woman's spite. You 
 
 wear steel mail; 
 A woman takes a housewife from her 
 
 breast, 
 And plucks the delicatest needle out 
 As 'twere a rose, and pricks vou care- 
 fully 
 'Neath nails, 'neath eyelids, in your 
 
 nostrils, say: 
 A beast would roar so tortured; but 
 
 a man, 
 A human creature, must not, shall 
 
 not, flinch. 
 No, not for shame. 
 
 What vexes, after all. 
 Is just that such as she, with such 
 
 as I, 
 Knows how to vex. Sweet Heaven ! 
 
 she takes me up 
 As if she had fingered me, and dog- 
 eared me, 
 And spelled me by the fireside half 
 
 a life. 
 She knows my turns, my feeble 
 
 points. What then ? 
 The knowledge of a thing implies the 
 
 thing: 
 Of course, she 'ound that in me, she 
 
 saw that, 
 Her pencil underscored this for a 
 
 fault, 
 And I, still ignorant. Shut the book 
 
 up — close ! 
 And crush that beetle in the leaves. 
 
 O heart ! 
 "At last we shall grow hard too, like 
 
 the rest. 
 And call it self-defence because we 
 
 are soft. 
 
 And after all, now . . . why should 
 
 I be pained 
 That Romney Leigh, my cousin, 
 
 should espouse 
 This Lady Waldemar? And, say 
 
 she held 
 Her newly blossomed gladness in my 
 
 face, . . . 
 'T was natural surely, if not generous. 
 
 Considering how, when winter held 
 her fast, 
 
 I helped the frost with mine, and 
 pained her more 
 
 Than she pains me. Pains me ! — 
 But wherefore pained ? 
 
 'Tis clear my cousin Romney wants 
 a wife. 
 
 So, good ! The man's need of the 
 woman, here. 
 
 Is greater than the woman's of the 
 man. 
 
 And easier served ; for where the man 
 discerns 
 
 A sex (ah, ah, the man can general- 
 ize, 
 
 Said he), we see but one ideally 
 
 And really: where we yearn to lose 
 ourselves. 
 
 And melt like white pearls, in an- 
 other's wine. 
 
 He seeks to double himself by what 
 he loves. 
 
 And makes his drink more costly by 
 our pearls. 
 
 At board, at bed, at work and holi- 
 day. 
 
 It is not good for man to be alone; 
 
 And that's his way of thinking, first 
 and last. 
 
 And thus my cousin Romney wants 
 a wife. 
 
 But then my cousin sets his dignity 
 
 On personal virtue. If he under- 
 stands 
 
 By love, like others, self-aggrandize- 
 ment. 
 
 It is that he may verily be great 
 
 By doing riglitly and kindly. Once 
 he thought. 
 
 For charitable ends set duly forth 
 
 In heaven's white judgment-book, to 
 marry . . . ah. 
 
 We'll call her name Aurora Leigh, 
 although 
 
 She's changed since then! — and 
 once, for social ends, 
 
 Poor Marian Erie, my sister Marian 
 Erie, 
 
 My woodland sister, sweet maid Mar- 
 ian, 
 
 Whose memory moans on in me like 
 the wind 
 
 Through ill-shut casements, making 
 me more sad 
 
 Than ever I find reasons for. Alas, 
 
 Poor pretty plaintive face, embodied 
 ghost ! 
 
 I 
 
 ) 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 He finds it easy, then, to clap thee off 
 Froua pulling at his sleeve and book 
 
 and pen, 
 He locks thee out at night into the 
 
 cold, 
 Away from butting with thy horny 
 
 eyes 
 Against his crystal dreams, that now 
 
 he's strong 
 To love anew ? that Lady Waldemar 
 Succeeds uiy Marian ? 
 
 After all, why not ? 
 He loved not Marian more than once 
 
 he loved 
 Aurora. If he loves at last that 
 
 third, 
 Albeit she prove as slippery as spilt 
 
 oil 
 On marble floors, I will not augur 
 
 him 
 111 luck for that. Good love, howe'er 
 
 ill placed. 
 Is better for a man's soul in the end 
 Than if he loved ill what deserves 
 
 love well. 
 A Pagan kissing for a step of Pan 
 The wild-goat's hoof-print on the 
 
 loamy down, 
 Exceeds our modern thinker who 
 
 turns back 
 The strata . . . granite, limestone, 
 
 coal, and clay. 
 Concluding coldly with, "Here's 
 
 law! Where's God?" 
 
 And then at worse, — if Romney loves 
 
 her not, — 
 At worst, — if he's incapable of love, 
 (Which may be), — then, indeed, for 
 
 such a man 
 Incajiable of love, she's good enough; 
 For she, at worst too, is a woman still. 
 And loves him ... as the sort of 
 
 woman can. 
 
 My loose long hair began to burn and 
 
 creep. 
 Alive to the very ends, about my 
 
 knees: 
 I swept it backward, as the wind 
 
 sweeps flame. 
 With the passion of my hands. Ah, 
 
 Romney laughed 
 One day . . . (how full the memories 
 
 come up !) 
 — " Your Florence fireflies live on in 
 
 your hair," 
 He said, " it gleams so." Well, I 
 
 wrung them out, 
 
 My fireflies; made a knot as hard as 
 
 life 
 Of those loose, soft, imin-acticable 
 
 curls, 
 And then sat down and thought . . . 
 
 " She shall not think 
 Her thought of me," — and drew my 
 
 desk, and wrote. 
 
 "Dear Lady Waldemar, I could not 
 
 speak 
 With people round me, nor can sleep 
 
 to-night. 
 And not speak, after the great news 
 
 I heard 
 Of you and of my cousin. May you be 
 Most happy, and the good he meant 
 
 the world 
 Replenish his own life ! Say what I 
 
 say, 
 And let my word be sweeter for your 
 
 mouth, 
 As you are you ... I only Aurora 
 
 Leigh." 
 
 That's quiet, guarded : though she 
 
 hold it up 
 Against the light, she'll not see 
 
 through it more 
 Than lies there to be seen. So much 
 
 for pride ; 
 And now for peace a little. Let me 
 
 stop 
 All writing back . . . " Sweet thanks, 
 
 my sweetest friend. 
 You've made more joyful my great 
 
 joy itself." 
 — No, that's too simple: she would 
 
 twist it thus, 
 "My joy would still be as sweet as 
 
 thyme in drawers, 
 However slmt up in the dark and 
 
 dry; 
 But violets aired and dewed by love 
 
 like yours 
 Outsmell all thyme : we keep that in 
 
 our clothes," 
 But drop the other down our bosoms 
 
 till 
 They smell like "... Ah ! I see her 
 
 writing back 
 Just so. She'll make a nosegay of 
 
 her words. 
 And tie it with blue ribbons at the 
 
 end, 
 To suit a poet. Pshaw ! 
 
 And then we'll have 
 The call to church ; the broken, .sad, 
 
 bad dream 
 

 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 99 
 
 Dreamed out at last ; the marriage- 
 vow complete 
 
 "With the marriage-hreakfast ; praying 
 in white gloves, 
 
 Drawn off in haste for drinking jiagan 
 toasts 
 
 In somewhat stronger wine than any 
 sipped 
 
 By gods since Bacchus had his way 
 with grapes. 
 
 A postscript stops all that and rescues 
 
 me. 
 " You need not write. I have heen 
 
 overworked, 
 And think of leaving London, Eng- 
 land even, 
 And hastening to get nearer to the sun, 
 Where men sleep better. So, adieu ! " 
 
 I fold 
 And seal ; and now I'm out of all 
 
 the coil : 
 I breathe now, I spring upward like a 
 
 branch 
 The ten-years' schoolboy with a 
 
 crooked stick 
 May pull down to his level in search 
 
 of nuts. 
 But cannot hold a moment. How we 
 
 twang 
 Back on the blue sky, and assert our 
 
 height. 
 While he stares after ! Now, the won- 
 der seems 
 That I could wrong myself by such a 
 
 doubt. 
 We poets always have uneasy hearts, 
 Because our hearts, large-rounded as 
 
 the globe. 
 Can turn but one side to the sun at 
 
 once. 
 We are used to dip our artist hands in 
 
 gall 
 And potash, trying potentialities 
 Of alternated color, till at last 
 We get confused, and wonder for our 
 
 skin 
 How nature tinged it first. Well, 
 
 here's the true 
 Good flesh-color : I recognize my 
 
 hand. 
 Which Romney Leigh may clasp as 
 
 just a friend's, 
 And keep his clean. 
 
 And now, my Italy. 
 Alas ! if we could ride with naked 
 
 souls. 
 And make no noise, and pay no price 
 
 at all, 
 
 I would have seen thee sooner, Italy ; 
 For still I have heard thee crying 
 
 through my life. 
 Thou piercing silence of ecstatic 
 
 graves, 
 Men call that name. 
 
 But even a witch to-day 
 Must melt down golden pieces in the 
 
 nard, 
 Wherewith to anoint her broomstick 
 
 ere she rides ; 
 And poets evermore are scant of gold. 
 And if they find a piece behind the 
 
 door. 
 It turns by sunset to a withered leaf. 
 The Devil himself scarce trusts his 
 
 patented 
 Gold-making art to any who make 
 
 rhymes. 
 But culls his Faustus from philoso- 
 phers. 
 And not from jioets. " Leave my 
 
 Job," said God ; 
 And so the Devil leaves him without 
 
 pence, 
 And poverty proves plainly special 
 
 grace. 
 In these new, just, administrative 
 
 times 
 Men clamor for an order of merit : 
 
 why ? 
 Here's black bread on the table, and 
 
 no wine ! 
 
 At least I am a poet in befng poor, 
 
 Thank God ! I wonder if the manu- 
 script 
 
 Of my long poem, if 'twere sold out- 
 right. 
 
 Would fetch enough to buy me shoes 
 to go 
 
 Afoot (thrown in, the necessary 
 patch 
 
 For the other side the Alps) ? It can- 
 not be. 
 
 I fear that I must sell this residue 
 
 Of my father's books, although the 
 Elzevirs 
 
 Have fly-leaves over-written by his 
 hand 
 
 In faded notes as thick and fine and 
 brown 
 
 As cobwebs on a tawny monument 
 
 Of the old Greeks — conferenda hac 
 cum his — 
 
 Corrupte citat — lege potiiis, 
 
 And so on, in the scholar's regal 
 way 
 
 ^m I ^m I 
 
it 
 
 100 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Of giving judgment on the parts of 
 speech, 
 
 As if he sate on all twelve thrones up- 
 piled, 
 
 Arraigning Israel. Ay, but books 
 and notes 
 
 Must go together. And this Proclus 
 too, 
 
 In these dear quaint contracted Gre- 
 cian types. 
 
 Fantastically crumpled, like his 
 thoughts, 
 
 Which would not seem too plain ; 
 you go round twice 
 
 For one step forward, then you take it 
 back, 
 
 Because you're somewhat giddy ; 
 there's the rule 
 
 For Proclus. Ah, I stained this mid- 
 dle leaf 
 
 With pressing in't my Florence iris- 
 bell, 
 
 Long stalk and all. My father chided 
 me 
 
 For that stain of blue blood. I recol- 
 lect 
 
 The ijeevish turn his voice took, — 
 " Silly girls ! 
 
 "Who plant their flowers in our phi- 
 losoi^hy 
 
 To make it fine, and only spoil the 
 book. 
 
 No more of it, Aurora." Yes— no 
 more. 
 
 Ah, blame of love, that's sweeter than 
 all praise 
 
 Of those who love not ! 'Tis so lost 
 to me, 
 
 I cannot, in such beggared life, afford 
 
 To lose my Proclus — not for Florence 
 even. 
 
 The kissing Judas, Wolff, shall go 
 instead, 
 
 Who builds us such a royal book as 
 this 
 
 To honor a chief poet, folio-built. 
 
 And writes above, " The house of No- 
 body ! " 
 
 Who floats in cream as rich as any 
 sucked 
 
 From Juno's breasts, the broad Ho- 
 meric lines, 
 
 And while with their spondaic pro- 
 digious mouths 
 
 They lap the lucent margins as babe- 
 gods, 
 
 Proclaims them bastards. Wolff's 
 an atheist ; 
 
 And if the Iliad fell out, as he says. 
 By mere fortuitous concourse of old 
 
 songs. 
 Conclude as much, too, for the uni- 
 verse. 
 
 That Wolff, those Platos : sweep the 
 upper shelves 
 
 As clean as this, and so I am almost 
 rich, 
 
 Which means, not forced to think of 
 being poor 
 
 In sight of ends. To-morrow : no 
 delay. 
 
 I'll wait in Paris till good Carrington 
 
 Dispose of such, and, having chaffered 
 for 
 
 My book's price with the publisher, 
 direct 
 
 All proceeds to me. Just a line to 
 ask 
 
 His help. 
 
 And now I come, my Italy, 
 
 My own hills ! Are you 'ware of me, 
 my hills, — 
 
 How I burn toward you ? do you feel 
 to-night 
 
 The urgency and yearning of my soul. 
 
 As sleeping mothers feel the sucking 
 babe. 
 
 And smile ? Nay, not so much as 
 when in heat 
 
 Vain lightnings catch at your invio- 
 late tops 
 
 And tremble, while ye are steadfast. 
 Still ye go 
 
 Your own determined, calm, indiffer- 
 ent way 
 
 Toward sunrise, shade by shade, and 
 light by light, 
 
 Of all the grand jirogression nought 
 left out. 
 
 As if God verily made you for your- 
 selves, 
 
 And would not interrupt your life 
 with ours. 
 
 SIXTH BOOK. 
 
 The English have a scornful insular 
 
 way 
 Of calling the French light. The 
 
 levity 
 Is in the judgment only, which yet 
 
 stands ; 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 101 
 
 For, say a foolish thing but oft enough 
 (And here's the secret of a hundred 
 
 creeds, 
 Men get opinions as boys learn to 
 
 spell, 
 By re-iteration chiefly), the same 
 
 thing 
 Shall pass at last for absolutely wise, 
 And not with fools exclusively. And 
 
 so 
 We say the French are light, as if we 
 
 said 
 The cat mews, or the milch-cow gives 
 
 us milk: 
 Say, rather, cats are milked, and 
 
 milch-cows mew; 
 For what is lightness but inconse- 
 quence, 
 Vague fluctuation 'twixt effect and 
 
 cause, 
 Compelled by neither? Is a bullet 
 
 light, 
 That dashes from the gun-mouth, 
 
 while the eye 
 "Winks and the heart beats one, to 
 
 flatten itself 
 To a wafer on the white speck on a 
 
 wall 
 A hundred paces off^ Even so di- 
 rect, 
 So sternly undivertible of aim. 
 Is this French people. 
 
 All idealists 
 Too absolute and earnest, with them 
 
 all 
 The idea of a knife cuts real fiesh; 
 And still, devouring the safe inter- 
 val 
 Which nature placed between the 
 
 thought and act 
 With those too fiery and impatient 
 
 souls. 
 They threaten conflagration to the 
 
 world. 
 And rush with most unscrupulous 
 
 logic on 
 Imi^ossible practice. Set your orators 
 To blow upon them with loud windy 
 
 mouths 
 Through watchword phrases, jest or 
 
 sentiment. 
 Which drive our burly brutal English 
 
 mobs. 
 Like so much chaff, whichever way 
 
 they blow, — 
 This light French iJeople will not thus 
 
 be driven. 
 They turn indeed; but then thej' 
 
 turn upon 
 
 Some central pivot of their thought 
 and choice. 
 
 And veer out by the force of holding 
 fast. 
 
 That's hard to understand, for Eng- 
 lishmen 
 
 Unused to abstract questions, and un- 
 trained 
 
 To trace the involutions, valve by 
 valve. 
 
 In each orbed bulb-root of a general 
 truth , 
 
 And mark what subtly fine integu- 
 ment 
 
 Divides opposed compartments. Free- 
 dom's self 
 
 Comes concrete to us, to be under- 
 stood. 
 
 Fixed in a feudal form incaruately 
 
 To suit our ways of thought and rev- 
 erence ; 
 
 The special form, with us, being still 
 the thing. 
 
 With us, I say, though I'm of Italy 
 
 By mother's birth and grave, by 
 father's grave 
 
 And memory, let it be, — a poet's 
 heart 
 
 Can swell to a pair of nationalities, 
 
 However ill lodged in a woman's 
 breast. 
 
 And so I am strong to love this noble 
 France, 
 
 This poet of the nations, who dreams on 
 
 And wails on (while the household 
 goes to wreck) 
 
 Forever, after some ideal good, 
 
 Some equal poise of sex, some un- 
 vowed love 
 
 Inviolate, some spontaneous brother- 
 hood. 
 
 Some wealth that leaves none poor 
 and finds none tired. 
 
 Some freedom of the many that re- 
 spects 
 
 The wisdom of the few. Heroic 
 dreams ! 
 
 Sublime to dream so; natural to 
 wake ; 
 
 And sad to use such lofty scaffold- 
 ings, 
 
 Erected for the building of a church. 
 
 To build, instead, a brothel or a pris- 
 on. 
 
 May God save France ! 
 
 And if at last she sighs 
 
 Her great soul up into a great man's 
 face, 
 
 hJ 
 
II 
 
 102 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 To flush his temples out so gloriously 
 
 That few dare carp at Caesar for being 
 bald, 
 
 What then ? This Caesar represents, 
 not reigns, 
 
 And is no despot, though twice abso- 
 lute: 
 
 This head has all the people for a 
 heart; 
 
 This purple's lined with the democ- 
 racy, — 
 
 Now let him see to it ! for a rent 
 within 
 
 Would leave irreparable rags with- 
 out. 
 
 A serious riddle : And such anywhere 
 
 Except in France, and, when 'tis 
 found in France, 
 
 Be sure to read it rightly. So, I 
 mused 
 
 Up and down, up and down, the ter- 
 raced streets, 
 
 The glittering boulevards, the white 
 colonnades, 
 
 Of fair fantastic Paris who wears 
 trees 
 
 Like plumes, as if man made them, 
 spire and tower 
 
 As if they had grown by nature, toss- 
 ing up 
 
 Her fountains in the sunshine of the 
 squares. 
 
 As if in beauty's game she tossed the 
 dice, 
 
 Or blew the silver down-balls of her 
 dreams 
 
 To sow futurity with seeds of thought. 
 
 And count the passage of her festive 
 hours. 
 
 The city swims in verdure, beautiful 
 
 As Venice on the waters, — the sea- 
 swan. 
 
 What bosky gardens dro^jped in close- 
 walled courts, 
 
 Like plums in ladies' laps who start 
 and laugh ! 
 
 What miles of streets that run on 
 after trees. 
 
 Still carrying all the necessary shops. 
 
 Those open caskets with the jewels 
 seen ! 
 
 And trade is art, and art's philoso- 
 
 In Paris. There's a silk, for instance, 
 
 there, 
 As worth an artist's study for the 
 
 folds. 
 
 As that bronze opposite ! nay, the 
 
 bronze has faults; 
 Art's here too artful, — conscious as a 
 
 maid 
 Who leans to mark her shadow on 
 
 the wall 
 Until she lose a 'vantage in her step. 
 Yet art walks forward, and kno^s 
 
 where to walk: 
 The artists also are idealists. 
 Too absolrte for nature, logical 
 To austerity in the ajiplication of 
 The special theory; not a soul con- 
 tent 
 To f)aiut a crooked pollard and an 
 
 ass, 
 As the English will, because they find 
 
 it so. 
 And like it somehow. — There the old 
 
 Tuileries 
 Is pulling its high cap down on its 
 
 eyes. 
 Confounded, conscience-stricken, and 
 
 amazed 
 By the apparition of a new fair face 
 In those devouring mirrors. Through 
 
 the grate 
 Within the gardens, what a heap of 
 
 babes. 
 Swept up like leaves beneath the 
 
 chestnut-trees 
 From every street and alley of the 
 
 town. 
 By ghosts, perhaps, that blow too 
 
 bleak this way 
 A-looking for their heads 1 dear pretty 
 
 babes, 
 I wish them luck to have their ball- 
 
 l^lay out 
 Before the next change. Here the air 
 
 is thronged 
 With statues poised upon their col- 
 umns tine. 
 As if to stand a moment were a feat, 
 Against that blue ! What squares ! 
 
 what breathing-room 
 For a nation that runs fast, ay, runs 
 
 against 
 The dentist's teeth at the corner in 
 
 pale rows. 
 Which grin at progress, in an epi- 
 gram ! 
 
 I walked the day out, listening to the 
 chink 
 
 Of the first Napoleon's bones in his 
 second grave, 
 
 By victories guarded 'neath the gold- 
 en dome 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 103 
 
 That caps all Paris like a bubble. 
 " Shall 
 
 These dry bones live," thought Loiiis 
 Philippe once, 
 
 And lived to know. Herein is argu- 
 ment 
 
 For kings and politicians, but still 
 more 
 
 For poets, who bear buckets to the 
 vrell 
 
 Of ampler draught. 
 
 These crowds are very good 
 
 For meditation (when we are very 
 strong,) 
 
 Though love of beauty makes us tim- 
 orous, 
 
 And draws us backward from the 
 coarse town-sights 
 
 To count the daisies upon dappled 
 fields, 
 
 And hear the streams bleat on among 
 the hills 
 
 In innocent and indolent repose; 
 
 While still with silken elegiac thoughts 
 
 We wind out from us the distracting 
 world. 
 
 And die into the chrysalis of a man. 
 
 And leave the best that may, to come 
 of us. 
 
 In some brown moth. I woiild be 
 bold, and bear, 
 
 To look into the swarthiest face of 
 things. 
 
 For God's sake who has made them. 
 Six days' work; 
 
 The last day shutting 'twixt its dawn 
 and eve 
 
 The whole work bettered of the pre- 
 vious five ! 
 
 Since God collected and resumed in 
 man 
 
 The firmaments, the strata, and the 
 lights, 
 
 Fish, fowl, and beast, and insect, — 
 all their trains 
 
 Of various life caught back upon his 
 arm. 
 
 Re-organized, and constituted man. 
 
 The microcosm, the adding-up of 
 works ; 
 
 Within whose fluttering nostrils, then, 
 at last 
 
 Consummating himself the Maker 
 sighed. 
 
 As some strong winner at the foot- 
 race sighs 
 
 Touching the goal. 
 
 Humanity is great; 
 
 And if I would not rather pore upon 
 
 An ounce of common, ugly, human 
 dust. 
 
 An artisan's palm or a peasant's brow, 
 
 Unsmooth, ignoble, save to me and 
 God, 
 
 Than track old Nilus to his silver 
 roots. 
 
 Or wait on all the changes of the 
 moon 
 
 Among the mountain-peaks of Thes- 
 saly 
 
 (Until her magic crystal round itself 
 
 For many a witch to see in) — set it 
 down 
 
 As weakness, strength by no means. 
 How is this. 
 
 That men of science, osteologists 
 
 And surgeons, lieat some poets in 
 respect 
 
 For nature? — count nought common 
 or unclean, 
 
 Spend raptures upon perfect speci- 
 mens 
 
 Of indurated veins, distorted joints, 
 
 Or beautiful new cases of curved 
 si)ine, 
 
 While we, we are shocked at nature's 
 falling off, 
 
 We dare to shrink back from her 
 warts and blains. 
 
 We will not, when she sneezes, look 
 at her. 
 
 Not even to say, " God bless her ! " 
 That's our wrong: 
 
 For that, she will not trust us often 
 with 
 
 Her larger sense of beauty and de- 
 sire. 
 
 But tethers us to a lily or a rose, 
 
 And bids us diet on the dew in- 
 side. 
 
 Left ignorant that the hungry beggar- 
 boy 
 
 (Who stares unseen against our ab- 
 sent eyes. 
 
 And wonders at the gods that we 
 must be, 
 
 To pass so careless for the oranges !) 
 
 Bears yet a breastful of a fellow- 
 w'orld 
 
 To this world, iindisparaged, unde- 
 spoiled, 
 
 And (while we scorn him for a flower 
 or two. 
 
 As being. Heaven help us, less poeti- 
 cal) 
 
 Contains himself both flowers and 
 firmaments 
 
 And surging seas and aspectable stars, 
 
104 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Aud all that we would push him out 
 of sight 
 
 In order to see nearer. Let us pray 
 
 God's grace to keep God's image in 
 repute, 
 
 That so the poet and philanthropist 
 
 (Even I and llomney) may stand side 
 by side, 
 
 Because we both stand face to face 
 with men, 
 
 Contemplating the people in the 
 rough, 
 
 Yet each so follow a vocation, his 
 
 And mine. 
 
 I walked on, musing with myself 
 
 On life and art, and whether after 
 all 
 
 A larger metaphysics might not help 
 
 Our physics, a completer poetry 
 
 Adjust our daily life and vulgar wants 
 
 More fully than the special outside 
 plans. 
 
 Phalansteries, material institutes. 
 
 The civil conscriptions, and lay mon- 
 asteries 
 
 Preferred by modern thinkers, as 
 they thought 
 
 The bread of man Indeed made all 
 his life, 
 
 And washing seven times in the 
 " People's Baths " 
 
 "Were sovereign for a people's lepro- 
 sy, 
 
 Still leaving out the essential proph- 
 et's word 
 
 That comes in power. On which we 
 thunder down. 
 
 We prophets, poets, — Virtue's in the 
 loord ! 
 
 The maker burnt the darkness up 
 with his. 
 
 To inaugurate the use of vocal life; 
 
 And plant a poet's word even deep 
 enough 
 
 In any man's breast, looking pres- 
 ently 
 
 For offshoots, you have done more 
 for the man 
 
 Than if you dressed him in a broad- 
 cloth coat, 
 
 And warmed his Sunday pottage at 
 your fire. 
 
 Yet Romney leaves me . . . 
 
 God ! what face is that ? 
 
 O Romney, O Marian ! 
 
 Walking on the quays. 
 
 And pulling thoughts to pieces leis- 
 urely, 
 
 As if I caught at grasses in a field, 
 
 And bit them slow between my ab- 
 sent lips. 
 
 And shred them with my hands . . . 
 What face is that ? 
 
 What a face, what a look, what a 
 likeness ! Full on mine 
 
 The sudden blow of it came down, 
 till all 
 
 My blood swam, my eyes dazzled, 
 then I sprang . . . 
 
 It was as if a meditative man 
 
 Were dreaming out a summer after. 
 
 noon. 
 And watching gnats a-prick upon a 
 
 pond. 
 When something floats up suddenly, 
 
 out there, 
 Turns over ... a dead face, known 
 
 once alive . . . 
 So old, so new ! it would be dreadful 
 
 now 
 To lose the sight, aud keep the doubt 
 
 of this: 
 He plunges — ha! he has lost it in 
 
 the splash. 
 
 I plunged — I tore the crowd up, 
 
 either side, 
 And rushed on, forward, forward, 
 
 after her. 
 Her ? whom ? 
 
 A woman sauntered slow ra front. 
 Munching an apple ; she left off 
 
 amazed 
 As if I had snatched it: that's not 
 
 she, at least. 
 A man walked arm-linked with a 
 
 lady veiled, 
 Both heads dropped closer than the 
 
 need of talk: 
 They started ; he forgot her with his 
 
 face. 
 And she, herself, and clung to him as 
 
 if 
 My look were fatal. Such a stream 
 
 of folk. 
 And all with cares and business of 
 
 their own ! 
 I ran the whole quay down against 
 
 their eyes — 
 No Marian; nowhere Marian. Al- 
 
 most, now, 
 I could call " Marian, Marian ! " with 
 
 the shriek 
 Of desperate creatures calling for the 
 
 dead. 
 Where is she, was she ? was she any- 
 where ? 
 
 ^i I ^m I 
 
T 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 I stood still, breathless, gazing, strain- 
 ing out 
 
 In every uncertain distance, till at 
 last 
 
 A gentleman abstracted as myself 
 
 Came full against me, then resolved 
 the clash 
 
 In voluble excuses, — obviously 
 
 Some learned member of the Institute 
 
 Upon his way there, walking, for his 
 health, 
 
 "While meditating on the last " Dis- 
 course; " 
 
 Pinching the empty air 'twixt finger 
 and thumb, 
 
 From which the snuff being ousted 
 by that shock 
 
 Defiled his snow-white waistcoat duly 
 pricked 
 
 At the button-hole with honorable 
 red; 
 
 "Madame, your pardon," — there he 
 swerved from me 
 
 A metre, as confounded as he had 
 heard 
 
 That Dumas would be chosen to fill 
 up 
 
 The next chair vacant, by his "men 
 in us.'' 
 
 Since when was genius found respect- 
 able ? 
 
 It passes in its place, indeed, which 
 means 
 
 The seventh floor back, or else the 
 hosi^ital. 
 
 Revolving pistols are ingenious 
 things ; 
 
 But prudent men (academicians are) 
 
 Scarce keep them in the cupboard 
 next the prunes. 
 
 And so, abandoned to a bitter mirth, 
 
 I loitered to my inn. O world, O 
 world, 
 
 O jurists, rhymers, dreamers, what 
 you please, 
 
 "We play a weary game of hide-and- 
 seek ! 
 
 We shape a figure of our fantasy, 
 
 Call nothing something, and run after 
 it 
 
 And lose it, lose ourselves, too, in the 
 search. 
 
 Till clash against us comes a some- 
 body 
 
 Who also has lost something and is 
 lost, — 
 
 Philosopher against philanthropist, 
 
 Academician against poet, man 
 
 Against woman, against the living 
 
 the dead — 
 Tlien home, with a bad headache and 
 
 worse jest. 
 
 To change the water for my helio- 
 tropes 
 And yellow roses. Paris has such 
 
 flowers. 
 But England also. 'Twas a yellow 
 
 rose. 
 By that south window of the little 
 
 house, 
 My cousin Romney gathered with his 
 
 hand 
 On all my birthdays for me, save the 
 
 last ; 
 And then I shook the tree too rough, 
 
 too rough. 
 For roses to stay after. 
 
 Now, my maps. 
 I must not linger here from Italy 
 Till the last nightingale is tired of 
 
 song. 
 And the last firefly dies off in the 
 
 maize. 
 My soul's in haste to leap into the 
 
 sun. 
 And scorch and seethe itself to a finer 
 
 mood. 
 Which here in this chill north is apt 
 
 to stand 
 Too stifliy in former moulds. 
 
 That face persists. 
 It floats up, it turns over in my mind 
 As like to Marian as one dead is like 
 The same alive. In very deed a 
 
 face. 
 And not a fancy, though it vanished 
 
 so : 
 The small fair face between the darks 
 
 of hair 
 I used to liken, when I saw her first. 
 To a point of moonlit water down a 
 
 well ; 
 The low brow, the frank space be- 
 tween the eyes. 
 Which always had the brown pathetic 
 
 look 
 Of a dumb creature, who had been 
 
 beaten once. 
 And never since was easy with the 
 
 world. 
 Ah, ah ! now I remember perfectly 
 Those eyes to-day : how overlarge 
 
 they seemed ! 
 As if some i^atient passionate despair 
 (Like a coal dropt and forgot on tap- 
 estry, 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Which slowly burns a widening circle 
 
 out) 
 Had burnt them larger, larger. And 
 
 those eyes, 
 To-day, I do remember, saw me too, 
 As I saw them, with conscious lids 
 
 astrain 
 In recognition. Now, a fantasy, 
 A simple shade or image of the brain, 
 Is merely passive, does not retroact. 
 Is seen, but sees not. 
 
 'Twas a real face, 
 Perhaps a real Marian. 
 
 Which being so, 
 I ought to write to Romney, " Mari- 
 an's here : 
 Be comforted for Marian." 
 
 My pen fell ; 
 My hands struck sharp together, as 
 
 hands do 
 Which hold at nothing. Can I write 
 
 to him 
 A half-truth ? can I keep my own 
 
 soul blind 
 To the other half . . . the worse ? 
 
 What are our souls. 
 If still, to run on straight a sober 
 
 pace, 
 Nor start at every pebble or dead 
 
 leaf, 
 They must wear blinkers, ignore facts, 
 
 suppress 
 Six-tenths of the road ? Confront the 
 
 truth, my soul ! 
 And, oh ! as truly as that was Mari- 
 an's face, 
 The arms of that same Marian clasped 
 
 a thing 
 . . . Not hid so well beneath the 
 
 scanty shawl, 
 I cannot name it now for what it was. 
 
 A child. Small business has a cast- 
 away 
 
 Like Marian, with that crown of pros- 
 perous wives. 
 
 At which the gentlest she grows ar- 
 rogant. 
 
 And says, "My child." Who finds 
 an emerald ring 
 
 On a beggar's middle finger, and re- 
 quires 
 
 More testimony to convict a thief ? 
 
 A child's too costly for so mere a 
 wretch : 
 
 She filched it somewhere ; and it 
 means with her. 
 
 Instead of honor, blessing, merely 
 shame. 
 
 I cannot write to Romney, " Here 
 
 she is, 
 Here's Marian found ! I'll set you on 
 
 her track. 
 I saw her here in Paris, . . . and her 
 
 child. 
 She put away your love two years 
 
 ago. 
 But, plainly, not to starve. You suf- 
 fered then; 
 And now that you've forgot her ut- 
 terly, 
 As any last year's annual, in whose 
 
 place 
 You've planted a thick flowering 
 
 evergreen, 
 I choose, being kind, to write and 
 
 tell you this 
 To make you wholly easy, — she's not 
 
 dead. 
 But only . . . damned." 
 
 Stop there : I go too fast ; 
 I'm cruel, like the rest, — in haste to 
 
 take 
 The first stir in the arras for a rat. 
 And set my barking, biting thoughts 
 
 upon't. 
 — A child! what then? Suppose a 
 
 neighbor's sick, 
 And asked her, "Marian, carry out 
 
 my child 
 In this spring air," — I punish her 
 
 for that ? 
 Or say, the child should hold her 
 
 round the neck 
 For good child reasons, that he liked 
 
 it so, 
 And would not leave her, — she had 
 
 winning ways, — 
 I brand her, therefore, that she took 
 
 the child ? 
 Not so. 
 
 I will not write to Romney Leigh, 
 For now he's happy, and she may, 
 
 indeed, 
 Be guilty, and the knowledge of hei' 
 
 fault 
 Would draggle his smooth time. But 
 
 I, whose days 
 Are not so fine tifiey cannot bear the 
 
 rain. 
 And who, moreover, having seen her 
 
 face. 
 Must see it again . . . icill see it, by 
 
 my hopes 
 Of one day seeing heaven too. The 
 
 police 
 Shall track her, hound her, ferret 
 
 their own soil: 
 
 I 
 
V»V--- 
 
 ■^T' 
 
 A '-•^ 
 
 J^n^Tii ^W 
 
 " Marian! I find you. Shall I let you go?" — Page 107. 
 

 or 
 
 Sir 
 
 '<L!IPR 
 
 NlAv 
 
AURORA LETGTT. 
 
 107 
 
 We'll dig this Paris to its catacombs 
 But certainly we'll find her, have her 
 
 out, 
 And save her, if she will or will not, 
 
 child 
 Or no child, — if a child, then one to 
 
 save ! 
 
 The long weeks passed on without 
 
 consequence. 
 As easy find a footstep on the sand 
 The morning after spring-tide, as the 
 
 trace 
 Of Marian's feet between the inces- 
 sant surfs 
 Of this live flood. 'She may have 
 
 moved this way; 
 But so the star-tish does, and crosses 
 
 out 
 Tlie dent of her small shoe. The 
 
 foiled police 
 Renounced me. " Could they find a 
 
 girl and child. 
 No other signalment but girl and 
 
 child ? 
 No data shown but noticeable eyes. 
 And hair in masses, low upon the brow. 
 As if it were an iron crown, and 
 
 pressed ? 
 Friends heighten, and suppose they 
 
 specify: 
 "Why, girls with hair and eyes are 
 
 everywhere 
 In Paris; they had turned me up in 
 
 vain, 
 No Marian Erie indeed, but certainly 
 Mathildes, Justines, Victoires . . , 
 
 or, if I sought 
 The English, Betsies, Saras, by the 
 
 score. 
 They might as well go out into the 
 
 fields 
 To find a speckled bean that's some- 
 how specked, 
 And somewhere in the pod." They 
 
 left me so. 
 Shall I leave Marian ? have I dreamed 
 
 a dream ? 
 
 — I thank God I have found her ! I 
 must sav 
 
 "Thank God" for finding her, al- 
 though 'tis true 
 
 I find the world more sad and wicked 
 for't. 
 
 But she — 
 
 I'll write about her presently. 
 
 My hand's a-tremble, as I had just 
 caught up 
 
 My heart to write with in the place of 
 
 it. 
 At least you'd take these letters to be 
 
 writ 
 At sea, in storm ! — wait now . . . 
 
 A simple chance 
 Did all. I could not sleep last night, 
 
 and, tired 
 Of turning on my pillow and harder 
 
 thoughts, 
 Went out at early morning, when the 
 
 air 
 Is delicate with some last starry 
 
 touch. 
 To wander through the market-place 
 
 of flowers 
 (The prettiest haunt in Paris), and 
 
 make sure 
 At worst that there were roses in the 
 
 world. 
 So wandering, musing, with the art- 
 ist's eye. 
 That keeps the shade-side of the 
 
 thing it loves. 
 Half-absent, whole observing, while 
 
 the crowd 
 Of young vivacious and black-braided 
 
 heads 
 Dipped, qviick as finches in a blos- 
 somed tree. 
 Among the nosegays, cheapening this 
 
 and that 
 In such a cheerful twitter of rapid 
 
 speech, — 
 My heart leapt in me, startled by a 
 
 voice 
 That slowly, faintly, with long 
 
 breaths that marked 
 The interval between the wish and 
 
 word, 
 Inquired in stranger's French, 
 
 " Would that be much. 
 That branch of flowering mountain- 
 
 gorse ? " — "So much ? 
 Too much for me, then ! " turning 
 
 the face round 
 So close upon me that I felt the sigh 
 It turned with. 
 " Marian, Marian ! " — face to face — 
 " Marian ! I find you. Shall I let you 
 
 go?" 
 I held her two slight wrists with botli 
 
 my hands; 
 " Ah, Marian, Marian, can I let von 
 
 go?" 
 She fluttered from me like a cycla- 
 men 
 As white, which, taken in a sudden 
 
 wind. 
 
 I 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Beats on against the palisade. " Let 
 pass," 
 
 She said at last. " I will not," I 
 replied: 
 
 " I lost my sister Marian many days, 
 
 And sought her ever in my walks 
 and prayers, 
 
 And now I find her , . . do we throw 
 away 
 
 The bread we worked and prayed for, 
 — crumble it 
 
 And drop it ... to do even so by 
 thee 
 
 Whom still I've hungered after more 
 than bread, 
 
 My sister Marian ? Can I hurt thee, 
 dear V 
 
 Then why distrust me ? Never trem- 
 ble so. 
 
 Come with me rather, where we'll 
 talk and live. 
 
 And none shall vex us. I've a home 
 for you 
 
 And me, and no one else "... 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " A home for you and me and no one 
 else 
 
 111 suits one of us: I prefer to such 
 
 A roof of grass on which a flower 
 might spring, 
 
 Less costly to me than the cheapest 
 here ; 
 
 And yet I could not at this hour af- 
 ford 
 
 A like home even. That you offer 
 yours, 
 
 I thank you. You are good as heav- 
 en itself — 
 
 As good as one I knew before . . . 
 Farewell !" 
 
 I loosed her hands. " In his name 
 no farewell ! " 
 
 (She stood as if I held her.) "For 
 his sake. 
 
 For his sake, — Romney's ! by the 
 good he meant. 
 
 Ay, always ! by the love he pressed 
 for once, 
 
 And by the grief, reproach, abandon- 
 ment. 
 
 He took in change "... 
 
 " He, Romnej' ! who grieved libn ? 
 
 AVho had the heart for't ? what re- 
 proach touched him ? 
 
 Be merciful — speak quickly." 
 
 " Therefore come," 
 
 I answered with authority. "I 
 think 
 
 We dare to speak such things, and 
 
 name such names. 
 In the open squares of Paris." 
 
 Not a word 
 She said, but in a gentle, humbled way 
 (As one who had forgot herself in 
 
 grief) 
 Turned round, and followed closely 
 
 where I went. 
 As if I led her by a narrow plank 
 Across devouring waters, step by 
 
 step; 
 And so in silence we walked on a 
 
 mile. 
 
 And then she stopped: her face was 
 
 white as wax. 
 " We go mucli farther ? " 
 
 " You are ill," I asked, 
 "Or tired?" 
 
 She looked the whiter for her smile. 
 "There's one at home," she said, 
 
 " has need of me 
 By this time; and I must not let him 
 
 wait." 
 
 " Not even," I asked, " to hear of 
 Romney Leigh ? " 
 
 " Not even," she said, " to hear of 
 Mister Leigh." 
 
 " In that case," I resumed, "I go 
 
 with you, 
 And we can talk the same thing there 
 
 as here. 
 None waits for me: I haA-e my day to 
 
 spend." 
 
 Her lips moved in a spasm without a 
 
 sound; 
 But then she spoke. " It shall be as 
 
 you please. 
 And better so — 'tis shorter seen than 
 
 told; 
 And, though you will not find me 
 
 worth your pains. 
 That, even, may be worth some pains 
 
 to know 
 For one as good as you are." 
 
 Then she led 
 The way ; and I, as by a narrow 
 
 plank 
 Across devouring waters, followed 
 
 her, 
 Stepping by her footsteps, breathing 
 
 by her breath. 
 And holding her with eyes that would 
 
 not slip; 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 109 
 
 And so, without a word, we walked a 
 
 mile, 
 And so another mile, without a word. 
 
 Until the peopled streets being all dis- 
 missed, 
 House rows and groups all scattered 
 
 like a flock, 
 The market-gardens thickened, and 
 
 the long 
 "White walls beyond, like spiders' out- 
 side threads, 
 Stretched, feeling blindly toward the 
 
 country-fields 
 Through half-built habitations and 
 
 half-dug 
 Foundations, — intervals of trenchant 
 
 chalk 
 That bit betwixt the grassy uneven 
 
 turfs 
 Where goats (vine-tendrils trailing 
 
 from their mouths) 
 Stood ]3erched on edges of the cellar- 
 age 
 Which should be, staring as about to 
 
 leajj 
 To find their coming Bacchus. All 
 
 the place 
 Seemed less a cultivation than a 
 
 waste. 
 Men work here, only, — scarce begin 
 
 to live: 
 All's sad, the country struggling with 
 
 the town. 
 Like an untamed hawk upon a strong 
 
 man's fist, 
 That beats its wings, and tries to get 
 
 away. 
 And cannot choose be satisfied so 
 
 soon 
 To hoji through court-yards with its 
 
 right foot tied, 
 The vintage plains and pastoral hills 
 
 in sight. 
 
 We stopped beside a house too high 
 
 and slim 
 To stand there by itself, but waiting 
 
 till 
 Five others, two on this side, three on 
 
 that. 
 Should grow up from the sullen sec- 
 ond floor 
 They pause at now, to build it to a 
 
 row. 
 The upper windows partly were un- 
 
 glazed 
 Meantime, — a meagre, unripe house: 
 
 a line 
 
 Of rigid poplars elbowed it behind ; 
 And just in front, beyond the lime 
 
 and bricks 
 That wronged the grass between it 
 
 and the road, 
 A great acacia with its slender trunk. 
 And overpoise of multitudinous 
 
 leaves, 
 (In which a hundred fields might spill 
 
 their dew 
 And intense verdure, yet find room 
 
 enough) 
 Stood reconciling all the place with 
 
 green. 
 
 I followed up the stair upon her 
 
 step. 
 She hurried upward, shot across a 
 
 face, 
 A woman's, on the landing, — " How 
 
 now, now ! 
 Is no one to have holidays but you ? 
 You said an hour, and stay three 
 
 hours, I think, 
 And Julie waiting for your betters 
 
 here ? 
 Why, if he had waked, he might have 
 
 waked, for me." 
 — Just murmuring an excusing word, 
 
 she passed 
 And shut the rest out with the cham- 
 ber-door. 
 Myself shut in beside her. 
 
 'Twas a room 
 Scarce larger than a grave, and near 
 
 as bare, — 
 Two stools, a pallet-bed. I saw the 
 
 room: 
 A mouse could find no sort of shelter 
 
 in't. 
 Much less a greater secret; curtain- 
 less, — 
 The window fixed you with its tor- 
 turing eye. 
 Defying you to take a step apart. 
 If, peradventure, you would hide a 
 
 thing. 
 I saw the whole room, I and Marian 
 
 there 
 Alone. 
 
 Alone ? She threw her bonnet off, 
 Then, sighing as 'twere sighing the 
 
 last time. 
 Approached the bed, and drew a 
 
 shawl away: 
 You could not peel a fruit you fear to 
 
 bruise 
 More calmly and more carefully than 
 
 so, — 
 
110 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Nor would you find within, a rosier 
 
 flushed 
 Pomegranate — 
 
 There he lay upon his hack, 
 The yearling creature, warm and 
 
 moist with life 
 To the bottom of his dimples, — to the 
 
 ends 
 Of the lovely tumbled curls about his 
 
 face; 
 For since he had been covered over- 
 much 
 To keep him from the light-glare, 
 
 both his cheeks 
 "Were hot and scarlet as the first live 
 
 rose 
 The shepherd's heart-blood ebbed 
 
 away into 
 The faster for his love. And love 
 
 was here 
 As instant: in the pretty baby-mouth, 
 Shut close, as if for dreaming that it 
 
 sucked ; 
 The little naked feet, drawn up the 
 
 Avay 
 Of nestled birdlings; every thing so 
 
 soft 
 And tender, — to the tiny holdfast 
 
 hands'. 
 Which, closing on a finger into sleep, 
 Had kept the mould oft. 
 
 While we stood there dumb; 
 For oh, that it should take such inno- 
 cence 
 To iirove just guilt, I thought, and 
 
 stood there dumb, — 
 The light upon his eyelids pricked 
 
 them wide. 
 And staring out at us with all their 
 
 blue. 
 As half perplexed between the angel- 
 
 liood 
 He had been away to visit in his 
 
 sleep. 
 And our most mortal presence, grad- 
 ually 
 He saw his mother's face, accepting it 
 In change for heaven itself with such 
 
 a smile 
 As might have well been learnt there, 
 
 never moved. 
 But smiled on in a drowse of ecstasy, 
 So happy (half with her, and half with 
 
 heaven) 
 He could not have the trouble to be 
 
 stirred. 
 But smiled and lay there. Like a 
 
 rose, I said ? 
 As red and still indeed as any rose, 
 
 That blows in all the silence of its 
 
 leaves, 
 Content, in blowing, to fulfil its life. 
 
 She leaned above him (drinking him 
 as wine) 
 
 In that extremity of love 'twill pass 
 
 For agony or rapture, seeing that love 
 
 Includes the whole of nature, round- 
 ing it 
 
 To love ... no more, since more can 
 never be 
 
 Than just love. Self-forgot, cast out 
 of self. 
 
 And drowning in the transport of the 
 sight, 
 
 Her whole pale passionate face, 
 mouth, forehead, eyes. 
 
 One gaze she stood ; then, slowly as 
 he smiled, 
 
 She smiled too, slowly, smiling un- 
 aware. 
 
 And drawing fr^m his countenance 
 to hers 
 
 A fainter red, as if she watched a 
 flame. 
 
 And stood in it aglow. " How beau- 
 tiful ! " 
 
 Said she. 
 
 I answered, trying to be cold. 
 
 (Must sin have compensations, was 
 my thought, 
 
 As if it were a holy thing like grief ? 
 
 And is a woman to be fooled aside 
 
 From putting vice down, Avith that 
 woman's toy, 
 
 A baby?) — "Ay! the child is well 
 enough," 
 
 I answered. "If his mother's palms 
 are clean. 
 
 They need be glad, of course, in clasp- 
 ing such ; 
 
 But, if not, I would rather lay my 
 hand. 
 
 Were I she, on God's brazen altar- 
 bars 
 
 Red-hot with burning sacrificial 
 lambs, 
 
 Than touch the sacred curls of such a 
 child." 
 
 She plunged her fingers in his cluster- 
 ing locks 
 
 As one who would not be afraid of 
 fire ; 
 
 And then, with indrawn steady utter- 
 ance, said, 
 
 "My lamb, my lamb! although, 
 through such as thou, 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The most unclean got courage, and 
 
 approached 
 To God, once, now they cannot, even 
 
 with men. 
 Find grace enough for pity and gentle 
 
 words." 
 
 "My Marian," I made answer, grave 
 
 and sad, 
 " The priest who stole a lamb to offer 
 
 him 
 Was still a thief. And if a woman 
 
 steals 
 (Through God's own barrier-hedges of 
 
 true love, 
 Which fence out license in securing 
 
 love) 
 A child like this, that smiles so in her 
 
 face, 
 She is no mother, but a kidnapper. 
 And he's a dismal orphan, not a son. 
 Whom all her kisses cannot feed so 
 
 full 
 He will not miss hereafter a pure 
 
 home 
 To live in, a pure heart to lean 
 
 against, 
 A pure good mother's name and 
 
 memory' 
 To hope by when the world grows 
 
 thick and bad. 
 And he feels out for virtue." 
 
 "Oh!" she smiled 
 With bitter patience, "the child takes 
 
 his chance ; 
 Not much worse off in being father- 
 less 
 Than I was, fathered. He will say, 
 
 belike, 
 His mother was the saddest creature 
 
 born ; 
 He'll say his mother lived so contrary 
 To joy, that even the kindest, seeing 
 
 her, 
 Grew sometimes almost cruel ; he'll 
 
 not say 
 She flew contrarious in the face of God 
 With bat-wings of her vices. Stole 
 
 my child I 
 My flower of earth, my only flower 
 
 on earth. 
 My sweet, my beauty ! " . . . Up she 
 
 snatched the child, 
 And, breaking on him in a storm of 
 
 tears, 
 Drew out her long sobs from their 
 
 shivering roots. 
 Until he took it for a game, and 
 
 stretched 
 
 His feet, and flapped his eager arms 
 like wings. 
 
 And crowed and gurgled through his 
 infant laugh. 
 
 " Mine, mine ! " she said. " I have as 
 sure a right 
 
 As any glad proud mother in the 
 world. 
 
 Who sets her darling down to cut his 
 teeth 
 
 Upon her church-ring. If she talks 
 of law, 
 
 I talk of law : I claim my mother- 
 dues 
 
 By law, — the law which now is para- 
 mount ; 
 
 The common law, by which the poor 
 and weak 
 
 Are trodden under foot by vicious 
 men. 
 
 And loathed forever after by the good. 
 
 Let pass ! I did not fllch : I found 
 the child." 
 
 "You found him, Marian ? " 
 
 " Ay, I found him where 
 I found my curse, — in the gutter with 
 
 my shame ! 
 What have you, any of you, to say to 
 
 that. 
 Who all are happy, and sit safe and 
 
 high, 
 And never spoke before to arraign 
 
 my right 
 To grief itself? What, what, . . . 
 
 being beaten down 
 By hoofs of maddened oxen into a 
 
 ditch, 
 Half-dead, whole mangled, when a 
 
 girl at last 
 Breathes, sees . . . and finds there, 
 
 bedded in her flesh. 
 Because of the extremity of the 
 
 shock, 
 Some coin of price ! . . . and when a 
 
 good man comes 
 (That's God ! the best men are not 
 
 quite as good) 
 And says, ' I dropped the coin there : 
 
 take it, you. 
 And keep it, it shall pay you for the 
 
 loss,' — 
 You all put up your finger — ' See the 
 
 thief ! 
 Observe what precious thing she has 
 
 come to filch ! 
 How bad those girls are I ' Oh, my 
 
 flower, my jjet, 
 I dare forget I have you in my arms, 
 
112 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 And fly off to be angry with tlie 
 
 world, 
 And fright you, hurt you with my 
 
 tempers, till 
 You double up your lip ? Why, that 
 
 indeed 
 Is bad : a naughty mother ! " 
 
 ■' You mistake," 
 I interrupted. " If I loved you not, 
 I should not, Marian, certainly be 
 
 here." 
 
 " Alas ! " she said, " you are so very 
 
 good ; 
 And yet I wish, indeed, you had 
 
 never come 
 To make me sob until I vex the 
 
 child. 
 It is not wholesome for these pleasure- 
 
 IDlats 
 To be so early watered by our brine. 
 And then who knows ? he may not 
 
 like me now 
 As well, perhaps, as ere he saw me 
 
 fret: 
 One's ugly fretting. He has eyes- the 
 
 same 
 As angels, but he cannot see as deep ; 
 And so I've kejit forever in his sight 
 A sort of smile to please him, as you 
 
 place 
 A green thing from the garden in a 
 
 cup 
 To make believe it grows there. Look, 
 
 my sweet, 
 My cowslip-ball ! we've done with that 
 
 cross face, 
 And here's the face come back you 
 
 used to like. 
 Ah, ah ! he laughs: he likes me. Ah ! 
 
 Miss Leigh, 
 You're great and pure; but were you 
 
 purer still, — 
 As if you had walked, we'll say no 
 
 otherwhere 
 Thau up and down the New Jeriisiv 
 
 lem, 
 And held your trailing lutestring up 
 
 yourself 
 From brushing the twelve stones, for 
 
 fear of some 
 Small speck as little as a needle- 
 
 j)rick, 
 AVhite stitched on white, — the child 
 
 would keep to me. 
 Would choose his jjoor lost Marian, 
 
 like me best. 
 And, thougli you stretched your arms, 
 
 cry back and cling, 
 
 As we do when God says it's time to 
 
 die 
 And bids us go up higher. Leave us, 
 
 then : 
 We two are happy. Does he push me 
 
 off? 
 He's satisfied with me, as I with 
 
 him." 
 
 "So soft to one, so hard to others! 
 
 Nay," 
 I cried, more angry that she melted 
 
 me, 
 " We make henceforth a cushion of 
 
 our faults 
 To sit and practise easy virtues on ? 
 I thought a child was given to sanc- 
 tify 
 A woman, — set her, in the sight of 
 
 all 
 The clear-eyed heavens, a chosen 
 
 minister 
 To do their business, and lead spirits up 
 The difficult blue heights. A woman 
 
 lives 
 Not bettered, quickened toward the 
 
 truth and good 
 Through being a mother ? . . . Then 
 
 she's none, although 
 She damps her baby's cheeks by kiss- 
 ing them. 
 As wt- kill roses." 
 
 " Kill ! O Christ ! " she said, 
 And turned her wild, sad face from 
 
 side to side 
 With most despairing wonder in it. 
 
 " What, 
 What have you in your souls against 
 
 me then. 
 All of vou? Am I wicked, do you 
 
 think ? 
 God knows me, trusts me with the 
 
 child — but you, 
 You think me really wicked ? " 
 
 " Complaisant," 
 I answered softly, " to a wrong you've 
 
 done, 
 Because of certain profits, which is 
 
 wrong 
 Beyond the first wrong, Marian. 
 
 When you left 
 The pure place and the noble heart 
 
 to take 
 The hand of a seducer "... 
 
 " Whom ? whose hand ? 
 I took the hand of " . . . 
 
 Springing up erect. 
 And lifting up the child at full arm's- 
 length, 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 113 
 
 I 
 
 As if to bear him like an oriflamme 
 LTnconqiierable to armies of re- 
 proach, — 
 "By him,'' she said, "my chikl's 
 
 head and its curls, 
 By these blue eyes no woman born 
 
 could dare 
 A perjury on, I make my mother's 
 
 oath, 
 That if I left that heart to ligliten it, 
 The blood of mine was still, except 
 
 for grief ! 
 No cleaner maid than I was took a 
 
 step 
 To a sadder end, — no matron-mother 
 
 now 
 Looks backward to her early maiden- 
 hood 
 Through chaster pulses. I speak 
 
 steadily; 
 And if I lie so . . . if, being fouled in 
 
 will 
 And paltered with in soul by devil's 
 
 lust, 
 I dared to bid this angel take my 
 
 part . . . 
 Would God sit quiet, let us think, in 
 
 heaven, 
 Nor strike me dumb with thunder ? 
 
 Yet I speak: 
 He clears me therefore. "What, ' se- 
 duced ' 's your word ? 
 Do wolves seduce a wandering fawn 
 
 in France ? 
 Do eagles, who have pinched a lamb 
 
 with claws, 
 Seduce it into carrion ? So with me. 
 I was not ever, as you say, seduced. 
 But simply m ordered." 
 
 "There she paused, and sighed. 
 With such a sigh as drops from agony 
 To exhaustion, — sighing while she 
 
 let the babe 
 Slide down upon her bosom from her 
 
 arms. 
 And all her face's light fell after 
 
 him 
 Like a torch quenched in falling. 
 
 Down she sank, 
 And sate upon the bedside with the 
 
 child. 
 
 But I, convicted, broken utterlj'. 
 With woman's passion clung about 
 
 her waist, 
 And kissed her hair and eyes, — "I 
 
 have been wrong. 
 Sweet Marian" . . . (weeping in a 
 
 tender^page), 
 
 "Sweet, holy Marian! And now, 
 
 Marian, now, 
 I'll use your oath, although my lips 
 
 are hard, 
 And by the child, my Marian, by the 
 
 child, 
 I swear his mother shall be inno- 
 cent 
 Before my conscience, as in the open 
 
 Book 
 Of Him who reads for judgment. In- 
 nocent, 
 My sister ! Let the night be ne'er .so 
 
 dark. 
 The moon is surely somewhere in the 
 
 sky: 
 So surely is your wliiteness to be 
 
 found 
 Through all dark facts. But pardon, 
 
 pardon me. 
 And smile a little, Marian, — for the 
 
 child. 
 If not for me, my sister." 
 
 The poor lip 
 Just motioned for tlie smile, and let it 
 
 go; 
 And then, with scarce a stirring of 
 
 the mouth. 
 As if a statue spoke that could not 
 
 breathe. 
 But spoke on calm between its marble 
 
 lips, — 
 " I'm glad, I'm very glad, you clear 
 
 me so. 
 I should be sorry that you set me 
 
 down 
 With harlots, or with even a better 
 
 name 
 Which misbecomes his mother. For 
 
 the rest, 
 I am not on a level with your love. 
 Nor ever was, you know, but now 
 
 am worse. 
 Because that world of yours has dealt 
 
 with me 
 As when the hard sea bites and chews 
 
 a stone. 
 And changes the first form of it. I've 
 
 marked 
 A shore of pebbles bitten to one 
 
 shape 
 From all the A'arious life of madre- 
 pores; 
 And so that little stone called Mar- 
 ian Erie, 
 Picked up and dropped by you and 
 
 another friend, 
 Was ground and tortured by the in- 
 
 cessant sea, 
 
 i 
 
114 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 And bruised from what she was, — 
 changed ! death's a change, 
 
 And she, I said, was murdered: Mar- 
 ian's dead. 
 
 What can yon do with people when 
 they are dead. 
 
 But, if you are pious, sing a liymn 
 and go, 
 
 Or, if you are tender, heave a sigh and 
 
 go, 
 But go by all means, and jiermit 
 
 the grass 
 To keep its green feud up 'twixt them 
 
 and you ? 
 Then leave me, — let me rest. I'm 
 
 dead, I say. 
 And if, to save the child from death 
 
 as well. 
 The mother in me has survived the 
 
 rest, 
 Why, that's God's miracle you must 
 
 not tax, 
 I'm not less dead for that: I'm noth- 
 ing more 
 Biit just a mother. Only for the 
 
 child 
 I'm warm, and cold, and hungry, atid 
 
 afraid. 
 And smell the flowers a little, and see 
 
 the sun. 
 And speak still, and am silent, — just 
 
 for him! 
 I pray you therefore to mistake me 
 
 not. 
 And treat me haply as I were alive ; 
 For, though you ran a pin into my 
 
 soul, 
 I think it would not hurt nor trouble 
 
 me. 
 Here's proof, dear lady, — in the mar- 
 ket-place 
 But now, you promised me to say a 
 
 word 
 About ... a friend, who once, long 
 
 years ago, 
 Took God's place toward me, when 
 
 he leans and loves, 
 And does not thunder . . . whom at 
 
 last I left. 
 As all of us leave God. You thought 
 
 perhaps 
 I seemed to care for hearing of that 
 
 friend ? 
 Now judge me ! We have sate here 
 
 halt an hour 
 And talked together of the child and 
 
 me, 
 And I not asked as much as ' What's 
 the thing 
 
 You had to tell me of the friend . . . 
 
 the friend ? ' 
 He's sad, I think you said, — he's sick 
 
 perhaps ? 
 'Tis nought to Marian if he's sad or 
 
 sick. 
 Another would have crawled beside 
 
 your foot, 
 And jirayed your words out. Why, a 
 
 beast, a dog, 
 A starved cat, if he had fed it once 
 
 with milk. 
 Would show less hardness. But I'm 
 
 dead, you see. 
 And that explains it." 
 
 Poor, poor thing, she spoke 
 And shook her head, as white and 
 
 calm as frost 
 On days too cold for raining any 
 
 more. 
 But still with such a face, so much 
 
 alive, 
 I could not choose but take it ou my 
 
 arm. 
 And stroke the placid patience of its 
 
 cheeks, 
 Then told my story out, of Romney 
 
 Leigh, — 
 How, having lost her, sought her, 
 
 missed her still. 
 He, broken-hearted for himself and 
 
 her. 
 Had drawn the curtains of the world 
 
 awhile 
 As if he had done with morning. 
 
 There I stopped; 
 For when she gasped, and pressed me 
 
 with her eyes, 
 " And now . . . how is it with him ? 
 
 tell me now," 
 I felt the shame of compensated 
 
 grief. 
 And chose my words with scruple — 
 
 slowly stepped 
 Upon the slippery stones set here and 
 
 there 
 Across the sliding water. "Certainly, 
 As evening empties morning into 
 
 night, . , , 
 
 Another mornmg takes the evenmg 
 
 up 
 With healthful, providential inter- 
 change ; 
 And though he thought still of 
 
 her" — 
 
 " Yes, she knew, 
 She understood: she had supposed, 
 
 indeed. 
 That as one stops a hole^upon a flute, 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 115 
 
 At which a new note comes and 
 
 shapes the tune, 
 Excluding her would bring a worthier 
 
 in, •> 
 
 And, long ere this, that Lady Walde- 
 
 mar 
 He loved so " . . . 
 
 " Loved ! " I started — " loved her so ! 
 Now tell me "... 
 
 " I will tell you," she replied: 
 " But, since we're taking oaths, you'll 
 
 jiromise first 
 That he in England, he, shall never 
 
 learn 
 In what a dreadful trap his creature 
 
 here, 
 Round whose unworthy neck he had 
 
 meant to tie 
 The honorable ribbon of his name, 
 Fell unaware, and came to butchery : 
 Because, — I know him, — as he takes 
 
 to heart 
 The grief of every stranger, he's not 
 
 like 
 To banish mine as far as I should 
 
 choose 
 In wishing him most happy. Now he 
 
 leaves 
 To think of me, perverse, who went 
 
 my way, 
 Unkind, and left him; but if once he 
 
 knew . . . 
 Ah, then, the sharp nail of my cruel 
 
 wrong 
 Would fasten me forever in his sight, 
 Like some poor curious bird, through 
 
 each spread wing 
 Nailed high uji over a fierce hunter's 
 
 fire. 
 To spoil the dinner of all tenderer 
 
 folk 
 Come in by chance. Nay, since j^our 
 
 Marian's dead. 
 You shall not hang her up, but dig a 
 
 hole. 
 And bury her in silence; ring no 
 
 bells." 
 
 I answered gayly, though my wiiole 
 
 voice wept, 
 " "We'll ring the joy-bells, not the 
 
 funeral-bells. 
 Because we have her back, dead or 
 
 alive." 
 
 She never answered that, but shook 
 
 her head; 
 Then low and calm, as one who, safe 
 
 in heaven, 
 
 Shall tell a story of his lower life, 
 Unmoved by shame or anger, so she 
 
 spoke. 
 She told me she had loved upon her 
 
 knees. 
 As others pray, more perfectly ab- 
 sorbed 
 In the act and inspiration. She felt 
 
 his 
 For just his uses, not her own at 
 
 all. 
 His stool, to sit on or put up his 
 
 foot; 
 His cujj, to fill with wine or vinegar; 
 Whichever drink might please him at 
 
 the chance. 
 For that should please her always; 
 
 let him write 
 His name upon her ... it seemed 
 
 natural : 
 It was most precious, standing on his 
 
 shelf. 
 To wait until he chose to lift his 
 
 hand. 
 Well, w^ell, — I saw her then, and 
 
 must have seen 
 How bright her life went floating on 
 
 her love, 
 Like wicks the housewives send afloat 
 
 on oil 
 Which feeds them to a flame that 
 
 lasts the night. 
 
 To do good seemed so much his busi- 
 ness. 
 
 That having done it she was fain to 
 think 
 
 Must fill up his capacity for joy. 
 
 At first she never mooted with her- 
 self 
 
 If he was happy, since he made her 
 so; 
 
 Or if he loved her, being so much be- 
 loved. 
 
 Who thinks of asking if the sun is 
 light. 
 
 Observing that it lightens ? who's so 
 bold, 
 
 To question God of his felicity ? 
 
 Still less. And thus she took for 
 granted first 
 
 What, first of all, she should have put 
 to i^roof , 
 
 And sinned against him so, but only 
 so. 
 
 " What could you hope," she said. 
 " of such as she? 
 
 You take a kid you like, and turn it 
 out 
 
116 
 
 A U HOE A LEIGH. 
 
 In some fair garden : though the crea- 
 ture's fond 
 
 And gentle, it will leap upon the 
 beds, 
 
 And break your tulips, bite your ten- 
 der trees : 
 
 The wonder would he if such inno- 
 cence 
 
 Spoiled less. A garden is no place for 
 kids." 
 
 And by degrees, when he who had 
 
 chosen her 
 Brought in his courteous and benig- 
 nant friends 
 To spend their goodness on her, which 
 
 she took 
 So very gladly, as a part of his, — 
 By slow degrees it broke on her slow 
 
 sense. 
 That she, too, in that Eden of delight 
 Was out of place, and, like the silly kid. 
 Still did most mischief where she 
 
 meant most love. 
 A thought enough to make a woman 
 
 mad, 
 (No beast in this but she may well go 
 
 mad) 
 That saying " I am thine to love and 
 
 use " 
 May blow the plague in her protest- 
 ing breath 
 To the very man for whom she claims 
 
 to die ; 
 That, cliTiging round his neck, she 
 
 pulls him down 
 And drowns liim ; and that, lavishing 
 
 her soul. 
 She hales jierdition on him. " So, 
 
 being mad," 
 Said Marian . . . 
 
 " Ah ! who stirred such thoughts," 
 you ask ? 
 "Whose fault it was that she should 
 
 have such thoughts ? 
 None's fault, none's fault. The light 
 
 comes, and we see : 
 But if it were not truly for our eyes. 
 There would be nothing seen for all 
 
 the light : 
 And so with Marian. If she saw at 
 
 last, 
 The sense was in her : Lady Walde- 
 
 inar 
 Had spoken all in vain else." 
 
 " O my heart, 
 O prophet in my heart ! " I cried 
 
 aloud. 
 " Then Lady Waldemar spoke ! " 
 
 " Z>^■d she speak ? " 
 Mused Marian softly, " or did she 
 
 only sign ? 
 Or did she put a word into her 
 
 face 
 And look, and so impress you with 
 
 the word ? 
 Or leave it in the foldings of her 
 
 gown, 
 Like rosemary smells a movement 
 
 will shake out 
 When no one's conscious ? Who 
 
 shall say, or guess ? 
 One thing alone was certain, — from 
 
 the day 
 The gracious lady paid a visit first. 
 She, Marian, saw things different, 
 
 — felt distrust 
 Of all that sheltering roof of circvmi- 
 
 stance 
 Her hopes were building into with 
 
 clay nests : 
 Her heart was restless, pacing up and 
 
 down. 
 And fluttering, like dumb creatures 
 
 before storms, 
 Not knowing wherefore she was ill at 
 
 ease." 
 
 " And still the lady came," said Mari- 
 an Erie, — 
 
 " Much oftener thanfte knew it, Mister 
 Leigh. 
 
 She bade me never tell him she had 
 come, 
 
 She liked to love me better than he 
 knew : 
 
 So very kind was Lady Waldemar. 
 
 And every time she brought with her 
 more light, 
 
 And every Hght made sorrow clearer 
 . . . Well, 
 
 Ah, well ! we cannot give her blame 
 for that : 
 
 'Twould be the same thing if an angel 
 came, 
 
 Whose right should prove our wrong. 
 And every time 
 
 The ladv came she looked more beau- 
 tiful. 
 
 And spoke more like a flute among 
 green trees, 
 
 Until at last, as one, w^hose heart be- 
 ing sad 
 
 On hearing lovely music, suddenly 
 
 Dissolves in weeping, I brake out in 
 tears 
 
 Before her, asked her counsel, — ' Had 
 I erred 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 117 
 
 In being too happy ? would she set 
 me straight ? 
 
 For slie, being wise and good, and 
 born above 
 
 The flats I had never climbed from, 
 could jjerceive 
 
 If such as I might grow upon the hills, 
 
 And whether such poor herb sufficed 
 to grow 
 
 For Romney Leigh to break his fast 
 iipon't ; 
 
 Or would he pine on such, or haply 
 starve ? ' 
 
 She wrapt me in her generous arms at 
 once, 
 
 And let me dream a moment how it 
 feels 
 
 To have a real mother, like some 
 girls ; 
 
 But, when 1 looked, her face was 
 younger . . . ay, 
 
 Youth's too bright not to be a little 
 hard. 
 
 And beauty keeps itself still upper- 
 most. 
 
 That's true ! Though Lady Walde- 
 mar was kind. 
 
 She hurt me, liurt, as if the morning- 
 sun 
 
 Should smite us on the eyelids when 
 we sleep. 
 
 And wake us up with headache. Ay, 
 and soon 
 
 Was light enough to make my heart 
 ache too. 
 
 She told me truths I asked for, — 
 'twas my fault, — 
 
 ' That Romney could not love me, if 
 he would. 
 
 As men call loving : there are bloods 
 that flow 
 
 Together, like some rivers, and not 
 mix, 
 
 Through contraries of nature. He, 
 indeed, 
 
 "Was set to wed me, t<> espouse my 
 class, 
 
 Act out a rash opinion ; and, once 
 wed, 
 
 So just a man and gentle could not 
 choose 
 
 But make my life as smooth as mar- 
 riage-ring, 
 
 Bespeak me mildly, keep me a cheer- 
 ful house. 
 
 With servants, brooches, all the flow- 
 ers I liked. 
 
 And pretty dresses, silk the whole 
 year round ' . . . 
 
 At which I stopped her, — ' This for 
 me. And now 
 
 For him ? ' She hesitated, — truth 
 grew hard ; 
 
 She owned ' 'Twas plain a man like 
 Romney Leigh 
 
 Required a wife more level to him- 
 self. 
 
 If (lay by day he had to bend his 
 height 
 
 To pick up sympathies, opinions, 
 thoughts, 
 
 And interchange the common talk of 
 life, 
 
 Which helps a man to live, as well as 
 talk. 
 
 His days were heavily taxed. Who 
 buys a staff 
 
 To fit the hand, that reaches but the 
 knee? 
 
 He'd feel it Intter to be forced to miss 
 
 The perfect joy of married suited 
 pairs, 
 
 AVho, bursting through the separating 
 hedge 
 
 Of iiersonal dues with that sweet eg- 
 lantine 
 
 Of equal love, keep saying, "So we 
 think. 
 
 It strikes ■uh, that's orir fancy."' — 
 When I asked 
 
 If earnest will, devoted love, em- 
 liloyed 
 
 In youth like mine, would fail to 
 raise me up, 
 
 As two strong arms will always raise 
 a child 
 
 To a fruit hung overhead, she sighed 
 and sighed . . . 
 
 ' That could not be,' she feared. ' You 
 take a pink, 
 
 You dig about its roots, and water it. 
 
 And so improve it to a garden-jiink, 
 
 But will not change it to a helio- 
 trope: 
 
 The kind remains. And then the 
 harder truth, — 
 
 This Romney Leigh, so rasli to leap a 
 pale. 
 
 So bold for conscience, quick for mar- 
 tyrdom. 
 
 Would suffer steadilj' and never 
 flinch. 
 
 But suffer surely and keenly, when 
 his class 
 
 Turned shoulder on him for a shame- 
 ful match. 
 
 And set him up as ninepin in their 
 talk 
 
118 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 To Lowl him down with jestiugs.' 
 There she iiaused, 
 
 And when I used the pause in doubt- 
 ing that 
 
 W'e wronged him, after all, in what 
 we feared — 
 
 ' Suppose such things could never 
 touch him more 
 
 In his high conscience (if the things 
 should he,) 
 
 Than, when the queen sits in an up- 
 per room, 
 
 The horses in the street can spatter 
 her ! ' — 
 
 A moment, hope came; but the lady 
 closed 
 
 That door, and nicked the lock, and 
 shut it out, 
 
 Observing wisely, that ' the tender 
 heart 
 
 Which made him over-soft to a lower 
 class 
 
 Would scarcely fail to make him sen- 
 sitive 
 
 To a higher, — hoAV they thought, and 
 what they felt.' 
 
 "Alas, alas!" said Marian, rocking 
 
 slow 
 The pretty baby who was near asleep, 
 The eyelids creejiing over the blue 
 
 balls, — 
 " She made it clear, too clear: I saw 
 
 the whole. 
 And yet who knows if I had seen my 
 
 way 
 Straight out of it by looking, though 
 
 'twas clear. 
 Unless the generous lady, 'ware of 
 
 this, 
 Had set her own house all a-fire for me 
 To light me forwards ? Leaning on 
 
 my face 
 Her heavy agate eyes, which crushed 
 
 my will. 
 She told me tenderly, (as when men 
 
 come 
 To a bedside to tell people they must 
 
 die) 
 'She knew of knowledge, — ay, of 
 
 knowledge knew, 
 That Romney Leigh had loved her 
 
 formerly. 
 And she loved him, she might say, 
 
 now the chance 
 Was past. But that, of course, he 
 
 never guessed. 
 For something came between them, — 
 
 something thin 
 
 As a cobweb, catching every fly of 
 
 doubt 
 To hold it buzzing at the window- 
 
 liane. 
 And help to dim the daylight. Ah, 
 
 man's pride 
 Or woman's,. — which is greatest ? 
 
 most averse 
 To brushing cobwebs ? Well, but she 
 
 and he 
 Remained fast friends: it seemed not 
 
 more than so, 
 Because he had bound his hands, and 
 
 could not stir. 
 An honorable man, if somewhat rash; 
 And she — not even for Romney 
 
 would she spill 
 A blot, as little even as a tear . . . 
 Upon his marriage-contract, — not to 
 
 gain 
 A better joy for two than came by 
 
 that ; 
 For, though I stood between her 
 
 heart and heaven. 
 She loved me wholly.' " 
 
 Did I laugh , or curse ? 
 I think I sat there silent, hearing 
 
 all, . ^ 
 
 Ay, hearing double, — Marian's tale, 
 
 at once, 
 And Romney's marriage-vow, "I'll 
 
 keep to THEE," 
 Which means that woman-serpent. 
 
 Is it time 
 For church now ? 
 
 " Lady Waldemar spoke more," 
 Continued Marian; " but as when a 
 
 soul 
 Will pass out through the sweetness 
 
 of a song 
 Beyond it, voyaging the uphill road, 
 Even so mine wandered from the 
 
 things I heard 
 To those I suffered. It was afterward 
 I shaped the resolution to the act. 
 For many hours we talked. What 
 
 need to talk ? 
 The fate was clear and close; it 
 
 touched my eyes; 
 But still the generous lady tried to 
 
 keep 
 The case afloat, and would not let it 
 
 go, 
 And argued, struggled upon Marian's 
 
 side. 
 Which was not Romney's, though she 
 
 little knew 
 What ugly monster would take up 
 
 the end, — 
 
II 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 119 
 
 What griping death within the 
 
 drowning death 
 "Was ready to complete mv sum of 
 
 death." 
 
 I thought, — Perhaps he's sliding now 
 the ring 
 
 Upon that woman's finger . . . 
 
 She went on: 
 
 " The lady, failing to prevail her way, 
 
 Upgather'ed my torn wishes from 
 the ground, 
 
 And pieced them with her strong be- 
 nevolence; 
 
 And as I thought I could breathe 
 freer air 
 
 Away from England, going without 
 pause, 
 
 Without farewell, just breaking with 
 a jerk 
 
 The blossomed offshoot from ' my 
 thorny life. 
 
 She promised kindly to i')rovide the 
 means. 
 
 With instant passage to the colonies 
 
 And full protection, ' would commit 
 me straight 
 
 To one who had once been her wait- 
 ing-maid. 
 
 And had the customs of the world, 
 intent 
 
 On changing England for Australia 
 
 Herself, to carry out her fortune so.' 
 
 For which I thanked the Lady Wal- 
 demar. 
 
 As men upon their death-beds thank 
 last friends 
 
 Who lay the pillow straight: it is not 
 much. 
 
 And yet 'tis all of which they are ca- 
 pable, — 
 
 This lying smoothly in a bed to die. 
 
 And so, 'twas fixed; and so, from 
 day to day. 
 
 The woman named came in to visit 
 me." 
 
 Just then the girl stopped speaking, 
 
 sate'erect. 
 And stared at me as if I had been a 
 
 ghost, 
 (Perhaps I looked as white as any 
 
 ghost) 
 With large-eyed horror. " Does God 
 
 make," she said, 
 " All sorts of creatures really, do vou 
 
 think ? 
 Or is it that the Devil slavers them 
 So excellently, that we come to doubt 
 
 Who's stronger, — he who makes, or 
 
 he who mars ? 
 I never liked- the woman's face, or 
 
 voice, 
 Or ways: it made me blush to look at 
 
 her; 
 It made me tremble if she touched my 
 
 hand; 
 And when she spoke a fondling word, 
 
 I shrank 
 As if one hated me who had power 
 
 to hurt; 
 And, every time she came, my veins 
 
 ran cold. 
 As somebody were walking on my 
 
 grave. 
 At last I spoke to Lady Waldemar: 
 ' Could such a one be good to trust ? ' 
 
 I asked. 
 Whereat the lady stroked my cheek, 
 
 and laughed 
 Her silver laugh (one must be born 
 
 to laugh 
 To put such music in it), — 'Foolish 
 
 girl, 
 Your scattered wits are gathering wool 
 
 beyond 
 The sheep-walk reaches ! — leave the 
 
 thing to me.' 
 And therefore, half in trust, and half 
 
 in scorn 
 That I had heart still for another fear 
 In such a safe despair, I left the thing. 
 
 " The rest is short. I was obedient: 
 I wrote my letter which delivered him 
 From Marian to his own prosperities, 
 And followed that bad guide. The 
 
 lady? — hush, 
 I never blame the lady. Ladies who 
 Sit high, however willing to look 
 
 down. 
 Will scarce see lower than their dain- 
 ty feet; 
 And Lady Waldemar saw less than I, 
 With what a Devil's daughter I went 
 
 forth 
 Along the swine's road, down the 
 
 precipice, 
 In such a curl of hell-foam caught 
 
 and choked. 
 No shriek of soul in anguish could 
 
 pierce through 
 To fetch some help. They say there's 
 
 help in heaven 
 For all such cries. But if one cries 
 
 from hell . . . 
 What then? — the heavens are deaf 
 
 upon that side. 
 
120 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 " A woman . . . hear nie, let me 
 
 make it jilain . . . 
 A woman . . . not a monster . . . 
 
 both her breasts 
 Made right to suckle babes . . . she 
 
 took me off 
 A woman also, young and ignorant, 
 And heavy with my grief, my two 
 
 poor eyes 
 Near washed away with weeping, till 
 
 the trees. 
 The blessed unaccustomed trees and 
 
 fields 
 Ran either side the train like stranger 
 
 dogs 
 Unworthy of any notice, — took me off 
 So dull, so blind, so only half alive. 
 Not seeing by wliat road, nor by what 
 
 ship, 
 Nor toward what place, nor to what 
 
 end of all. 
 Men carry a corpse thus, — past the 
 
 doorway, past 
 The garden-gate, the children's play- 
 ground, up 
 The green lane, — then they leave it 
 
 in the pit. 
 To sleep and find corrujrtion, cheek 
 
 to cheek 
 AVith him who stinks since Friday. 
 
 " But sujipose: 
 To go down with one's soul into the 
 
 grave. 
 To go down half dead, half alive, I 
 
 say. 
 And wake up with corruption . . . 
 
 cheek to cheek 
 With him who stinks since Friday ! 
 
 There it is, 
 And that's the horror oft, Miss Leigh. 
 
 "You feel? 
 You understand? — no, do not look 
 
 at me. 
 But understand. The blank, blind 
 
 weary way 
 Which led, where'er it led, away at 
 
 least; 
 The shifted ship ... to Sydney, or to 
 
 France, 
 Still bound, wherever else, to another 
 
 land; 
 The swooning sickness on the dismal 
 
 sea. 
 The foreign shore, the shameful 
 
 house, the night. 
 The feeble blood, the heavy-headed 
 
 grief . . . 
 No need to bring their damnable 
 
 drugged cup, 
 
 And yet they brought it. Hell's so 
 
 prodigal 
 Of Devil's gifts, hunts liberally in 
 
 packs, 
 Will kill no poor small creature of 
 
 the wilds 
 But fifty red wide throats must smoke 
 
 at it. 
 As HIS at me . . . when waking up 
 
 at last . . . 
 I told you that I waked up in the 
 
 grave. 
 
 " Enough so ! — it is plain enough so. 
 
 True, 
 We wretches cannot tell out all our 
 
 wrong 
 Without offence to decent happy 
 
 folk. ^ 
 
 I know that we must scrupulously 
 
 hint 
 With half-words, delicate reserves, 
 
 the thing 
 Which no one scrupled we should 
 
 feel in full. 
 Let pass the rest, then; only leave 
 
 my oath 
 Upon this sleeping child, — man's vio^ 
 
 lence. 
 Not man's seduction, made me what 
 
 I am, 
 As lost as ... I told him I should be 
 
 lost. 
 When mothers fail us, can we help 
 
 ourselves ? 
 That's fatal ! And you call it being 
 
 lost. 
 That down came next day's noon, and 
 
 caught me there 
 Half gibbering and half raving on 
 
 the floor. 
 And wondering what had happened 
 
 up in heaven. 
 That suns should dare to shine when 
 
 God himself 
 Was certainly abolished. 
 
 " I was mad. 
 How many weeks I know not, — 
 
 many weeks. 
 I think they let me go when I was 
 
 mad: 
 They feared my eyes, and loosed me, 
 
 as boys might 
 A mad dog which they had tortured. 
 
 Up and down 
 I went, by road and village, over 
 
 tracts 
 Of open foreign country, large and 
 
 strange. 
 
" And there I sate, one evening by the road, 
 1, Marian Erie."— Page 121. 
 
■<, 
 
 of 
 
 ; 1 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 121 
 
 Crossed everywhere by long, t'lin 
 
 poplar-lines 
 Like fingers of some ghastly ske' jton 
 
 hand 
 Through sunlight and through moon- 
 light evermore 
 Pushed out from hell itself to jiluck 
 
 me back, 
 And resolute to get me, slow and sure ; 
 While every roadside Christ upon his 
 
 cross 
 Hung reddening through his gory 
 
 wounds at me. 
 And shook his nails in anger, and 
 
 came down 
 To follow a mile after, wading up 
 The low vines and green wheat, cry- 
 ing, " Take the girl ! 
 She's none of mine from henceforth." 
 
 Then I knew 
 (But this is somewhat dimmer than 
 
 the rest) 
 The charitable peasants gave me bread. 
 And leave to sleep in straw; and 
 
 twice they tied. 
 At parting, Mary's image round mj^ 
 
 neck. 
 How heavy it seemed ! — as heavy as 
 
 a stone ; 
 A woman has been strangled with 
 
 less weight: 
 I threw it in a ditch to keep it clean, 
 And ease my breath a little, when 
 
 none looked: 
 I did not need such safeguards : brutal 
 
 men 
 Stopped short, Miss Leigh, in insult, 
 
 when they had seen 
 My face, — I must have had an awful 
 
 look. 
 And so I lived: the weeks passed on, 
 
 — I lived. 
 'Twas living my old tramp-life o'er 
 
 again. 
 But this time in a dream, and hunted 
 
 round 
 By some prodigious dream-fear at my 
 
 back, 
 Which ended yet: my brain cleared 
 
 presently; 
 And there I sate, one evening, by the 
 
 road, 
 I, Marian Erie, myself, alone, undone, 
 Facing a sunset low upon the flats 
 As if it were the finish of all time. 
 The great red stone upon my sepul- 
 chre, 
 Which angels were too weak to roll 
 
 away. 
 
 SEVENTH BOOK. 
 
 " The woman's motive ? shall we 
 
 daub ourselves 
 With finding roots for nettles ? 'tis 
 
 soft clay, 
 And easily explored. She had the 
 
 means, 
 The moneys, by the lady's liberal 
 
 grace, 
 In trust for that Australian scheme 
 
 and me, 
 Which so, that she might clutch with 
 
 both her hands, 
 And chink to her naughty uses un- 
 disturbed. 
 She served me (after all it was not 
 
 strange : 
 'Twas only what my mother would 
 
 have done) 
 A motherly, right damnable good 
 
 turn. 
 
 " Well, after. There are nettles 
 
 everywhere ; 
 But smooth green grasses are more 
 
 common still: 
 The blue of heaven is larger than the 
 
 cloud. 
 A miller's wife at Clichy took me in. 
 And spent her pity on me, — made 
 
 me calm. 
 And merely very reasonably sad. 
 She found me a servant's place in 
 
 Paris, where 
 I tried to take the cast-off life again. 
 And stood as qiiiet as a beaten ass, 
 Who, having fallen through overloads, 
 
 stands up 
 To let them charge him with another 
 
 pack. 
 
 " A few months, so. My mistress, 
 
 young and light, 
 Was easy with me, less for kindness 
 
 than 
 Because she led, herself, an easy 
 
 time 
 Betwixt her lover and her looking. 
 
 glass. 
 Scarce knowing which way she was 
 
 praised the most. 
 She felt so pretty and so pleased all 
 
 day, 
 She could not take the trouble to be 
 
 cross. 
 But sometimes, as I stooj^ed to tie her 
 
 shoe. 
 
 r 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Wouid tap me softly with her slender 
 
 foot, 
 Still restless with the last night's 
 
 dancing in't, 
 And say, ' Fie, pale-face ! Are you 
 
 English girls 
 All grave and silent ? mass-book still, 
 
 and Lent ? 
 And first-communion pallor on your 
 
 cheeks, 
 Worn past the time for't ? Little fool, 
 
 be gay ! ' 
 At which she vanished, like a fairy, 
 
 through 
 A gap of silver laughter. 
 
 " Came an hour 
 When all went otherwise. She did 
 
 not speak. 
 But clinched her brows, and clipped 
 
 me with her eyes 
 As if a viper with a pair of tongs. 
 Too far for any touch, yet near enough 
 To view the writhing creature, — then 
 
 at last, 
 ' Stand still there, in the holy Vir- 
 gin's name. 
 Thou Marian: thou'rt no reputable 
 
 girl. 
 Although sufificient dull for twenty 
 
 saints ! 
 I think thou mock'st me and my 
 
 house,' she said; 
 ■'Confess tbou'lt be a mother in a 
 
 month. 
 Thou mask of saintship.' 
 
 " Could I answer her ? 
 The light broke in so. It meant that, 
 
 then, that? 
 I had not thought of that, in all my 
 
 thoughts. 
 Through all the cold numb aching of 
 
 my brow, 
 Through all the heaving of impatient 
 
 life 
 Which threw me on death at inter- 
 vals: through all 
 The upbreak of the fountains of my 
 
 heart 
 The rains had swelled too large. It 
 
 could mean that ? 
 Did God make mothers out of victims, 
 
 then, 
 And set such pure amens to hideous 
 
 deeds ? 
 Why not ? He overblows an ugly 
 
 grave 
 With violets which blossom in the 
 
 spring. 
 And / could be a mother in a mouth ? 
 
 I hope it was not wicked to be glad. 
 
 I lifted up my voice and wept, and 
 laughed — 
 
 To heaven, not her — until it tore my 
 throat. 
 
 ' Confess, confess ! ' What was there 
 to confess, 
 
 Except man's cruelty, except my 
 wrong ? 
 
 Except this anguish, or this ecstasy? 
 
 This shame or glory ? The light wo- 
 man there 
 
 Was small to take it in: an acorn-cup 
 
 Would take the sea in sooner. 
 
 " ' Good ! ' she cried: 
 
 ' Unmarried and a mother, and she 
 laughs ! 
 
 These unchaste girls are always im- 
 pudent. 
 
 Get out, intriguer ! Leave my house, 
 and trot ! 
 
 I wonder you should look me in the 
 face,. 
 
 With such a filthy secret.' 
 
 •' Then I rolled 
 
 My scanty bundle up, aud went my 
 way. 
 
 Washed white with weeping, shud- 
 dering, head and foot, 
 
 With blind, hysteric passion, stagger- 
 ing forth 
 
 Beyond those doors. 'Twas natural, 
 of course, 
 
 She should not ask me where I meant 
 to sleep; 
 
 I might sleep well beneath the heavy 
 Seine, 
 
 Like others of my sort : the bed was 
 laid 
 
 For us. But any woman, womanly. 
 
 Had thought of him who should be in 
 a month, 
 
 The sinless babe that should be in a 
 month, 
 
 Aud if by chance he might be warmer 
 housed 
 
 Than underneath such dreary drip- 
 ping eaves." 
 
 I broke on Marian there. " Yet she 
 
 herself, 
 A wife, I think, had scandals of her 
 
 own, 
 A lover not her husband." 
 
 •' Ay," she said: 
 " But gold and meal are measured 
 
 otherwise : 
 I learnt so much at school," said 
 
 Marian Erie. 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 123 
 
 " O crooked world," I cried, " ridicu- 
 lous, 
 If not so lamentable ! 'Tis the way 
 With these light women of a thrifty 
 
 vice, 
 My Marian, — alwaj-^s hard upon the 
 
 rent 
 In any sister's virtue ! while tliey 
 
 keep 
 Their own so darned and patched 
 
 with perfidy. 
 That, though a rag itself, it looks as 
 
 well 
 Across a street, in balcony or coach, 
 As any perfect stuff might. For my 
 
 part, 
 I'd rather take the wind-side of the 
 
 stews 
 Than touch such women with my fin- 
 ger-end ! 
 They top the poor street-walker by 
 
 their lie. 
 And look the better for being so much 
 
 worse : 
 The Devil's most devilish when re- 
 spectable. 
 But you, dear, and your storv." 
 
 "All the rest 
 Is here," she said, and signed upon 
 
 the child. 
 " I found a mistress-seamstress who 
 
 was kind, 
 And let me sew in peace among her 
 
 girls. 
 And what was better than to draw 
 
 the threads 
 All day and half the night for him 
 
 and him ? 
 And so I lived for him, and so he 
 
 lives; 
 And so I know, by this time, God 
 
 lives too." 
 
 She smiled beyond the sun, and ended 
 
 so, 
 And all my soul rose up to take her 
 
 part 
 Against the world's successes, vir- 
 tues, fames. 
 " Come with me, sweetest sister," I 
 
 returned, 
 " And sit within my house and do me 
 
 good 
 From henceforth, thou and thine ! ye 
 
 are my own 
 From henceforth. I am lonely in the 
 
 world, 
 And thou art lonely, and the child is 
 
 half 
 
 An orphan. Come; and henceforth 
 thou and I, 
 
 Being still together, will not miss a 
 friend. 
 
 Nor he a father, since two mothers 
 shall 
 
 Make that up to him. I am journey- 
 ing south. 
 
 And in my Tuscan home I'll find a 
 niche 
 
 And set thee there, my saint, the 
 child and thee, 
 
 And burn the lights of love before 
 thy face. 
 
 And ever at thy sweet look cross my- 
 self 
 
 From mixing with the world's pros- 
 perities; 
 
 That so, in gravity and holy calm. 
 
 We two may live on toward the truer 
 life." 
 
 She looked me in the face and an- 
 swered not. 
 Nor signed she was unworthy, nor 
 
 gave thanks, 
 But took the sleeping child, and held 
 
 it out 
 To meet my kiss, as if requiting me 
 And trusting me at once. And thus, 
 
 at once, 
 I carried him and her to where I live: 
 She's there now, in the little room, 
 
 asleep, 
 I hear the soft child-breathing through 
 
 the door; 
 And all three of us, at to-morrow's 
 
 break, 
 Pass onward, homeward, to our Italy. 
 
 Romney Leigh ! I have your debts 
 
 to pay, 
 
 And I'll be just and pay them. 
 
 But yourself ! 
 
 To pay your debts is scarcely difficult; 
 
 To buy your life is nearly impossi- 
 ble. 
 
 Being sold away to Lamia. My head 
 aches; 
 
 1 cannot see my road along this dark; 
 Nor can I creep and grope, as fits the 
 
 dark. 
 
 For these foot-catching robes of wo- 
 manhood : 
 
 A man might walk a little . . . but 
 I ! — He loves 
 
 The Lamia-woman, — and I write to 
 him 
 
 What stojis his marriage, and destroys 
 his peace, 
 
 ! 
 
124 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Or what perhaps shall simply trouble 
 him, 
 
 Until she only need to touch his 
 sleeve 
 
 "With just a finger's tremulous white 
 flame, 
 
 Saying, " Ah, Aurora Leigh ! a pretty 
 tale, 
 
 A very pretty poet ! I can guess 
 
 The motive," — then, to catch his 
 eyes in hers 
 
 And vow she does not wonder, and 
 they two 
 
 To break in laughter, as the sea along 
 
 A melancholy coast, and float up 
 higher. 
 
 In such a laugh, their fatal weeds of 
 love ! 
 
 Ay, fatal, ay. And who shall answer 
 me 
 
 Fate has not hurried tides, and if to- 
 night 
 
 My letter would not be a night too 
 late, 
 
 An arrow shot into a man that's dead. 
 
 To i^rove a vain intention? Would 
 I show 
 
 The new wife vile to make the hus- 
 band mad ? 
 
 No, Lamia ! shut the shutters, bar the 
 doors 
 
 From every glimmer on thy serpent- 
 skin: 
 
 I will not let thy hideous secret out 
 
 To agonize the man I love — I mean 
 
 The friend I love ... as friends love. 
 
 It is strange. 
 
 To-day, while Marian told her story 
 •like 
 
 To absorb most listeners, how I lis- 
 tened chief 
 
 To a voice not hers, nor yet that ene- 
 my's, 
 
 Nor God's in wrath . . . but one that 
 mixed with mine 
 
 Long years ago among the garden- 
 trees, 
 
 And said to me, to me too, " Be my 
 wife, 
 
 Aurora." It is strange with what a 
 swell 
 
 Of yearning passion, as a snow of 
 ghosts 
 
 Might beat against the impervious 
 door of heaven, 
 
 I thought, "Now, if I had been a 
 woman, such 
 
 As God made women, to save men 
 by love, 
 
 By just my love I might have saved 
 
 this man, 
 And made a nobler poem for the 
 
 world 
 Than all I have failed in." But I 
 
 failed besides 
 In this; and now he's lost — through 
 
 me alone ! 
 And, by my only fault, his empty 
 
 house 
 Sucks in at this same hour a wind 
 
 from hell 
 To keep his hearth cold, make his 
 
 casements creak 
 Forever to the tune of plague and sin — 
 O Romney, O my Romney, O my 
 
 friend ! 
 My cousin and friend I my helper, 
 
 when I would ! 
 My love, that might be ! mine I 
 
 Why, how one weeps 
 When one's too weary ! Were a wit- 
 ness by. 
 He'd say some folly . . . that I loved 
 
 the man, 
 Who knows? . . . and make me 
 
 laugh again for scorn. 
 At strongest, women are as weak in 
 
 flesh. 
 As men, at weakest, vilest, are in 
 
 soul: 
 So hard for women to keep pace with 
 
 men ! 
 As well give up at once, sit down at 
 
 once, 
 And weep as I do. Tears, tears ! why 
 
 we weep ? 
 'Tis worth inquiry? — That we've 
 
 shamed a life. 
 Or lost a love, or missed a world, per- 
 haps ? 
 By no means. Simply that we've 
 
 walked too far. 
 Or talked too much, or felt the wind 
 
 i' the east; 
 And so we weeji, as if both body and 
 
 soul 
 Broke up in water — this way. 
 
 Poor mixed rags 
 Forsooth we're made of, like those 
 
 other dolls 
 That lean with pretty faces into fairs. 
 It seems as if I had a man in me. 
 Despising such a woman. 
 
 Yet, indeed, 
 To see a wrong or suffering moves us 
 
 all 
 To undo it, though we should undo 
 
 ourselves ; 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 125 
 
 Ay, all the more that we undo our- 
 selves : 
 
 That's womanly, past doubt, and not 
 ill-moved. 
 
 A natural movement, therefore, on my 
 part, 
 
 To fill the chair up of ray cousin's 
 wife. 
 
 And save him from a Devil's com- 
 pany! 
 
 We're all so, — made so : 'tis our 
 woman's trade 
 
 To suffer torment for another's ease. 
 
 The world's male chivalry has jier- 
 islied out ; 
 
 But women are knights-errant to the 
 last ; 
 
 And if Cervantes had been Shak- 
 speare too, 
 
 He had made his Don a Donna. 
 
 So it clears. 
 
 And so we rain our skies blue. 
 
 Put away 
 
 This weakness. If, as I liave just now 
 said, 
 
 A man's within me, let him act him- 
 self. 
 
 Ignoring the jioor conscious trouble 
 of blood 
 
 That's called the woman merely. I 
 will write 
 
 Plain words to England, — if too late, 
 too late ; 
 
 If ill accounted, then accounted ill : 
 
 We'll trust the heavens with some- 
 thing. 
 
 " Dear Lord Howe, 
 
 You'll find a story on another leaf 
 
 Of Marian Erie, — what noble friend 
 of yours 
 
 She trusted once, through what flagi- 
 tious means. 
 
 To what disastrous ends : the story's 
 true. 
 
 I found her wandering on the Paris 
 quays, 
 
 A babe upon her breast, — unnatural 
 
 Unseasonable outcast on such snow, 
 
 Unthawed to this time. I will tax in 
 this 
 
 Your friendship, friend, if that con- 
 victed she 
 
 Be not his wife yet, to denounce the 
 facts 
 
 To himself, but otherwise to let them 
 pass 
 
 On tiptoe like escaping murderers. 
 
 And tell my cousin merely — Marian 
 lives. 
 
 Is found, and finds her home with such 
 
 a friend. 
 Myself, Aurora. Which good news, 
 
 'She's found,' 
 Will help to make him merry in his 
 
 love : 
 I send it, tell him, for my marriage- 
 gift, 
 As good as orange-water for the 
 
 nerves, 
 Or perfumed gloves for headache, — 
 
 though aware 
 That he, except of love, is scarcely 
 
 sick : 
 I mean the new love this time . . . 
 
 since last year. 
 Such quick forgetting on the part of 
 
 men ! 
 Is any shrewder trick upon the cards 
 To enrich them ? Pray instruct me 
 
 how 'tis done. 
 First, clubs ; and, while you look at 
 
 clubs, 'tis spades ; 
 That's prodigy. The lightning strikes 
 
 a man, 
 And, when we think to find him dead 
 
 and charred . . . 
 Why, there he is on a sudden playing 
 
 pipes 
 Beneath the splintered elm-tree ! 
 
 Crime and shame, 
 And all their hoggery, trample your 
 
 smooth world. 
 Nor leave more foot-marks than A\^o\- 
 
 lo's kine. 
 Whose hoofs were muffled by the 
 
 thieving god 
 In tamarisk-leaves and myrtle. I'm 
 
 so sad. 
 So weary and sad to-night, I'm some- 
 what sour, — 
 Forgive me. To be blue and shrew 
 
 at once 
 Exceeds all toleration except yours ; 
 But yours, I know, is infinite. Fare- 
 well 1 
 To-morrow we take train for Italy. 
 Speak gently of me to your gracious 
 
 wife. 
 As one, however far, shall yet be 
 
 near 
 In loving wishes to your house." 
 
 I sign. 
 And now I loose my heart upon a 
 
 page. 
 This — 
 
 " Lady Waldemar, I'm very glad 
 I never liked you ; which you kuew 
 
 so well 
 
126 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 You spared me, in your turn, to like 
 
 me much. 
 Your liking surely had done worse for 
 
 me 
 Than has your loathing, thougli the 
 
 last appears 
 Sufficiently unscrupulous to hurt, 
 And not afraid of judgment. Now 
 
 there's space 
 Between our faces, I stand off, as if 
 I judged a stranger's portrait, and 
 
 pronounced 
 Indifferently the type was good or bad. 
 What matter to me that the lines are 
 
 false ? 
 I ask you. Did I ever ink my lips 
 By drawing your name through them 
 
 as a friend's ? 
 Or touch your hands as lovers do? 
 
 Thank God 
 I never did ! And since you're proved 
 
 so vile, 
 Ay, vile, I say, — we'll show it pres- 
 ently,— 
 I'm not obliged to nurse my friend in 
 
 you, 
 Or wash out my own blots in counting 
 
 yours. 
 Or even excuse myself to honest 
 
 souls 
 Who seek to press my lip, or clasp my 
 
 palm, — 
 ' Alas, but Lady Waldemar came first! ' 
 'Tis true, by this time you may near 
 
 me so 
 That you're my cousin's wife. You've 
 
 gambled deep 
 As Lucifer, and won the morning-star 
 In that case ; and the noble house of 
 
 Leigh 
 Must henceforth with Its good roof 
 
 shelter you. 
 I cannot speak and burn you up be- 
 tween 
 Those rafters, I who am born a Leigh; 
 
 nor speak 
 And pierce your breast through Rom- 
 
 ney's, I who live 
 His friend and cousin : so you're safe. 
 
 You two 
 Must grow together like the tares and 
 
 wheat 
 Till God's great fire. But make the 
 
 best of time. 
 
 " And hide this letter : let it speak no 
 
 more 
 Than T shall, how you tricked poor 
 
 Marian Erie, 
 
 And set her own love digging its own 
 grave 
 
 Within her green hope's pretty gar- 
 den-ground, — 
 
 Ay, sent her forth with some one of 
 your sort 
 
 To a wicked house in France, from 
 which she fled 
 
 With curses in her eyes and ears and 
 throat. 
 
 Her whole soul choked with curses, 
 mad, in short. 
 
 And madly scouring up and down for 
 weeks 
 
 The foreign hedgeless country, lone 
 and lost, — 
 
 So innocent, male fiends might slink 
 within 
 
 Remote hell-corners seeing her so de- 
 filed. 
 
 "But you, — you are a woman, and 
 more bold. 
 
 To do you justice, you'd not shrink to 
 face . . . 
 
 We'll say, the unfledged life in the 
 other room. 
 
 Which, treading down God's corn, 
 you trod in sight 
 
 Of all the dogs in reach of all the 
 guns, — 
 
 Ay, Marian's babe, her poor un- 
 fathered child. 
 
 Her yearling babe ! — you'd face him 
 when he wakes 
 
 And opens up his wonderful blue 
 eyes ; 
 
 You'd meet them, and not wink per- 
 haps, nor fear 
 
 God's triumph in them and supreme 
 revenge 
 
 When righting his creation's balance- 
 scale 
 
 (You pulled as low as Tophet) to the 
 top 
 
 Of most celestial innocence. For me 
 
 Who am not as bold, I own those in- 
 fant eyes 
 
 Have set me praying. 
 
 " While they look at heaven. 
 
 No need of protestation in my words 
 
 Against the place you've made them ! 
 let them look. 
 
 They'll do your business with the 
 heavens, be sure : 
 
 I spare you common curses. 
 
 " Ponder this; 
 
 If haply you're the wife of Romney 
 Leigh, 
 
 I ^m I ■ I ^ 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 127 
 
 (For which inheritance bej'ond your 
 
 birth 
 You sold that poisonous porridge 
 
 called your soul) 
 I charge you be his faithful and true 
 
 wife ! 
 Keep warm his hearth, and clean his 
 
 board, and, when 
 He speaks, be quick with your obedi- 
 ence; 
 Still grind your paltry wants and low 
 
 desires 
 To dust beneath his heel, though, 
 
 even thus, 
 The ground must hurt him: it was 
 
 writ of old, 
 ' Ye shall not yoke together ox and 
 
 ass,' 
 The nobler and ignobler. Ay; but 
 
 you 
 Shall do your part as well as such ill 
 
 things 
 Can do aught good. You shall not 
 
 vex him, — mark, 
 Y'ou shall not vex him, jar him when 
 
 he's sad, 
 Or cross him when he's eager. Un- 
 derstand 
 To trick him with apparent sympa- 
 thies, 
 Isor let him see thee in the face too 
 
 near, 
 And unlearn thy sweet seeming. Pay 
 
 the price 
 Of lies bv being constrained to lie on 
 
 stili: 
 'Tis easy for thy sort: a million more 
 "Will scarcely damn thee deeper. 
 
 " Doing which 
 Y^ou are very safe from Marian and 
 
 myself: 
 "We'll breathe as softly as the infant 
 
 here, 
 And stir no dangerous embers. Fail 
 
 a point, 
 And show our Romney wounded, ill 
 
 content, 
 Tormented in his home, we open 
 
 mouth, 
 And such a noise will follow, the last 
 
 trump's 
 Will scarcely seem more dreadful, 
 
 even to you ; 
 i'ou'll have no pipers after: Romney 
 
 AVill 
 
 (I know him) push you forth as none 
 
 of his, 
 All other men declaring it well 
 
 done; 
 
 While women, even the worst, your 
 
 like, will draw 
 Their skirts back, not to brush you iii 
 
 the street: 
 And so I warn you. I'm . . . Aurora 
 
 Leigh." 
 
 The letter written, I felt satisfied. 
 The ashes smouldering in me were 
 
 thrown out 
 By handfuls from me: I had writ my 
 
 heart, 
 And wept my tears, and now Avas 
 
 cool and calm; 
 And, going straightway to the neigh- 
 
 boring room, 
 I lifted up the curtains of the bed 
 Where Marian Erie — the babe upon 
 
 her arm, 
 Both faces leaned together like a pair 
 Of folded innocences self-complete, 
 Each smiling from the other — smiled 
 
 and slept. 
 There seemed no sin, no shame, no 
 
 wrath, no grief. 
 I felt she too had spoken words that 
 
 night. 
 But softer certainly, and said to God, 
 Who laughs in heaven perhaps that 
 
 such as I 
 Should make ado for such as she. 
 
 "Defiled" 
 I wrote? "defiled" I thought her? 
 
 Stoop, 
 Stoop lower, Aurora ! get the angels' 
 
 leave 
 To creep in somewhere, humbly on 
 
 your knees, 
 Within this round of sequestration 
 
 white 
 In which they liave wrapt earth's 
 
 foundlings, heaven's elect. 
 
 The next day we took train to Italy, 
 And fled on southward in the roar of 
 
 steam. 
 The marriage-bells of Romney must 
 
 be loud 
 To sound so clear through all. I was 
 
 not well. 
 And truly, though the truth is like a 
 
 jest, 
 I could not choose but fancy, half the 
 
 way, 
 I stood alone i' the belfry, fifty bells. 
 Of naked iron, mad with merriment, 
 (As one who laughs and cannot stop 
 
 himself) 
 All clanking at me, in me, over me. 
 
 i 
 
128 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Until I shrieked a shriek I could not 
 
 hear, 
 And swooned with noise, but still, 
 
 along my swoon, 
 Was 'ware the baffled changes back- 
 ward rang, 
 Prepared at each emerging sense to 
 
 beat 
 And crash it out with clangor. I was 
 
 weak; 
 I struggled for the posture of my 
 
 soul 
 In upright consciousness of place and 
 
 time, 
 But evermore, 'twixt waking and 
 
 asleep. 
 Slipped somjBhow, staggered, caught 
 
 at Marian's eyes 
 A moment, (it is very good for 
 
 strength 
 To know that some one needs you to 
 
 be strong) 
 And so recovered what I call myself, 
 For that time. 
 
 I just knew it when we swept 
 Above the old roofs of Dijon. Lyons 
 
 dropped 
 A spark into the night, half trodden 
 
 out 
 Unseen. But presently the winding 
 
 Rhone 
 Washed out the moonlight large along 
 
 his banks 
 Which strained their yielding curves 
 
 out clear and clean 
 To hold it, — shadow of town and 
 
 castle blurred 
 Upon the hurrying river. Such an 
 
 air 
 Blew thence upon the forehead, — half 
 
 an air 
 And half a water —that I leaned and 
 
 looked, 
 Then, turning back on M:.i: ■.,:, smiled 
 
 to mark 
 That she lookec" c-._y o;\ h'jr child, 
 
 who slept, 
 His face toward 'iie mo? v too. 
 
 So we passed 
 The liberal open country and the 
 
 close, 
 Ahd .shot through tunnels, like a 
 
 li^'^. 'ing- wedge 
 By great Tlior-hammers driven 
 
 through the rock, 
 Which, quivering through the intes- 
 tine blackn-'ss, splits, 
 And lets it ia at once: the train swept 
 
 iu 
 
 Athrob with effort, trembling with 
 
 resolve. 
 The fierce denouncing whistle wailing 
 
 on, 
 And dying off, smothered in the shud- 
 dering dark; 
 While we self-awed, drew troubled 
 
 breath, oppi-essed 
 As other Titans, underneath the 
 
 pile 
 And nightmare of the mountains. 
 
 Out, at last. 
 To catch the dawn afloat upon the 
 
 land. 
 — Hills, slung forth broadly and 
 
 gauntly everywhere. 
 Not crampt in 'their foundations, 
 
 pushing wide 
 Rich outspreads of the vineyards and 
 
 the corn, 
 (As if they entertained i' the name of 
 
 France) 
 While down their straining sides 
 
 streamed manifest 
 A soil as red as Charlemagne's 
 
 knightly blood, 
 To consecrate the verdure. Some one 
 
 said, 
 "Marseilles!" And lo, the city of 
 
 Marseilles, 
 With all her ships behind her, and 
 
 beyond, 
 The cimiter of ever-shining sea 
 For right-hand use, bared blue against 
 
 the sky ! 
 
 That night we spent between the pur- 
 ple heaven 
 
 And purple water. I think Marian 
 slept ; 
 
 But I, as a dog a-watch for his mas- 
 ter's foot. 
 
 Who cannot sleep or eat before he 
 hears, 
 
 I sate upon the deck, and watched the 
 niglit, 
 
 And listened through the stars for 
 Italy. 
 
 Those marriage-bells I spoke of 
 sounded far, 
 
 As some child's go-cart in the street 
 beneath 
 
 To a dying man who will not pass 
 the day. 
 
 And knows it, holding by a hand he 
 loves. 
 
 I, too, sate quiet, satisfied with death. 
 
 Sate silent. I could hear my own 
 soul speak, 
 
^ 
 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 129 
 
 And had my friend ; for Natnre comes 
 sometimes, 
 
 And says, " I am ambassador for 
 God." 
 
 I felt the wind soft from the land of 
 souls ; 
 
 The old miraculous mountains heaved 
 in sight, 
 
 One straining past another along the 
 shore, 
 
 The way of grand dull Odyssean 
 ghosts 
 
 Athirst to drink the cool blue wine of 
 seas. 
 
 And stare on voyagers. Peak push- 
 ing peak. 
 
 They stood. I watched, beyond that 
 Tyrian belt 
 
 Of intense sea betwixt them and the 
 ship, 
 
 Down all their sides the misty olive- 
 woods 
 
 Dissolving in the weak congenial 
 moon, 
 
 And still disclosing some brown con- 
 A'ent-tower, 
 
 That seems as if it grew from some 
 brown rock, 
 
 Or many a little lighted village, dropt 
 
 Like a fallen star upon so high a 
 point 
 
 You wonder what can keep it in its 
 place 
 
 From sliding headlong with the water- 
 falls 
 
 Which powder all the myrtle and 
 orange groves 
 
 "With spray of silver. Thus my Italy 
 
 Was stealing on us. Genoa broke 
 with day ; 
 
 The Doria's long pale palace striking 
 out, 
 
 From green hills in advance of the 
 white town, 
 
 A mar1)le finger dominant to ships. 
 
 Seen glimmering thi:?ngh the uncer- 
 tain gray of dawn. 
 
 And then I did not think, " My 
 Italy ! " 
 
 I thought, " My father ! " Oh, my fa- 
 ther's house. 
 
 Without his presence ! Places are too 
 much, 
 
 Or else too little, for immortal man, — 
 
 Too little, when love's May o'ergrows 
 the ground ; 
 
 Too much, when that luxuriant robe 
 of green 
 
 Is rustling to our ankles in dead 
 
 leaves. 
 'Tis only good to be or here or there, 
 Because we had a dream on such a 
 
 stone, 
 Or this or that; but once being wholly 
 
 waked, 
 And come back to the stone without 
 
 the dream. 
 We trip upon't, alas ! and hurt our- 
 selves ; 
 Or else it falls on us, and grinds us 
 
 flat, — 
 The heaviest gravestone on this bury- 
 ing earth. 
 — But, while I stood and mused, a 
 
 quiet touch 
 Fell light upon my arm, and, turning 
 
 round, 
 A pair of moistened eyes convicted 
 
 mine. 
 " What, Marian ! is the babe astir so 
 
 soon ? " 
 " He sleeps," she answered. " I have 
 
 crept up thrice, 
 And seen you sitting, standing, etill 
 
 at watch. 
 I thought it did you good till now; but 
 
 now" . . . 
 "But now," I said, "you leave the 
 
 child alone." 
 "And you're alone," she answered; 
 
 and she looked 
 As if I, too, were something. Sweet 
 
 the help 
 Of one we have helped ! Thanks, 
 
 Marian, for such help, 
 
 I found a house at Florence on the 
 
 hill 
 Of Bellosguardo. 'Tis a tower which 
 
 keeps 
 A post of double observation o'er 
 That valley 'of Arno (holding as a 
 
 hand 
 The outsjiread city) straight toward 
 
 Fiesole 
 And Mount Morello and the setting 
 
 sun, 
 The Vallombrosan mountains opi^o- 
 
 site. 
 Which sunrise fills as full as crystal 
 
 cups 
 Turned red to the brim because their 
 
 wine is red. 
 No sun could die, nor yet be born, \u\- 
 
 seen 
 By dwellers at my villa. Morn and 
 
 eve 
 
130 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Were magnified before us in the pure 
 Illimitable space and pause of sky, 
 Intense as angels' garments blanched 
 
 with God, 
 Less blue than radiant. From the 
 
 outer wall 
 Of the garden drops the mystic float- 
 ing gray 
 Of olive-trees, (with interruptions 
 
 green 
 From maize and vine) until 'tis caught 
 
 and torn 
 Upon the abrupt black line of cypress- 
 es 
 Which signs the way to Florence. 
 
 Beautiful 
 The city lies along the ample vale, 
 Cathedral, tower and palace, piazza 
 
 and street. 
 The river trailing like a silver cord 
 Tlirough all, and curling loosely, both 
 
 before 
 And after, over the whole stretch of 
 
 land 
 Sown whitely up and down its oppo- 
 site slopes 
 With farms and villas. 
 
 Many weeks had passed. 
 No word was granted. Last, a letter 
 
 came 
 From Vincent Carrington, — " My dear 
 
 Miss Leigh, 
 You've been as silent as a poet should. 
 When any other man is sure to speak. 
 If sick, if vexed, if dumb, a silver 
 
 piece 
 Will split a man's tongue, — straight 
 
 he speaks, and says, 
 ' Received that check.' But you . . . 
 
 I send you funds 
 To Paris, and you make no sign at 
 
 all. 
 Remember I'm responsible, and wait 
 A sign of you, Miss Leigh. 
 
 " Meantime your book 
 Is eloquent as if you were not dumb ; 
 And common critics, ordinarily deaf 
 To such fine meanings, and, like deaf 
 
 men, loath 
 To seem deaf, answering chance-wise, 
 
 yes or no, 
 ' It must be,' or 'It must not,' (most 
 
 pronounced 
 When least convinced) pronounce for 
 
 once aright: 
 You'd think they really heard, — and 
 
 so they do . . . 
 The burr of three or four who really 
 
 hear 
 
 And praise your book aright: fame's 
 
 smallest trump 
 Is a great ear-trumpet for the deaf as 
 
 posts. 
 No other being effective. Fear not, 
 
 friend : 
 We think here you have written a 
 
 good book. 
 And you, a woman ! It was in you 
 
 — yes, 
 I felt 'twas in you; yet I doubted 
 
 half 
 If that od-force of German Reichen- 
 
 bach, 
 Which still from female finger-tips 
 
 burns blue. 
 Could strike out as our masculine 
 
 white-heats 
 To quicken a man. Forgive me. All 
 
 my heart 
 Is quick with yours since, just a fort- 
 night since, 
 I read your book and loved it. 
 
 " Will you love 
 My wife too? Here's my secret I 
 
 might keep 
 A month more from you ; but I yield 
 
 it up 
 Because I know you'll write the 
 
 sooner for't, 
 Most women (of your height even) 
 
 counting love 
 Life's only serious business. Who's 
 
 my wife 
 That shall be in a month ? you ask ? 
 
 nor guess ? 
 Remember what a pair of topaz 
 
 eyes 
 You once detected, turned against 
 
 the wall. 
 That morning in my London paint- 
 ing-room ; 
 The face half-sketched, and slurred; 
 
 the eyes alone ! 
 But you . . . you caught them up 
 
 with yours, and said 
 'Kate Ward's eyes surely.' — Now I 
 
 own the truth: 
 I had thrown them there to keep 
 
 them safe from Jove, 
 They would so naughtily find out 
 
 their way 
 To both the heads of both my Danaes, 
 Where just it made me mad to look 
 
 at them. 
 Such eyes ! I could not paint or think 
 
 of eyes 
 But those, — and so I flung them into 
 
 paint, 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 131 
 
 And turned them to the wall's care. 
 
 Ay, but now 
 I've let them out, my Kate's. I've 
 
 painted her, 
 (I change my style, and leave mythol- 
 ogies). 
 The whole sweet face: it looks upon 
 
 my soul 
 Like a face on water, to beget itself. 
 A half-length jiortrait, in a hanging 
 
 cloak 
 Like one you wore once; 'tis a little 
 
 frayed, — 
 I pressed too for the nude, hai-moni- 
 
 ous arm; 
 But she, she'd have her way, and 
 
 have her cloak: 
 She said she coiild be like you only 
 
 so. 
 And would not miss the fortune. 
 
 Ah, my friend. 
 You'll write and say she shall not 
 
 miss your love 
 Through meeting mine ? in faith, she 
 
 would not change. 
 She has your books by heart more 
 
 than my words, 
 And quotes you up against me till I'm 
 
 imshed 
 AMiere, three months since, her eyes 
 
 were: nay, in fact. 
 Nought satisfied her but to make me 
 
 paint 
 Your last book folded in her dim^Jled 
 
 hands. 
 Instead of my brown palette, as I 
 
 wished. 
 And, grant me, the j^resentment had 
 
 been newer: 
 She'd grant me nothing. I coni- 
 
 jjounded for 
 The naming of the wedding-day next 
 
 month. 
 And gladly too. 'Tis pretty to re- 
 mark 
 How women can love women of your 
 
 sort, 
 And tie their hearts with love-knots 
 
 to your feet, 
 Grow insolent about you against 
 
 men, 
 And put us down by putting up the 
 
 lip. 
 As if a man — there are such, let us 
 
 own, 
 Who write not ill — remains a man, 
 
 poor wretch. 
 While you ! — Write weaker than 
 
 Aurora Leigh, 
 
 And there'll be women who believe 
 
 of you 
 (Besides my Kate) that if you walked 
 
 on sand 
 You would not leave a footprint. 
 
 " Are you put 
 To wonder by my marriage, like poor 
 
 Leigh ? 
 ' Kate Ward ! ' he said. ' Kate Ward I ' 
 
 he said anew. 
 ' I thought ' ... he said, and 
 
 stopped, — ' I did not think ' . . . 
 And then he dropped to silence. 
 
 " Ah, he's changed. 
 I had not seen him, you're aware, for 
 
 long. 
 But went, of course. I have not 
 
 touched on this 
 Through all this letter, conscious of 
 
 your heart. 
 And writing lightlier for the heavy 
 
 fact, 
 As clocks are voluble with lead. 
 
 " How poor, 
 To say I'm sorry ! dear Leigh, dear- 
 est Leigh ! 
 In those old days of Shropshire, — 
 
 pardon me, — 
 When he and you fought many a field 
 
 of gold 
 On what you should do, or you should 
 
 not do, — 
 Make bread, or verses, (it just came 
 
 to that) 
 I thought you'd one day draw a silk- 
 en peace 
 Through a golden ring. I thought 
 
 so: foolishly. 
 The event proved ; for you went 
 
 more oj)posite 
 To each other, month by mouth, and 
 
 year by year, 
 Until this happened. God knows 
 
 best, we say, 
 But hoarsely. When the fever took 
 
 him first, 
 Just after I had writ to you in 
 
 France, 
 They tell me Lady Waldemar mixed 
 
 drinks. 
 And counted grains, like any salaried 
 
 nurse, 
 Excepting that she wept too. Then, 
 
 Lord Howe, 
 You're right about Lord Howe, Lord 
 
 Howe's a trump; 
 And yet, with such iu his hand, a 
 
 man like Leigh 
 
132 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 May lose as he does. There's an end 
 
 to all, 
 Yes, even this letter, though this 
 
 second sheet 
 May find you doubtful. "Write a 
 
 word for Kate: 
 She reads my letters always, like a 
 
 wife, 
 And if she sees her name I'll see her 
 
 smile 
 And share the luck. So, bless you, 
 
 friend of two ! 
 I will not ask you what your feeling 
 
 is 
 At Florence with my pictures. I can 
 
 hear 
 Your heart a-flutter over the snow- 
 hills; 
 And, just to pace the Pitti with you 
 
 once, 
 I'd give a half-hour of to-morrow's 
 
 walk 
 With Kate ... I think so. Vincent 
 
 Carrington." 
 
 The noon was hot: the air scorched 
 
 like the sun. 
 And was shut out. The closed per- 
 
 siani threw 
 Their long-scored shadows on my 
 
 villa-floor, 
 And interlined the golden atmos- 
 phere 
 Straight, still, — across the pictures 
 
 on the wall, 
 The statuette on the console, (of 
 
 young Love 
 And iPsyche made one marble by a 
 
 kiss) 
 The low couch where I leaned, the 
 
 table near. 
 The vase of lilies Marian pulled last 
 
 night, 
 (Each green leaf and each white leaf 
 
 ruled in black 
 As if for writing some new text of 
 
 fate) 
 And the open letter rested on my 
 
 knee; 
 But there the lines swerved, trembled, 
 
 though I sate 
 Untroubled, plainly, reading it 
 
 again 
 And three times. Well, he's married: 
 
 that is clear. 
 No wonder that he's married, nor, 
 
 much more. 
 That Vincent's therefore " sorry." 
 
 Why, of course 
 
 The lady nursed him when he was 
 
 not well, 
 Mixed drinks — unless nepenthe was 
 
 the drink 
 'Twas scarce worth telling. But a 
 
 man in love 
 Will see the whole sex in his mistress' 
 
 hood. 
 The prettier for its lining of fair rose. 
 Although he catches back and says at 
 
 last, 
 " I'm sorry." Sorry. Lady Walde- 
 
 mar 
 At prettiest, under the said hood, pre- 
 served 
 From such a light as I could hold to 
 
 her face 
 To flare its ugly wrinkles out to 
 
 shame. 
 Is scarce a wife for Romney, as friends 
 
 judge, — 
 Aurora Leigh, or Vincent Carrington : 
 That's plain. And if he"s " conscious 
 
 of my heart "... 
 It may be natural, though the phrase 
 
 is strong; 
 (One's apt to use strong phrases, being 
 
 in love) 
 And even that stuff of " fields of 
 
 gold," " gold rings," 
 And what he " thought," poor Vin- 
 cent ! what he " thought," 
 May never mean enough to ruflfle 
 
 me. 
 — Why, this room stifles. Better 
 
 burn than choke : 
 Best have air, air, although it comes 
 
 with fire; 
 Throw open blinds and windows to 
 
 the noon, 
 And take a blister on my brow in- 
 stead 
 Of this dead weight ! best perfectly 
 
 be stunned 
 By those insufferable cicale, sick 
 And hoarse with rapture of the sum- 
 mer heat. 
 That sing, like poets, till their hearts 
 
 break, — sing 
 Till men say, " It's too tedious." 
 
 Books succeed. 
 And lives fail. Do I feel it so at 
 
 last? 
 Kate loves a worn-out cloak for being 
 
 like mine. 
 While I live self-despised for being 
 
 myself. 
 And yearn toward some one else, who 
 
 yearns away 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 133 
 
 From what be is, iu his turn. Strain 
 
 a step 
 Forever, yet gain no step? Are we 
 
 such 
 "We cannot, with our admirations 
 
 even, 
 Our tiptoe aspirations, tou("h a 
 
 thing 
 That's higher than we ? Is all a dis- 
 mal flat, 
 And God alone above each, — as the 
 
 sun 
 O'er level lagunes, to make them 
 
 shine and stink, — 
 Laying stress upon us with immediate 
 
 flame. 
 While we respond with our miasmal 
 
 fog, 
 And call it mounting higher because 
 
 we grow 
 More highly fatal ? 
 
 Tush, Aurora Leigh ! 
 You wear your sackcloth looped in 
 
 Caesar's way, 
 And brag your failings as mankind's. 
 
 Be still. 
 There is what's higher, in this very 
 
 world. 
 Than you can live, or catch at. Stand 
 
 aside. 
 And look at others, — instance little 
 
 Kate. 
 She'll make a perfect wife for Car- 
 
 rington. 
 She always has been looking round 
 
 the earth 
 For something good and green to 
 
 alight upon 
 And nestle into, with those soft- 
 winged eyes. 
 Subsiding now beneath his manly 
 
 hand, 
 'Twixt trembling lids of inexpressive 
 
 joy. 
 I will not scorn her, after all, too 
 
 much. 
 That so much she should love me. 
 
 A wise man 
 Can i^luck a leaf, and find a lecture 
 
 in't; 
 And I too . . . God has made me, — 
 
 I've a heart 
 That's capable of worship, love, and 
 
 loss: 
 We say the same of Shakspeare's. 
 
 I'll be meek 
 And learn to reverence, even this 
 
 poor myself. 
 
 Tlie book, too — pass it. "A good 
 
 book," says he, 
 " And you a woman." I had laughed 
 
 at that 
 But long since. I'm a woman, it is 
 
 true ; 
 Alas, and woe to us, wlien we feel it 
 
 most ! 
 Then least care have we for the 
 
 crowns and goals 
 And compliments on writing our good 
 
 books. 
 
 The book has some truth in it, I be- 
 lieve ; 
 
 And truth outlives pain, as the soul 
 does life. 
 
 I know we talk our Phsedons to the 
 end, 
 
 Through all the dismal faces that we 
 make, 
 
 O'er-wrinkled with dishonoring agony 
 
 From decomposing drugs. I have 
 written truth. 
 
 And I a woman, — feebly, partially, 
 
 Inaptly in presentation, Romney'll 
 add, 
 
 Because a woman. For the truth it- 
 self. 
 
 That's neither man's nor woman's, 
 but just God's; 
 
 None else has reason to be proud of 
 truth : 
 
 Himself will see it sifted, disin- 
 thralled , 
 
 And kept upon the height and in the 
 light, 
 
 As far as and no farther than 'tis 
 truth ; 
 
 For now he has left off calling firma- 
 ments 
 
 And strata, flowers and creatures, 
 very good. 
 
 He says it still of truth, which is his 
 own. 
 
 Truth, so far, in my book, — the truth 
 
 which draws 
 Through all things upwards, — that a 
 
 twofold world 
 Must go to a i^erfect cosmos. Natural 
 
 things 
 And spiritual, — who separates those 
 
 two 
 In art, in morals, or the social drift. 
 Tears up the bond of nature, and 
 
 brings death, 
 Paints futile pictures, writes unreal 
 
 verse, 
 
 
( 
 
 134 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Leads vulgar days, deals ignorantly 
 with men, 
 
 Is wrong, in short, at all points. We 
 divide 
 
 This apple of life, and cut it through 
 the pips: 
 
 The perfect round which fitted Venus' 
 hand 
 
 Has perished as utterly as if we ate 
 
 Roth halves. Without the spiritual, 
 observe, 
 
 The natural's impossible, no form, 
 
 No motion: without sensuous, spirit- 
 ual 
 
 Is inappreciable, no beauty or jMwer. 
 
 And in this twofold sphere the two- 
 fold man 
 
 (For still the artist is intensely a 
 man) 
 
 Holds firmly by the natural to reach 
 
 The spiritual beyond it, fixes still 
 
 The type with mortal vision to pierce 
 through, 
 
 With eyes immortal to the antetype 
 
 Some call the ideal, better called the 
 real. 
 
 And certain to be called so presently,' 
 
 When things shall have their names. 
 Look long enough 
 
 On any peasant's face here, coarse 
 and lined, 
 
 You'll catch Antiuous somewhere in 
 that clay. 
 
 As perfect-featured as he yearns at 
 Rome 
 
 From marble pale with beauty; then 
 persist. 
 
 And, if your apprehension's compe- 
 tent, 
 
 You'll find some fairer angel at his 
 back, 
 
 As much exceeding him as he the 
 boor, 
 
 And pushiug him with empyreal dis- 
 dain 
 
 Forever out of sight. Ay, Carring- 
 tou 
 
 Is glad of such a creed: an artist 
 must. 
 
 Who paints a tree, a leaf, a common 
 stone 
 
 With just his hand, and finds it sud- 
 denly 
 
 Apiece with and conterminous to his 
 soul. 
 
 Why else do these things move him, 
 — leaf, or stone? 
 
 The bird's not moved, that jjecks at a 
 spring-shoot; 
 
 Nor yet the horse, before a quarry 
 agraze : 
 
 But man, the twofold creature, ap- 
 prehends 
 
 The twofold manner, in and out- 
 wardly. 
 
 And nothing in the world comes sin- 
 gle to him, 
 
 A mere itself, — cup, column, or can- 
 dlestick, 
 
 All patterns of what shall be in the 
 Mount; 
 
 The whole temporal show related 
 royally. 
 
 And built up to eterne significance 
 
 Through the open arms of God. 
 "There's nothing great 
 
 Nor small," has said a poet of our 
 day, 
 
 Whose voice will ring beyond the 
 curfew of eve, 
 
 And not be thrown out by the matin's 
 bell: 
 
 And truly, I reiterate. Nothing's 
 small ! 
 
 No lily-muflied hum of a summer-bee. 
 
 But finds some coupling with the 
 spinning stars; 
 
 No pebble at your foot, but proves a 
 sphere ; 
 
 No chaffinch, but implies the cheru- 
 bim; 
 
 And (glancing on my own thin, 
 veined wrist) 
 
 In such a little tremor of the blood 
 
 The whole strong clamor of a vehe- 
 ment soul 
 
 Doth utter itself distinct. Earth's 
 crammed with heaven. 
 
 And every common bush afire with 
 God; 
 
 But only he who sees takes otf his 
 shoes. 
 
 The rest sit round it and pluck black- 
 berries, 
 
 And daub their natural faces un- 
 aware 
 
 More and more from the first simili- 
 tude. 
 
 Truth, so far, in my book ! — a truth 
 
 which draws 
 From all things upward. I, Aurora, 
 
 still 
 Have felt it hound me through the 
 
 wastes of life 
 As Jove did lo; and until that hand 
 Shall overtake me wholly, and ou my 
 
 head 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 135 
 
 Lay down its large unfluctuatiug 
 
 peace, 
 The feverish gad-fly pricks me up and 
 
 down. 
 It must be. Art's the witness of 
 
 what is 
 Behind this show. If tliis world's 
 
 show were all, 
 Then imitation would be all in art. 
 There Jove's hand gripes us ! for we 
 
 stand here, we, 
 If genuine artists, witnessing for 
 
 God's 
 Complete, consummate, undivided 
 
 work; 
 — That every natural flower which 
 
 grows on earth 
 Implies a flower upon the spiritual 
 
 side, 
 Substantial, archetypal, all aglow 
 Svith blossoming causes, — not so far 
 
 away. 
 But we whose spirit-sense is some- 
 what cleared 
 May catch at something of the bloom 
 
 and breath, — 
 Too vaguely apprehended, though, 
 
 indeed. 
 Still apprehended, consciously or not. 
 And still transferred to pictui'e, 
 
 music, verse, 
 For thrilling audient and beholding 
 
 souls 
 By signs and touches which are 
 
 known to souls. 
 How known, they know not; why, 
 
 they cannot find : 
 So straight call out on genius, say, 
 
 "A man 
 Produced this," when much rather 
 
 they should say, 
 " 'Tis insight, and he saw this." 
 
 Thus is art 
 Self-magnified in magnifying a truth 
 Which, fully recognized, would 
 
 change the world. 
 And shift its morals. If a man could 
 
 feel, 
 Not one day, in the artist's ecstasy. 
 But every day, — feast, fast, or work- 
 ing day, — 
 Tlie spiritual significance burn 
 
 through 
 The hieroglyphic of material shows, 
 Henceforward he would paint the 
 
 globe with wings. 
 And reverence fish and fowl, the bull, 
 
 the tree, 
 And even his very body as a man ; 
 
 Which now he counts so vile, that all 
 the towns 
 
 Make offal of their daughters for its 
 use 
 
 On summer-nights, when God is sad 
 in heaven 
 
 To think what goes on in his recreant 
 world 
 
 He made quite other; while that 
 moon he made 
 
 To shine there, at the first love's cov- 
 enant. 
 
 Shines still, convictive as a marriage- 
 ring 
 
 Before adulterous eyes. 
 
 How sure it is. 
 
 That, if we say a true word, instantly 
 
 We feel 'tis God's, not ours, and pass 
 it on. 
 
 Like bread at sacrament we taste and 
 pass, 
 
 Nor handle for a moment, as indeed 
 
 We dared to set up any claim to 
 such ! 
 
 And I — mv poem — let my readers 
 talk. ' 
 
 I'm closer to it, I can speak as well: 
 
 I'll say Avith Romney, that the book 
 is weak, 
 
 The range uneven, the points of sight 
 obscure. 
 
 The music interrupted. 
 
 Let us go. 
 
 The end of woman (or of man, I 
 think) 
 
 Is not a book. Alas, the best of books 
 
 Is but a word in art, which soon 
 grows cramped, 
 
 Stiff, dubious-statured, with the 
 weight of years. 
 
 And drops an accent or digamma 
 down 
 
 Some cranny of unfathomable time. 
 
 Beyond the critic's reaching. Art 
 itself. 
 
 We've called the larger life, must feel 
 the soul 
 
 Live iiast it. For more's felt than is 
 perceived, 
 
 And more's perceived than can be in- 
 terpreted. 
 
 And love strikes higher with his lam- 
 bent flame 
 
 Than art can pile the fagots. 
 
 Is it so ? 
 
 When Jove's hand meets us with 
 composing touch. 
 
 And when at last we are hushed and 
 satisfied. 
 
 _i_ 
 
136 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Then lo does not call it truth, but 
 love ? 
 
 Well, well ! my father was an English- 
 man : 
 
 My mother's blood in me is not so 
 strong 
 
 That I should bear this stress of Tus- 
 can noon, 
 
 And keep my wits. The town there 
 seems to seethe 
 
 In this Medjean boil-pot of the sun, 
 
 And all the patient hills are bubbling 
 ' round 
 
 As if a prick would leave them flat. 
 Does heaven 
 
 Keep far off, not to set us in a blaze ? 
 
 Not so ; let drag your fiery fringes, 
 heaven, 
 
 And burn us up to quiet Ah ! we 
 know 
 
 Too much here, not to know what's 
 best for peace ; 
 
 We have too much light here, not to 
 want more fire 
 
 To purify and end us. We talk, talk. 
 
 Conclude upon divine x^hilosophies, 
 
 And get the thanks of men for hope- 
 ful books ; 
 
 Whereat we take our own life up, and 
 . . . pshaw ! 
 
 Unless we piece it with another's 
 life, 
 
 (A yard of silk to carry out our lawn) 
 
 As well suppose my little handker- 
 chief 
 
 Would cover Samminiato, church and 
 all, • 
 
 If out I threw it past the cypresses, 
 
 As, in this ragged, narrow life of mine. 
 
 Contain my own conclusions. 
 
 But at least 
 
 We'll shut \x^ the persiani, and sit 
 down. 
 
 And when my head's done aching, in 
 the cool. 
 
 Write just a word to Kate and Car- 
 rington. 
 
 May joy be with them ! she has chosen 
 well. 
 
 And he not ill. 
 
 I should be glad, I think, 
 
 Except for Romney. Had he married 
 Kate, 
 
 I surely, surely, should be very glad. 
 
 This Florence sits upon me easily. 
 
 With native air and tongue. My 
 graves are calm. 
 
 And do not too much hurt me. Mari- 
 an's good, 
 
 Gentle, and loving, lets me hold the 
 
 child. 
 Or drags him up the bills to find me 
 
 flowers 
 And fill these vases ere I'm quite 
 
 awake, — 
 My grandiose red tulips, which grow 
 
 wild ; 
 Or Dante's purple lilies, which ho 
 
 blew 
 To a larger bubble with his prophet 
 
 breath ; 
 Or one of those tall flowering reeds 
 
 that stand 
 In Arno like a sheaf of sceptres left 
 By some remote dynasty of dead gods 
 To suck the stream for ages, and get 
 
 green, 
 And blossom wheresoe'er a hand di- 
 vine 
 Had warmed the place with ichor. 
 
 Such I find 
 At early morning laid across my bed, 
 And wake up pelted with a childish 
 
 laugh 
 Which even Marian's low precipitous 
 
 "Hush!" 
 Has vainly interposed to put away ; 
 While I, with shut eyes, smile and 
 
 motion for 
 The dewy kiss that's very sure to come 
 From mouth and cheeks, the whole 
 
 child's face at once 
 Dissolved on mine, as if a nosegay 
 
 burst 
 Its string with the weight of roses 
 
 overblown, 
 And dropt upon me. Surely I should 
 
 be glad. 
 The little creature almost loves me 
 
 now. 
 And calls my name " Alola," strip- 
 ping off 
 The rs like thorns, to make it smooth 
 
 enough 
 To take between his dainty, milk-fed 
 
 lips, 
 God love him ! I should certainly be 
 
 glad. 
 Except, God help me ! that I'm sor- 
 rowful 
 Because of Romney. 
 
 Romney, Romney ! Well, 
 This grows absurd, — too like a tune 
 
 that runs 
 I' the head, and forces all things in 
 
 the world — 
 Wind, rain, the creaking gnat or stut- 
 tering fly — 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 137 
 
 To slug itself, and vex you ; yet jier- 
 
 haps 
 A paltry time you never fairly 
 
 liked, 
 Some "I'd be a butterfly," or "C'est 
 
 I'amour." 
 We're made so, — not such tyrants to 
 
 ourselves. 
 But still we are slaves to nature. 
 
 Some of us 
 Are turned, too, overmuch like some 
 
 poor verse 
 With a trick of ritouruelle : the same 
 
 thing goes, 
 And comes back ever. 
 
 Vincent Carrington 
 Is " sorry," and I'm sorry ; Init /(e's 
 
 strong 
 To mount from sorrow to his heaven 
 
 of love, 
 And when he says at moments, 
 
 " Poor, poor Leigh, 
 Who'll never call his own so true a 
 
 heart. 
 So fair a face even," he must quick- 
 
 Ij^ lose 
 The pain of pity in the blush he 
 
 makes 
 By his very pitying eyes. The snow, 
 
 for him. 
 Has fallen in May, and finds the 
 
 whole earth warm. 
 And melts at the first touch of the 
 
 green grass. 
 
 But Romnev, — he has chosen, after 
 all. 
 
 I think he had as excellent a sun 
 
 To see by as most others ; and per- 
 haps 
 
 Has scarce seen really worse than 
 some of us. 
 
 When all's said. Let him pass. I'm 
 not too much 
 
 A woman, not to be a man for once, 
 
 And bury all my dead like Alaric, 
 
 Depositing the treasures of my soul 
 
 In this drained water-course, then 
 letting flow 
 
 The river of life again with commerce- 
 ships. 
 
 And pleasure-barges full of silks and 
 songs. 
 
 Blow, winds, and help us. 
 
 Ah, we mock ourselves 
 
 With talking of the winds ! perhaps 
 as much 
 
 With other resolutions. How it 
 weighs, 
 
 This hot, sick air ! and how I covet 
 here 
 
 The dead's provision on the river- 
 couch. 
 
 With silver curtains drawn on tinkling 
 rings ; 
 
 Or else their rest in quiet crypts, laid 
 
 by 
 From heat and noise, from those 
 
 cicale, say. 
 And this more vexing heart-beat ! 
 
 So it is. 
 We covet for the soul the body's part. 
 To die and rot. Even so, Aurora, 
 
 ends 
 Qur aspiration who bespoke our 
 
 place 
 So far in the east. The occidental 
 
 flats 
 Had fed us fatter, therefore ? we have 
 
 climbed 
 Where herbage ends? we want the 
 
 beast's part now, 
 And tire of the angel's ? Men define 
 
 a man. 
 The creature who stands front-ward to 
 
 the stars. 
 The creature wlio looks inward to 
 
 himself. 
 The tool-wright, laugliing creature. 
 
 'Tis enough : 
 We'll say, instead, the inconsequent 
 
 creature, man, 
 For that's his specialty. What crea- 
 ture else 
 Conceives the circle, and then walks 
 
 the square ? 
 Loves things proved bad, and leaves 
 
 a thing proved good ? 
 You think the bee makes honey half 
 
 a year, 
 To loathe the comb in winter, and de- 
 sire 
 The little ant's food rather ? But a 
 
 man — 
 Note men ! — they are but women, 
 
 after all, 
 As women are but Auroras ! — there 
 
 are men 
 Born tender, apt to pale at a trodden 
 
 worm. 
 Who paint for pastime, in their favor- 
 ite dream. 
 Spruce auto-vestments flowered with 
 
 crocus-flames ; 
 There are, too, who believe in hell, 
 
 and lie; 
 There are, too, who believe in heaven, 
 
 and fear; 
 
138 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 There are, who waste their souls in 
 
 working out 
 Life's problem on these sands betwixt 
 
 two tides, 
 Concluding, "Give us the oyster's 
 
 part, in death." 
 
 Alas, long-suffering and most patient 
 
 God, 
 Thou needst be surelier God to bear 
 
 with us 
 Than even to have made us ! thou 
 
 aspire, aspire 
 From henceforth for me ! thou who 
 
 hast thyself 
 Endure<i this tleshhood, knowing how_ 
 
 as a soaked 
 And sucking vesture it can drag us 
 
 down, 
 And choke us in the melancholy 
 
 deep, 
 Sustain me, that with thee I walk 
 
 these waves. 
 Resisting ! — breathe me upward, thou 
 
 in me 
 Aspiring, who art the way, the truth, 
 
 the life, — 
 That no truth henceforth seem indif- 
 ferent. 
 No wav to truth laborious, and no 
 
 li'fe, 
 Not even this life I live, intolerable ! 
 
 The days went by. 'I took up the old 
 days, 
 
 With all their Tuscan pleasures worn 
 and sjioiled. 
 
 Like some lost book we dropt in the 
 long grass 
 
 On such a happy summer after- 
 noon, 
 
 When last we read it with a loving 
 fri(Mid, 
 
 And find in autumn, when the friend 
 is gone, 
 
 The grass cut short, the weather 
 changed, too late, 
 
 And stare "at, as at something won- 
 derful. 
 
 For sorrow, thinking how two hands 
 before 
 
 Had held up what is left to only one. 
 
 And how we smiled when such a 
 vehement nail 
 
 Impressed the tiny dint here which 
 presents 
 
 This verse in fire forever. Tenderly 
 
 And mournfully I lived. I knew the 
 birds 
 
 And insects, which looked fathered 
 bj' the flowers 
 
 And emulous of their hues; I recog- 
 nized 
 
 The moths, with that great overpoise 
 of wings 
 
 Which make a mystery of them how 
 at all 
 
 They can stop Hying; butterflies, that 
 bear 
 
 Upon their blue wings such red em- 
 bers round. 
 
 They seem to scorch the blue air into 
 holes 
 
 Each flight they take; and fireflies, 
 that suspire 
 
 In short soft lapses of transported 
 flame 
 
 Across the tinkling dark, while over- 
 head 
 
 The constant and inviolable stars 
 
 Outburn those lights-of-love ; melodi- 
 ous owls, 
 
 (If music had but one note and was 
 sad, 
 
 'Twould sound just so), and all the 
 silent swirl 
 
 Of bats that seem to follow in the air 
 
 Some grand circumference of a shad- 
 owy dome 
 
 To which we are blind; and then the 
 nightingales. 
 
 Which pluck our heart across a gar- 
 den-wall, 
 
 (When walking in the town) and 
 carry it 
 
 So high Into the bowery almond- 
 trees 
 
 We tremble and are afraid, and feel 
 as if 
 
 The golden flood of moonlight un- 
 aware 
 
 Dissolved the pillars of the steady 
 earth 
 
 And made it less substantial. And I 
 knew 
 
 The harmless opal snakes, the large- 
 mouthed frogs, 
 
 (Those noisy vaunters of their shal- 
 low streams) 
 
 And lizards, the green lightnings of 
 the wall. 
 
 Which, if you sit down quiet, nor 
 sigh loud. 
 
 Will flatter you, and take you for a 
 stone, 
 
 And flash familiarly about your feet 
 With such jjrodigious ej^es in such 
 small lieads ! — 
 
OS! 
 n 
 
 t 
 
 fc# ...,.J 
 
v: 
 
 V rat c ;■ 
 
 OK 
 
 £dtiFORJi;;»^' 
 
 ) 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 13{» 
 
 I kuew them (though they had some- 
 what dwindled from 
 
 My childish imagery), and kept in 
 mind 
 
 How last I sate among them equally, 
 
 In fellowship and mateship, as a 
 child 
 
 Feels equal still toward insect, beast, 
 and bird. 
 
 Before the Adam in him has foregone 
 
 All privilege of Eden, making 
 friends 
 
 And talk with such a bird or such a 
 goat, 
 
 And buying many a two-inch-wide 
 rush-cage 
 
 To let out the caged cricket on a tree, 
 
 Saying, " Oh, my dear grillino, were 
 you cramped ? 
 
 And are you hapi)y with the ilex- 
 leaves ? 
 
 And do vou love me who have let vou 
 go> 
 
 Say yes in singing, and I'll under- 
 stand." 
 
 But now the creatures all seemed far- 
 ther off. 
 
 No longer mine, nor like me, only 
 there, 
 
 A gulf between us. I could yearn, 
 indeed. 
 
 Like other rich men, for a droj) of 
 dew 
 
 To cool this heat, — a drop of the 
 early dew. 
 
 The irrecoverable child-innocence 
 
 (Before the heart took tire and with- 
 ered life) 
 
 "When childhood might pair equally 
 Avith birds; 
 
 But now . . . the liirds were grown 
 too proud for us, 
 
 Alas ! the very sun forbids the dew. 
 
 And I — I had come back to an empty 
 
 nest. 
 Which every bird's too wise for. How 
 
 I heard 
 ]My father's step on that deserted 
 
 ground, 
 His voice along that silence, as he 
 
 told 
 The names of Ijird and insect, tree 
 
 and flower, 
 And all the presentations of the stars 
 Across Valdarno, interposing still 
 "My child," "my child." Wlicn 
 
 fathers say, " My child," 
 
 'Tis easier to conceive the universe, 
 And life's transitions down the steps 
 of law. 
 
 I rode once to the little mountain- 
 house 
 As fast as if to find my father there; 
 But when in sight oft, within fifty 
 
 yards, 
 I drojij^ed my horse's bridle on his 
 
 neck. 
 And paused ujion his fiank. The 
 
 house's front 
 Was cased with lingots of ripe Indian 
 
 corn 
 In tessellated order and device 
 Of golden patterns, not a stone of 
 
 wall 
 Uncovered, not an incli of room to 
 
 grow 
 A vine-leaf. The old poi'ch had dis- 
 appeared. 
 And right in the open doorway sate a 
 
 girl 
 At jjlaiting straws, her black hair 
 
 strained away 
 To a scarlet kerchief caught beneath 
 
 her chin 
 In Tuscan fashion, her full ebon 
 
 eyes. 
 Which looked too heavy to be lifted 
 
 so, 
 Still dropt and lifted toward the mul- 
 berry-tree, 
 On which the lads were busj' with 
 
 their staves 
 In shout and laughter, stripiiing every 
 
 bough, 
 As bare as winter, of those summer 
 
 leaves 
 Mv father had not clianged for all the 
 
 silk 
 In which the ugly silkworms hide 
 
 themselves. 
 Enough. My horse recoiled l)efore 
 
 my heart. 
 I turned the rein ;ibniptly. Back we 
 
 went 
 As fast, to Florence. 
 
 That was trial enough 
 Of graves. I would not visit, if I 
 
 could, 
 My father's, or my mother's any 
 
 more. 
 To see if stone-cutter or lichen beat 
 So early in the race, or throw my 
 
 flowers. 
 Which could not out-smell heaven, or 
 
 sweeten earth. 
 
 I 
 
140 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 They live too far al)ove, that I should 
 
 look 
 So far below to find them: let me 
 
 think 
 That rather they are visiting my 
 
 grave, 
 Called life here, (undeveloped yet to 
 
 life) 
 And that they drop upon me now 
 
 and then, 
 For token or for solace, some small 
 
 weed 
 Least odorous of the growths of par- 
 adise, 
 To sjiare such pungent scents as kill 
 
 with joy. 
 
 My old Assunta, too, was dead, — 
 
 was dead. 
 O land of all men's past ! for me 
 
 alone 
 It would not mix its tenses. I was 
 
 past. 
 It seemed, like others, — only not in 
 
 heaven. 
 And many a Tuscan eve I wandered 
 
 down 
 The cypress alley like a restless ghost 
 That tries its" feeble, ineffectual 
 
 breath 
 Upon its own charred funeral-brands 
 
 put out 
 Too soon, where black and stiff stood 
 
 up tlie trees 
 Against the broad vermilion of the 
 
 skies. 
 Such skies ! — all clouds abolished in 
 
 a sweep 
 Of God's skirt, with a dazzle to ghosts 
 
 and men. 
 As down I went, saluting on the 
 
 bridge 
 The hem of such before 'twas caught 
 
 away 
 Beyond the peaks of Lucca. Under- 
 neath, 
 The river, just escaping from the 
 
 weight 
 Of that intolerable glory, ran 
 In acquiescent shadow murmurously; 
 While up beside it streamed the festa- 
 
 folk 
 With fellow-murmurs from their feet 
 
 and fans. 
 And issimo and ino and sweet poise 
 Of A'owels in their pleasant, scandal- 
 ous talk; 
 Returning from the grand-duke's 
 
 dairv-farm 
 
 Before the trees grew dangerous at 
 
 eight, 
 (For "trust no tree by moonlight," 
 
 Tuscans say) 
 To eat their ice at Donay's tenderly. 
 Each lovely lady close to a cavalier 
 Wlio holds her dear fan while she 
 
 feeds her smile 
 On meditative spoonfuls of vanille, 
 And listens to his hot-breathed vows 
 
 of love. 
 Enough to thaw her cream, and scorch 
 
 his beard. 
 
 'Twas little matter. I covild pass 
 them by 
 
 Indifferently, not fearing to be 
 known. 
 
 No danger of being wrecked upon a 
 friend. 
 
 And forced to take an iceberg for an 
 isle! 
 
 The verj^ English here must wait, and 
 learn 
 
 To hang the cobweb of their gossip 
 out 
 
 To catch a fly. I'm happy. It's sub- 
 lime. 
 
 This perfect solitude of foreign lands ! 
 
 To be as if you had not been till 
 then, 
 
 And were then, simply that you 
 chose to be; 
 
 To spring up, not be brought forth 
 from the ground, 
 
 Like grasshoppers at Athens, and 
 skip thrice 
 
 Before a woman makes a pounce on 
 you 
 
 And plants you in her hair! — pos- 
 sess, yourself, 
 
 A new world all alive with creatures 
 new, — 
 
 New sun, new moon, new flowers, 
 new peojjle — ah. 
 
 And be possessed by none of them 1 
 no right 
 
 In one to call your name, inquire 
 your where, 
 
 Or wliat you think of Mister Some- 
 one's book. 
 
 Or Mister Other's marriage or de- 
 cease. 
 
 Or how's the headache which you 
 had last week, 
 
 Or why you look so pale still, since 
 it's' gone. 
 
 — Such most surprising riddance of 
 one's life 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 1-U 
 
 Comes next one's death: 'tis disem- 
 bodiment 
 
 Without tlie panj?. I marvel people 
 choose 
 
 To stand stock-still, like fakirs, till 
 the moss 
 
 Grows on them and they cry out, 
 self-admired, 
 
 " How verdant and how virtuous ! " 
 Well, I'm glad, 
 
 Or sliould be, if grown foreign to mv- 
 self 
 
 As surely as to others. 
 
 Musing so, 
 
 I walked the narrow, iinrecognizing 
 streets. 
 
 Where many a palace-front peers 
 gloomily 
 
 Through stony visors iron-barred, 
 (prepared 
 
 Alike, should foe or lover pass that 
 way. 
 
 For guest or victim) and came wan- 
 dering out 
 
 Upon the churches with mild open 
 doors 
 
 And plaintive wail of vespers, where 
 a few. 
 
 Those chiefly women, sprinkled 
 round in blots 
 
 Upon the dusky pavement, knelt and 
 jirayed 
 
 Toward the altar's silver glory. Oft 
 a ray 
 
 (I liked to sit and watch) would trem- 
 ble out. 
 
 Just touch some face more lifted, 
 more hi need, 
 
 (Of course a woman's) while I dreamed 
 a tale 
 
 To fit its fortunes. There was one 
 who looked 
 
 As if the earth had suddenly grown 
 too large 
 
 For such a little humpbacked thing 
 as she; 
 
 The pitiful black kerchief round her 
 neck 
 
 Sole proof she had had a mother. 
 One, again, 
 
 Looked sick for love, seemed pray- 
 ing some soft saint 
 
 To put more virtue in the new, fine 
 scarf 
 
 She spent a fortnight's meals on yes- 
 terday. 
 
 That cruel Gigi might return his eyes 
 
 From Giuliana. Tliere was one, so 
 old. 
 
 So old, to kneel grew easier than to 
 
 stand ; 
 So solitary, she accepts at last 
 Our Ladj' for her gossip, and frets 
 
 on 
 Against the sinful world which goes 
 
 its rounds 
 In marrying and being married, just 
 
 the same 
 As when 'twas almost good and had 
 
 the right, 
 (Her Gian alive and she herself eigh- 
 teen). 
 " And yet, now even, if ]Madonna 
 
 willed. 
 She'd win a tern in Thursday's lot- 
 
 terj'. 
 And better all things. Did she dream 
 
 for nought. 
 That, boiling cabbage for the fast- 
 day's soup, 
 It smelt like blessed entrails ? such a 
 
 dream 
 For nought ? would sweetest Mary 
 
 cheat her so. 
 And lose that certain candle, straight 
 
 and white 
 As any fair grand-duchess in her 
 
 teens. 
 Which otherwise should tlari3 here in 
 
 a week ? 
 Benigna sis, thou beauteous Queen of 
 
 heaven ! " 
 
 I sate there musing, and imagining 
 
 Such utterance from such faces, poor 
 blind souls 
 
 That writhe toward heaven along the 
 Devil's trail: 
 
 Who knows, I thought, but he may 
 stretch his hand 
 
 And pick them up ? 'Tis written in 
 the Book 
 
 He heareth the young ravens when 
 they cry, 
 
 And yet they cry for carrion. O mv 
 God ! 
 
 And we who make excuses for the 
 rest, 
 
 W^e do it in our measure. Then I 
 knelt. 
 
 And dropped nay head upon the pave- 
 ment too. 
 
 And prayed — since I was foolish in 
 desire 
 
 Like other creatures, craving offal- 
 food — 
 
 That he would stop his ears to what I 
 said. 
 
142 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 And only listen to the run and beat 
 Of tliis poor, passionate, hclple.ss 
 
 blood — 
 
 And then 
 I lay, and si)oke not; bnt he heard in 
 
 heaven. 
 
 So many Tuscan evenings passed the 
 same. 
 
 I could not lose a sunset on the 
 bridge, 
 
 And would not miss a vigil in the 
 church. 
 
 And liked to mingle with the out- 
 door crowd, 
 
 So strange and gay, and ignorant of 
 my face; 
 
 For men you know not are as good as 
 trees> 
 
 And only once, at the Sautissima, 
 
 I almost chanced upon a man I knew. 
 
 Sir Blaise Delorme. He saw me cer- 
 tainly, 
 
 And somewhat hurried, as he crossed 
 himself, 
 
 The smoothness of the action; then 
 half bowed, 
 
 But only half, and merely to my 
 shade, 
 
 I slipped so quick behind the porphyry 
 plinth, 
 
 And left him dubious if 'twas really I, 
 
 Or pei-adventure Satan's usual trick 
 
 To keep a mounting saint uncanon- 
 ized. 
 
 But he was safe for that time, and I 
 too: 
 
 The argent angels in the altar-flare 
 
 Absorbed his sold next moment. Tlie 
 good man ! 
 
 In England we were scarce acquaint- 
 ances, 
 
 Tliat hei"e in Florence he should keep 
 my thought 
 
 Beyond the image on liis eye, which 
 came 
 
 And went: and yet his thought dis- 
 turbed my life; 
 
 For after that I oftener sat at home 
 
 On evenings, watching how they fined 
 themselves 
 
 With gradual conscience to a perfect 
 night. 
 
 Until the moon, diminished to a 
 curve. 
 
 Lay out there like a sickle for His 
 hand 
 
 Who Cometh down at last to reap the 
 earth. 
 
 At such times ended seemed my 
 trade of verse : 
 
 I feared to jingle bells upon my robe 
 
 Before the four-faced silent cheru- 
 bim. 
 
 With God so near me, could I sing of 
 God?. 
 
 I did not write, nor read, nor even 
 think. 
 
 But sate absorbed amid the quicken- 
 ing glooms, 
 
 Most like some passive broken lump 
 of salt 
 
 Drojit in by chance to a bowl of ceno- 
 mel. 
 
 To spoil the drink a little, and lose it- 
 self. 
 
 Dissolving slowly, slowly, until lost. 
 
 EIGHTH BOOK. 
 
 One eve it happened, when I sate 
 
 alone. 
 Alone, upon the terrace of my tower, 
 A book upon my knees to counterfeit 
 The reading that I never read at all. 
 While Marian, in tlie garden down 
 
 below, 
 Knelt by the fountain I could just hear 
 
 thrill 
 The drowsy silence of the exhausted 
 
 day, " 
 And jjeeled a new fig from that purple 
 
 heap 
 In the grass beside her, turning out 
 
 the red 
 To feed her eager child, who sucked 
 
 at it 
 With vehement lips across a gap of 
 
 air. 
 As he stood opposite, face and curls- 
 
 aflame 
 With that last sun-ray, crying, " tiive 
 
 me, give ! " 
 And stamping with imperious baby- 
 feet, 
 (We're all born princes) something 
 
 startled me, — 
 The laugh of sad and innocent souls 
 
 that breaks 
 Abrujitly, as if frightened at itself. 
 'Twas Marian laughed. I saw her 
 
 glance abo^'e 
 In sudden shame that I should hear 
 
 her laugh, 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 And straightway dropped my eyes 
 
 upon my book, 
 And knew, the first time, 'twas Boc- 
 caccio's tale, 
 The Falcon's, of the lover who for 
 
 love 
 Destroyed the best that loved him. 
 
 Some of us 
 Do it still, and then we sit, and laugh 
 
 no more. 
 Laugh ymi, sweet Marian, you've the 
 
 right to laugh. 
 Since God himself is for you, and a 
 
 child. 
 For me there's somewhat less, and so 
 
 I sigh. 
 
 The heavens were making room to 
 hold the night, 
 
 Tlie sevenfold heavens unfolding all 
 their gates 
 
 To let the stars out slowly (prophe- 
 sied 
 
 In close-approaching advent, not dis- 
 cerned), 
 
 Wliile still the cue-owls from the cj-- 
 presses 
 
 ()i the Poggio called and counted 
 every jjulse 
 
 Of the skvev palpitation. Gradu- 
 ally 
 
 The purple and transparent shadows 
 slow 
 
 Had filled up the whole valley to the 
 brim. 
 
 And flooded all the city, which you 
 saw 
 
 As some drowned city in some en- 
 chanted sea, 
 
 Cut off from nature, drawing you who 
 gaze. 
 
 With passionate desire, to leap and 
 plunge, 
 
 And find a sea-king with a voice of 
 waves. 
 
 And treacherous soft eyes, and slip- 
 perj' locks 
 
 You cannot kiss but you shall bring 
 away 
 
 Their salt upon vour lips. The duomo- 
 bell 
 
 Strikes ten, as if it struck ten fathoms 
 down, 
 
 So deep, and twenty churches answer 
 it 
 
 The same, with twenty various in- 
 stances. 
 
 Some gaslights tremble along scjuares 
 and streets ; 
 
 The Pitti's palace-front is drawn in 
 
 fire ; 
 And, past the quays, Maria Novella 
 
 Place, 
 In which the mystic obeiisks stand 
 
 up 
 Triangular, pyramidal, each based 
 Upon its four-square brazen tortoises, 
 To guard that fair church, Buonarro- 
 ti's Bride, 
 That stares out from her large blind 
 
 dial-eyes, 
 (Her quadrant and armillary dials, 
 
 black 
 With rhythms of many suns and 
 
 moons) in vain 
 Inquiry for so rich a soul as his. 
 Methinks I have plunged, I see it all 
 
 so clear . . . 
 And O my heart . . . the searking ! 
 
 In my ears 
 The sound of waters. There he stood, 
 my king ! 
 
 I felt him, rather than beheld him. 
 
 Up 
 I rose, as if he were my king indeed. 
 And then sate down, in trouble at 
 
 myself. 
 And struggling for my woman's em- 
 
 pery. 
 'Tis pitiful ; but women are so made : 
 We'll die for you, perhaps, — 'tis 
 
 probable ; 
 But we'll not spare you an inch of our 
 
 full height : 
 AVe'll have our whole just stature, — 
 
 five feet four. 
 Though laid out in our coffins : piti- 
 ful. 
 — " You, Romnev ! — Lady Waldemar 
 
 is here?" 
 
 He answered in a voice which was not 
 
 his. 
 " I have her letter : you shall read it 
 
 soon. 
 But first I must be heard a little, I 
 Who have waited long and travelled 
 
 far for that, 
 Although you thought to have shut a 
 
 tedious book. 
 And farewell. Ah, you dog-eared 
 
 such a page, 
 And here you find me." 
 
 Did he touch my hand, 
 Or but my sleeve ? I trembled, hand 
 
 and foot : 
 

 144 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 He must have touched me. " Will 
 you sit? " I asked, 
 
 And motioned to a chair ; but down 
 he sate, 
 
 A little slowlJ^ as a man in doubt, 
 
 Upon the couch beside me, couch and 
 chair 
 
 Being wheeled upon the terrace. 
 
 "You are come, 
 
 My cousin Romney ? This is wonder- 
 ful. 
 
 But all is wonder on siich summer- 
 nights ; 
 
 And nothing should surprise us any 
 more, 
 
 Who see that miracle of stars. Be- 
 hold." 
 
 I signed above, where all the stars 
 were out. 
 
 As if an urgent heat had started 
 there 
 
 A secret writing from a sombre page, 
 
 A blank last moment, crowded sud- 
 denly 
 
 With hurrying splendors. 
 
 " Then you do not know " — 
 
 He murmured. 
 
 " Yes, I know," I said, " I know. 
 
 I had the news from Vincent Carring- 
 ton. 
 
 And yet I did not think yovi'd leave 
 the work 
 
 In England for so much even, — 
 though of course 
 
 You'll make a work-day of your holi- 
 day. 
 
 And turn it to our Tuscan people's 
 use, — 
 
 Who much need helping, since the 
 Austrian boar 
 
 (So bold to cross the Alp to Lom- 
 bard y. 
 
 And dash his brute front unabashed 
 against 
 
 The steep snow-bosses of that shield 
 of God 
 
 Who soon shall rise in wrath, and 
 shake it clear) 
 
 Came hither also, raking up our grape 
 
 And olive gardens with his tyrannous 
 tusk, 
 
 And rolling on our maize with all his 
 swine." 
 
 " You had the news from Vincent 
 Carrington," 
 
 He echoed, picking up the phrase be- 
 yond, 
 
 As if he knew the rest was merely talk 
 
 To fill a gap and keep out a strong 
 wind : 
 
 " You had, then, Vincent's personal 
 news?" 
 
 " His own," 
 
 I answered. " All that ruined world 
 of yours 
 
 Seems crumbling into marriage. Car- 
 rington 
 
 Has chosen wisely." 
 
 " Do you take it so ? " 
 
 He cried, "and is it possible at 
 last" ... 
 
 He paused there, and then, inward 
 to himself, — 
 
 " Too much at last, too late ! yet cer- 
 tainly" . . . 
 
 (And there his voice swayed as an 
 Alpine plank 
 
 That feels a passionate torrent under- 
 neath) 
 
 "The knowledge, had I known it 
 first or last. 
 
 Could scarce have changed the actual 
 case for me, 
 
 And best for her at this time." 
 
 Nay, I thought. 
 
 He loves Kate Ward, it seems, now, 
 like a man. 
 
 Because he has married Lady Walde- 
 mar ! 
 
 Ah, Vincent's letter said how Leigh 
 was moved 
 
 To hear that Vincent was betrothed 
 to Kate. 
 
 With what cracked pitchers go we to 
 deep wells 
 
 In this world! Then I spoke, — "I 
 did not think. 
 
 My cousin, you had ever known Kate 
 Ward'." 
 
 "In fact I never knew her. 'Tis 
 
 enough 
 That Vincent did, and therefore chose 
 
 liis wife 
 For other reasons than those topaz 
 
 eyes 
 We've heard of. Not to undervalue 
 
 them. 
 For all that. One takes up the world 
 
 with eyes." 
 
 — Including Romney Leigh, I thought 
 
 again, 
 Albeit he knows them only by repute. 
 How vile must all men be, since lie's 
 
 a man ! 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 145 
 
 His deep pathetic voice, as if lie 
 
 guessed 
 I did not surely love liim, took the 
 
 word : 
 " You never got a letter from Lord 
 
 Howe 
 A month back, dear Aurora ? " 
 
 "None," I said. 
 
 " I felt it was so," he replied. " Yet, 
 
 strange ! 
 Sir Blaise Delorme has passed through 
 
 Florence?" 
 
 "Ay, 
 By chance I saw him in Our Lady's 
 
 Church, 
 (I saw him, mark you; but he saw not 
 
 me) 
 Clean-washed in holy water from the 
 
 count 
 Of things terrestrial, — letters and 
 
 the rest: 
 He had crossed us out together with 
 
 his sins. 
 Ay, strange; but only strange that 
 
 good Lord Howe 
 Preferred him to the post because of 
 
 pauls. 
 For me, I'm sworn to never trust a 
 
 man — 
 At least with letters." 
 
 " There were facts to tell. 
 To smooth with eye and accent. 
 
 Howe supposed . . . 
 Well, well, no matter ! there was 
 
 dubious need: 
 You heard the news from Vincent 
 
 Carrington. 
 And yet perhaps you had been star- 
 tled less 
 To see me, deai y^urora, if you had 
 
 read 
 That letter." 
 
 — Now he sets me down as vexed. 
 I think I've draped myself in wo- 
 man's pride 
 To a perfect puri^ose. Oh, I'm 
 
 vexed, it seems ! 
 My friend Lord Howe deputes his 
 
 friend Sir Blaise 
 To break, as sof ;ly as a sparrow's egg 
 That lets a bird ovit tenderly, the 
 
 news 
 Of Eomney's marriage to a certain 
 
 saint, 
 To smooth ivith eye and accent, — indi- 
 cate 
 His jjossible presence. Excellently 
 
 well 
 
 You've played j'our jiart, my Lady 
 Waldemar, — 
 
 As I've played mine. 
 
 " Dear Eomney," I began, 
 
 " You did not use of old to be so 
 like 
 
 A Greek king coming from a taken 
 Troy 
 
 'Twas needful that iirecursors spread 
 your path 
 
 With three-piled carpets to receive 
 your foot. 
 
 And dull the sound oft. For myself, 
 be sure, 
 
 Although it frankly grinds the gravel 
 here, 
 
 I still can bear it. Yet I'm sorry, too, 
 
 To lose this famous letter, which Sir 
 Blaise 
 
 Has twisted to a lighter absently 
 
 To fire some holy taper. Dear Lord 
 Howe 
 
 Writes letters good for all things but 
 to lose : 
 
 And many a flower of London gos- 
 sipry 
 
 Has dropt wherever sucli a stem 
 broke off. 
 
 Of course I feel that, lonely among 
 my vines, 
 
 Where nothing's talked of, save the 
 blight again. 
 
 And no more Chianti I Still the let- 
 ter's use 
 
 As preparation . . . Did I start in- 
 deed ? 
 
 Last night I started at a cockchafer, 
 
 And shook a half-hour after. Have 
 you learnt 
 
 No more of women, 'spite of jirivi- 
 lege, 
 
 Than still to take account too seri- 
 ously 
 
 Of such weak flutterings ? Why, we 
 like it, sir: 
 
 We get our powers and our effects 
 that way. 
 
 The trees stand stiff and still at time 
 of frost. 
 
 If no wind tears them ; but let sum- 
 mer come, 
 
 When trees are happy, and a breath 
 avails 
 
 To set them trembling through a mil- 
 lion leaves 
 
 In luxury of emotion. Something 
 less 
 
 It takes to move a woman: let her 
 start 
 
146 
 
 AVROllA LEIGH. 
 
 And shake at pleasure, nor conclude 
 
 at yours, 
 The winter's bitter, but the summer's 
 
 green." 
 
 He answered, " Be the summer eA'er 
 
 greeu 
 With you, Aurora ! though you sweep 
 
 your sex 
 With " somewhat bitter gusts from 
 
 where you live 
 Above them, whirling downward 
 
 from your heights 
 Your very oVn pine-cones, in a grand 
 
 disdain 
 Of the lowland burrs with which you 
 
 scatter them. 
 Ho high and cold to others and vour- 
 
 self, 
 A little less to llomney were unjust, 
 And thus, I would not have you. 
 
 Let it pass : 
 I feel content so. You can bear, in- 
 deed, 
 ]SIy sudden steji beside you: but for 
 
 me, 
 'Twould move me sore to hear your 
 
 softened voice,— 
 Aurora's voice, — if softened un- 
 aware 
 In pity of what I am." 
 
 Ah, friend ! I thought. 
 As husband of the Lady Waldemar 
 You're granted very sorely pitiable; 
 And yet Aurora Leigh must guard 
 
 her voice 
 From softening in the pity of your 
 
 case, 
 As if from lie or license. Certainly 
 We'll soak up all the slush and soil of 
 
 life 
 With softened A^oices, ere we come to 
 
 you. 
 
 At which I interrupted my own 
 
 thought, 
 And spoke out calmly. " Let us pon- 
 der, friend, 
 Whate'er our state, we must have 
 
 made it first; 
 And though the thing displease us, 
 
 ay, jierhaps 
 Displease us warrantably, never 
 
 doubt 
 That other states, thought possible 
 
 once, and then 
 Kejected by the instinct of our lives. 
 If then adopted, had displeased us 
 
 more 
 
 Than this in which the choice, the 
 
 will, the love. 
 Has stamped the honor of a patent 
 
 act 
 From henceforth. What we choose 
 
 may not be good; 
 But that we choose it proves it good 
 
 for us 
 Potentially, fantastically, now 
 Or last year, rather than a thing we 
 
 saw. 
 And saw no need for choosing. Moths 
 
 will burn 
 Their wings, — which proves that 
 
 light is good for moths. 
 Who else had flown not where they 
 
 agonize." 
 
 "Ay, light is good," lie echoed, and 
 
 there paused; 
 And then abruptly ..." Marian. 
 
 Marian's well ? " 
 
 I bowed my head, Viut found no word. 
 
 'Twas hard 
 To speak of her to Lady Waldemar's 
 New husband. How much did he 
 
 know, at last ? 
 How much ? how little ? He would 
 
 take no sign. 
 But straight repeated, — " Marian. Is 
 
 she well '?" 
 
 " She's well," I ansAvered. 
 
 She was there in sight 
 An hoiir back; but the night had 
 
 drawn her home, 
 Where still I heanl her in an upper 
 
 room, 
 
 3W A'C 
 
 bed. 
 Who, restless with the summer-heat 
 
 and play. 
 And slumber snatched at noon, was 
 
 long sometimes 
 In falling off, and took a score of 
 
 songs 
 And mother hushes ere she saw him 
 
 sound. 
 
 " She's well," I answered. 
 
 "Here?" he asked. 
 " Yes, here." 
 
 He stopped and sighed. " That shall 
 
 be presently; 
 But now this must be. I have words 
 
 to say, 
 
" I'm thinking, Romnev, how 'twas morning then 
 And now, 'tis night." — Page 147. 
 
i£dL<FOf 
 
AURORA LKIGII. 
 
 u: 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
 And would be alone to say them, I 
 
 with j'ou, 
 And no third troubling." 
 
 " Speak, then," I returned, 
 " She will not vex you." 
 
 At which, suddenly 
 He turned his face upon me with its 
 
 smile. 
 As if to crush me. " I have read 
 
 your book, 
 Aurora." 
 
 " You have read it," I replied, 
 " And I have writ it^we have done 
 
 with it. 
 And now the rest ? " 
 
 " The rest is like the first," 
 He answered, " for the book is in my 
 
 heart, 
 Lives in me, wakes in me, and dreams 
 
 in me : 
 My daily bread tastes of it; and my 
 
 wine 
 "Which has no smack of it, — I pour it 
 
 out. 
 It seem unnatural drinking." 
 
 Bitterly 
 I took the word up: " Never waste 
 
 your wine. 
 The book lived in me ere it lived in 
 
 you ; 
 I know it closer than another does. 
 And how it's foolish, feeble, and 
 
 afraid, 
 And all unworthy so much compli- 
 ment. 
 Beseech you, keep your wine, and, 
 
 when you drink, 
 Still wish some happier fortune to a 
 
 friend 
 Thau even to have written a far better 
 
 book." 
 
 He answered gently: " That is conse- 
 quent. 
 The poet looks beyond the book he 
 
 has made. 
 Or else he had not made it. If a man 
 Could make a man, he'd henceforth 
 
 be a god 
 In feeling what a little thing is man: 
 It is not my case. And this special 
 
 book, 
 I did not make it, to make light of it: 
 It stands above my knowledge, draws 
 
 me up; 
 'Tis high to me. It may be that the 
 book 
 
 Is not so high, but I so low, instead; 
 Still high to me. I mean no compli- 
 ment: 
 I will not saj' there are not, j'oung or 
 
 old, 
 Male writers, ay, or female, let it 
 
 pass. 
 Who'll write us richer and completer 
 
 books. 
 A man may love a woman perfectly. 
 And yet by no means ignorantly 
 
 maintain 
 A thousand women have not larger 
 
 eyes: 
 Enough that she alone has looked at 
 
 him 
 With eyes that, large or small, have 
 
 won his soul. 
 And so, this book, Aurora, — so, vour 
 
 book." 
 
 " Alas ! " I answered, " is it so, in- 
 deed ? " 
 
 And then was silent. 
 
 " Is it so, indeed," 
 
 He echoed, " that alas is all vour 
 word?" 
 
 I said, " I'm thinking of a far-off 
 June, 
 
 When you and I, upon my birthday, 
 once, 
 
 Discoursed of life and art, with both 
 untried. 
 
 I'm thinking, Romncy, how "twas 
 morning then. 
 
 And now 'tis night." 
 
 " And now," he said, " 'tis night." 
 
 "I'm thinking," I resumed, "'tis 
 
 somewhat sad. 
 That if I had known, that morning in 
 
 the dew. 
 My cousin Romney would have said 
 
 such words 
 On such a night at close of many 
 
 years, 
 In speaking of a future book of mine. 
 It would have pleased me better as a 
 
 hope 
 Than as an actual grace it can at 
 
 all: 
 That's sad, I'm thinking." 
 
 " Ay," he .said, " 'tis night." 
 
 "And there," I added lightly, "are 
 
 the stars ; 
 And here we'll talk of stars, and not 
 
 of books." 
 
148 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 " You have the stars," he uiiirmnreil, 
 — it is well : 
 
 Be like them. Shine, Aurora, on my 
 dark, 
 
 Though liigh and cold, and only like a 
 star. 
 
 And for this short night only, — yon 
 who keep 
 
 The same Aurora of the bright June 
 day 
 
 That withered up the flowers before 
 my face, 
 
 And turned me from the garden ever- 
 more. 
 
 Because I Avas not worthy. Oli, de- 
 served. 
 
 Deserved ! tliat I, who verily had not 
 learnt 
 
 God's lesson half, attaining as a dunce 
 
 To obliterate good words with frac- 
 tious thumbs. 
 
 And cheat myself of the context, — 
 / should push 
 
 Aside, with male ferocious impudence. 
 
 The world's Aurora, who had conned 
 her part 
 
 On the other side the leaf ! ignore her 
 so. 
 
 Because she was a woman and a 
 queen. 
 
 And had no beard to liristle through 
 her song, 
 
 My teacher, who has taught me with 
 a book, 
 
 ]SIy Miriam, whose sweet mouth, when 
 nearly drowned, 
 
 I still heard singing on the shore ! 
 Deserved, 
 
 That here I should look up unto the 
 stars. 
 
 And miss the glory "... 
 
 " Can I understand ? " 
 
 I broke in. " You speak wildly, 
 Romney Leigh, 
 
 Or I hear wildly. In that morning- 
 time 
 
 We recollect, the roses were too red. 
 
 The trees too green, reproach too nat- 
 ural 
 
 If one should see not what the other 
 saw : 
 
 And now it's night, rememlier ; we 
 have shades 
 
 In i)lace of colors ; we are now grown 
 cold 
 
 And old, my cousin Romney. Pardon 
 me, — 
 
 I'm very happy that you like my book, 
 
 And very sorry that'l quoted back 
 
 A ten-years' birthday. 'Twas so mad 
 
 a thing 
 In any woman, I scarce marvel much 
 You took it for a venturous piece of 
 
 spite. 
 Provoking such excuses as indeed 
 I cannot call you slack in." 
 
 " Understand," 
 He answered sadly, "something, if 
 
 but so. 
 This night is softer than an English 
 
 day, 
 And men may well come hither when 
 
 they're sick. 
 To draw in easier breath from larger 
 
 air. 
 'Tis thus with me : I come to you, — 
 
 to you. 
 My Italy of women, just to breathe 
 My soul out once before you, ere I 
 
 go, 
 As humble as God makes me at the 
 
 last, 
 (I thank him) quite out of the way of 
 
 men. 
 And yours, Aurora, — like a punished 
 
 child. 
 His cheeks all blurred with tears and 
 
 naughtiness. 
 To silence in a corner. I ain come 
 To speak, Ijeloved" . . . 
 
 "Wisely, cousin Leigh, 
 And worthily of us both." 
 
 " Yes, worthily ; 
 For this time I must speak out, and 
 
 confess 
 That I, so truculent in assumption 
 
 once. 
 So absolute in dogma, proud in aim. 
 And fierce in expectation, — I, wlio 
 
 felt 
 The whole world tugging at my skirts 
 
 for help, 
 As if no other man than I could pull. 
 Nor woman, but I led her by the hand. 
 Nor cloth hold, but I had it in my 
 
 coat, — 
 Do know myself to-night for what I 
 
 was 
 On that Jnne-day, Aurora. Poor 
 
 bright day. 
 Which meant the best ... a woman 
 
 and a rose. 
 And which I smote upon the cheek 
 
 with words. 
 Until it turned and rent me. Young 
 
 you were. 
 That birthday, poet ; but you talked 
 
 the right : '- 
 
i 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 140 
 
 While I ... I built np follies, like a 
 
 wall, 
 To intercept the sunshine and your 
 
 face. 
 Your face ! that's worse." 
 
 " Sjiealv wisely, cousin Leigh." 
 
 " Yes, wisely, dear Aurora, though too 
 
 late, 
 But then, not wisely. I was heavy 
 
 then, 
 And stupid, and distracted with the 
 
 cries 
 Of tortured prisoners in the polished 
 
 brass 
 Of that Phalarian bull, society, 
 Which seems to bellow bravely like 
 
 ten bulls, 
 But, if you listen, moans and cries 
 
 instead • 
 Despairingly, like victims tossed and 
 
 gored 
 And trampled by their hoofs. I heard 
 
 the cries 
 Too close : I could not hear the angels 
 
 lift 
 A fold of rustling air, nor what they 
 
 said 
 To help my pity. I beheld the 
 
 world 
 As one great famishing carnivorous 
 
 mouth, — 
 A huge, deserted, callow, blind bird 
 
 thing. 
 With piteous open beak that hurt my 
 
 heart, 
 Till down upon the fllthy ground I 
 
 dropped, • 
 And tore the violets up to get the 
 
 worms. 
 Worms, worms, was all my cry: an 
 
 open mouth, 
 A gross want, bread to fill it to the 
 
 lips, 
 No more. That poor men narrowed 
 
 their demands 
 To such an end was virtue, I sujv 
 
 posed. 
 Adjudicating that to see it so 
 Was reason. Oh, I did not imsh the 
 
 case 
 Up higher, and ponder how it answers 
 
 when 
 The rich take np the same cry for 
 
 themselves. 
 Professing equally, — ' An open 
 
 mouth 
 A gross need, food to fill us, and no 
 
 more.' « 
 
 Why, that's so far from virtue, only 
 
 vice 
 Can lind excuse for't ! that makes 
 
 libertines. 
 And slurs our cruel streets from end 
 
 to end 
 With eighty thousand women in one 
 
 smile. 
 Who only smile at night beneath the 
 
 gas. 
 The body's satisfaction, and no 
 
 more, 
 Is used for argument against th(^ 
 
 soul's. 
 Here too: the want, here too, implies 
 
 the right. 
 — How dark I stood that morning in 
 
 the sun. 
 My best Aurora (though I saw your 
 
 eyes) 
 When first you told me . . . oh, I 
 
 recollect 
 The sound, and how you lifted your 
 
 small hand, 
 And how your white dress and your 
 
 burnished curls 
 Went greatening round you in the 
 
 still blue air. 
 As if an inspiration from within 
 Had blown them all out when you 
 
 spoke the words. 
 Even these, — ' You will not compass 
 
 your poor ends 
 Of barley-feeding and material ease 
 Without the poet's individualism 
 To work your universal. It takes a 
 
 soul 
 o move a body; it takes a high- 
 soul ed man 
 o move the masses even to a 
 
 cleaner sty; 
 It takes the ideal to blow an inch in- 
 side 
 
 The dust of the actual; and your 
 \ Fouriers failed, 
 
 \Because not poets enough to under- 
 stand 
 That life develops from within.' I 
 
 say 
 Your words: I could say other 
 
 words of yours; 
 For none of all your words will let 
 
 me go, 
 Like sweet verbena, which, being 
 
 brushed against, 
 Will hold us three hours after by the 
 
 smell. 
 In sjiite of long walks upon windy 
 
 hills. 
 
150 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 But tliese words dealt in sharper per- 
 fume; these 
 
 Were ever on me, stinging through 
 my dreams, 
 
 And saying themselves forever o'er 
 my acts 
 
 Like some unhappy verdict. That 
 I failed 
 
 Is certain. Sty or no sty, to con- 
 trive 
 
 The swine's propulsion toward the 
 precipice 
 
 Proved easy and plain. I subtly or- 
 ganized 
 
 And ordered, built the cards up high 
 and higher. 
 
 Till, some one breathing, all fell flat 
 again: 
 
 In setting right society's wide wrong. 
 
 Mere life's so fatal ! So I failed in- 
 deed 
 
 Once, twice, and oftener, hearing 
 through the rents 
 
 Of obstinate purpose, still those words 
 of yours, — 
 
 ' You loill not compass yovr poor ends, 
 not yon ! ' 
 
 But harder than you said them; every 
 time 
 
 Still farther from your voice, until 
 they came 
 
 To overcrow me with triumphant 
 scorn, 
 
 "Which vexed me to resistance. Set 
 down this 
 
 For condemnation. I was guilty here ; 
 
 I stood upon my deed, and fought my 
 doubt, 
 
 As men will, — fori doubted, — till 
 at last 
 
 My deed gave way beneath me sud- 
 denly, 
 
 And left me what I am. The curtain 
 dropped. 
 
 My part quite ended, all the foot- 
 lights quenched, 
 
 My own soul hissing at me through 
 the dark, 
 
 I ready for confession, — I was wrong, 
 
 I've sorely failed, I've slipped the 
 ends of life, 
 
 I yield: you have conquered." 
 
 " Stay," I answered him: 
 
 " I've something for your lieariug, 
 also. I 
 
 Have failed too." 
 
 " You ! " he said, " you're very great: 
 
 The sadness of your greatness tits 
 you well. 
 
 As if the plume upon a hero's casque 
 Should nod a shadow ujion his vic- 
 tor's face." 
 
 I took him up austerely, — " Yon have 
 read 
 
 My book, but not my heart; for, recol- 
 lect, 
 
 'Tis writ in Sanscrit, which you bun- 
 gle at. 
 
 I've surely failed, I know, if failure 
 means 
 
 To look back sadly on work gladly 
 done. 
 
 To wander on my Mountains of De- 
 light, 
 
 So called, (I can remember a friend's 
 words 
 
 As well as you, sir) weary, and in 
 want • 
 
 Of even a sheei>path, thinking bit- 
 terly . . . 
 
 Well, well ! no matter. I but say so 
 much , 
 
 To keep j'ou, Romney Leigh, from 
 saying more. 
 
 And let you feel I am not so high in- 
 deed. 
 
 That I can bear to have you at my 
 foot. 
 
 Or safe, that I can help you. That 
 June day. 
 
 Too deeply sunk in craterous sunsets 
 now 
 
 For you or me to dig it up alive; 
 
 To jiluck it out all bleeding with 
 spent flame 
 
 At tlie roots, before those moralizing 
 stars 
 
 We have got in.stead, — that poor lost 
 day, you said 
 
 Some words as truthful as the thing 
 of mine 
 
 You cared to keep in memory; and I 
 hold 
 
 If I that day, and l)eing the girl I 
 was. 
 
 Had shown a gentler si)irit, less arro- 
 gance. 
 
 It had not hurt me. You will scarce 
 mistake 
 
 The point here. I but only think, you 
 see, 
 
 More justly, that's more humbly of 
 myself, 
 
 Than when I tried a crown on, and 
 supposed . . . 
 
 Nay, laugh, sir, — I'll laugh with you ! 
 — pray you laugh. ^ 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 151 
 
 I've had so man y birthdaj'S since that 
 
 day, 
 I've learnt to prize mirth's opportu- 
 nities, 
 Which come too seldom. "Was it you 
 
 who said 
 I was not clianged ? the same Au- 
 rora? Ah, 
 We could laugh there too ! Why, 
 
 Ulysses' dog 
 Knew him, and wagged his tail and 
 
 died; but if 
 I had owned a dog, I too, before my 
 
 Troy, 
 And if you brought liim here ... I 
 
 warrant you 
 He'd look into my face, bark lustily. 
 And live on stoutly, as the creatures 
 
 will 
 Whose spirits are not troubled by 
 
 long loves. 
 A dog would never know me, I'm so 
 
 changed. 
 Much less a friend . . . except that 
 
 you're misled 
 By the color of the hair, the trick of 
 
 the voice, 
 Like that Aurora Leigh's." 
 
 " Sweet trick of voice ! 
 I would be a dog for this, to know it 
 
 at last, 
 And die upon the falls of it. O love, 
 
 best Aurora ! are you then so sad 
 You scarcelv had been sadder as mv 
 
 wife?'" 
 
 " your wife, sir ! I must certainly be 
 
 changed, 
 If I, Aurora, can have said a thing 
 So light, it catches at the knightly 
 
 spurs 
 Of a noble gentleman like Romney 
 
 Leigh, 
 And trips him from his honorable 
 
 sense 
 Of what befits "... 
 
 " You wholly misconceive," 
 He answered. 
 
 I returned, — " I'm glad of it. 
 But keep from misconception, too, 
 
 yourself: 
 
 1 am not humbled to so low a point, 
 Nor so far saddened. It I am sad at 
 
 all. 
 Ten layers of birthdays on a woman's 
 
 head 
 Are apt to fossilize her girlish mirth. 
 Though ne'er so merry: I'm perforce 
 
 mor§ wise, 
 
 And that, in truth, means sadder. 
 
 For the rest. 
 Look here, sir: I was right, upon the 
 
 whole, 
 That birthday morning. 'Tis impos- 
 sible 
 To get at men excepting through 
 
 their souls. 
 However open their carnivorous 
 
 jaws; 
 And poets get directlier at the soul 
 Than any of your economists; for 
 
 which 
 You must not overlook the poet's 
 
 work 
 When scheming for the world's neces- 
 sities. 
 The soul's the way. Not even Christ 
 
 himself 
 Can save man else than as he holds 
 
 man's soul; 
 And therefore did he come into our 
 
 flesh, 
 As some wise hunter, creeping on his 
 
 knees 
 With a torch, into the blackness of a 
 
 cave. 
 To face and quell the beast there, — 
 
 take the soul. 
 And so possess the whole man, body 
 
 and soul. 
 I said, so far, right, yes; not farther, 
 
 though : 
 We both were wrong that June daj-, 
 
 — both as wrong 
 As an east wind had been. I who 
 
 talked of art. 
 And you who grieved for all men's 
 
 griefs . . . what then ? 
 We surely made too small a part for 
 
 God 
 In these things. What we are im- 
 ports us more 
 Than what we eat; and life, you've 
 
 granted me, 
 Develops from within. But inner- 
 most 
 Of the inmost, most interior of the 
 
 interne, 
 God claims his own, divine humanity 
 Renewing nature; or the piercingest 
 
 verse, 
 Prest in by sulitlest poet still must 
 
 keep 
 As much upon the outside of a man 
 As the very bowl in which he dips 
 
 his l)eard. 
 — And then . . . the rest; I cannot 
 
 surely si)eak: 
 
152 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Perhaps I doubt more than you 
 
 doubted then, 
 If I the poet's veritable charge 
 Have borne upon my forehead. If I 
 
 have, 
 It might feel somewhat liker to a 
 
 crown, 
 The foolish green one, even. Ah, I 
 
 think. 
 And chiefly when the sun shines, that 
 
 I've failed. 
 But what then, Romuey ? Though 
 
 we fail indeed, 
 You ... I ... a score of such weak 
 
 workers . . . He 
 Fails never. If he cannot work by 
 
 us, 
 He will work over us. Does he want 
 
 a man, 
 Much less a woman, think you? 
 
 Every time 
 The star winks there, so many souls 
 
 are born, 
 Who all shall work too. Let our own- 
 be calm: 
 We should be ashamed to sit beneath 
 
 those stars. 
 Impatient that we're nothing." 
 
 " Could we sit 
 Just so forever, sweetest friend," he 
 
 said, 
 " My failure would seem better than 
 
 success. 
 And yet indeed your book has dealt 
 
 with me 
 More gently, cousin, than vou ever 
 
 will. 
 Your book brought down entire the 
 
 bright .June day. 
 And set me wandering in the garden- 
 walks, 
 And let me watch the garland in a 
 
 place 
 You blushed so . . . nay, forgive me, 
 
 do not stir; 
 I only thank the book for what it 
 
 taught. 
 And what permitted. Poet doubt 
 
 yourself. 
 But never doubt that you're a poet to 
 
 me 
 From henceforth. You have written 
 
 poems, sweet, 
 Which moved me in secret, as the sap 
 
 is moved 
 In still March branches, signless as a 
 
 stone ; 
 But this last book o'ercame rae like 
 
 soft rain 
 
 Which falls at midnight, when the 
 
 tightened bark 
 Breaks out into unhesitating buds, 
 And sudden x'l'otestations of the 
 
 spring. 
 In all your other books I saw but 
 
 yoii. 
 A man, may see the moon so, in a 
 
 pond. 
 And not be nearer therefore to the 
 
 moon, 
 Nor use the sight . . . except to 
 
 drown himself: 
 And so I forced my heart back from 
 
 the sight. 
 For what had /, I thought, to do with 
 
 her, 
 Aurora . . . Romney? But in this 
 
 last book 
 You showed me something separate 
 
 from yourself. 
 Beyond you, and I bore to take it in. 
 And let it draw me. You have shown 
 
 me truths, 
 O June-day friend, that help me now 
 \ at night 
 When June is over, — truths not yours, 
 
 indeed, 
 But set within my reach by means of 
 
 you, 
 Presented by your voice and verse 
 
 the way 
 To take them clearest. Verily I was 
 
 wrong; 
 And verily many thinkers of this age, 
 Ay, many Christian teachers, half in 
 
 heaven, 
 Are wrong in just my sense who un- 
 derstood 
 Our natural world too insularly, as if 
 No spiritual counterpart completed it. 
 Consummating its meaning, rounding 
 
 all 
 To justice and perfection, line by 
 
 line. 
 Form by form, nothing single nor 
 
 alone. 
 The great below clinched by the 
 
 great above. 
 Shade here authenticating substance 
 
 there. 
 The body piroving spirit, as the effect 
 The cause: we meantime being too 
 
 grossly apt 
 To hold the natural, as dogs a bone, 
 (Though reason and nature beat us in 
 
 the face) 
 So obstinately that we'll break our 
 
 teeth 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 153 
 
 Or ever we let go. For everywliere 
 "We're too materialistic, eating clay, 
 (Like men of the west) instead of 
 
 Adam's corn 
 And Noah's wine, — clay by handfuls, 
 
 clay by lumps, 
 Until we're filled up to the throat 
 
 with clay, 
 And grow the grimy color of the 
 
 ground 
 On which we are feeding. Ay, mate- 
 rialist 
 The age's name is. God himself, with 
 
 some. 
 Is aj^prehended as the bare result 
 Of what his hand materially has 
 
 made, 
 Expressed in such an algebraic sign 
 Called God; that is, to put it otlier- 
 
 wise, 
 They add up nature to a nought of 
 
 God, 
 And cross the quotient. There are 
 
 many even, 
 "Whose names are written in the 
 
 Christian church 
 To no dishonor, diet still on miid, 
 And splash the altars with it. You 
 
 might think 
 The clay Christ laid upon their eye- 
 lids, when. 
 Still blind, he called them to the use 
 
 of sight, 
 Remained there to retard its exer- 
 cise 
 "With clogging incrustations. Close 
 
 to heaven, 
 They see for mysteries, through the 
 
 ojien doors, 
 Vague puffs of smoke from pots of 
 
 earthenware. 
 And fain would enter, when their 
 
 time shall come, 
 "With quite another body than St. 
 
 Paul 
 Has 25romised, — husk and chaff, the 
 
 whole barley-corn, 
 Or Where's the resurrection ? " 
 
 " Thus it is," 
 I sighed. And he resumed with 
 
 mournful face. 
 " Beginning so, and filling up with 
 
 clay 
 The wards of this great key, the natu- 
 ral world. 
 And fumbling vainly therefore at the 
 
 lock 
 Of the spiritual, we feel ourselves 
 
 shut in 
 
 "With all the wild-beast roar of strug- 
 gling life, 
 
 The terrors and compunctions of our 
 souls, 
 
 As saints with lions, — we who are 
 not saints, 
 
 And have no heavenly lordship in 
 * our stare 
 
 To awe them backward. Ay, we are 
 forced, so pent, 
 
 To judge the whole too partially . . . 
 confound 
 
 Conclusions. Is there any common 
 phrase 
 
 Significant, with the adverb heard 
 alone, 
 
 The verb being absent, and the pro- 
 noun out ? 
 
 But we, distracted in the roar of 
 life, 
 
 Still insolently at God's adverb 
 snatch, 
 
 And bruit against him that his thought 
 is void. 
 
 His meaning hopeless, — cry, that 
 everywhere 
 
 The government is slipping from his 
 hand. 
 
 Unless some other Christ (say Rom- 
 ney Leigh) 
 
 Come up and toil and moil and change 
 the world, 
 
 Because the First has proved inade- 
 quate. 
 
 However we talk bigly of his work 
 
 And piously of his person. "We blas- 
 pheme 
 
 At last, to finish our doxology. 
 
 Despairing on the earth for which he 
 died." 
 
 " So now," I asked, " you have more 
 hope of men?" 
 
 " I hope," he answered. " I am come 
 
 to think 
 That God will have his work done, as 
 
 you said, 
 And that we need not be disturbed 
 
 too much 
 For Romney Leigh or others having 
 
 failed 
 "With this or that quack nostrum, — 
 
 recipes 
 For keeping summits by annulling 
 
 depths, 
 For wrestling with luxurious loun- 
 ging sleeves, 
 And acting heroism without a scratch. 
 
154 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 We fail, — what then? Aixrora, if I 
 smiled 
 
 To see you, in your lovely morning- 
 pride, 
 
 Try on the j^oet's wreath which suits 
 the noon, 
 
 (Sweet cousin, walls must get the 
 weather-stain 
 
 Before they grow the ivy) certainly 
 
 I stood myself there worthier of con- 
 tempt, 
 
 Self rated, in disastrous arrogance. 
 
 As competent to sorrow for mankind 
 
 And even their odds. A man may 
 well despair, 
 
 Who counts himself so needful to 
 success. 
 
 I failed: I throw the remedy back on 
 God, 
 
 And sit down here beside you, in 
 good hope." 
 
 "And yet take heed," I answered, 
 " lest we lean 
 
 Too dangerously on the other side, 
 
 And so fail twice. Be sure, no ear- 
 nest work 
 
 Of any honest creature, howbeit 
 weak, 
 
 Imperfect, ill-adapted, fails so much 
 
 It is not gathered as a grain of sand 
 
 To enlarge the sum of human action 
 iised 
 
 For carrying out God's end. No crea- 
 ture works 
 
 So ill, observe, that therefore he's 
 cashiered. 
 
 The honest earnest man must stand 
 and work. 
 
 The woman also: otherwise she 
 drops 
 
 At once below the dignity of man, 
 
 Accepting serfdom. Free men freely 
 work. 
 
 Whoever fears God fears to sit at 
 ease." 
 
 He cried, " True. After Adam, work 
 was curse : 
 
 The natural creature labors, sweats, 
 and frets. 
 
 But, after Christ, work turns to privi- 
 lege, 
 
 And henceforth, one with our human- 
 ity, 
 
 The Six-day Worker, working still in 
 us. 
 
 Has called us freely to work on with 
 him 
 
 In high companionship. So, hajv 
 piest ! 
 
 I count that heaven itself is only 
 work 
 
 To a surer issue. Let us work, in- 
 deed, 
 
 But no 'more work as Adam, nor as 
 Leigh 
 
 Erewhile, as if the only man on 
 earth, 
 
 Responsible for all the thistles blown. 
 
 And tigers couchant, struggling in 
 amaze 
 
 Against disease and winter, snarling 
 on 
 
 Forever that the world's not para- 
 dise. 
 
 cousin, let us be content, in work, 
 To do the thing we can, and not pre- 
 sume 
 
 To fret because it's little. 'Twill em- 
 ploy 
 
 Seven men they say to make a per- 
 fect pin; 
 
 Who makes the head, content to miss 
 the point; 
 
 Who makes the point, agreed to leave 
 the join: 
 
 And if a man should cry, ' I want a 
 pin, 
 
 And I nmst make it straightway, 
 head and point,' 
 
 His wisdom is not worth the pin he 
 wants. 
 
 Seven men to a pin, and not a man 
 too much. 
 
 Seven generations, haply, to this 
 world. 
 
 To right it visiblj^ a finger's breadth. 
 
 And mend its rents a little. Oh, to 
 storm 
 
 And say, ' This world here is intolera- 
 ble; 
 
 1 will not eat this corn, nor drink this 
 
 wine. 
 
 Nor love this woman, flinging her ray 
 soul 
 
 Without a bond for't as a lover 
 should, 
 
 Nor use the generous leave of happi- 
 ness 
 
 As not too good for using generous- 
 ly '- 
 
 (Since virtue kindles at the touch of 
 joy. 
 
 Like a man's cheek laid on a \yoman's 
 hand, 
 
 And God, who knows it, looks for 
 quick returns 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 155 
 
 From joys) — to stand and claim to 
 have a life 
 
 Beyond the bounds of the iiulividnal 
 man, 
 
 And raze all personal cloisters of the 
 soul 
 
 To Iniild up public stores and maga- 
 zines, 
 
 As if God's creatures otherwise were 
 lost, 
 
 The builder surelj' saved by any 
 means ! 
 
 To think, — I have a pattern on my 
 nail. 
 
 And I will carve the world new after 
 it, 
 
 And solve so these hard social ques- 
 tions, nay, 
 
 Impossible social questions, since 
 their roots 
 
 Strike deep in e\irs own existence 
 here, 
 
 Which God ]iermits because the ques- 
 tion's hard 
 
 To abolish evil nor attaint fi-ee-will. 
 
 Ay, hard to God, but not to llomney 
 Leigh; 
 
 For Komney has a pattern on his nail 
 
 (Whatever may be lacking on the 
 ]Mount), 
 
 And, not being overnice to sepa- 
 rate 
 
 What's element from what's conven- 
 tion, hastes 
 
 By line on line to draw you out a 
 world. 
 
 Without your help indeed, unless you 
 take 
 
 His yoke ujwu you, and will learn of 
 him, 
 
 So much he has to teach ! — so good a 
 world. 
 
 The same the whole creation's groan- 
 ing for ! 
 
 No rich nor poor, no gain nor loss nor 
 stint, 
 
 No pottage in it able to exclude 
 
 A brother's birthright, and no right 
 of birth, 
 
 The pottage, — both secured to every 
 man. 
 
 And perfect virtue dealt out like the 
 rest 
 
 Gratuitously, with the soup at six, 
 
 To whoso does not seek it." 
 
 " Softly, sir," 
 
 I interrupted. " I had a cousin once 
 
 I held in reverence. If he strained 
 too wide, 
 
 It was not to take honor, but give 
 help. 
 
 The gesture was heroic. If his hand 
 
 Accomplished nothing . .^ (well, it 
 is not jiroved) 
 
 That empty hand thrown irapotently 
 out 
 
 Wert} sooner caught, I think, by One 
 in heaven, 
 
 Than many a hand that reaped a har- 
 vest in 
 
 And keeps the scythe's glow on it. 
 Praj- you, then, 
 
 For my sake merely, use less bitter- 
 ness 
 
 In speaking of my cousin." 
 
 "Ah," he said, 
 
 "Aurora! when the projihet beats 
 the ass. 
 
 The angel intercedes." He shook his 
 head. 
 
 " And yet to mean so well, and fail so 
 foul, 
 
 Expresses ne'er another beast than 
 man: 
 
 The antithesis is human. Hearken, 
 dear : 
 
 There's too much abstract willing, 
 purposing, 
 
 In this poor world. We talk by ag- 
 gregates, 
 
 And think by systems, and, being 
 used to face 
 
 Our evils in statistics, are inclined 
 
 To cap them with unreal remedies 
 
 Drawn out in haste on the other side 
 the slate." 
 
 "That's true," I ans\vered, fain to 
 
 throw up thought. 
 And make a game oft. "Yes, we 
 
 generalize 
 Enough to please you. If we pray 
 
 at all, 
 We pray no longer for oitr daily 
 
 bread, 
 But next centenary's harvests. If 
 
 we give, 
 Our cup of water is not tendered till 
 We lay down pipes and found a com- 
 pany 
 With branches. Ass or angel, 'tis 
 
 the same : 
 A woman cannot do the thing she 
 
 ought, 
 Which means whatever perfect thing 
 
 she can. 
 In life, in art, in science, but she 
 
 fears 
 
15G 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 To let the perfect action take her 
 
 part, 
 And rest there : she must prove what 
 
 she can do 
 Before slfe does it, prate of woman's 
 
 rights, 
 Of woman's mission, woman's func- 
 tion, till 
 The men (who are prating tbo on 
 
 their side) cry, 
 ' A woman's function plainly is . . . 
 
 to talk.' 
 l^oor souls, tlicy are very reasonably 
 
 A'exed : 
 They cannot hear each other talk." 
 
 " And you, 
 An artist, judge so ? " 
 
 " I, an artist, yes. 
 Because, precisely, I'm an artist, sir, 
 And woman, if another sate in sight, 
 I'd whisper, — ' Soft, my sister ! not a 
 
 word ! 
 By sjieaking we prove oidy Ave can 
 
 speak, 
 Which he, the man here, never 
 
 doubted. What 
 He doubts is, whether we can do the 
 
 thing 
 With decent grace we've not yet 
 
 done at all. 
 Now, do it; bi'ing your statue, — you 
 
 have room ! 
 He'll see it even by the starlight 
 
 here; 
 And if 'tis ere so little like the god 
 Who looks out from the marble si- 
 lently 
 Along the "track of his own shining 
 
 dart 
 Through the dusk of ages, there's no 
 
 need to speak: 
 The universe shall henceforth speak 
 
 for you. 
 And witness, " ShcAvho did this thing 
 
 was born 
 To do it. — claims her license in her 
 
 work.' " 
 And so with more works. Whoso 
 
 cures the plague. 
 Though twice a woman, shall be 
 
 called a leech; 
 Who rights a land's finances is ex- 
 cused 
 For touching coppers, though her 
 
 hands be white, — 
 But we, we talk ! " 
 
 " It is the age's mood," 
 He said: " we boast, and do not. We 
 
 put up 
 
 Hostelry signs where'er we lodge a 
 
 day. 
 Some red colo-ssal cow with mighty 
 
 paps 
 A Cyclops' fingers could not strain to 
 
 milk. 
 Then bring out presently our saucer- 
 
 ful 
 Of curds. We want more quiet in 
 
 our works. 
 More knowledge of the bounds in 
 
 which we work, 
 More knowledge that each individual 
 
 man 
 Remains an jVdam to the general 
 
 race. 
 Constrained to see, like Adam, that 
 
 he keep 
 His personal state's condition hon- 
 estly. 
 Or vain all thoughts of his to help 
 
 the world. 
 Which still must be deA'eloped from 
 
 its one, 
 If bettered in its many. We indeed, 
 Who think to lay it out new like a 
 
 park, — 
 We take a work on us which is not 
 
 man's; 
 For God alone sits far enough above 
 To speculate so largely. None of us 
 (Not Romney Leigh) is mad enough 
 
 to say, 
 We'll have a grove of oaks upon that 
 
 slope. 
 And sink the need of acorns. Gov- 
 ernment, 
 If A^eritable and lawful, is not given 
 By imposition of the foreign hand. 
 Nor chosen from a pretty pattern-book 
 Of some domestic idealogue who sits 
 And coldly chooses empire, where as 
 
 well 
 He might republic. Genuine govern- 
 ment 
 Is but the expression of a nation, gootl 
 Or less good, even as all society, 
 Howe'er unequal, monstrous, crazed, 
 
 and cursed, 
 Is but the expression of men's single 
 
 lives. 
 The loud sum of the silent units. 
 
 What, 
 We'd change the aggregate, and yet 
 
 retain 
 Each separate figure ? whom do we 
 
 cheat by that ? 
 Now, not even Romney." 
 
 " Cousin, you are sad. 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 15' 
 
 I 
 
 Did all your social labor at Leigh 
 Hall 
 
 And elsewhere come to nought, 
 then?" 
 
 It was nought," 
 
 He answered mildly. " There is room 
 indeed 
 
 For statues still, in this large world of 
 God's, 
 
 But not for vacuums : so I am not 
 sad, — 
 
 Not sadder than is good for what I 
 am. 
 
 My vain phalanstery dissolved itself ; 
 
 My men and women of disordered 
 lives, 
 
 I brought in orderly to dine and 
 sleep. 
 
 Broke up those waxen masks I made 
 them wear. 
 
 With fierce contortions of the natural 
 face, 
 
 And cursed me for my tyrannous con- 
 straint 
 
 In forcing crooked creatures to live 
 straight. 
 
 And set the country hounds upon my 
 back 
 
 To bite and tear me for my wicked 
 deed 
 
 Of trying to do good without the 
 church. 
 
 Or even the squires, Aurora. Do you 
 mind 
 
 Your ancient neighbors ? The great 
 •book-club teems 
 
 With ' sketches,' ' summaries,' and 
 ' last tracts,' but twelve, 
 
 On socialistic troublers of close bonds 
 
 Betwixt the generous rich and grate- 
 ful pool". 
 
 The vicar preached from ' Revela- 
 tion,' (till 
 
 The doctor woke) and found me with 
 ' the frogs ' 
 
 On three successive Sundays ; ay, and 
 stopped 
 
 To weep a little (for he's getting old) 
 
 That such perdition should o'ertake a 
 man 
 
 Of such fair acres, — in the parish, too! 
 
 He i^rinted his discourses ' by re- 
 quest ; ' 
 
 And, if your book shall sell as his did, 
 then 
 
 Your verses are less good than I sup- 
 pose. 
 
 The women of the neighborhood sub- 
 scribed. 
 
 And sent me a copy bound in scarlet 
 
 silk. 
 Tooled edges, blazoned with the arms 
 
 of Leigh : 
 I own that touched me." 
 
 " What, the pretty ones ? 
 Poor Romney ! " 
 
 " Otherwise the effect was small. 
 I had my windows broken once or 
 
 twice 
 By liberal peasants naturally in- 
 censed 
 At such a vexer of Arcadian peace, 
 Who would not let men call their 
 
 wives their own 
 To kick like Britons, and made obsta- 
 cles 
 When things went smoothly, as a 
 
 baby drugged, 
 Toward freedom and starvation, 
 
 bringing down 
 The wicked London tavern-thieves 
 
 and drabs 
 To affront the blessed hillside drabs 
 
 and thieves 
 With mended morals, quotha, — fine 
 
 new lives ! — 
 My windows paid for't. I was shot at, 
 
 once, 
 By an active poacher who had hit a 
 
 hare 
 From the other barrel, (tired of 
 
 springeing game 
 So long upon my acres, undisturbed. 
 And restless for the country's virtue ; 
 
 yet 
 He missed me) ay, and pelted very 
 
 oft 
 In riding through the village. ' There 
 
 he goes, 
 Who'd drive away our Christian gen- 
 tlefolks, 
 To catch us undefended in the traji 
 He baits with poisonous cheese, and 
 
 lock us up 
 In that pernicious prison of Leigh 
 
 With all his murderers ! Give another 
 
 name. 
 And say Leigh Hell, and burn it up 
 
 with fire.' 
 And so thev did, at last, Aurora." 
 
 " Did ? " 
 
 " You never heard it, cousin ? Vin- 
 cent's news 
 
 Came stinted, then." 
 
 " They did ? They burnt Leigh 
 Hall?" 
 
15S 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 "You're sorry, dear Aurora? Yes 
 
 indeed, 
 Tliey did it perfectly ; a thorough 
 
 work, 
 And not a failure, this time. Let us 
 
 grant 
 'Tis somewhat easier, though, to burn 
 
 a house 
 Than yiuild a system ; yet that's easy, 
 
 too — 
 In a dream. Books, pictures, aj% 
 
 the pictures ! What, 
 You think your dear Vandykes would 
 
 give them pause ? 
 Our proud ancestral Leighs, with those 
 
 peaked beards, 
 Or bosoms white as foam thrown up 
 
 on rocks 
 From the old-spent wave. Such calm 
 
 defiant looks 
 They flared uji with ! now nevermore 
 
 to twit 
 The bones in the family vault with 
 
 ugly death. 
 Not one was rescued, save the Lady 
 
 Maud, 
 Who threw you down, that morning 
 
 you were born, 
 The undeniable lineal mouth and 
 
 chin. 
 To wear forever for her gracious 
 
 sake ; 
 For which good deed I saved lier : the 
 
 rest went : 
 And you, you're sorry, cousin. Well, 
 
 for me, 
 With all my phalansterians safely out, 
 (Poor hearts, they helped the burners, 
 
 it Mas said, 
 And certainly a few clapped hands 
 
 and yelled) 
 The ruin did not hurt me as it 
 
 might ; 
 As when, for instance, I was hurt one 
 
 day, 
 A certain letter being destroyed. In 
 
 fact. 
 To see the great house flare so . . . 
 
 oaken floors 
 Our fathers made so fine with rushes 
 
 once. 
 Before our mothers furbished them 
 
 with trains, 
 Carved wainscoats, panelled walls, 
 
 (the favorite slide 
 For draining off a martyr — or a 
 
 rogue) 
 The echoing galleries, lialf a half-mile 
 
 long, 
 
 And all tlie various stairs that took 
 
 you up. 
 And took you down, and took you 
 
 round aliout 
 Upon their slippery darkness, recol- 
 lect. 
 All helping to keep up one blazing 
 
 jest ; 
 The flames through all the casements 
 
 pushing forth 
 Like red-hot devils crinkled into 
 
 snakes. 
 All signifying, ' Look you, Rojnnev 
 
 Leigh, 
 We save the people from your saving, 
 
 here. 
 Yet so as by fire ! we make a pretty 
 
 show 
 Besides,— and that's the best you've 
 
 e\>er done.' 
 — To see this, almost moved myself 
 
 to clap. 
 The ' vale et plaude ' came too with 
 
 effect, 
 When in the roof fell, and the fire 
 
 that paused. 
 Stunned momently beneath the 
 
 stroke of slates 
 And tumbling rafters, rose at once 
 
 and roared, 
 And, wrapping the whole house 
 
 (which disappeared 
 In a mounting whirlwind of dilated 
 
 flame), 
 Blew upward straight its drift of fiery 
 
 chaff 
 In the face of heaven . . . which 
 
 blenched, and ran up higher." 
 
 " Poor Romney ! " 
 
 " Sometimes when I dream," he said, 
 
 " I hear the silence after, 'twas so 
 
 still. 
 For all those wild beasts, yelling, 
 
 cursing round. 
 Were suddenly silent while you 
 
 counted live., — 
 So silent that you heard a young bird 
 
 fall 
 From the top-nest in the neighboring 
 
 rookery, 
 Through edging over-rashly toward 
 
 the light. 
 The old rooks had already fied too 
 
 far 
 To hear the screech they fled with, 
 
 though you saw 
 Some flying still, like scatterings of 
 
 dead leaves 
 
" With one stone stair, symbolic of my life, 
 Ascending, winding, leading up to nought." — Page 15Q. 
 
^ 
 
 « ■' A m\:: 
 or THE ' 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 159 
 
 In autumn-gusts, seen dark against 
 
 the sky, — 
 All flying, ousted, like the house of 
 
 Leigh." 
 
 " Dear Romney ! " 
 
 " Evidently 'twould have been 
 A fine sight for a poet, sweet, like 
 
 you. 
 To make the verse blaze after. I my- 
 self, 
 Even I, felt something in the grand 
 
 old trees, 
 Which stood that moment like brute 
 
 Druid gods 
 Amazed upon the rim of ruin, where. 
 As into a blackened socket, the great 
 
 fire 
 Had dropjied, still throwing up splin- 
 ters now and then 
 To show them gray with all their 
 
 centuries. 
 Left there to witness that on such a 
 
 day 
 The house went out." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 " While you counted tive, 
 I seemed to feel a little like a Leigh ; 
 But then it passed, Aurora. A child 
 
 cried. 
 And I had enough to think of what 
 
 to do 
 AVith all those houseless wretches in 
 
 the dark. 
 And ponder where they'd dance the 
 
 next time, — they 
 Who had burnt the viol." 
 
 " Did you think of that ? 
 Who burns his viol will not dance, I 
 
 know, 
 To cymbals, Romney." 
 
 " O my sweet, sad voice," 
 He cried, — " O voice that speaks and 
 
 overcomes ! 
 The sun is silent; but Aurora speaks." 
 
 "Alas ! " I said, " I speak I know not 
 
 what: 
 I'm back in childhood, thinking as a 
 
 child, 
 A foolish fancy — will it make you 
 
 smile? — 
 I shall not from the window of my 
 
 room 
 Catch sight of those old chimneys 
 
 any more." 
 
 "No more," he answered. "If you 
 pushed one day 
 
 Through all the green hills to our 
 fathers' house, 
 
 You'd come upon a great charred cir- 
 cle, where 
 
 The patient earth was singed an acre 
 round, 
 
 With one stone stair, symbolic of mj- 
 life. 
 
 Ascending, winding, leading up to 
 nought. 
 
 'Tis worth a poet's seeing. Will you 
 go?" 
 
 I made no answer. Had I any right 
 To weep with this man, that I dared 
 
 to speak ? 
 A woman stood between his soul and 
 
 mine. 
 And waved us oiT from touching 
 
 evermore, 
 With those unclean white hands of 
 
 hers. Enough. 
 We bad burnt our viols and were 
 
 silent. 
 
 So, 
 The silence lengthened till it pressed. 
 
 I spoke 
 To breathe, — "I think you were ill 
 
 afterward." 
 
 "More ill," he answered, "had been 
 scarcely ill. 
 
 I hoped this feeble fumbling at life's 
 knot 
 
 Might end concisely; but I failed to 
 . die. 
 
 As formerly I failed to live, and thus 
 
 Grew willing, having tried all other 
 ways. 
 
 To try just God's. Humility's so 
 good 
 
 When pride's impossible. Mark us, 
 how we make 
 
 Our virtues, cousin, from our worn- 
 out sins. 
 
 Which smack of them from hence- 
 forth. Is it right. 
 
 For instance, to wed here while you 
 love there ? 
 
 And yet, because a man sins once, the 
 sin 
 
 Cleaves to him in necessity to sin. 
 
 That if he sin not so, to damn him- 
 self. 
 
 He sins so, to damn others with him- 
 self: 
 
 And thus to wed here, loving there, 
 becomes 
 
 A duty. Virtue buds a dubious leaf 
 
i 
 
 160 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Round mortal brows: your ivj's bet- 
 ter, dear. 
 — Yet she, 'tis certaiu, is my very 
 
 wife, 
 The very lamb left mangled by the 
 
 wolves 
 Through my own bad shepherding: 
 
 and could I choose 
 But take her on my shoulder i)ast this 
 
 stretch 
 Of rough, uneasj' wilderness, poor 
 
 lamb. 
 Poor child, poor child ? Aurora, my 
 
 beloved, 
 1 will not vex you any more to-night; 
 But, having spoken what I came to 
 
 say. 
 The rest shall please you. "What .she 
 
 can in me, — 
 Protection, tender liking, freedom, 
 
 ease, — 
 She shall have surely, liberally, for 
 
 her 
 And hers, Aurora. Small amends 
 
 they'll make 
 For hideous evils which she had not 
 
 known 
 Except by me, and for this imminent 
 
 loss. 
 This forfeit presence of a gracious 
 
 friend, 
 "Which also she must forfeit for my 
 
 sake, 
 Since . . . droji your hand in mine a 
 
 moment, sweet, 
 "We're parting! — Ah, my snowdrop, 
 
 what a touch. 
 As if the wind had swept it off ! you 
 
 grudge 
 Your gelid sweetness on my palm but 
 
 so, 
 A moment ? angry, that I could not 
 
 bear 
 Yon . . . speaking, breathing, living, 
 
 side by side 
 "With some one called my wife . . . 
 
 and live myself? 
 Nay, be not cruel: you must under- 
 stand ! 
 Your lightest footfall on a floor of 
 
 mine 
 "Would shake the house, my lintel 
 
 being uncrossed 
 'Gainst angels: henceforth it is night 
 
 with me. 
 And so, henceforth, I put the shutters 
 
 up: 
 Auroras must not come to spoil rav 
 
 dark." 
 
 He smiled so feebly, with an empty 
 
 hand 
 Stretched sideway from me — as in- 
 deed he looked 
 To any one luit me to give him help; 
 And while the moon came suddenly 
 
 out full, 
 The double-rose of our Italian moons, 
 Sufficient plainly for the lieaven and 
 
 earth, 
 (The stars, struck dumb, and washed 
 
 away in dews 
 Of golden glory, and the mountains 
 
 steeped 
 In divine languor) he, the man, ai> 
 
 peared 
 So pale and patient, like the marble 
 
 man 
 A sculptor puts his personal sadness 
 
 in 
 To join his grandeur of ideal thought — 
 As if his mallet struck me from my 
 
 height 
 Of passionate indignation, I who had 
 
 risen 
 Pale, doubting paused. . . . "S\"as 
 
 Romney mad indeed ? 
 Had all this wrong of heart juade sick 
 
 the brain ? 
 
 Then quiet, with a sort of trenndous 
 
 pride, 
 " Go, cousin," I .said coldlv: " a fare- 
 well 
 "Was sooner sjioken 'twixt a pair of 
 
 friends 
 In those old days than seems to suit 
 
 you now. 
 Howbeit, since then, I've writ a book 
 
 or two, 
 I'm somewhat dull still in the manly 
 
 art 
 Of phrase and metaphrase. "SV'hy, any 
 
 man 
 Can carve a score of white Loves out 
 
 of snow, 
 As Buonarroti in my Florence there. 
 And set them on the wall in some 
 
 safe shade, — 
 As safe, sir, as your marriage ! very 
 
 good; 
 Though if a woman took one from the 
 
 ledge 
 To put it on the table by her 
 
 flowers. 
 And let it mind her of a certain 
 
 friend, 
 'Twould dro]) at once, (so better) 
 
 would not bear 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 161 
 
 Her }iail-iiiark even, where she took 
 it up 
 
 A little tenderly (so best, I say :) 
 
 For me, I would not toucli the fragile 
 thing 
 
 And risk to S]>oil it half an honr before 
 
 The sun shall shine to melt it: leave 
 it there. 
 
 I'm plain at speech, direct in pur- 
 pose: when 
 
 I speak, you'll take the meaning as it 
 is. 
 
 And not allow for puckerings in the 
 silk 
 
 By clever stitches. I'm a woman, sir, 
 
 And use the woman's figures natu- 
 rally, 
 
 As you the male license. So, I wish 
 you well. 
 
 I'm simply sorry for the griefs you've 
 had, 
 
 And not for your sake only, but man- 
 kind's. 
 
 This race is never gi'ateful: from the 
 first, 
 
 One fills their cuj) at sujjiierwith pure 
 wine, 
 
 Which back they give at cross-time 
 on a sponge, 
 
 In vinegar and gall." 
 
 " If gratefuller," 
 
 He murnau-ed, " bv so mucli less jiitia- 
 ble ! 
 
 God's self would never have come 
 dt)wn to die. 
 
 Could man have thanked him for it." 
 , "Happily 
 
 'Tis patent, thit, whatever," I re- 
 sumed, 
 
 " You suffered from this thankless- 
 ness of men, 
 
 You sink no more than Moses' bul- 
 rush-boat 
 
 When once relieved of Moses; for 
 you're light. 
 
 You're light, my cousin ! which is 
 well for you. 
 
 And manly. For myself — now mark 
 me, sir. 
 
 They burnt Leigh Hall; but if, coii- 
 smn mated 
 
 To devils, heightened beyond Luci- 
 fers, 
 
 They had burnt instead a star or two 
 of those 
 
 We saw above there just a moment 
 back. 
 
 Before the moon abolished them, 
 destroyed 
 
 And riddled them in ashes through a 
 
 sieve 
 On the head of tlie foundering uni- 
 verse — what then ? 
 If you and I remained still you and I, 
 It could not shift our places as mere 
 
 friends, 
 Nor render decent you should toss a 
 
 phrase 
 Beyond the point of actual feeling ! — 
 
 Nay, 
 You shall not interruiit me: as you 
 
 said, 
 We're parting. Certainly, not once 
 
 nor twice 
 To-night you've mocked me some- 
 what, or yourself. 
 And I, at least, have not deserved it 
 
 so 
 That I should meet it unsurprised. 
 
 But now. 
 Enough. We're parting . . , parting. 
 
 Cousin Leigh, 
 I wish vou well through all the acts 
 
 of life 
 And life's relations, wedlock not the 
 
 least. 
 And it shall ' please me,' in your 
 
 words, to know 
 You yield your wife in-otection, free- 
 dom, ease. 
 And very tender liking. May you 
 
 live 
 So haijpy with her, Romney, that 
 
 your friends 
 Shall praise her for it. Meantime 
 
 some of us 
 Are wholly dull in keeping ignorant 
 Of what she has suffered by you, and 
 
 what debt 
 Of sorrow your rich love sits down to 
 
 pay: 
 But, if 'tis sweet for love to pay its 
 
 debt, 
 'Tis sweeter still for love to give its 
 
 gift: 
 And you, be liberal in the sweeter 
 
 way ; 
 You can, I think. At least as touches 
 
 me. 
 You owe her, cousin Komney, no 
 
 amends. 
 She is not used to hold my gown so 
 
 fast 
 You need entreat her now to let it 
 
 go: 
 The lady never was a friend of mine, 
 Nor capable— I thought you knew 
 
 aa much — 
 
 i 
 
162 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Of losing for your sake so poor a prize 
 As such a worthless friendship. Be 
 
 content, 
 Good cousin, therefore, both for her 
 
 and you ! 
 I'll never spoil your dark, nor dull 
 
 your noon. 
 Nor vex you when you're merry or at 
 
 rest: 
 You shall not need to put a shutter up 
 To keep out this Aurora, though j-our 
 
 north 
 Can make Auroras which vex no- 
 body. 
 Scarce known from night, I fancied ! 
 
 let me add, 
 My larks fly higher tlian some win- 
 dows. Well, 
 You've read your Leighs. Indeed 
 
 'twould shake a house. 
 If such as I came in with outstretched 
 
 hand 
 Still warm and thrilling from the 
 
 clasp of one . . . 
 Of one we know ... to acknowledge, 
 
 palm to palm. 
 As mistress there, the Lady Walde- 
 
 mar." 
 
 " Now God be with us ! " . . . with a 
 
 sudden clash 
 Of voice he interrupted. " What 
 
 name's that ? 
 You spoke a name, Aurora." 
 
 " Pardon me: 
 I would that, Romney, I could name 
 
 your wife 
 Nor wound you, yet be worthy." 
 
 " Are we mad?" 
 He echoed — "wife! mine! Lady 
 
 Waldemar ! 
 I think you said my wife." He 
 
 sprang to his feet. 
 And threw his noble head back 
 
 toward the moon. 
 As one who swims against a stormy 
 
 sea, 
 Then laughed with such a helpless, 
 
 hopeless scorn, 
 I stood and trembled. 
 
 " May God judge me so ! " 
 He said at last, — "I came convicted 
 
 here. 
 And humbled sorely, if not enough. 
 
 T came. 
 Because this woman from her crystal 
 
 soul 
 Had shown me something which a 
 
 man calls light; 
 
 Because too, formerly, I sinned by 
 her, 
 
 As then and ever since I haVe bv 
 God, 
 
 Through arrogance of nature, — 
 though I loved . . . 
 
 Whom best I need not say, since that 
 is writ 
 
 Too plainly in the book of my mis- 
 deeds: 
 
 And thus I came here to abase myself. 
 
 And fasten, kneeling, on her regent 
 brows 
 
 A garland which I startled thence 
 one day 
 
 Of her beautiful June youth. But 
 here again 
 
 I'm bafHed, fail in my abasement as 
 
 My aggrandizement: there's no room 
 left for me 
 
 At any woman's foot who miscon- 
 ceives 
 
 My nature, purpose, possible actions. 
 What ! 
 
 Are you the Aurora who made large 
 my dreams 
 
 To frame your greatness ? you con- 
 ceive so small ? 
 
 You stand so less than woman through 
 being more, 
 
 And lose your natural instinct (like a 
 beast) 
 
 Through intellectual culture ? since 
 indeed 
 
 I do not think that any common she 
 
 Would dare adopt such monstrous 
 forgeries 
 
 For the legible life-signature of such 
 
 As I, with all my blots, with all mv 
 blots ! 
 
 At last, then, peerless cousin, we arc; 
 peers; 
 
 At last we're even. Ah, you've left 
 your height, 
 
 And here upon my level we take 
 hands. 
 
 And here I reach you to forgive you, 
 sweet, 
 
 Aud that's a fall, Aurora. Long ago 
 
 You seldom understood me; but be- 
 fore 
 
 I could not blame you. Then, you 
 only seemed 
 
 So high above, you could not see be- 
 low; 
 
 But now I breathe, — but now I par- 
 don I Nay, 
 
 We're parting. Dearest, men have 
 burnt my house, 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 163 
 
 Maligned my motives; hut not one, 
 
 I swear, 
 Has wronged my soul as this Aurora 
 
 has, 
 Who called the Lady Waldemar my 
 
 wife." 
 
 " Not married to her ! Yet you 
 said" . . . 
 
 "Again? 
 
 Nay, read the lines " (he held a letter 
 out) 
 
 " She sent you through me." 
 
 By the moonlight there 
 
 I tore the meaning out with passion- 
 ate haste 
 
 Much rather than I read it. Thus it 
 ran. 
 
 NINTH BOOK. 
 
 Even thus. I pause to write it out 
 
 at length, 
 The letter of the Lady Waldemar. 
 
 " I prayed your cousin Leigh to take 
 
 you this ; 
 He says he'll do it. After years of 
 
 love. 
 Or what is called so, when a woman 
 
 frets 
 And fools upon one string of a man's 
 
 name. 
 And fingers it forever till it breaks. 
 He may perhaps do for her such a 
 
 thing, 
 And she accept it without detriment, 
 Although she should not love him 
 
 any more. 
 And I, who do not love him, nor love 
 
 you, 
 Nor you, Aurora, choose you shall 
 
 repent 
 Your most ungracious letter, and con- 
 fess, 
 Constrained by his convictions, (he's 
 
 convinced) 
 You've wronged me foully. Are you 
 
 made so ill, 
 You woman, to impute such ill to me ? 
 We both had mothers, — lay in their 
 
 bosom once. 
 And, after all, I thank you, Aurora 
 
 Leigh, 
 For proving to myself that there are 
 
 thiuKS 
 
 I would not do, — not for my life, nor 
 him, — 
 
 Though something I have somewhat 
 overdone ; 
 
 For instance, when I went to see the 
 gods 
 
 One morning on Olympus, with a step 
 
 That shook the thunder from a cer- 
 tain cloud. 
 
 Committing myself vilely. Could I 
 think 
 
 The Muse I pulled my heart out from 
 my breast 
 
 To soften had herself a sort of heart. 
 
 And loved my mortal ? He at least 
 loved her, 
 
 I heard hina say so: 'twas my rec- 
 ompense. 
 
 When, watching at his bedside four- 
 teen days, 
 
 He broke out ever, like a flame at 
 whiles 
 
 Between the heats of fever, "Is it 
 thou? 
 
 Breathe closer, sweetest mouth ! ' 
 And when, at last 
 
 The fever gone, the wasted face ex- 
 tinct, 
 
 As if it irked him much to know me 
 there, 
 
 He said, ' 'Twas kind, 'twas good, 
 'twas womanly,' 
 
 (And fifty praises to excuse no love), 
 
 ' But was the picture safe he had ven- 
 tured for ? ' 
 
 And then, half wandering, — 'I have 
 loved her well, « 
 
 Although she could not love rue.' 
 ' Say instead,' 
 
 I answered, ' she does love you.' 
 'Twas my turn 
 
 To rave: I would have married him 
 so changed. 
 
 Although the world had jeered me 
 properly 
 
 For taking uj) with Cupid at his 
 worst, 
 
 The silver quiver worn off on his hair. 
 
 ' No, no,' he murmured, ' no, she 
 loves me not; 
 
 Aurora Leigh does better. Bring her 
 book 
 
 And read it softly. Lady Waldemar, 
 
 Until I thank your friendship more 
 for that 
 
 Than even for harder service.' So 
 I read 
 
 Your book, Aurora, for an hour that 
 day: 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 I kept its pauses, marked its empha- 
 sis; 
 My voice, empaled upon its hooks of 
 
 rhyme, 
 Not once would writhe, nor quiver, 
 
 nor revolt; 
 I read on calmly, — calmly shut it up, 
 Observing, ' There's some merit in 
 
 the book; 
 And yet the merit in't is thrown 
 
 away, 
 As chances still with women if we 
 
 write 
 Or write not: we want string to tie 
 
 our flowers. 
 So drop them as we walk, which 
 
 serves to show 
 The way we went. Good-morning, 
 
 Mister Leigh; 
 You'll find another reader the next 
 
 time. 
 A woman who does better than to 
 
 love, 
 I hate; she will do nothing very well: 
 Male poets are preferable, straining 
 
 less. 
 And teaching more.' I triumphed 
 
 o'er you both. 
 And left him. 
 
 " When I saw him afterward, 
 I had read your shameful letter, and 
 
 my heart. 
 He came with health recovered, 
 
 strong, though pale, — 
 Lord Howe and he, a courteous pair 
 
 of friends, — 
 Ho say what men dare say to women, 
 
 when 
 Their debtors. But I stopped them 
 
 with a word. 
 And proved I had never trodden such 
 
 a road 
 To carry so much dirt upon my shoe. 
 Then, putting into it something of 
 
 disdain, 
 I asked forsooth his pardon, and my 
 
 own. 
 For having done no better than to 
 
 love. 
 And that not wisely, though 'twas 
 
 long ago. 
 And had been mended radically 
 
 since. 
 I told him, as I tell you now, Miss 
 
 Leigh, 
 And proved I took some trouble, lor 
 
 his sake, 
 (Because I knew he did not love the 
 
 girl) 
 
 To spoil my hands with working in 
 
 the stream 
 Of that poor bubbling nature, till 
 
 she went. 
 Consigned to one I trusted (my own 
 
 maid 
 "Who once had lived full five months 
 
 in my house. 
 Dressed hair superbly) with a lavish 
 
 purse 
 To carry to Australia where she had 
 
 left 
 A husband, said she. If the creature 
 
 lied. 
 The mission failed, — we all do fail 
 
 and lie 
 More or less, — and I'm sorry, wliich 
 
 is all 
 Expected from ua when we fail the 
 
 most. 
 And go to church to own it. What I 
 
 meant 
 Was just the best for him, and me, 
 
 and her . . . 
 Best even for Marian ! — I am sorry 
 
 for't, 
 And very sorry. Yet my creature said 
 She saw her stop to speak in Oxford 
 
 Street 
 To one ... no matter ! I had sooner 
 
 cut 
 My hand off (though 'twere kissed the 
 
 hour before. 
 And promised a duke's troth-ring for 
 
 the next) 
 Than crush her silly head with so 
 
 much wrong. 
 Poor child ! I would have mended it 
 
 with gold, 
 Until it gleamed like St. Sophia's 
 
 dome 
 When all the faithful troojj to morning 
 
 prayer: 
 But he, he nipped the bud of such a 
 
 thought 
 With that cold Leigh look which I 
 
 fancied once, 
 And broke in, ' Henceforth she was 
 
 called his wife. 
 His wife required no succor: he was 
 
 bound 
 To Florence to resume this broken 
 
 bond ; 
 Enough so. Both were haj^py, he 
 
 and Howe, 
 To acquit me of the heaviest charge of 
 
 all' — 
 — At which I shot my tongue against 
 
 my fly. 
 
A U ROE A LEIGH. 
 
 And struck him: ' Would he carry, he 
 
 was just, 
 A letter from me to Aurora Leigh, 
 And ratify from his authentic mouth 
 My answer to her accusation ? ' — 
 
 ' Yes, 
 If such a letter were prepared in 
 
 time.' 
 — He's just, your cousin; ay, abhor- 
 
 ently : 
 He'd wash his hands in blood to keep 
 
 them clean. 
 And so, cold, courteous, a mere gen- 
 tleman, 
 He bowed, we parted. 
 
 " Parted. Face no more. 
 Voice no more, love no more ! wiped 
 
 wholly out. 
 Like some ill scholar's scrawl from 
 
 heart and slate ; 
 Ay, spit on, and so wiped out utterly, 
 By some coarse scholar ! I have been 
 
 too coarse, 
 Too human. Have we business, in 
 
 our rank. 
 With blood i' the veins ? I will have 
 
 henceforth none. 
 Not even to keep the color at my lip. 
 A rose is pink and pretty without 
 
 blood ; 
 Why not a woman? When we've 
 
 played in vain 
 The game, to adore, — we have re- 
 sources still, 
 And can play on, at leisure, being 
 
 adored : 
 Here's Smith already swearing at my 
 
 feet 
 That I'm the typic she. Awa'y with 
 
 Smith ! — 
 Smith smacks of Leigh, — and hence- 
 forth I'll admit 
 No socialist within three crinolines. 
 To live and have his being. But for 
 
 you. 
 Though insolent your letter and ab- 
 surd, 
 And tliough I hate you frankly, — 
 
 take my Smith ! ' 
 For when you have seeu this famous 
 
 marriage tied, 
 A most unspotted Erie to a noble 
 
 Leigli, 
 (His love astray on one he should not 
 
 love) 
 Howbeit you may not want his love, 
 
 beware. 
 You'll want some comfort. So I leave 
 
 you Smith; 
 
 Take Smith ! — he talks Leigh's sub- 
 jects, somewhat worse; 
 Adopts a thought of Leigh's, and 
 
 dwindles it; 
 Goes leagues beyond, to be no inch 
 
 behind ; 
 Will mind you of him, as a shoe- 
 string may 
 Of a man: and women when they are 
 
 made like you 
 Grow tender to a shoe-string, foot^ 
 
 print even. 
 Adore averted shoulders in a glass, 
 And memories of what, present once, 
 
 was loathed. 
 And yet you loathed not Romney, 
 
 though you played 
 At ' fox-and-goose ' about him with 
 
 your soul: 
 Pass OA'er fox, you rub outfox, — ig- 
 nore 
 A feeling, you eradicate it — the act's 
 Identical. 
 
 " I wish you joy. Miss Leigh, 
 You've made a happy marriage for 
 
 your friend, 
 And all the honor, well-assorted 
 
 love. 
 Derives from you who love him, whom 
 
 he loves ! 
 You need not wish me joy to think of 
 
 it, 
 I have so much. ObserA^e, Aurora 
 
 Leigh, 
 Your droop of eyelid is the same as 
 
 his. 
 And but for you I might have won 
 
 his love. 
 And to you I have shown my naked 
 
 heart; 
 For which three things, I hate, hate, 
 
 hate you. Hush ! 
 Suppose a fourth, — I cannot choose 
 
 but think 
 That, with him, I were virtuouser 
 
 than you 
 Without him: so I hate you from 
 
 this gulf 
 And hollow of my soul which opens 
 
 out 
 To what, except for you, had been 
 
 my heaven. 
 And is, instead, a place to curse by ! 
 
 Love." 
 
 An active kind of curse. I stood 
 
 there cursed, 
 Confounded. I had seized and caught 
 
 the sense 
 
1G6 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 Of the letter, with its twenty sting- 
 ing snakes, 
 
 In a moment's sweep of eyesight, and 
 I stood 
 
 Dazed. " Ah ! not married." 
 
 " You mistake," he said, 
 
 "I'm married. Is not Marian Erie 
 my wife ? 
 
 As God sees things, I have a wife and 
 child; 
 
 And I, as I'm a man who honors 
 God, 
 
 Am here to claim them as my child 
 and wife. 
 
 I felt it hard to breathe, much less to 
 
 speak. 
 Nor word of mine was needed. Some 
 
 one else 
 Was there for answering. " Rom- 
 
 ney," she began, 
 " My great good angel, Romney." 
 
 Then, at first, 
 I knew that Marian Erie was beauti- 
 ful. 
 She stood there, still and pallid as a 
 
 saint, 
 Dilated, like a saint in ecstasy, 
 As if the floating moonshine inter- 
 
 posed 
 Betwixt her foot and the earth, and 
 
 raised her up 
 To fioat upon it. "I had left my 
 
 child. 
 Who sleeps," she said, "aud, having 
 
 drawn this way, 
 I heard you speaking . . . friend ! — 
 
 Confirm me now. 
 You take this Marian, such as wicked 
 
 men 
 Have made her, for your honorable 
 
 wife?" 
 
 The thrilling, solemn, proud, pathetic 
 
 voice. 
 He stretched his arms out toward 
 
 that thrilling voice. 
 As if to draw it on to his embrace. 
 
 — "I take her as God made her, and 
 
 as men 
 Must fail to unmake her, for my hon- 
 ored wife." 
 
 She never raised her eyes, nor took a 
 
 step. 
 But stood there in her place, aud 
 
 spoke again. 
 
 — "You take this Marian's child, 
 
 which is her sliame 
 
 In sight of men and women, for your 
 
 child. 
 Of whom j'ou will not ever feel 
 
 ashamed?" 
 
 The thrilling, tender, proud, pathetic 
 
 voice. 
 He stepped on toward it, still with 
 
 outstretched arms. 
 As if to quench upon his breast that 
 
 voice. 
 
 — "May God so father me as I do 
 
 him. 
 And so forsake me as I let him feel 
 He's orphaned haply. Here I take 
 
 the child 
 To share my cup, to slumber on my 
 
 knee. 
 To play his loudest gambol at my 
 
 foot. 
 To hold my finger in the public 
 
 ways. 
 Till none shall need inquire, ' Whose 
 
 child is this ? ' 
 The gesture saying so tenderly, ' Mj-^ 
 
 own.' " 
 
 She stood a moment silent in her 
 
 place ; 
 Then turning toward me very slow 
 
 and cold, 
 
 — " And you, — what say you ? — 
 
 will you blame me much. 
 If, careful for that outcast child of 
 
 mine, 
 I catch this hand that's stretched to 
 
 me and him. 
 Nor dare to leave him friendless in 
 
 the world 
 Where men have stoned me ? Have 
 
 I not the right 
 To take so mere an aftermath from 
 
 life, 
 Else found so wholly bare ? Or is it 
 
 wrong 
 To let your cousin, for a generous 
 
 bent. 
 Put out his ungloved fingers among 
 
 briers 
 To set a tumbling bird's nest some- 
 what straight ? 
 You will not tell him, though we're 
 
 innocent, 
 We are not harmless . . . and that 
 
 both our harms 
 Will stick to his good, smooth, noble 
 
 life like burrs, 
 Never to drop off, though he shakes 
 
 the cloak ? 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 16' 
 
 You've been my friend: you will not 
 
 now be his ? 
 You've known him that he's worthy 
 
 of a fi-iend, 
 And you're his cousin, lady, after all, 
 And therefore more than free to take 
 
 his part. 
 Explaining, since the nest is surely 
 
 spoilt, 
 And Marian what you know her, — 
 
 though a wife. 
 The world would hardly understand 
 
 her case 
 Of being just hurt and honest; while 
 
 for him, 
 'Twould ever twit him with his bas- 
 tard child 
 And married harlot. Speak while 
 
 yet there's time. 
 You would not stand and let a good 
 
 man's dog 
 Turn round and rend him, because 
 
 his, and reared 
 Of a generous breed; and will you 
 
 let his act. 
 Because it's generous ? Speak. I'm 
 
 bound to you. 
 And I'll be bound by ouly you in 
 
 this." 
 The thrilling, solemn voice, so pas- 
 sionless. 
 Sustained, yet low, without a rise or 
 
 fall. 
 As one who had authority to speak, 
 And not as Marian. 
 
 I looked up to feel 
 If God stood near me, and beheld his 
 
 heaven 
 As blue as Aaron's priestly robe ap- 
 peared 
 To Aaron when he took it off to die. 
 And then I spoke, — "Accept the 
 
 gift, I say, 
 My sister Marian, and be satisfied. 
 The hand that gives has still a soul 
 
 behind 
 "Which will not let it quail for having 
 
 given, 
 Though foolish worldlings talk they 
 
 know not what 
 Of what they know not. Romuey's 
 
 strong enough 
 For this: do you be strong to know 
 
 he's strong. 
 He stands on right's side: never 
 
 flinch for him. 
 As if he stood on the other. You'll 
 
 be bound 
 By me ? I am a woman of repute ; 
 
 No fly-blow gossip ever specked my 
 
 life; 
 My name is clean and open as this 
 
 hand, 
 Whose glove there's not a man dares 
 
 blab about. 
 As if he had touched it freely. Here's 
 
 my hand 
 To clasp your hand, my Marian, 
 
 owned as pure ! — 
 As pure, as I'm a woman and a 
 
 Leigh ; 
 And, as I'm both, I'll witness to the 
 
 world 
 That Romney Leigh is honored in his 
 
 choice 
 Who chooses Marian for his honored 
 
 wife." 
 
 Her broad wild woodland eyes shot 
 out a light; 
 
 Her smile was wonderful for raptiire. 
 " Thanks, 
 
 My great Aurora." Forward then 
 she sprang, 
 
 And, dropping her impassioned span- 
 iel head 
 
 With all its brown abandonment of 
 curls 
 
 On Romney's feet, we heard the kisses 
 drawn 
 
 Through sobs upon the foot, upon the 
 ground — 
 
 " O Romney ! O my angel ! O un- 
 changed ! 
 
 Though since we've parted I have 
 passed the grave. 
 
 But death itself could only better thee. 
 
 Not change thee. Thee I do not thank 
 at all : 
 
 I but thank God who made thee what 
 thou art, 
 
 So wholly godlike." 
 
 When he tried in vaiu 
 
 To raise her to his embrace, escaping 
 thence 
 
 As any leaping fawn from a hunts- 
 man's grasp, 
 
 She bounded off, and 'lighted beyond 
 reach, 
 
 Before him, with a staglike majesty 
 
 Of soft, serene defiance, as she 
 knew 
 
 He could not touch her, so was toler- 
 ant 
 
 He had cared to try. She stood there 
 with her great 
 
 Drowned eyes, and dripping cheeks, 
 and strange sweet smile 
 
168 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 That lived through all, as if one held 
 
 a light 
 Across a waste of waters, — shook 
 
 her head 
 To keep some thoughts down deeper 
 
 in her soul, — 
 Then, white and tranquil like a sum- 
 mer-cloud, 
 Which, having rained itself to a tardy 
 
 peace, 
 Stands still in heaven as if it ruled 
 
 the day, 
 Spoke out again, — "Although, my 
 
 generous friend. 
 Since last we met and parted you're 
 
 unchanged. 
 And, having promised faith to Marian 
 
 Erie, 
 Maintain it, as she were not changed 
 
 at all ; 
 And though that's worthy, though 
 
 that's full of balm 
 To any conscious spirit of a girl 
 Who once has loved you as I loved 
 
 you once, — 
 Yet still it will not make her ... if 
 
 she's dead, 
 And gone away where none can give 
 
 or take 
 In marriage, — able to revive, return 
 And wed you, — will it, Romney ? 
 
 Here's the point ; 
 My friend, we'll see it plainer : you 
 
 and I 
 Must never, never, never join hands 
 
 so. 
 Nay, let me say it ; for I said it first 
 To God, and placed it, rounded to an 
 
 oath. 
 Far, far above the moon there, at his 
 
 feet. 
 As surely as I wept just now at 
 
 yours, — 
 We never, never, never join hands so. 
 And now, be patient with me : do not 
 
 think 
 I'm speaking from a false humility. 
 The truth is, I am grown so proud 
 
 with grief. 
 And He has said so often through his 
 
 nights 
 And through his mornings, ' Weep 
 
 a little still, 
 Thou foolish Marian, because women 
 
 must. 
 But do not blush at all except for 
 
 sin,' — 
 That I, who felt myself unworthy 
 
 once 
 
 Of virtuous Romney and his high- 
 born race, 
 Have come to learn, — a woman, poor 
 
 or rich. 
 Despised or honored, is a human soul, 
 And what her soul is, that she is 
 
 herself, 
 Although she should be spit upon of 
 
 men. 
 As is the pavement of the churches 
 
 here, 
 Still good enough to pray in. And 
 
 being chaste 
 And honest, and inclined to do the 
 
 right. 
 And love the truth, and live my life 
 
 out green 
 And smooth beneath his steps, I 
 
 should not fear 
 To make him thus a less uneasy time 
 Than many a hapiner woman. Very 
 
 proud 
 You see me. Pardon, that I set a trap 
 To hear a confirmation in your voice, 
 Both yours and yours. It is so good 
 
 to know 
 'Twas really God who said the same 
 
 before ; 
 And thus it is in heaven, that first 
 
 God speaks. 
 And then his angels. Oh, it does me 
 
 good, 
 It wipes me clean and sweet from 
 
 devil's dirt. 
 That Romney Leigh should think me 
 
 worthy still 
 Of being his true and honorable wife ! 
 Henceforth I need not say, on leaving 
 
 earth, 
 I had no glory in it. For the rest. 
 The reason's ready (master, angel, 
 
 friend, 
 Be patient with me) wherefore you 
 
 and I 
 Can never, never, never join hands 
 
 so. 
 I know you'll not be angry like a man 
 (For you are none) when I shall tell 
 
 the truth. 
 Which is, I do not love you, Romney 
 
 Leigh, 
 I do not love you. Ah, well ! catch 
 
 ray hands, 
 Miss Leigh, and burn into my eyes 
 
 with yours, — 
 I swear I do not love him. Did I 
 
 once? 
 'Tis said that women have been 
 
 bruised to death, 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 169 
 
 And yet, if once they loved, that love 
 
 of theirs 
 Could never be drained out with all 
 
 their blood : 
 I've heard such things and pondered. 
 
 Did I indeed 
 Love once ? or did I only worship ? 
 
 Yes, 
 Perhaps, O friend, I set you up so 
 
 high 
 Above all actual good, or hope of good, 
 Or fear of evil, all that could be mine, 
 I haply set you above love itself, 
 And out of reach of these poor wo- 
 man's arms, 
 Angelic Romnev. What was in my 
 
 thought? " 
 To be your slave, your help, your toy, 
 
 your tool. 
 To be your love ... I never thought 
 
 of that. 
 To give you love . . . still less. I 
 
 gave you love ? 
 I think I did not give you any thing ; 
 I was but only yours, — upon my 
 
 knees. 
 All yours, in soul and body, in head 
 
 and heart, — 
 A creature you had taken from the 
 
 ground, 
 Still crumbling through your fingers 
 
 to your feet 
 To join the dust she came from. Did 
 
 I love, 
 Or did I worship? Judge, Aurora 
 
 Leigh ! 
 But, if indeed I loved, 'twas long 
 
 ago. 
 So long! — before the sun and moon 
 
 were made. 
 Before the hells were open, ah, be- 
 fore 
 I heard my child cry in the desert 
 
 night, 
 And knew he had no father. It may 
 
 be 
 I'm not as strong as other women 
 
 are, 
 Who, torn and crushed, are not un- 
 done from love. 
 It may be I am colder than the dead, 
 Who, being dead, love always. But 
 
 for me. 
 Once killed, this ghost of Marian 
 
 loves no more. 
 No more . . . except the child . . . 
 
 no more at all. 
 I told your cousin, sir, that I was 
 
 dead ; 
 
 And now she thinks I'll get up from 
 
 my grave, 
 And wear my chin-cloth for a wed- 
 ding-veil, 
 And glide along the churchyard like 
 
 a bride. 
 While all the dead keep whispering 
 
 through the withes, 
 ' You would be better in your place 
 
 with us, 
 You pitiful corruption ! ' At the 
 
 thought. 
 The damps break out on me like lep- 
 rosy. 
 Although I'm clean. Ay, clean as 
 
 Marian Erie ! 
 As Marian Leigh, I know I were not 
 
 clean: 
 Nor have I so much life that I should 
 
 love, 
 Except the child. Ah God ! I could 
 
 not bear 
 To see my darling on a good man's 
 
 knees, 
 And know by such a look, or such a 
 
 sigh. 
 Or such a silence, that he thought 
 
 sometimes. 
 'This child was fathered by some 
 
 cursed wretch ' . . . 
 For, Romney, angels are less tender- 
 wise 
 Than God and mothers: even yo^i 
 
 would think 
 What ive think never. He is ours, 
 
 the child; 
 And we would sooner vex a soul in 
 
 heaven 
 By coupling witli it the dead body's 
 
 thought 
 It left behind it in a last month's 
 
 grave 
 Than in my child see other than . . . 
 
 my child. 
 We only never call him fatherless 
 Who has God and his mother. O my 
 
 babe. 
 My pretty, pretty blossom an ill 
 
 wind 
 Once blew upon my breast ! Can any 
 
 think 
 I'd have another, — one called hap- 
 pier, 
 A fathered child, with father's love 
 
 and race 
 That's worn as bold and open as a 
 
 smile. 
 To vex my darling when he's asked 
 
 his name 
 
 h 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 And has no answer ? What ! a hap- 
 pier child 
 Than mine, my best, who laughed so 
 
 loud to-night 
 He could not sleep for pastime ? Nay, 
 
 I swear 
 By life and love, that if I lived like 
 
 some, 
 And loved like . . . some, ay, loved 
 
 you, Romney Leigh, 
 As some love, (eyes that have wept 
 
 so much see clear) 
 I've room for no more children in mj' 
 
 arms. 
 My kisses are all melted on one 
 
 mouth, 
 I would not push ray darling to a 
 
 stool 
 To dandle babies. Here's a hand 
 
 shall keep 
 Forever clean without a marriage- 
 ring. 
 To tend my boy until he cease to need 
 One steadying finger of it, and desert 
 (Not miss) his mother's lap to sit 
 
 with men. 
 And when I miss him (not he me) I'll 
 
 come 
 And say, ' Now give me some of Rom- 
 
 ney's work, — 
 To help your outcast orphans of the 
 
 world 
 And comfort grief with grief.' For 
 
 you, meantime. 
 Most noble Romney, wed a noble 
 
 wife. 
 And open on each other your great 
 
 souls: 
 I need not farther bless you. If I 
 
 dared 
 But strain and touch her in her upper 
 
 sphere 
 And say, ' Come down to Romney — 
 
 pay my debt ! ' 
 I should be joyful with the stream of 
 
 joy 
 Sent through me. But the moon is in 
 
 my face . . . 
 I dare not, — though I guess the name 
 
 he loves: 
 I'm learned with my studies of old 
 
 days. 
 Remembering how he crushed his 
 
 under lip 
 When some one came and spoke, or 
 
 did not come: 
 Aurora, I could touch her with my 
 
 hand, 
 And tiy because I dare uot." 
 
 She was gone. 
 He smiled so sternly that I spoke in 
 
 haste. 
 "Forgive her— she sees clearly for 
 
 herself: 
 Her instinct's holy." 
 
 " / forgive ! " he said, 
 " I only marvel how she sees so sure. 
 While others " . . . there he paused, 
 
 then hoarse, abrupt, — 
 " Aurora, you forgive us, her and me ? 
 For her, the thing she sees, poor loyal 
 
 child. 
 If once corrected by the thing I know. 
 Had been unspoken, since she loves 
 
 you well. 
 Has leave to love you; while for me, 
 
 alas ! 
 If once or twice I let my heart escape 
 This night . . . remember, where 
 
 hearts slip and fall 
 They break beside: we're parting, — 
 
 parting, — ah. 
 You do not love, that you should 
 
 surely know 
 What that word means. Forgive, be 
 
 tolerant: 
 It had not been, but that I felt myself 
 So safe In impuissance and despair 
 I could not hurt you, though I tossed 
 
 my arms 
 And sighed my soul out. The most 
 
 utter wretch 
 Will choose his postures when he 
 
 comes to die, 
 However in the presence of a queen; 
 And you'll forgive me some unseemly 
 
 spasms 
 Which meant no more than dying. 
 
 Do you think 
 I had ever come here in mj"^ perfect 
 
 mind, 
 Unless I had come here in my settled 
 
 mind 
 Bound Marian's, — bound to keep the 
 
 bond, and give 
 My name, my house, my hand, the 
 
 things i could. 
 To Marian ? For even / could give 
 
 as much: 
 Even I, affronting her exalted soul 
 By a supposition that she wanted 
 
 these. 
 Could act the husband's coat and hat 
 
 set up 
 To creak i' the wind, and drive the 
 
 world-crows off 
 From pecking in her garden. Straw 
 
 can fill 
 
II 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 171 
 
 A hole to keep out vermin. Now, at 
 
 last, 
 T own heaven's angels round her life 
 
 suffice 
 To fight the rats of our society, 
 Without this Romney. I can see it 
 
 at last; 
 And here is ended my pretension 
 
 which 
 The most pretended. Over-proud of 
 
 coui'se. 
 Even so ! — but not so stupid . . . 
 
 blind . . . that I, 
 Whom thus the great Taskmaster of 
 
 the world 
 Has set to meditate mistaken work, — 
 My dreary face against a dim Itlank 
 
 wall 
 Throughout man's natural lifetime, — 
 
 could pretend 
 Or wish . . . O love, I have loved 
 
 you ! O my soul, 
 I have lost you ! But I swear by all 
 
 yourself, 
 And all you might liave been to nie 
 
 these years 
 If that June morning had not failed 
 
 my hope, 
 I'm not so bestial to regret that day 
 This night, — this night, which still 
 
 to you is fair; 
 Nay, not so blind, Aurora. I attest 
 Those stars above us which I cannot 
 
 see "... 
 
 " You cannot "... 
 " That if Hea;ven itself should stoop, 
 Remix the lots, and give me another 
 
 chance, 
 I'd say, ' No other ! ' I'd record my 
 
 blank. 
 Aurora never should be wife of 
 
 mine." 
 
 " Not see the stars ? " 
 
 " 'Tis worse still not to see 
 To find your hand, although we're 
 
 parting, dear. 
 A moment let me hold it ere we part, 
 And understand my last words — 
 
 these at last ! — 
 1 would not have you thinking when 
 
 I'm gone 
 That Romney dared to hanker for 
 
 your love 
 In thought or vision, if attainable, 
 (Which certainly for me it never was) 
 And wished to use it for a dog to- 
 day 
 
 To help the blind man stumbling. 
 
 God forbid ! 
 And now I know he held j'ou in his 
 
 palm, 
 And kept you open-eyed to all my 
 
 faults. 
 To save you at last from such a dreary 
 
 end. 
 Believe me. dear, that if I had known, 
 
 like him. 
 What loss was coming on me, I had 
 
 done 
 As well in this as he has. — Farewell 
 
 you 
 Who are still my light, — farewell! 
 
 How late it is ! 
 I know that now. You've been too 
 
 patient, sweet. 
 I will but blow my whistle toward 
 
 the lane, 
 And some one comes, — the same who 
 
 brought me here. 
 Get in. Good-night." 
 
 " A moment. Heavenly Christ ! 
 A moment. Speak once, Romney. 
 
 'Tis not true. 
 I hold your hands, I look into your 
 
 face — 
 You see me?" 
 
 " No more than the blessed stars. 
 Be blessed too, Aurora. Nay, my 
 
 sweet, 
 You tremble. Tender-hearted ! Do 
 
 you mind 
 Of yore, dear, how you used to cheat 
 
 old John, 
 And let the mice out slyly from his 
 
 traps. 
 Until he marvelled at the soul in mice 
 Which took the cheese, and left the 
 
 snare ? The same 
 Dear soft heart always ! 'Twas for 
 
 this I grieved 
 Howe's letter never reached you. 
 
 Ah, you had heard 
 Of illness, not the issue, not the ex- 
 tent, — 
 My life long sick with tossings up and 
 
 down. 
 The sudden revulsion in the blazing 
 
 house. 
 The strain and struggle both of body 
 
 and soul. 
 Which left fire running in my veins 
 
 for blood 
 Scarce lacked that thunderbolt of the 
 
 falling beam 
 Which nicked me ou the forehead as 
 
 I passed 
 
172 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 The gallery-door with a burden. Say 
 
 heaven's bolt, 
 Not William Erie's, not Marian's 
 
 father's, — tramp 
 And poacher, whom I found for what 
 
 he was, 
 And, eager for her sake to rescue 
 
 him. 
 Forth swept from the open highway 
 
 of the world. 
 Road-dust and all, till, like a wood- 
 land boar 
 Most naturally unwilling to be tamed, 
 He notched me with his tooth. But 
 
 not a word 
 To Marian ! And I do not think, be- 
 sides, 
 He turned the tilting of the beam my 
 
 way; 
 And if he laughed, as many swear, 
 
 poor wretch, 
 Nor he nor I supposed the hurt so 
 
 deep. 
 We'll hope his next laugh may be 
 
 merrier. 
 In a better cause." 
 
 " Blind, Romney?" 
 ' " Ah, my friend, 
 
 You'll learn to say it in a cheerful 
 
 voice. 
 I, too, at first desjionded. To be 
 
 blind. 
 Turned out of nature, mulcted as a 
 
 man. 
 Refused the daily largess of the sun 
 To humble creatures ! When the 
 
 fever's heat 
 Dropped from me, as the flame did 
 
 from my house, 
 And left me ruined like it, stripped of 
 
 all 
 The hues and shapes of aspectable 
 
 life, 
 A mere bare blind stone in the blaze 
 
 of day, 
 A man, upon the outside of the earth. 
 As dark as ten feet under, in the 
 
 grave, — 
 Why, that seemed hard." 
 
 "No hope?" 
 
 " A tear ! you weep. 
 Divine Aurora? tears upon my 
 
 hand ! 
 I've seen you weeping for a mouse, a 
 
 bird, — 
 But, weep for me, Aurora? Yes, 
 
 there's hope. 
 No hope of sight : I could be 
 
 learned, dear, 
 
 And tell you in what Greek and Latin 
 
 name 
 The visiial nerve is withered to the 
 
 root, 
 Though the outer eyes appear indif- 
 ferent, 
 Unspotted in their crystals. But 
 
 there's hope. 
 The spirit, from behind this de- 
 throned sense, 
 Sees, waits in patience till the walls 
 
 break up 
 From which the bas-relief and fresco 
 
 have dropt: 
 There's hope. The man here, once so 
 
 arrogant 
 And restless, so ambitious, for his 
 
 part, 
 Of dealing with statistically packed 
 Disorders (from a pattern on his nail), 
 And packing such things quite an- 
 other way. 
 Is now contented. From his personal 
 
 loss 
 He has come to hope for others when 
 
 they lose, 
 And wear a gladder faith in what we 
 
 gain . . . 
 Through bitter experience, compen- 
 sation sweet. 
 Like that tear, sweetest. I am quiet 
 
 now. 
 As tender surely for the suffering 
 
 world, 
 But quiet, — sitting at the wall to 
 
 learn. 
 Content henceforth to do the thing I 
 
 can; 
 For though as powerless, said I, as a 
 
 stone, 
 A stone can still give shelter to a 
 
 worm. 
 And it is worth while being a stone 
 
 for that. 
 There's hope, Aurora." 
 
 " Is there hope for me ? 
 For me ? — and is there room beneath 
 
 the stone 
 For such a worm ? And if I came 
 
 and said . . . 
 What all this weeping scarce will let 
 
 me say, 
 And yet what women cannot say at 
 
 all 
 But weeping bitterly . . . (the pride 
 
 keeps up 
 Until the heart breaks under it) . , . 
 
 I love, — 
 I love you, Romney " . . . 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 173 
 
 " Silence ! " he exclaimed. 
 " A woman's pity sometimes makes 
 
 her mad. 
 A man's distraction must not cheat 
 
 liis soul 
 To take advantage of it. Yet 'tis 
 
 hard — 
 Farewell, Aurora." 
 
 " But I love you, sir; 
 And when a woman says she loves a 
 
 man, 
 The man must hear her, though he 
 
 love her not, 
 Which . . . hush ! ... he has leave 
 
 to answer in his turn: 
 She will not surely blame him. As 
 
 for me, 
 You call it pity, think I'm generous ? 
 'Twere somewhat easier, for a woman 
 
 proud 
 As I am, and I'm very vilely proud. 
 To let it pass as such, and press on 
 
 you 
 Love born of pity, — seeing that ex- 
 cellent love.s 
 Are born so, often, nor the quicklier 
 
 die, — 
 And this would set me higher by the 
 
 head 
 Than now I stand. No matter. Let 
 
 the truth 
 Stand high; Aurora must be humble : 
 
 no, 
 My love's not pity merely. Obviously 
 I'm not a generous woman, never 
 
 was, 
 Or else, of old, I had not looked so 
 
 near 
 To weights and measures, grudging 
 
 you the power 
 To give, as first I scorned your power 
 
 to judge 
 For me, Aurora. I would have no 
 
 gifts 
 Forsooth, but God's ; and I would use 
 
 them, too. 
 According to my pleasure and my 
 
 choice. 
 As he and I were equals, yovi below, 
 Excluded from that level of inter- 
 change 
 Admitting benefaction. You were 
 
 wrong 
 In much ? you said so. I was wrong 
 
 in most. 
 Oh, most ! You only thought to res- 
 cue men 
 By half-means, half-way, seeing half 
 
 their wants, 
 
 While thinking nothing of your per- 
 sonal gain. 
 
 But I, who saw the human nature 
 broad 
 
 At both sides, comprehending too 
 the soul's, 
 
 And all the high necessities of art, 
 
 Betrayed the thing I saw, and 
 wronged my own life 
 
 For which I pleaded. Passioned to 
 exalt 
 
 The artist's instinct in me at the cost 
 
 Of putting down the woman's, I for- 
 got 
 
 No perfect artist is developed here 
 
 From any imperfect woman. Flower 
 from root. 
 
 And spiritual from natural, grade by 
 grade 
 
 In all our life. A handful of the earth 
 
 To make God's image ! the despised 
 poor earth, 
 
 The healthy odorous earth, — I missed, 
 with it 
 
 The divine breath that blows the nos- 
 trils out 
 
 To ineffable inflatus, — ay, the breath 
 
 Which love is. Art is much ; but love 
 is more. 
 
 art, my art, thou'rt much ; but love 
 
 is more ! 
 Art symbolizes heaven ; but love is 
 
 God, 
 And makes heaven. I, Aurora, fell 
 
 from mine. 
 
 1 would not be a woman like the rest, 
 A simple woman who believes in 
 
 love. 
 
 And owns the right of love because 
 she loves. 
 
 And, hearing she's beloved, is satis- 
 fied 
 
 With what contents God : I must 
 analyze. 
 
 Confront, and question, just as if a 
 
 fly 
 
 Refused to warm itself in any sun 
 Till such was in leone : I must fret, 
 Forsooth, because the month was 
 
 only May, 
 Be faithless of the kind of proffered 
 
 love, 
 And captious, lest it miss my dignity, 
 And scornful, that my lover sought a 
 
 wife 
 To use ... to use ! O Romney, O 
 
 my love ! 
 I am changed since then, changed 
 
 whollv ; for indeed 
 
174 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 If now you'd stoop so low to take my 
 
 love, 
 And use it roughly, without stint or 
 
 spare, 
 As men use common things with more 
 
 behind, 
 (And, in this, ever would be more be- 
 hind) 
 To any mean and ordinary end. 
 The joy would set me, like a star in 
 
 heaven. 
 So high up, I should shine because of 
 
 height. 
 And not of virtue. Yet in one respect. 
 Just one, beloved, I am in no wise 
 
 changed : 
 I love you, loved you . . . loved you 
 
 first and last, 
 And love you on forever. Now I 
 
 know 
 I loved you always, Romney. She 
 
 who died 
 Knew that, and said so ; Lady Walde- 
 
 uiar 
 Knows that . . . and Marian. I had 
 
 known the same. 
 Except that I was prouder than I 
 
 knew. 
 And not so honest. Ay, and as I live, 
 I should have died so, crushing in my 
 
 hand 
 This rose of love, the wasp inside and 
 
 all, 
 Ignoring ever to my soul and you 
 Both rose and pain, — except for this 
 
 great loss, 
 This great despair, — to stand before 
 
 your face 
 And know you do not see me where I 
 
 stand. 
 You think, jierhaps, I am not changed 
 
 from pride, 
 And that I chiefly bear to say such 
 
 words 
 Because you cannot shame me with 
 
 your eyes ? 
 
 calm, grand eyes, extinguished in a 
 
 storm. 
 
 Blown out like lights o'er melancholy 
 seas, 
 
 Though shrieked for by the ship- 
 wrecked ! O my Dark, 
 
 My Cloud, — to go before me every 
 day, 
 
 While I go ever toward the wilder- 
 ness, — 
 
 1 would that you could see me bare to 
 
 the soul ! 
 If this be pity, 'tis so for myself. 
 
 And not for Romney : he can stand 
 
 alone ; 
 A man like him is never overcome : 
 No woman like me counts him pitia- 
 ble 
 While saints apjilaud him. He mis- 
 took the world ; 
 But I mistook my own heart, and that 
 
 slip 
 Was fatal. Romney, will you leave 
 
 me here ? 
 So wrong, so proud, so weak, so un- 
 
 consoled, 
 So mere a woman ! — and I love you 
 
 so, 
 I love you, Romney " — 
 
 Could I see his face 
 I wept so ? Did I drop against his 
 
 breast. 
 Or did his arms constrain me ? Were 
 
 my cheeks 
 Hot, overflooded, with my tears, or 
 
 his? 
 And which of our two large explosive 
 
 hearts 
 So shook me ? That I know not. 
 
 There were words 
 That broke in utterance . . . melted 
 
 in the fire ; 
 Embrace that was convulsion . . . 
 
 then a kiss 
 As long and silent as the ecstatic 
 
 night. 
 And deep, deep, shuddering breaths, 
 
 which meant beyond 
 Whatever could be told by word or 
 
 kiss. 
 
 But what he said ... I have written 
 
 day by day. 
 With somewhat even writing. Did I 
 
 think 
 That such a passionate rain would 
 
 intercept 
 And dash this last page ? What he 
 
 said, indeed, 
 I fain would write it down here like 
 
 the rest. 
 To keep it in my eyes, as in my ears. 
 The heart's sweet scrijiture, to be read 
 
 at night 
 When weary, or at morning when 
 
 afraid, 
 And lean my heaviest oath on when 
 
 I swear. 
 That when all's done, all tried, all 
 
 counted here, 
 All great arts, and all good philoso- 
 phies, 
 
AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 175 
 
 This love just puts its hand out in a 
 
 dream, 
 And straight outstretches all things. 
 
 What he said 
 I fain would write. But, if an angel 
 
 spoke 
 In thunder, should we haply know 
 
 much more 
 Than that it thundered ? If a cloud 
 
 came down 
 And wrapt us wholly, could we draw 
 
 its shape, 
 As if on the outside, and not over- 
 come? 
 And so he spake. His breath against 
 
 my face 
 Confused his words, yet made them 
 
 more intense, — 
 (As when the sudden finger of the 
 
 wind 
 Will wipe a row of single city lamps 
 To a pure white line of flame, more 
 
 luminous 
 Because of obliteration) more intense. 
 The intimate presence carrying in 
 
 itself 
 Comi^lete communication, as with 
 
 souls, 
 Who, having put the body off, per- 
 ceive 
 Through simply being. Thus 'twas 
 
 granted me 
 To know he loved me to the depth 
 
 and height 
 Of such large natures, ever compe- 
 tent. 
 With grand horizons by the sea or 
 
 land, 
 To love's grand suni-ise. Small 
 
 spheres hold small fires; 
 But he loved largely, as a man can 
 
 love, 
 Who, bafHed in his love, dares live 
 
 his life. 
 Accept the ends which God loves, for 
 
 his own. 
 And lift a constant aspect. 
 
 From the day 
 I brought to England my poor search- 
 ing face, 
 (An orphan even of my father's 
 
 grave) 
 He had loved me, watched me, 
 
 watched his soul in mine. 
 Which in me grew and heightened 
 
 into love. 
 For he, a boy still, had been told tlie 
 
 tale 
 Of how a fairy bride from Italy, 
 
 With smells of oleanders in her hair. 
 Was coming through the vines to 
 
 touch his hand; 
 Whereat the blood of boyhood on the 
 
 palm 
 Made sudden heats. And when at 
 
 last I came, 
 And lived before him, lived, and 
 
 rarely smiled. 
 He smiled, and loved me for the thing 
 
 I was. 
 As every child will love the year's 
 
 first flower, 
 (Not certainly the fairest of the year. 
 But in which the complete year seems 
 
 to blow) 
 The poor sad snowdrop, growing be- 
 tween drifts, 
 Mysterious medium 'twixt the plant 
 
 and frost, 
 So faint with winter while so quick 
 
 with spring. 
 And doubtful if to thaw itself away 
 With that snow near it. Not tliat 
 
 Romney Leigh 
 Had loved me coldly. If I thought 
 
 so once. 
 It was as if I had held my hand in 
 
 fire. 
 And shook for cold. But now I un- 
 derstood 
 Forever, that the very fire and heat 
 Of troubling passion in him burned 
 
 him clear. 
 And shaped to dubious order word 
 
 and act ; 
 That, just because he loved me over 
 
 all,— 
 All wealth, all lands, all social privi- 
 lege. 
 To which chance made him unex- 
 pected heir, — 
 And just because on all these lesser 
 
 gifts. 
 Constrained by conscience and the 
 
 sense of wrong. 
 He had stamped with steady hand 
 
 God's arrow-mark 
 Of dedication to the human need. 
 He thought it should be so, too, with 
 
 his love. 
 He, passionately loving, would bring 
 
 down 
 His love, his life, his best, (because 
 
 the best) 
 His bride of dreams, who walked so 
 
 still and high 
 Through flowery poems, as through 
 
 meadow-grass. 
 
176 
 
 T 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 The dust of goldea lilies on her feet, 
 That she should walk beside him on 
 
 the rocks 
 In all that clang and hewing out of 
 
 men, 
 And helj) the work of help which was 
 
 his life. 
 And prove he kept back nothing, — 
 
 not his soul. 
 And when I failed him, — for I failed 
 
 him, I, — 
 And when it seemed he had missed 
 
 my love, he thought, 
 " Aurora makes room for a working- 
 noon," 
 And so, self-girded with torn strips 
 
 of hope. 
 Took up his life as if it were for death, 
 (Just capable of one heroic aim) 
 And threw it in the thickest of the 
 
 world. 
 At which men laughed as if he had 
 
 drowned a dog. 
 No wonder, — since Aurora failed 
 
 him first ! 
 The morning and the evening made 
 
 his day. 
 
 But oh the night ! O bitter-sweet 1 O 
 
 sweet ! 
 O dark, O moon and stars, O ecstasy 
 Of darkness 1 O great mystery of 
 
 love, 
 lu which absorbed, loss, anguish, 
 
 treason's self, 
 Enlarges rapture, as a pebble dropt 
 In some full winecup over-brims the 
 
 wine ! 
 While we two sate together, leaned 
 
 that night 
 So close my very garments crept and 
 
 thrilled 
 With strange electric life, and both 
 
 my cheeks 
 Grew red, then pale, with touches 
 
 from my hair 
 In which his breath was; while the 
 
 golden moon 
 Was hung before our faces as the 
 
 badge 
 Of some sublime, inherited despair. 
 Since ever to be seen by only one, — 
 A voice said, low and rapid as a sigh. 
 Yet breaking, I felt conscious, from a 
 
 smile, 
 " Thank God, who made me blind to 
 
 make me see ! 
 Shine on, Aurora, dearest light of 
 
 souls, 
 
 Which rul'st forevermore both day 
 and night ! 
 
 I am happy." 
 
 I flung closer to his breast, 
 
 As sword that after battle flings to 
 sheath ; 
 
 And, in that hurtle of united souls, 
 
 The mystic motions which in com- 
 mon moods 
 
 Are shut beyond our sense broke in 
 on us, 
 
 And, as we sate, we felt the old eartli 
 spin, 
 
 And all the starry turbulence of 
 worlds 
 
 Swing round us in their audient cir- 
 cles, till 
 
 If that same golden moon were over- 
 head 
 
 Or if beneath our feet, we did not 
 know. 
 
 And then calm, equal, smooth with 
 weights of joy. 
 
 His voice rose, as some chief musi- 
 cian's song 
 
 Amid the old Jewish temple's Selali- 
 pause, 
 
 And bade me mark how we two met 
 at last 
 
 Upon this moon-bathed promontory 
 of earth, 
 
 To give up much on each side, then 
 take all. 
 
 "Beloved," it sang, "we must be 
 here to work; 
 
 And men who work can only work 
 for men. 
 
 And, not to work in vain, must com- 
 prehend 
 
 Humanity, and so work humanly. 
 
 And raise men's bodies still by rais- 
 ing souls. 
 
 As God did first." 
 
 " But stand upon the earth," 
 
 I said, " to raise them, (this is human 
 too; 
 
 There's nothing high which has not 
 first been low; 
 
 My humbleness, said One, has made 
 me great !) 
 
 As God did last." 
 
 " And work all silently 
 
 And simply," he returned, " as God 
 does all; 
 
 Distort our nature never for our 
 work. 
 
 Nor count our right hands stronger 
 for being hoofs. 
 
i 
 
 AURORA LETGH. 
 
 i I 
 
 The man most man, with tendercst 
 
 human hands, 
 Works best for men, as God in 
 
 Nazareth." 
 
 He paused upon the word, and then 
 resumed : 
 
 " Fewer programmes, we who have 
 no prescience. 
 
 Fewer systems, we who are held, and 
 do not hold. 
 
 Less mapping out of masses to be 
 saved, 
 
 By nations or by sexes. Fourier's 
 void. 
 
 And Corate absurd, and Cabet, 
 puerile. 
 
 Subsist no rules of life outside of 
 life, 
 
 No perfect manners, without Chris- 
 tian souls: 
 
 The Christ himself had been no Law- 
 giver 
 
 Unless he had given the life too, 
 with the law." 
 
 I echoed thoughtfully, — "Tlie man 
 
 most man 
 Works best for men, and, if most 
 
 man indeed. 
 He gets his manhood plainest from 
 
 his soul; 
 While obviously this stringent soul 
 
 itself 
 Obeys the old law of development. 
 The Spirit ever witnessing in ours. 
 And love, the soul of soul, within the 
 
 soul. 
 Evolving it sublimely. First, God's 
 
 love." 
 
 "And next," he smiled, " the love of 
 
 wedded souls, 
 Which still presents that mystery's 
 
 counteriiart. 
 Sweet shadow-rose upon the water of 
 
 life. 
 Of such a mystic substance, Sharon 
 
 gave 
 A name to ! human, vital, fructuous 
 
 rose. 
 Whose calyx holds the multitude of 
 
 leaves. 
 Loves filial, loves fraternal, neighbor- 
 loves 
 And civic, — all fair petals, all good 
 
 scents, 
 All reddened, sweetened, from one 
 
 central Heart ! " 
 
 " Alas ! " I cried, " it was not long 
 
 ago 
 You swore this very social rose smelt 
 
 ill." 
 
 " Alas ! " he answered, " is it arose at 
 
 all? 
 The final's thankless, the fraternal's 
 
 hard, 
 The rest is lost. I do but stand and 
 
 think. 
 Across the waters of a troubled life, 
 This flower of heaven so vainly over- 
 hangs. 
 What perfect counterpart would be in 
 
 sight 
 If tanks were clearer. Let us clean 
 
 the tubes, 
 And wait for rains. O jJoet, O my 
 
 love, 
 Since / was too ambitious in my 
 
 deed, 
 And thought to distance all men in 
 
 success, 
 (Till God came on me, marked the 
 
 place, and said, 
 ' Ill-doer, henceforth keep within this 
 
 line. 
 Attempting less than others;' and I 
 
 stand 
 And work among Christ's little ones, 
 
 content, ) 
 Come thou, my compensation, my 
 
 dear sight, 
 My morning-star, my morning ! rise 
 
 and shine. 
 And touch my hills with radiance not 
 
 their own. 
 Shine out for two, Aurora, and fulfil 
 My falling-short that must be ! work 
 
 for two. 
 As I, though thus restrained, for two 
 
 shall love ! 
 Gaze on, with insolent vision, toward 
 
 the sun. 
 And from his visceral heat pluck 
 
 out the roots 
 Of light beyond him. Art's a ser- 
 vice, mark: 
 A silver key is given to thy clasp. 
 And thou shalt stand unwearied, 
 
 night and day. 
 And fix it in the hard, slow-turning 
 
 wards. 
 To open, so, that intermediate door 
 Betwixt the different planes of sensu- 
 ous form 
 And form insensuous, that inferior 
 
 men 
 
178 
 
 AURORA LEIGH. 
 
 May learn to feel on still through 
 these to those, 
 
 And bless thy ministration. The 
 world waits 
 
 For help. Beloved, let us love so 
 well, 
 
 Our work shall still be better for our 
 love, 
 
 And still our love be sweeter for our 
 work, 
 
 And both commended, for the sake of 
 each. 
 
 By all true workers and true lovers 
 born. 
 
 Now press the clarion on thy woman's 
 lip, 
 
 (Love's holy kiss shall still keep con- 
 secrate) 
 
 And breathe thy fine keen breath 
 along the brass. 
 
 And blow all class-walls level as Jeri- 
 cho's 
 
 Past Jordan, crying from the top of 
 souls. 
 
 To souls, that here assembled on 
 earth's flats, 
 
 They get them to some purer emi- 
 nence 
 
 Than any hitherto beheld for clouds ! 
 
 What height we know not, but the 
 way we know. 
 
 And how, by mounting ever, we at- 
 tain, 
 
 And so climb on. It is the hour for 
 souls. 
 
 That bodies, leavened by the will and 
 love. 
 
 Be lightened to redemption. The 
 world's old; 
 
 But the old world waits the time to 
 be renewed, 
 
 Toward which new hearts in individ- 
 ual growth 
 
 Must quicken, and increase to multi- 
 tude 
 
 In new dynasties of the race of men. 
 
 Developed whence shall grow spon- 
 taneously 
 
 New churches, new economies, new 
 laws 
 
 Admitting freedom, new societies 
 
 Excluding falsehood: He shall make 
 all new." 
 
 My Romney ! — Lifting up my hand 
 
 in his. 
 As wheeled by seeing spirits toward 
 
 tlie east. 
 He turned instinctively, where, faint 
 
 and far. 
 Along the tingling desert of the sky, 
 Bevond the circle of the conscious 
 
 hills. 
 Were laid in jasper-stone as clear as 
 
 glass 
 The first foundations of that new, 
 
 near day 
 Which should be builded out of 
 
 heaven to God. 
 He stood a momentwith erected brows 
 In silence, as a creature might who 
 
 gazed, — 
 Stood calm, and fed his blind, majesN 
 
 tic eyes 
 Upon the thought of perfect noon: 
 
 and when 
 I saw his soul saw, — " Jasper first," 
 
 I said, 
 " And second, sapphire; third, chalce% 
 
 dony; 
 The rest in order, — last, an anie' 
 
 thyst." 
 
A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 Scene. — The outer side of the gate of Eden 
 shut fast leith cloud, from the depth of 
 which revolves a sword of fire self- 
 moved. Adam and Eve are seen in the 
 distance, flying along the glare. 
 
 LiTlciPER, alone. 
 
 Rejoice in the clefts of Gehenna, 
 
 My exiled, my host ! 
 Earth has exiles as hopeless as when a 
 
 Heaven's empire was lost. 
 Through the seams of her shaken 
 foundations 
 
 Smoke up in great joy ! 
 With the smoke of your tierce exulta- 
 tions 
 
 Deform and destroy ! 
 Smoke up with your lurid revenges, 
 
 And darken the face 
 Of the white heavens, and taunt 
 them with changes 
 
 From glory and grace ! 
 "We in falling, while destiny strangles. 
 
 Pull down with us all. 
 Let them look to the rest of their 
 angels ! 
 
 Who's safe from a fall ? 
 He saves not. Where's Adam ? Can 
 pardon 
 
 Requicken that sod ? 
 Unkinged is the King of the Garden, 
 
 The image of God. 
 Other exiles are cast out of Eden, 
 
 More curse has heen hurled : 
 Come up, O my locusts, and feed in 
 
 The green of the world ! 
 Come up ! we have conquered by 
 evil ; 
 
 Good reigns not alone: 
 J prevail now, and, angel or devil, 
 
 Inherit a throne. 
 
 [In sudden apparition a watch of i?inu- 
 merable angels, rank above rank, 
 slopes up from arcncnd the gate to 
 the senith. The angel Gabriel de- 
 scends.] 
 
 Ltic. Hail, Gabriel, the keeper of 
 the gate ! 
 
 Now that the fruit is plucked, prince 
 Gabriel, 
 
 I hold that Eden is impregnable 
 
 Under thy keeping. 
 Gab. Angel of the sin, 
 
 Such as thou standest, — pale in the 
 drear light 
 
 Which rounds the rebel's work with 
 Maker's wrath, — 
 
 Thou Shalt be an Idea to all souls, 
 
 A monumental melancholy gloom 
 
 Seen down all ages, whence to mark 
 despair. 
 
 And measure out the distances from 
 good. 
 
 Go from us straightway ! 
 Lvc. Wherefore ? 
 
 Gab. Lucifer, 
 
 Thy last step in this place trod sor- 
 row up. 
 
 Recoil before that sorrow, if not this 
 sword. 
 Luc. Angels are in the world : 
 wherefore not I ? 
 
 Exiles are in the world : wherefore 
 not I? 
 
 The cursed are in the world: where- 
 fore not I ? 
 Gab. Depart ! 
 
 Liic. And Where's the logic of " de- 
 part"? 
 
 Our lady Eve had half been satis- 
 fied 
 
 To obey her Maker, if I had not learnt 
 
 To fix my postulate better. Dost 
 thou dream 
 
 Of guarding some monopoly in heav- 
 en 
 
 Instead of earth ? Why, I can dream 
 with thee 
 
 To the length of thy wings. 
 
 Gab. I do not dream. 
 
 This is not heaven, even in a dream, 
 nor earth, 
 
 As earth was once, first breathed 
 among the stars, 
 
 Articulate glory from the mouth di- 
 vine, 
 
 179 
 
180 
 
 A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 To which the myriad spheres thrilled 
 audibly, 
 
 Touched like a lute-string, and the 
 sons of God 
 
 Said Amen, singing it. I know that 
 this 
 
 Is earth not new created, but new 
 cursed — 
 
 This, Eden's gate, not opened, but 
 built up 
 
 With a final cloud of sunset. Do I 
 dream ? 
 
 Alas, not so ! this is the Eden lost 
 
 By Lucifer the serpent; this the 
 sword 
 
 (This sword alive with justice and 
 with fire) 
 
 That smote upon the forehead Luci- 
 fer 
 
 The angel. Wherefore, augel, go, de- 
 part ! 
 
 Enough is sinned and suffered. 
 Luc. By no means. 
 
 Here's a brave earth to sin and suffer 
 on: 
 
 It holds fast still ; it cracks not under 
 curse ; 
 
 It holds like mine immortal. Pres- 
 ently 
 
 We'll sow it thick enough with graves 
 as green, 
 
 Or greener certes, than its knowl- 
 edge-tree. 
 
 We'll have the cypress for the tree of 
 life. 
 
 More eminent for shadow: for the 
 rest, 
 
 We'll build it dark with towns and 
 jiyramids, 
 
 And temples, if it please you: we'll 
 have feasts 
 
 And funerals also, merrymakes and 
 wars, 
 
 Till blood and wine shall mix, and 
 run along 
 
 Right o'er the edges. And, good 
 Gabriel, 
 
 (Ye like that word in heaven), / too 
 have strength, — 
 
 Strength to behold Him, and not wor- 
 ship Him ; 
 
 Strength to fall from Him, and not 
 cry on Him; 
 
 Strength to be in the universe, and 
 yet 
 
 Neither God nor his servant. The 
 red sign 
 
 Burnt on my forehead, wliich you 
 taunt me with, 
 
 Is God's sign that it bows not unto 
 
 God, — 
 The potter's mark ujion his work to 
 
 show 
 It rings well to the striker. I and 
 
 the earth 
 Can bear more curse. 
 
 Gab. O miserable earth, 
 
 ruined angel ! 
 
 Luc. Well, and if it be, 
 
 1 CHOSE this ruin: I elected it 
 
 Of my will, not of service. What I 
 do, 
 
 I do volitient, not obedient, 
 
 And overtop thy crown with my de- 
 spair. 
 
 My sorrow crowns me. Get thee back 
 to heaven, 
 
 And leave me to the earth, which is 
 mine own 
 
 In virtue of her ruin, as I hers 
 
 In virtue of my revolt ! turn thou, 
 from both 
 
 That bright, impassive, passive angel- 
 hood, 
 
 And spare to read us backward any 
 more 
 
 Of the spent hallelujahs ! 
 
 Gab. Spirit of scorn, 
 
 I might say of unreason, I might 
 say 
 
 That who despairs, acts; that who 
 acts, connives 
 
 With God's relations set in time and 
 space; 
 
 That who elects, assumes a some- 
 thing good 
 
 Which God made possible; that who 
 lives, obeys 
 
 The law of a Life-maker . . . 
 Luc. Let it pass: 
 
 No more, thou Gabriel ! What if I 
 stand up 
 
 And strike my brow against the crys- 
 talline 
 
 Roofing the creatui"es — shall I say, 
 for that. 
 
 My stature is too high for me to 
 stand, 
 
 Henceforward I must sit ? Sit thou ! 
 Gab. I kneel. 
 
 Luc. A heavenly answer. Get thee 
 to thy heaven, 
 
 And leave my earth to me ! 
 Gab. Through heaven and earth 
 
 God's will moves freely, and I follow 
 it. 
 
 As color follows light. He overflows 
 
 The firmamental walls with deity. 
 
i 
 
 A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 181 
 
 Therefore with love. His lightnings 
 
 go abroad; 
 His pity may do so; his angels must 
 Whene'er he gives them charges. 
 
 Luc. Verily, 
 
 I and my demons, who are spirits of 
 
 scorn. 
 Might hold this charge of standing 
 
 with a sword 
 'Twixt man and his inheritance, as 
 
 well 
 As the benignest angel of you all. 
 Gab. Thou speakest in the shadow 
 
 of thy change. 
 If thou hadst gazed upon the face of 
 
 God 
 This morning for a moment, thou 
 
 hadst known 
 That only pity fitly can chastise. 
 Hate but avenges. 
 
 Luc. As it is, I know 
 
 Something of pity. When I reeled in 
 
 heaven. 
 And my sword grew too heavy for 
 
 my grasp. 
 Stabbing through matter which it 
 
 could not pierce 
 So m.xich as the first shell of, toward 
 
 the throne ; 
 When I fell back, down, staring up 
 
 as I fell. 
 The lightnings holding open my 
 
 scathed lids, 
 And that thouglit of the infinite of 
 
 God 
 Hurled after to precipitate descent; 
 When countless angel faces still and 
 
 stern 
 Pressed out upon me from the level 
 
 heavens 
 Adown the abysmal sjiaces, and I fell, 
 Trampled down by your stillness, 
 
 and struck blind 
 By the sight within your eyes, — 
 
 'twas then I knew 
 How ye could pity, my kind angel- 
 hood ! 
 Gab. Alas, discrowned one, by the 
 
 truth in me 
 Which God keeps in me, I would 
 
 give away 
 All — save that truth and his love 
 
 keeping it, — 
 To lead thee home again into the light, 
 And hear thy voice chant with the 
 
 morning stars 
 When their rays tremble round them 
 
 with much song 
 Sung in more gladness ! 
 
 Luc. Sing, my morning star ! 
 
 Last beautiful, last heavenly, that I 
 
 loved ! 
 If I could drench thy golden locks 
 
 with tears, 
 What were it to this angel ? 
 
 Gab. What love is. 
 
 And now I have named God. 
 
 Luc. Yet, Gabriel, 
 
 By the lie in me which I keep myself, 
 Thou'rt a false swearer. Were it 
 
 otherwise, 
 What dost thou here, vouchsafing 
 
 tender thoughts 
 To that earth-angel or earth-demon 
 
 (which, 
 Thou and I have not solved the prob- 
 lem yet 
 Enough to argue), that fallen Adam 
 
 there, 
 That red-clay and a breath, who must, 
 
 forsooth, 
 Live in a new apocalypse of sense. 
 With beauty and music waving iu his 
 
 trees, 
 And running in his rivers, to make 
 
 glad 
 His soul made perfect ? — is it not for 
 
 hope — 
 A hope within thee deeper than thy 
 
 truth — 
 Of finally conducting him and his 
 To fill the vacant thrones of me and 
 
 mine. 
 Which affront heaven with their 
 
 vacuity ? 
 Gab. Angel, there are no vacant 
 
 thrones in heaven 
 To suit thy empty words. Glory and 
 
 life 
 Fulfil their own depletions ; and, if 
 
 God 
 Sighed you far from him, his next 
 
 breath drew in 
 A compensative splendor up the vast. 
 Flushing the starry arteries. 
 
 Luc. With a change ! 
 
 So let the vacant thrones and gardens 
 
 too 
 Fill as may please you ! — and be piti- 
 ful. 
 As ye translate that word, to the de- 
 throned 
 And exiled, — man or angel The fact 
 
 stands. 
 That I, the rebel, the cast out and 
 
 down. 
 Am here, and will not go; while there, 
 
 along 
 
182 
 
 A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 The light to which ye flasli the desert 
 
 out, 
 Flies your adopted Adam, your red- 
 clay 
 lu two kinds, both being flawed. 
 
 Why, what is this ? 
 Whose work is this ? Wliose hand 
 
 was in the work ? 
 Against whose hand ? In this last 
 
 strike, methinks, 
 I am not a fallen angel ! 
 
 Gah. Dost thou know 
 
 Aught of those exiles ? 
 
 Luc. Ay: I know they have fled 
 Silent all day along the wilderness: 
 I know they wear, for burden on their 
 
 backs, 
 The thought of a shut gate of Para- 
 dise, 
 And faces of the marshalled cheru- 
 bim 
 Shining against, not for, them; aud I 
 
 know 
 They dare not look in one another's 
 
 face, 
 As if each were a cherub ! 
 
 Gah. Dost thou know 
 
 Aught of their future ? 
 
 Luc. Only as much as this: 
 
 That evil will increase and multiply 
 Without a benediction. 
 Gab. Nothing more? 
 
 Luc. Why, so the angels taunt ! 
 
 What should be more ? 
 Gab. God is more. 
 Luc. Proving what ? 
 
 Gab. That he is God, 
 
 And capable of saving. Lucifer, 
 I charge thee, by the solitude he kept 
 Ere he created, leave the earth to 
 God! 
 Luc. My foot is on the earth, firm as 
 
 my sin. 
 Gab. i charge thee, by the memory 
 of heaven 
 Ere any sin was done, leave earth to 
 God ! 
 Luc. My sin is on the earth, to reign 
 
 thereon. 
 Gab. I charge thee, by the choral 
 song we sang, 
 AVhen, up against the white shore of 
 
 our feet. 
 The depths of the creation swelled aud 
 
 brake, 
 And the new worlds — the beaded 
 
 foam and flower 
 Of all that coil — roared outward into 
 space 
 
 On thvmder-edges, leave the earth to 
 God! 
 Luc. My woe is on the earth, to 
 
 curse thereby. 
 Gah. I charge thee, by that mournful 
 morning star 
 
 Which trembles . . . 
 Luc. Enough spoken. As the pine 
 
 In norland forest drops its weight of 
 snows 
 
 By a night's growth, so, growing 
 toward my ends 
 
 I drop thy counsels. Farewell, Ga- 
 briel ! 
 
 Watch out thy service: I achieve niv 
 will. 
 
 And perad venture in the after-years. 
 
 When thoughtful men shall bend 
 their spacious brows 
 
 Upon the storm and strife seen every- 
 where 
 
 To ruffle their smooth manhood, and 
 break up 
 
 With lurid lights of intermittent 
 hope 
 
 Their human fear and wrong, they 
 may discern 
 
 The heart of a lost angel in the earth. 
 
 CHORUS OF EDEN SPIRITS. 
 
 {Chanting from. Paradise, while Adam and 
 EvBj?y across the sword-glare.) 
 
 Harkeu, oh barken ! let your souls 
 behind you 
 Turn, gently moved ! 
 Our voices feel along the Dread to 
 find you, 
 O lost, beloved ! 
 Through the thick-shielded and strong- 
 marshalled angels 
 They press and pierce : 
 Our requiems follow fast on our evan- 
 gels: 
 Voice throbs in verse. 
 We are but orphaned spirits left in 
 Eden 
 A time ago: 
 God gave us golden cups, and we 
 were bidden 
 To feed you so. 
 But now our right hand hath no cup 
 remaining, 
 No work to do ; 
 The mystic hydromel is spilt, and 
 staining 
 The whole earth through, — 
 Most ineradicable stains, for showing 
 (Not interfused !) 
 
A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 183 
 
 That brighter colors were the world's 
 foregoing, 
 Than shall be nsed. 
 Harken, oh harken ! ye shall harken 
 surely, 
 For years and years, 
 The noise beside you, dripping coldlj-, 
 purely. 
 Of spirits' tears. 
 The yearning to a beautiful denied 
 you 
 Shall strain your powers ; 
 Ideal sweetnesses shall over-glide 
 you. 
 Resumed from ours. 
 In all your music our pathetic minor 
 
 Your ears shall cross, 
 And all good gifts shall mind you of 
 diviner. 
 With sense of loss. 
 We shall be near you in your poet- 
 languors 
 And wild extremes. 
 What time ye vex the desert with 
 vain angers, 
 Or mock with dreams. 
 And when upon you, weary after 
 roaming. 
 Death's seal is put. 
 By the foregone ye shall discern the 
 coming. 
 Through eyelids shut. 
 Spi7-its of tJie trees. 
 Hark ! the Eden trees are stirring. 
 Soft and solemn in your hearing, — 
 Oak and linden, palm and fir, 
 Tamarisk and juniper. 
 Each still throbbing in vibration 
 Since that crowning of creation 
 When the God-breath spake abroad, 
 Let lis make man like to God ! 
 And the pine stood quivering 
 As the awful word went by, 
 Like a vibrant music-string 
 Stretched from mountain-peak to sky ; 
 And the platan did expand 
 Slow and gradual, branch and head; 
 And the cedar's strong black shade 
 Fluttered brokenly and grand : 
 Grove and wood were swept aslant 
 In emotion jubilant. 
 
 Voice of the same, but softer. 
 Which divine impulsion cleaves 
 In dim movements to the leaves 
 Dropt and lifted, dropt and lifted, 
 In the sunlight greenly sifted, — 
 In the sunlight and the moonlight 
 Greenly sifted through the trees. 
 Ever wave the Eden trees 
 
 In the nightlight and the moonlight. 
 With a ruffting of green branches 
 Sliaded off to resonances, 
 
 Never stirred by rain or breeze. 
 Fare ye well, farewell ! 
 Tlie sylvan sounds, no longer audible; 
 Expire at Eden's door. 
 
 Each footstep of your treading 
 Treads out some murmur which ye 
 heard before. 
 
 Farewell ! the trees of Eden 
 Ye shall hear nevermore. 
 
 River-s}}irUs. 
 Hark the flow of the four rivers, 
 
 Hark the flow ! 
 How the silence round you shivers, 
 
 While our voices through it go 
 Cold and clear ! 
 A Softer Voice. 
 Think a little, while ye hear. 
 
 Of the banks 
 Where the willows and the deer 
 
 Crowd in intermingled ranks. 
 As if all would drink at once 
 Where the living water runs ! — 
 
 Of the fishes' golden edges 
 
 Flashing in and out the sedges; 
 Of the swans, on silver thrones, 
 
 Floating down the winding 
 streams 
 With impassive eyes turned sho 
 
 ward. 
 And a chant of undertones. 
 And the lotus leaning forward 
 
 To help them into dreams ! 
 Fare ye well, farewell ! 
 The river-sounds, no longer audible, 
 
 Expire at Eden's door. 
 
 Each footstep of your treading 
 Treads out some murmur which ye 
 heard before. 
 
 Farewell ! the streams of Eden 
 
 Ye shall hear nevermore. 
 Bird-spirit. 
 I am the nearest nightingale 
 
 That singeth in Eden after you , 
 
 And I am singing loud and true, 
 And sweet: I do not fail. 
 
 I sit upon a cypress-bough. 
 Close to the gate, and I fling my song 
 Over the gate, and through the mail 
 Of the warden angels marshalled 
 strong, — 
 
 Over the gate, and after you. 
 And the warden-angels let it pass. 
 Because the poor brown bird, alas ! 
 
 Sings in the garden, sweet and true. 
 And I build my song of high, pure 
 notes, 
 
i 
 
 184 
 
 A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 Note over note, height over height, 
 Till I strike the arch of the Infi- 
 nite; 
 And I bridge abysmal agonies 
 With strong, clear calms of harmo- 
 nies; 
 And something abides, and some- 
 thing floats 
 In the song which I sing after you. 
 Fare ye well, farewell ! 
 The creature-sounds, no longer audi- 
 ble, 
 Expire at Eden's door. 
 Each footstep of your treading 
 Treads out some cadence which ye 
 heard before. 
 Farewell ! the birds of Eden 
 Ye shall hear nevermore. 
 Flower-spirits. 
 We linger, we linger. 
 
 The last of the throng, 
 Like the tones of a singer 
 
 Who loves his own song. 
 We are spirit-aromas 
 
 Of blossom and bloom. 
 We call your thoughts home, as 
 
 Ye breathe our perfume, 
 To the amaranth's splendor 
 
 Afire on the slopes ; 
 To the lily-bells tender 
 And gray heliotropes ; 
 To the poppy-plains keeping 
 
 Such dream-breath and blee, 
 That the angels there stepping 
 
 Grew whiter to see ; 
 To the nook set with moly. 
 
 Ye jested one day in, 
 Till your smile waxed too holy, 
 
 And left your lips praying; 
 To the rose in the bower-place, 
 
 That dripped o'er you sleeping 
 To the asphodel flower-place, 
 
 Ye walked ankle-deep in. 
 We pluck at your raiment. 
 We stroke down your hair. 
 We faint in our lament. 
 
 And pine into air. 
 Fare ye well, farewell ! 
 The Eden scents, no longer sensible, 
 Expire at Eden's door. 
 Each footstep of your treading 
 Treads out some fragrance which ye 
 knew before. 
 Farewell ! the flowers of Eden 
 Ye shall smell nevermore. 
 
 [There is silence. Adam 
 and Eve fly on, and 
 never look back. Only 
 a colossal shadow, as of 
 
 the dark Angel passing 
 quickly, is cast upon the 
 sword-glare. 
 
 Scene. — The extremity of the sword-glare. 
 
 Adam. Pausing a moment on this 
 
 outer edge. 
 Where the supernal sword-glare cuts 
 
 in light 
 The dark exterior desert, hast thou 
 
 strength, 
 Beloved, to look behind us to the 
 
 gate ? 
 Eve. Have I not strength to look up 
 
 to thy face ? 
 Adam. We need be strong: yon 
 
 spectacle of cloud, 
 Which seals the gate up to the final 
 
 doom. 
 Is God's seal manifest. There seem 
 
 to lie 
 A hundred thunders in it, dark and 
 
 dead, 
 The unmolten lightnings vein it mo- 
 tionless; 
 And, outward from its depth, the self- 
 moved sword 
 Swings slow its awful gnomon of red 
 
 fire 
 From side to side, in pendulous hor- 
 ror slow. 
 Across the stagnant ghastly glare 
 
 thrown flat 
 On the intermediate ground from that 
 
 to this. 
 The angelic hosts, the archangelic 
 
 pomps, 
 Thrones, dominations, princedoms, 
 
 rank on rank, 
 Rising sublimely to the feet of God, 
 On either side, and overhead the gate. 
 Show like a glittering and sustained 
 
 smoke 
 Drawn to an apex. That their faces 
 
 shine 
 Betwixt the solemn clasping of their 
 
 wings 
 Clasped high to a silver point above 
 
 their heads, 
 We only guess from hence, and not 
 
 discern. 
 Eve. Though we were near enough 
 
 to see them shine. 
 The shadow on thy face were aw- 
 
 fuUer 
 To me, at least, — to me, — than all 
 
 their light. 
 Adam. What is this. Eve? Thou 
 
 droppest heavily 
 
h»HI-»H 
 
 A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 185 
 
 In a heap earthward, and thy body 
 
 heaves 
 Under the golden floodings of thine 
 
 hair. 
 Eve. O Adam, Adam ! by that name 
 
 of Eve,— 
 Thine Eve, tliy life, — which suits me 
 
 little now, 
 Seeing that I now confess myself thy 
 
 death 
 And thine undoer, as the snake was 
 
 mine, — 
 I do adjure thee put me straight 
 
 away, 
 Together with my name ! Sweet, 
 
 punish me ! 
 O love, be just ! and ere we pass be- 
 yond 
 The light cast outward by the fiery 
 
 sword. 
 Into the dark which earth must be to 
 
 us. 
 Bruise my head with thy foot, as the 
 
 curse said 
 My seed shall the first tempter's ! — 
 
 strike with curse. 
 As God struck in the garden ! and as 
 
 HE, 
 
 Being satisfied with justice and with 
 
 wrath, 
 Did roll his thunder gentler at the 
 
 close. 
 Thou, peradventure, mayst at last 
 
 recoil 
 To some soft need of mercy. Strike, 
 
 my lord ! 
 I, also, after tempting, writhe on the 
 
 ground, 
 And I would feed on ashes from thine 
 
 hand, 
 As suits me, O my tempted ! 
 
 Adam. My beloved. 
 
 Mine Eve and life, I have no other 
 
 name 
 For thee, or for the sun, tlian what ye 
 
 are, — 
 My utter life and light ! If we have 
 
 fallen. 
 It is that we have sinned, — we. God 
 
 is just; 
 And, since his curse doth comprehend 
 
 us both, 
 It must be that his balance holds the 
 
 weights 
 Of first and last sin on a level. 
 
 What ! 
 Shall I, who had not virtue to stand 
 
 straight 
 Among the hills of Eden, here assume 
 
 To mend the justice of the perfect 
 God, 
 
 By piling up a curse upon his curse. 
 
 Against thee, — thee ? 
 Eve. For so, perchance, thy God 
 
 Might take thee into grace for scorn- 
 ing me. 
 
 Thy wrath against the sinner giving 
 proof 
 
 Of inward abrogation of the sin: 
 
 And so the blessed angels might come 
 down 
 
 And walk with thee as erst, — I think 
 they would, — 
 
 Because I was not near to make them 
 sad. 
 
 Or soil the rustling of their inno- 
 cence. 
 Adam, They know me. I am deep- 
 est in the guilt, 
 
 If last in the transgression. 
 Eve. Thou ! 
 
 Adam,. If God, 
 
 Who gave the right and joyaunce of 
 the world 
 
 Both xinto thee and me, gave thee to 
 me, — 
 
 The best gift last, — the last sin was 
 the worst. 
 
 Which sinned against more comple- . 
 ment of gifts 
 
 And grace of giving. God ! I render 
 back 
 
 Strong benediction and perpetual 
 praise 
 
 From mortal feeble lips (as incense- 
 smoke 
 
 Out of a little censer may fill heaven), 
 
 That thou, in striking my benumbed 
 hands, 
 
 And forcing them to drop all other 
 boons 
 
 Of beauty and dominion and delight. 
 
 Hast left this well-beloved Eve, this 
 life 
 
 Within life, this best gift between 
 their palms, 
 
 In gracious compensation. 
 Eve. Is it thy voice, 
 
 Or some saluting angel's, calling home 
 
 My feet into the garden ? 
 Adam,. O my God ! 
 
 I, standing here between the glory 
 and dark, — 
 
 The glory of thy wrath projected forth 
 
 From Eden's wall, the dark of our 
 distress. 
 
 Which settles a step off in that drear 
 world, — 
 
186 
 
 A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 Lift up to thee the hands from whence 
 
 hath fallen 
 Only creation's sceptre, thanking thee 
 That rather thou hast cast me out 
 
 with hfr 
 Than left me lorn of her in Paradise, 
 With angel looks and angel songs 
 
 around 
 To show the absence of her eyes and 
 
 voice. 
 And make society full desertness 
 Without her use in comfort. 
 
 Eve. Where is loss ? 
 
 Am I in Eden ? Can another speak 
 Mine own love's tongue ? 
 
 Adam. Because, with her, I stand 
 Upright, as far as can be in this fall, 
 And look away from heaven which 
 
 doth accuse. 
 And look away from earth which 
 
 doth convict, 
 Into her face, and crown my dis- 
 crowned brow 
 Out of her love, and put the thought 
 
 of her 
 Around me for an Eden full of birds, 
 And lift her body up — thus — to my 
 
 heart. 
 And with my lips upon her lips — 
 
 thus, thus — 
 Do quicken and sublimate my mortal 
 
 breath. 
 Which cannot climb against the 
 
 grave's steep sides, 
 But overtops this grief. 
 
 Eve. 1 am renewed. 
 
 My eyes grow with the light which is 
 
 in thine; 
 The silence of my heart is full of 
 
 sound. 
 Hold me up — so ! Because I com- 
 prehend 
 This human love, I shall not be afraid 
 Of any human death; and yet, because 
 I know this strength of love, I seem 
 
 to know 
 Death's strength by that same sign. 
 
 Kiss on my lips. 
 To shut the door close on my rising 
 
 soul. 
 Lest it pass outwards in astonishment, 
 And leave thee lonely ! 
 
 Adam. Yet thou liest, Eve, 
 
 Bent heavily on thyself across mine 
 
 arm. 
 Thy face flat to the sky. 
 
 Eve. Ay; and the tears 
 
 Running, as it might seem, my life 
 
 from me. 
 
 They run so fast and warm. Let me 
 
 lie so. 
 And weep so, as if in a dream or 
 
 prayer, 
 Unfastening, clasp by clasp, the hard 
 
 tight thought 
 Which clipped my heart, and showed 
 
 me evermore 
 Loathed of thy justice as I loathe the 
 
 snake. 
 And as the pure ones loathe our sin. 
 
 To-day, 
 All day, beloved, as we fled across 
 This desolating radiance cast by 
 
 swords. 
 Not suns, my lips prayed soundless 
 
 to myself, 
 Striking against each other, ' ' O 
 
 Lord God ! " 
 ('Twas so I prayed) " I ask thee by 
 
 my sin. 
 And by thy curse, and by thy blame- 
 less heavens, 
 Make dreadful haste to hide me from 
 
 thy face 
 And from the face of my beloved 
 
 here 
 For whom I am no helpmeet, quick 
 
 away 
 Into the new dark mystery of death ! 
 I will lie still there; I will make no 
 
 plaint; 
 I will not sigh, nor sob, nor speak a 
 
 word, 
 Nor struggle to come back beneath 
 
 the sun, 
 Where, peradventure, I might sin 
 
 anew 
 Against thy mercy and his pleasure. 
 
 Death, 
 Oh, death, whate'er it be, is good 
 
 enough 
 For such as I am; while for Adam 
 
 here. 
 No voice shall say again, in heaven or 
 
 earth, 
 It is not good for him to he alone." 
 Adam. And was it good for such a 
 
 prayer to pass. 
 My unkind Eve, betwixt our mutual 
 
 lives ? 
 If I am exiled, must I be bereaved ? 
 Eve. 'Twas an ill prayer: it shall 
 
 be prayed no more. 
 And God did use it like a foolishness. 
 Giving no answer. Now my heart 
 
 has grown 
 Too high and strong for such a foolish 
 
 prayer: 
 
A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 Love makes it strong. And since I 
 was the first 
 
 In the transgression, with a steady 
 foot 
 
 I will be first to tread from this sword- 
 glare 
 
 Into the outer darkness of the waste, — 
 
 And thus I do it. 
 Adam. Thus I follow thee, 
 
 As erewhile in the sin. — What 
 sounds ! what sounds ! 
 
 I feel a music which comes straight 
 from heaven, 
 
 As tender as a watering dew. 
 Eve. I think 
 
 That angels, not those guarding Par- 
 adise, 
 
 But the love angels, who came erst to 
 us. 
 
 And, when we said " God," fainted 
 unawares 
 
 Back from our mortal presence unto 
 God, 
 
 (As if he drew them inward in a 
 breath,) 
 
 His name being heard of them, — I 
 think that they 
 
 With sliding voices lean from heaven- 
 ly towers. 
 
 Invisible, but gracious. Hark — how 
 soft! 
 
 CHORUS OF INVISIBLE ANGELS. 
 Faint and teyider. 
 
 Mortal man and woman. 
 
 Go upon your travel ! 
 Heaven assist the human 
 
 Smoothly to unravel 
 All that web of pain 
 
 Wherein ye are holden. 
 Do ye know our voices 
 
 Chanting down the Golden ? 
 Do ye guess our choice is. 
 
 Being unbeholden. 
 To be barkened by you yet again ? 
 
 This pure door of opal 
 
 God hath shut between us, — 
 Us his shining people. 
 
 You who once have seen us 
 And are blinded new; 
 
 Yet, across the doorway. 
 Past the silence reaching. 
 
 Farewells evermore may, 
 Blessing in the teaching. 
 
 Glide from us to you. 
 First semichorus. 
 Think how erst your Eden, 
 
 Day on day succeeding. 
 With our presence glowed. 
 We came as if the heavens were bowed 
 
 To a milder music rare. 
 Ye saw us in our solemn treading. 
 
 Treading down the steps of 
 cloud. 
 While our wings, oiitspreading 
 Double calms of whiteness. 
 Dropped superfluous brightness 
 Down from stair to stair. 
 Second semichorus. 
 Or oft, abrupt though tender. 
 
 While ye gazed on space, 
 We flashed our angel-splendor 
 In either human face. 
 With mystic lilies in our hands, 
 From the atmospheric bands. 
 
 Breaking with a sudden grace, 
 We took you unaware ! 
 
 While our feet struck glories 
 Outward, smooth and fair, 
 
 Which we stood on floorwise, 
 Platformed in mid-air. 
 
 First semichonts. 
 Or oft, when heaven descended. 
 
 Stood we in our wondering 
 sight 
 In a mute apocalypse 
 With dumb vibrations on our lips 
 From hosannas ended. 
 
 And grand half-vanishings 
 Of the empyreal things 
 
 Within our eyes belated. 
 Till the heavenly Infinite, 
 
 Falling off from the Created, 
 Left our inward contemplation 
 Opened into ministration. 
 Chorus. 
 
 Then upon our axle turning 
 Of great joy to sympathy, 
 We sang out the morning 
 Broadening up the sky; 
 Or we drew 
 Our music through 
 The noontide's hush and heat and 
 
 shine. 
 Informed with our intense Divine ! 
 Interrupted vital notes 
 Palpitating hither, thither, 
 Burning out into the ether. 
 Sensible like fiery motes; 
 Or, whenever twilight drifted 
 Through the cedar masses, 
 The globed sun we lifted, 
 Trailing purple, trailing gold. 
 
 Out between the passes 
 Of the mountains manifold, 
 To anthems slowly sung ! 
 
188 
 
 A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 While he, aweary, half in swoon 
 For joy to hear our climbing tune 
 
 Transpierce the stars' concentric 
 rings,— 
 The burden of his glory flung 
 
 In broken lights upon our wings. 
 
 [ The chant dies away con- 
 fusedly, and Lucifer 
 appears. 
 
 Luc. Now may all fruits be pleasant 
 to thy lips. 
 
 Beautiful Eve ! The times have some- 
 what changed 
 
 Since thou and I had talk beneath a 
 tree, 
 
 Albeit ye are not gods yet. 
 Eve. Adam, hold 
 
 My right hand strongly ! It is Luci- 
 fer, — 
 
 And we have love to lose. 
 Adam. I' the name of God, 
 
 Go apart from us, O thou Lucifer ! 
 
 And leave us to the desert thou hast 
 made 
 
 Out of thy treason. Bring no serpent- 
 slime 
 
 Athwart this path kept holy to our 
 tears. 
 
 Or we may curse thee with their bit- 
 terness. 
 Luc. Curse freely ! Curses thicken. 
 Why, this Eve 
 
 Who thought me once part worthy of 
 her ear. 
 
 And somewhat wiser than the other 
 beasts, — 
 
 Drawing together her large globes of 
 eyes, 
 
 The light of which is throbbing in and 
 out 
 
 Their steadfast continuity of gaze, — 
 
 Knots her fair eyebrows in so hard a 
 knot. 
 
 And down from her white heights of 
 womanhood 
 
 Looks on me so amazed, I scarce 
 should fear 
 
 To wager such au apple as she 
 plucked. 
 
 Against one riper from the tree of life. 
 
 That she could curse too — as a wo- 
 man may — 
 
 Smooth in the vowels. 
 Eve. So — speak wickedly: 
 
 I like it best so. Let thy words be 
 wounds, 
 
 For so I shall not fear thy power to 
 hurt; 
 
 Trench on the forms of good by open 
 ill, 
 
 For so I shall wax strong and grand 
 with scorn, 
 
 Scorning myself for ever trusting 
 thee 
 
 As far as thinking, ere a snake ate 
 dust. 
 
 He could speak wisdom. 
 Luc. Our new gods, it seems, 
 
 Deal more in thunders than in cour- 
 tesies. 
 
 And, sooth, mine own Olympus, 
 which anon 
 
 I shall build up to loud-voiced ima- 
 gery 
 
 From all the wandering visions of the 
 world, 
 
 May show worse railing than our lady 
 Eve 
 
 Pours o'er the rounding of her argent 
 arm. 
 
 But why should this be ? Adam par- 
 doned Eve. 
 Adam. Adam loved. Eve. Jehovah 
 
 pardon both ! 
 Eve. Adam forgave Eve, because 
 
 loving Eve. 
 Luc. So, well. Yet Adam was un- 
 done of Eve, 
 
 As both were by the snake: there- 
 fore forgive. 
 
 In like wise, fellow-temptress, the 
 poor snake, 
 
 Who stung there, not so poorly ! 
 
 [Aside. 
 Eve. Hold thy wrath. 
 
 Beloved Adam ! Let me answer him; 
 
 For this time he speaks truth, which 
 we should hear. 
 
 And asks for mercy, which I most 
 should grant, 
 
 In like wise, as he tells us, in like 
 wise ! — 
 
 And therefore I thee pardon, Luci- 
 fer, 
 
 As freely as the streams of Eden 
 flowed 
 
 When we were happy by them. So, 
 dei^art; 
 
 Leave us to walk the remnant of our 
 time 
 
 Out mildly in the desert. Do not seek 
 
 To harm us any more, or scoff at us. 
 
 Or, ere the dust be laid upon our face, 
 
 To find there the communion of the 
 dust 
 
 And issue of the dust. Go 1 
 Adam. At once go I 
 
h»HI-»H 
 
 A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 189 
 
 Ye images 
 mould, 
 By 
 
 Luc. Forgive ! and go ! 
 of clay, 
 SliruTik somewhat in the 
 
 what jest is this ? 
 What words are these to use ? 
 
 what a thought 
 Conceive ye of me ? Yesterday — a 
 
 snake ! 
 To-day— what? 
 Adam. A strong spirit. 
 
 Eve. A sad spirit. 
 
 Adam.. Perhaps a fallen angel.— 
 
 Who shall say ! 
 Luc. Who told thee, Adam ? 
 Adam. Thou ! — the prodigy 
 
 Of thy vast brows and melancholy 
 
 eyes, 
 Which comprehend the heights of 
 
 some great fall. 
 I think that thou hast one day worn a 
 
 crown 
 Under the eyes of God. 
 Luc. And why of God ? 
 
 Adam,. It were no crown else. 
 Verily, I think 
 Thou'rt fallen far. I had not yester- 
 day 
 Said it so surely ; but I know to-day 
 Grief by grief, sin by sin. 
 Luc. A crown by a crown. 
 
 Adam. Ay, mock me ! now I know 
 more than I knew: 
 Now I know that thou art fallen be- 
 low hope 
 Of final re-ascent. 
 Luc. Because ? 
 
 Adam,. Because 
 
 A spirit who expected to see God, 
 Though at the last point of a million 
 
 years. 
 Could dare no mockery of a ruined 
 
 man 
 Such as this Adam. 
 
 Luc. Who is high and bold, — 
 
 Be it said passing, — of a good red 
 
 clay 
 Discovered on some top of Lebanon, 
 Or haply of Aornus, beyond sweep 
 Of the black eagle's wing. A fur- 
 long lower 
 Had made a meeker king for Eden. 
 
 Soh! 
 Is it not possible by sin and grief 
 (To give the things your names) that 
 
 spirits should rise, 
 Instead of falling ? 
 
 Adam. Most impossible. 
 
 The Highest being the Holy and the 
 Glad, 
 
 Whoever rises must approach delight 
 And sanctity in the act. 
 
 Luc. Ha, my clay king \ 
 
 Thou wilt not rule by wisdom very 
 
 long 
 The after-generations. Earjbh, me- 
 
 thinks. 
 Will disinherit thy philosoiAy 
 For a new doctrine suited to thine 
 
 heirs. 
 And class these present dogmas with 
 
 the rest 
 Of the old-world traditions, — Eden 
 
 fruits 
 And Saurian fossils. 
 
 Eve. Speak no more with him. 
 
 Beloved ! it is not good to speak with 
 
 him. — 
 Go from us, Lucifer, and speak no 
 
 more ! 
 We have no pardon which thou dost 
 
 not scorn, 
 Nor any bliss, thou seest, for coveting. 
 Nor innocence for staining. Being 
 
 bereft. 
 We would be alone. Go ! 
 
 Luc. Ah ! ye talk the same. 
 
 All of you, — spirits and clay, — Go, 
 
 and depart ! 
 In heaven they said so, and at Eden's 
 
 gate. 
 And here re-iterant in the wilderness. 
 None saith. Stay with me, for thy face 
 
 is fair ! 
 None saith. Stay with me, for thy 
 
 voice is sweet ! 
 And yet I was not fashioned out of 
 
 clay. 
 Look on me, woman ! Am I beauti- 
 ful ? 
 Eve. Thou hast a glorious darkness. 
 Luc. Nothing more ? 
 
 Eve. I think no more. 
 Luc. False heart, thou thinkest 
 
 more ! 
 Thou canst not choose but think, as I 
 
 praise God, 
 Unwillingly but fully, that I stand 
 Most absolute in beauty. As your- 
 selves 
 Were fashioned very good at best, so 
 
 we 
 Sprang very beauteous from the cre- 
 
 ant Word 
 Which thrilled behind us, God liim- 
 
 self being moved 
 When that august work of a perfect 
 
 shape, 
 His dignities of sovran angelhood, 
 
T 
 
 190 
 
 A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 Swept out into the universe, divine 
 With thunderous movements, earnest 
 
 looks of gods, 
 And silver-solemn clash of cymbal 
 
 wings. 
 Whereof was I, in motion and in 
 
 form, 
 A part not poorest. And yet — yet, 
 
 perhaps. 
 This beauty which I speak of is not 
 
 here, 
 As God's voice is not here, nor even 
 
 my crown, — 
 I do not know. What is this thought 
 
 or thing 
 Which I call beauty ? Is it thought 
 
 or thing ? 
 Is it a thought accepted for a thing ? 
 Or both ? or neither ? — a pretext, a 
 
 word ? 
 Its meaning flutters in me like a flame 
 Under my own breath: my percep- 
 tions reel 
 Forevermore around it, and fall off, 
 As if it, too, were holy. 
 Eve. Which it is. 
 
 Adam. The essence of all beauty 
 
 I call love. 
 The attribute, the evidence and end. 
 The consummation to the inward 
 
 sense, 
 Of beauty apprehended from without, 
 I still call love. As form when 
 
 colorless 
 Is nothing to the eye, — that pine-tree 
 
 there, 
 Without its black and green, being 
 
 all a blank,— 
 So, without love, is beauty imdis- 
 
 cerned 
 In man or angel. Angel ! rather ask 
 What love is in thee, what love 
 
 moves to thee. 
 And what collateral love moves on 
 
 with thee; 
 Then shalt thow know if thou art 
 
 beautiful. 
 Luc. Love ! what is love ? I lose it. 
 
 Beauty and love 
 I darken to the image. Beauty — 
 
 love ! 
 
 [He fades aioay, tchile a 
 low music sounds. 
 
 Adam. Thou art pale. Eve. 
 
 Eve. The precipice of ill 
 
 Down this colossal nature dizzies me : 
 And hark ! the starry harmony re- 
 mote 
 
 Seems measuring the heights from 
 
 whence he fell. 
 Adam. Think that we have not fall- 
 en so ! By the hope 
 And aspiration, by the love and faith. 
 We do exceed the stature of this 
 
 angel. 
 Eve. Happier we are than he is by 
 
 the death. 
 Adam.. Or, rather, by the life of the 
 
 Lord God. 
 How dim the angel grows, as if that 
 
 blast 
 Of music swept him back into the 
 
 dark ! 
 
 [ The music is stronger, gath- 
 ering itself into uncer- 
 tain articulatio7i. 
 
 Eve. It throbs in on us like a plain- 
 tive heart, 
 
 Pressing with slow pulsations, vibra- 
 tive. 
 
 Its gradual sweetness through the 
 yielding air. 
 
 To such exi:)ression as the stars may 
 use. 
 
 Most starry-sweet and strange. With 
 every note 
 
 That grows more loud the angel 
 grows more dim. 
 
 Receding in proportion to approach, 
 
 Until he stand afar, — a shade. 
 Adam. Now, words. 
 
 SONG OP THE MORKING STAR TO 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 lie fades utterly away, and vanishes as it 
 proceeds. 
 
 Mine orbed image sinks 
 
 Back from thee, back from thee, 
 As thou art fallen, methinks. 
 
 Back from me, back from me. 
 O my light-bearer. 
 Could another fairer 
 Lack to thee, lack to thee ? 
 Ah, ah, Heosphoros ! 
 I loved thee with the fiery love of 
 
 stars 
 Who love by burning, and by loving 
 
 move 
 Too near the throned Jehovah not to 
 love. 
 Ah, ah, Heosphoros ! 
 Their brows flash fast on me from 
 gliding cars, 
 Pale-passioned for my loss. 
 Ah, ah, Heosphoros ! 
 
A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 191 
 
 Mine orbed heats drop cold 
 Down from thee, down from 
 thee, 
 
 As fell thy grace of old 
 Down from me, down from me. 
 
 my light-bearer, 
 Is another fairer 
 
 Won to thee, won to thee ? 
 Ah, ah, Heosphoros, 
 Great love preceded loss. 
 Known to thee, known to thee. 
 Ah, ah ! 
 Thou, breathing thy communicable 
 grace 
 Of life into my light. 
 Mine astral faces, from thine angel 
 face 
 Hast inly fed. 
 And flooded me with radiance over- 
 much 
 From thy pure height. 
 Ah, ah ! 
 Thou, with calm, floating pinions both 
 ways spread , 
 Erect, irradiated. 
 Didst sting my wheel of glory 
 On, on before thee. 
 Along the Godlight, by a quickening 
 touch ! 
 
 Ha, ha ! 
 Around, around, the firmamental 
 
 ocean 
 I swam expanding with delirious fire! 
 Around, around, around, in blind de- 
 sire 
 To be drawn upward to the Infinite — 
 Ha, ha ! 
 
 Until, the motion flinging out the 
 motion 
 To a keen whirl of passion and 
 avidity. 
 To a dim whirl of languor and delight, 
 I wound in gyrant orbits smooth and 
 white 
 With that intense rapidity. 
 Around, around, 
 
 1 wound and interwound. 
 While all the cyclic heavens about me 
 
 spun. 
 
 Stars, planets, suns, and moons di- 
 lated broad. 
 
 Then flashed together into a single 
 sun. 
 
 And wound, and wound in one: 
 
 And as they wound I wound, around, 
 around, 
 
 In a great fire I almost took for God. 
 Ha, ha, Heosphoros ! 
 
 Tliine angel glory sinks 
 Down from me, down from 
 me: 
 My l>eauty falls, methinks, 
 Down from thee, down from 
 thee. 
 O my light-bearer, 
 O my iiath-preparer. 
 Gone from me, gone from me ! 
 Ah, ah, Heosphoros ! 
 I cannot kindle underneath the brow 
 Of this new angel here who is not 
 
 thou. 
 All things are altered since that time 
 
 ago; 
 And if I shine at eve, I shall not 
 know. 
 I am strange, I am slow. 
 Ah, ah, Heosphoros I 
 Henceforward, human eyes of lovers 
 
 be 
 The only sweetest sight that I shall 
 
 see. 
 With tears between the looks raised 
 up to me. 
 Ah, ah ! 
 When, having wept all night, at break 
 
 of day 
 Above the folded hills, they shall sur- 
 vey 
 My light, a little trembling, in the 
 gray, 
 
 Ah, ah ! 
 And, gazing on me, such shall com- 
 prehend, 
 Through all my jjiteous pomp at 
 
 morn or even 
 And melancholy leaning out of 
 heaven. 
 That love, their own divine, may 
 change or end, 
 That love may close in loss ! 
 Ah, ah, Heosjihoros ! 
 
 Scene. — Farther on. A wild open country 
 seen vaguely in the approaching night. 
 
 Adam. How doth the wide and mel- 
 ancholy earth 
 Gather her hills around us, gray and 
 
 ghast. 
 And stare with blank significance of 
 
 loss 
 Right in our faces ! Is the wind up ? 
 Eve. Nay. 
 
 Adam. And yet the cedars and the 
 junipers 
 Rock slowly, through the mist, with- 
 out a sound, 
 
i 
 
 192 
 
 A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 And shapes which have no certainty 
 of shape 
 
 Drift duskly in and out between the 
 pines, 
 
 And loom along the edges of the hills, 
 
 And lie flat, curdling in the open 
 ground, — 
 
 Shadows without a body, which con- 
 tract 
 
 And lengthen as we gaze on them. 
 Eve. O life, 
 
 Which is not man's nor angel's ! 
 What is this ? 
 Adam. No cause for fear. The cir- 
 cle of God's life 
 
 Contains all life beside. 
 Eve. I think the earth 
 
 Is crazed with curse, and wanders 
 from the sense 
 
 Of those first laws affixed to form and 
 space 
 
 Or ever she knew sin. 
 
 Adam. 
 
 We will not fear: 
 
 We were brave sinning. 
 
 Eve. Yea, I plucked the fruit 
 
 With eyes upturned to heaven, and 
 
 seeing there 
 Our god-thrones, as the tempter said, 
 
 not God. 
 My heart, which beat then, sinks. 
 
 The sun hath sunk 
 Out of sight with our Eden. 
 Adam. Night is near. 
 
 Eve. And God's curse nearest. Let 
 
 us travel back. 
 And stand within the sword-glare till 
 
 we die. 
 Believing it is better to meet death 
 Than suffer desolation. 
 
 Adam. Nay, beloved ! 
 
 We must not pluck death from the 
 
 Maker's hand, 
 As erst we plucked the apple: we 
 
 must wait 
 Until he gives death, as he gave us life. 
 Nor murmur faintly o'er the primal 
 
 gift 
 Because we spoilt its sweetness with 
 
 our sin. 
 Eve. Ah, ah ! dost thou discern 
 
 what I behold ? 
 Adam. I see all. How the spirits 
 
 in thine eyes 
 From their dilated orbits bound be- 
 fore 
 To meet the spectral Dread ! 
 
 Eve. I am afraid — 
 
 Ah, ah ! the twilight bristles wild 
 
 with shapes 
 
 Of intermittent motion, aspect vague. 
 And mystic bearings, which o'ercreep 
 
 the earth, 
 Keeping slow time with horrors in 
 
 the blood. 
 How near they reach . . . and far ! 
 
 How gray they move, 
 Treading upon the darkness without 
 
 feet. 
 And fluttering on the darkness with- 
 out wings ! 
 Some run like dogs, with noses to the 
 
 ground; 
 Some keep one path, like sheep; some 
 
 rock, like trees; 
 Some glide, like a fallen leaf; anti 
 
 some flow on, 
 Copious as rivers. 
 
 Adam. Some spring up like fire; 
 
 And some coil . . . 
 
 Eve, Ah, ah ! dost thou pause to say 
 Like what? — coil like the serpent, 
 
 when he fell 
 From all the emerald splendor of his 
 
 height 
 And writhed, and could not climb 
 
 against the curse, — 
 Not a ring's length. I am afraid — 
 
 afraid — 
 I think it is God's will to make me 
 
 afraid. 
 Permitting these to haunt us in the 
 
 place 
 Of his beloved angels, gone from us 
 Because we are not pure. Dear pity 
 
 of God, 
 That didst permit the angels to go 
 
 home, 
 And live no more with us who are not 
 
 pure, 
 Save us, too, from a loathly company, 
 Almost as loathly in our eyes, per- 
 haps, 
 As loe are in the purest ! Pity us, — 
 Us too ! nor shut us in the dark, 
 
 away 
 From verity and from stability, 
 Or what we name such through the 
 
 precedence 
 Of earth's adjusted uses ! leave us 
 
 not 
 To doubt, betwixt our senses and our 
 
 souls, 
 Which are the more distraught, and 
 
 full of pain, 
 And weak of apprehension ! 
 
 Adam. Courage, sweet ! 
 
 The mystic shapes ebb back from us, 
 
 and drop 
 
A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 193 
 
 " 
 
 1 
 
 "With slow concentric movement, eacli 
 
 on each, 
 Expressing wider spaces, and col- 
 lapsed 
 In lines more definite for imagery 
 And clearer for relation, till the 
 
 throng 
 Of shapeless spectra merge into a few 
 Distinguishable phantasms vague and 
 
 grand. 
 Which sweep out and around us 
 
 vastily. 
 And hold us in a circle and a calm. 
 Eve. Strange phantasms of pale 
 
 shadow ! there are twelve. 
 Thou who didst name all lives, hast 
 
 names for these ? 
 Adam. Methinks this is the zodiac 
 
 of the earth. 
 Which rounds us with a visionary 
 
 dread. 
 Responding with twelve shadowy 
 
 signs of earth. 
 In fantasque apposition and ap- 
 proach. 
 To those celestial, constellated twelve 
 Which palpitate adown the silent 
 
 nights 
 Under the pressure of the hand of God 
 Stretched wide in benediction. At 
 
 this hour 
 Not a star pricketh the flat gloom of 
 
 heaven ; 
 But, girdling close our nether wilder- 
 ness. 
 The zodiac-figures of the earth loom 
 
 slow. 
 Drawn out, as suiteth with the place 
 
 and time, 
 In twelve colossal shades, instead of 
 
 stars. 
 Through whic'u the ecliptic line of 
 
 mystery 
 Strikes bleakly with an unrelenting 
 
 scope, 
 Foreshowing life and death. 
 
 Eve. By dream, or sense. 
 
 Do we see this ? 
 Adam. Our spirits have climbed 
 
 high 
 By reason of the passion of our grief, 
 And from the top of sense looked 
 
 over sense, 
 To the significance and heart of 
 
 things. 
 Rather than things themselves. 
 Eve. And the dim twelve . . . 
 
 Adam. Are dim exponents of the 
 
 creature-life, 
 
 As earth contains it. Gaze on them, 
 
 beloved ! 
 By stricter apprehension of the sight, 
 Suggestions of the creatures shall 
 
 assuage 
 The terror of the shadows; what is 
 
 known 
 Subduing the unknown, and taming 
 
 it 
 From all prodigious dread. That 
 
 phantasm, there, 
 Presents a lion, albeit twenty times 
 As large as any lion, with a roar 
 Set soundless in his vibratory jaws. 
 And a strange horror stirring in his 
 
 mane. 
 And there a pendulous shadow seems 
 
 to weigh, — 
 Good against ill, perchance; and 
 
 there a crab 
 Puts coldly out its gradual shadow- 
 claws, 
 Like a slow blot that spreads, till all 
 
 the ground 
 Crawled over by it seems to crawl 
 
 itself. 
 A bull stands horned here, with gib- 
 bous glooms ; 
 And a ram likewise; and a scorpion 
 
 writhes 
 Its tail in ghastly slime, and stings the 
 
 dark. 
 This way a goat leaps with wild 
 
 blank of beard; 
 And here fantastic fishes duskly float. 
 Using the calm for waters, while their 
 
 fins 
 Throb out quick rhythms along the 
 
 shallow air. 
 While images more human — 
 
 Eve. How he stands, 
 
 That phantasm of a man — who is 
 
 not thou ! 
 Two phantasms of two men ! 
 
 Adam. One that sustains, 
 
 And one that strives, resuming, so, 
 
 the ends 
 Of manhood's curse of labor.i Dost 
 
 thou see 
 
 ' Adam recognizes in Aquarius the 
 water-bearer, and Sagittarius the archer, 
 distinct types of the man bearing and the 
 man eombating, — the passive and active 
 forms of human labor. I hope that the pre- 
 ceding zodiacal signs — transferred to the 
 earthly shadow and representative purpose 
 — of Aries, Taurus, Cancer, Leo, Libra, 
 Scorpio, Capricornus, and Pisces, are suffi- 
 ciently obvious to the reader. 
 
A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 That phantasm of a woman ? 
 Eve. I have seen; 
 
 But look off to those small humani- 
 ties ^ 
 
 Which draw me tenderly across my 
 fear — 
 
 Lesser and fainter than my woman- 
 hood, 
 
 Or yet thy manhood — with strange 
 innocence 
 
 Set in the misty lines of head and 
 hand. 
 
 They lean together ! I would gaze on 
 them 
 
 Longer and longer, till my watching 
 eyes, 
 
 As the stars do in watching any 
 thing. 
 
 Should light them forward from then- 
 outline vague 
 
 To clear configuration. 
 
 [ Two spirits, of organic and iiwrganic 
 nature, arise frovx the ground.'\ 
 
 But what shapes 
 Rise up between us in the open space, 
 And thrust me into horror, back from 
 hope ! 
 Adam. Colossal shapes — twiu sov- 
 ran images, 
 With a disconsolate, blank majesty 
 Set in their wondrous faces; with no 
 
 look. 
 And yet an aspect, — a significance 
 Of individual life and passionate 
 
 ends, 
 W^hich overcomes us gazing. 
 
 O bleak sound ! 
 O shadow of sound ! O phantasm of 
 
 thin sound ! 
 How it comes, wheeling, as the pale 
 
 moth wheels, — 
 Wheeling and wheeling in continu- 
 ous wail 
 Around the cyclic zodiac, and gains 
 
 force. 
 And gathers, settling coldly like a 
 
 moth. 
 On the wan faces of these images 
 We see before us, whereby modified, 
 It draws a straight line of articulate 
 
 song 
 From out that spiral faintness of la- 
 ment. 
 And by one voice expresses many 
 griefs. 
 
 1 Her maternal 
 Oem,ini. 
 
 iustincl is excited by 
 
 First Spirit. 
 I am the spirit of the harmless earth. 
 God spake me softly out among the 
 stars, — 
 As softly as a blessing of much worth ; 
 And then his smile did follow, un- 
 awares. 
 That all things fashioned so for use 
 
 and duty 
 Might shine anointed with his chrism 
 of beauty — 
 
 Yet I wail ! 
 I drave on with the worlds exult- 
 ingly. 
 Obliquely down the Godlight's 
 gradual fall; 
 Individual aspect and complexity 
 
 Of gyratory orb and interval 
 Lost in the fluent motion of delight 
 Toward the high ends of Being be- 
 yond sight — 
 
 Yet I wail ! 
 Second Spirit. 
 I am the spirit of the harmless beasts. 
 Of flying things, and creeping 
 things, and swimming; 
 Of all the lives, erst set at silent 
 feasts. 
 That found the love-kiss on the gob- 
 let brimming, 
 And tasted in each drop within the 
 
 measure 
 The sweetest pleasure of their Lord's 
 good pleasure — 
 Yet I wail 1 
 What a full hum of life around his lips 
 Bore witness to the fulness of crea- 
 tion ! 
 How all the grand words were full- 
 laden ships. 
 Each sailing onward from enuncia- 
 tion 
 To separate existence, and each bear- 
 ing 
 The creature's power of joying, hop- 
 ing, fearing ! — 
 Yet I wail ! 
 Eve. They wail, beloved! they speak 
 of glory and God, 
 And they wail — wail. That burden 
 
 of the song 
 Drops from it like its fruit, and heavi- 
 ly falls 
 Into the lap of silence. 
 Adam. Hark, again ! 
 
 Fii'st Spirit. 
 1 was so beautiful, so beautiful. 
 My joy stood up within me bold to 
 add 
 
 1 
 
A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 A word to Clod's, and, wlicii liis 
 work was full. 
 To " very good," responded " very 
 glad ! " 
 Filtered through roses, did the light 
 
 enclose me. 
 And bunches of the grape swam blue 
 across me — 
 
 Yet I wail ! 
 Second Spirit. 
 I bounded with my panthers: I re- 
 joiced 
 In my young tumbling lions rolled 
 together: 
 My stag, the river at his fetlocks, 
 poised, 
 Then dipped his antlers through the 
 golden weather 
 In the same ripple which the alliga- 
 tor 
 Left, in his joyous troubling of the 
 , water — 
 
 Yet I wail ! 
 First Spirit. 
 O my deep waters, cataract and flood. 
 What wordless triumph did your 
 voices render ! 
 O mountain-summits, where the an- 
 gels stood, 
 And shook from head and wing 
 thick dews of splendor ! 
 How with a holy quiet did your 
 
 Earthy 
 Accept that Heavenly, knowing ye 
 were worthy ! — 
 Yet I wail ! 
 Second Spirit. 
 O my wild wood-dogs, with your lis- 
 tening eyes; 
 My horses; my ground-eagles, for 
 swift fleeing; 
 My birds, with viewless wing of har- 
 monies; 
 My calm cold fishes of a silver 
 being, — 
 How happy were ye, living and 2:)os- 
 sessing, 
 
 fair half-souls capacious of full 
 
 blessing ! — 
 
 Yet I wail ! 
 First Spirit. 
 
 1 wail, I wail ! Now hear my charge 
 
 to-day. 
 Thou man, thou woman, marked as 
 
 the misdoers 
 By God's sword at your backs ! I 
 
 lent nay clay 
 To make your bodies, which had 
 
 grown more flowers; 
 
 And now, in change for what I lent, 
 
 ye give me 
 The thorn to vex, the tempest-fire to 
 cleave me — 
 
 And I wail ! 
 Second Spirit. 
 I wail, I wail ! Behold ye, that I 
 fasten 
 My sorrow's fang upon your souls 
 dishonored ? 
 Accursed transgressors ! down the 
 steep ye hasten, 
 Your crown's weight on the world, 
 to drag it downward 
 Unto your ruin. Lo ! my lions scent- 
 ing 
 The blood of wars, roar hoarse and 
 unrelenting — 
 
 And I wail ! 
 First Spirit. 
 I wail, I wail ! Do you hear that I 
 wail ? 
 I had no part in your transgression 
 — none. 
 My roses on the bough did bud, not 
 pale ; 
 My rivers did not loiter in the sun; 
 I was obedient. Wherefore in my 
 
 centre 
 Do I thrill at this curse of death and 
 winter ? — 
 
 Do I wail ? 
 Second Spirit. 
 I wail, I wail ! I wail in the assault 
 Of undeserved perditiou, sorely 
 wounded ! 
 My nightingale sang sweet without a 
 fault; 
 My gentle leopards innocently 
 bounded. 
 We were obedient. What is this con- 
 
 ATilses 
 Our blameless life with pangs and 
 fever-jiulses ? — 
 
 And I wail ! 
 Eve. I choose God's thunder and 
 his angels' swords 
 To die by, Adam, rather than such 
 
 words. 
 Let us pass out, and flee. 
 
 Adam. We cannot flee. 
 
 This zodiac of the creatures' cruelty 
 Curls round us, like a river cold and 
 
 drear. 
 And shuts us in, constraining us to 
 hear. 
 First Spirit. 
 I feel your steps, O wandering sin- 
 ners, strike 
 
196 
 
 A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 A sense of death to me, and undug 
 
 graves 
 
 The heart of eartli, once caha, is trem- 
 bling like 
 The ragged foam along the ocean- 
 waves; 
 
 The restless earthquakes rock against 
 each other; 
 
 The elements moan round me, 
 " Mother, mother " — 
 And I wail ! 
 Second Spirit. 
 
 Your melancholy looks do pierce me 
 through ; 
 Corruption swathes the paleness of 
 your beautj'. 
 
 Why have ye done this thing ? What 
 did we do 
 That we should fall from bliss, as ye 
 from duty ? 
 
 Wild shriek the hawks, in waiting for 
 their jesses, 
 
 Fierce howl the wolves along the wil- 
 dernesses — 
 
 And I wail ! 
 Adam. To thee, the Spirit of the 
 harmless earth, 
 
 To thee, the Spirit of earth's harmless 
 lives, 
 
 Inferior creatures, but still innocent, 
 
 Be salutation from a guilty mouth 
 
 Yet worthy of some audience and re- 
 spect 
 
 From you who are not guilty. If we 
 have sinned, 
 
 God hath rebuked us, who is over us 
 
 To give rebuke or death, and if ye 
 wail 
 
 Because of any suffering from our 
 sin, — 
 
 Ye who are under and not over us, — 
 
 Be satisfied with God, if not witli us, 
 
 And i^ass out from our presence in 
 such peace 
 
 As we have left you, to enjoy revenge 
 
 Such as the heavens have made you. 
 Verily, 
 
 There imist be strife between us 
 large as sin. 
 Eve. No strife, mine Adam ! Let 
 us not stand high 
 
 Upon the wrong we did to reach dis- 
 dain, 
 
 Who rather should be humbler ever- 
 more. 
 
 Since self-made sadder. 
 I speak, 
 
 I who spake once to such a bitter 
 end, — 
 
 Adam, shall 
 
 Shall I speak humbly now, who once 
 was proud ? 
 
 I, schooled by sin to more humility 
 
 Than thou hast, O mine Adam, O my 
 king, — 
 
 My king, if not the world's ? 
 Adam. Speak as thou wilt. 
 
 Eve. Thus, tlien, my hand in 
 thine — 
 
 . . . Sweet, dreadful Spirits ! 
 
 I pray you humbly, in the name of 
 God, 
 
 Not to say of these tears, which are 
 impure — 
 
 Grant me such pardoning grace a.s 
 can go forth 
 
 From clean volitions toward a spotted 
 will, 
 
 From the wronged to the wronger, 
 this and no more ! 
 
 I do not ask more. I am 'ware, in- 
 deed, 
 
 That absolute pardon is impossible 
 
 From you to me, by reason of my 
 sin; 
 
 And that I cannot evermore, as once, 
 
 With worthy acceptation of pure joy, 
 
 Behold the trances of the holy hills 
 
 Beneath the leaning stars, or watch 
 the vales 
 
 Dew-pallid with their morning ecsta- 
 sy; 
 
 Or hear the winds make pastoral 
 peace between 
 
 Two grassy uplands; and the river- 
 wells 
 
 Work out their bubbling mysteries 
 underground; 
 
 And all the birds sing, till, for joy of 
 song. 
 
 They lift their trembling wings as if 
 to heave 
 
 The too-much weight of music from 
 their heart 
 
 And float it up the ether. I am 'ware 
 
 That these things I can no more ap- 
 prehend 
 
 With a pure organ into a full delight. 
 
 The sense of beauty and of melody 
 
 Being no more aided in me by the 
 sense 
 
 Of i^ersonal adjustment to those 
 heights 
 
 Of what I see well formed, or hear 
 well tuned, 
 
 But rather coupled darkly, and made 
 ashamed 
 
 By my jjercipiency of sin and fall 
 
 In melancholy of humiliant thoughts. 
 
A DJiAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 19' 
 
 But, oh ! fair, dreadful Spirits — albeit 
 
 this, 
 Your accusation must confront my 
 
 soul, 
 Aud your pathetic utterance and full 
 
 gaze 
 Must evermore subdue me, — be con- 
 tent ! 
 Conquer me gently, as if pitying me. 
 Not to say loving; let my tears fall 
 
 thick 
 As watering dews of Eden, unre- 
 
 proached; 
 And, when your tongues reprove me, 
 
 make me smooth. 
 Not ruffled, — smooth and still with 
 
 your reproof. 
 And, peradventure, better while more 
 
 sad. 
 For look to it, sweet Spirits, look well 
 
 to it. 
 It will not be amiss in you, who kept 
 The law of your own righteousness, 
 
 and keep 
 The right of your own griefs to 
 
 mourn themselves, 
 To pity me twice fallen, — from that 
 
 and this. 
 From joy of place, and also right of 
 
 wail ; 
 "I wail" being not for me, — only 
 
 "I sin." 
 Look to it, O sweet Spirits ! 
 
 For was I not. 
 At that last sunset seen in Paradise, 
 When all the westering clouds flashed 
 
 out in throngs 
 Of sudden angel-faces, face by face. 
 All hushed and solemn, as a thought 
 
 of God 
 Heid them suspended, — was I not, 
 
 that hour, 
 The lady of the world, princess of 
 
 life, 
 ^Mistress of feast and favor ? Could 
 
 I touch 
 A rose with my white hand, but it be- 
 came 
 Redder at once ? Could I walk leis- 
 urely 
 Along our swarded garden, but the 
 
 grass 
 Tracked me with greenness ? Could 
 
 I stand aside 
 A moment underneath a cornel-tree. 
 But all the leaves did tremble as 
 
 alive 
 With songs of fifty birds who were 
 
 made glad 
 
 Because I stood there ? Could I turn 
 to look 
 
 With these twain eyes of mine, — now 
 weeping fast. 
 
 Now good for only weeping, — upon 
 man. 
 
 Angel, or beast, or bird, but each re- 
 joiced 
 
 Because I looked on him ? Alas, 
 
 alas ! 
 'And is not this much woe, — to cry 
 ''Alas!" 
 
 Speaking of joy ? And is not this 
 more shame, — 
 
 To have made the woe myself, from 
 all that joy ? 
 
 To have stretched my hand, and 
 plucked it from the tree, 
 
 And chosen it for fruit ? Nay, is not 
 this 
 
 Still most despair, — to have halved 
 that bitter fruit. 
 
 And ruined so the sweetest friend 
 I have, 
 
 Turning the Greatest to mine ene- 
 my? 
 Adam. I will not hear thee speak 
 so. Hearken, Spirits ! 
 
 Our God, who is the enemy of none, 
 
 But only of their sin, hath set your 
 hope 
 
 And my hope in a promise ou this 
 head. 
 
 Show reverence, then, aud never 
 bruise her more 
 
 With unpermitted and extreme re- 
 proach, 
 
 Lest, passionate in anguish, she tling 
 down 
 
 Beneath your trampling feet God's 
 gift to us 
 
 Of sovran ty by reason and freewill. 
 
 Sinning against the province of the 
 soul 
 
 To rule the soulless. Reverence her 
 estate. 
 
 And pass out from lier presence with 
 no words. 
 Eve. O dearest heart, have patience 
 with my heart ! 
 
 O Spirits, have patience, 'stead of rev- 
 erence. 
 
 And let me speak; for, not being in-' 
 nocent, 
 
 It little doth become me to be proud. 
 
 And I am prescient by the very 
 hope 
 
 And promise set upon me, that hence- 
 forth 
 
 i 
 
198 
 
 A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 Only my gentleness shall make me 
 
 great, 
 My humbleness exalt me. Awful 
 
 Spirits, 
 Be witness that I stand in your re- 
 proof 
 But one sun's length off from my 
 
 happiness — 
 Happy, as I have said, to look around. 
 Clear to look up ! — and now ! I need 
 
 not speak — 
 Ye see me what I am: ye scorn me so, 
 Because ye see me what I have made 
 
 myself 
 From God's best making ! Alas, — 
 
 peace foregone. 
 Love wronged, and virtue forfeit, and 
 
 tears wept 
 Upon all, vainly ! Alas, me 1 alas, 
 Who have undone myself from all 
 
 that best. 
 Fairest, and sweetest, to this wretch- 
 
 edest. 
 Saddest, and most defiled — cast out, 
 
 cast down — 
 What word metes absolute loss ? Let 
 
 absolute loss 
 Suffice you for revenge. For /, who 
 
 lived 
 Beneath the wings of angels yester- 
 day, 
 Wander to-day beneath the roofless 
 
 world: 
 I, reigning the earth's empress yes- 
 terday. 
 Put off from me to-day your hate 
 
 with prayers: 
 /, yesterday, who answered the Lord 
 
 God, 
 Composed and glad as singing-birds 
 
 the sun, 
 Might shriek now from our dismal 
 
 desert, " God," 
 And hear him make reply, " What is 
 
 thy need, — 
 Thou whom I cursed to-day ? " 
 Adam. Eve ! 
 
 Eve. I, at last, 
 
 Who yesterday was helpmate and de- 
 light 
 Unto mine Adam, am to-day the grief 
 And curse-meet for him. And so 
 
 pity us, 
 Ye gentle Spirits, and pardon him 
 
 and me; 
 And let some tender peace, made of 
 
 our pain, 
 Grow up betwixt us, as a tree might 
 
 grow. 
 
 With boughs on both sides ! in the 
 
 shade of which, 
 When presently ye shall behold us 
 
 dead. 
 For the poor sake of our humility 
 Breathe out your pardon on our 
 
 breathless lips. 
 And drop your twilight dews against 
 
 our brows, 
 And stroking with mild airs our 
 
 harmless hands 
 Left empty of all fruit, perceive your 
 
 love 
 Distilling through your pity over us, 
 And suffer it, self-reconciled, to pass ! 
 
 LuciFEK rises in the circle. 
 
 Luc. Who talks here of a comple- 
 ment of grief ? 
 
 Of expiation wrought by loss and 
 fall? 
 
 Of hate subduable to pity ? Eve ? 
 
 Take counsel from thy counsellor the 
 snake,. 
 
 And boast no more in grief, nor hope 
 from pain, 
 
 My docile Eve ! I teach you to de- 
 spond. 
 
 Who taught you disobedience. Look 
 around ! 
 
 Earth-spirits and phantasms hear you 
 talk unmoved, 
 
 As if ye were red clay again, and 
 talked. 
 
 What are your words to them ? your 
 grief to them ? 
 
 Your deaths, indeed, to them ? Did 
 the hand pause 
 
 For their sake, in the plucking of the 
 fruit. 
 
 That they should pause for yoxl in 
 hating you? 
 
 Or will your grief or death, as did 
 your sin, 
 
 Bring change upon their final doom ? 
 Behold, 
 
 Your grief is but your sin in the re- 
 bound, 
 
 And cannot expiate for it. 
 Adam. That is true. 
 
 Luc. Ay ; that is true. The clay 
 king testifies 
 
 To the snake's counsel, — hear him! — 
 very true. 
 Earth-spirits. I wail, I wail! 
 Luc. And certes, that is true. 
 
 Ye wail, ye all wail. Peradventure I 
 
 Could wail among you. O thou uni- 
 verse, 
 
A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 199 
 
 That boldest sin and woe, — more 
 
 room for wail ! 
 Distant Starry Voice. Ah, ah, Heos- 
 
 phoros! Heosphoros! 
 Adam. Mark Lucifer ! He changes 
 
 awfully. 
 Eve. It seems as if he looked from 
 ' grief to God, 
 And could not see him. "Wretched 
 
 Lucifer! 
 Adam. How he stands — yet an 
 
 angel! 
 Earth-spirits. "We all wail! 
 Luc. {after a pa?«e). Dost thou re- 
 member, Adam, when the curse 
 Took us in Eden? On a mountain- 
 peak 
 Half-sheathed in primal woods, and 
 
 glittering 
 In spasms of awful sunshine at that 
 
 hour, 
 A lion couched, part raised upon his 
 
 paws, 
 "With his calm, massive face turned 
 
 full on thine, 
 
 his mane listening. "When the 
 
 ended cvirse 
 
 silence in the world, right sud- 
 denly 
 sprang up rampant, and stood 
 
 straight and stiff, 
 As if the new reality of death 
 "Were dashed against his eyes, and 
 
 roared so fierce, 
 (Such thick carnivorous passion in 
 
 his throat 
 Tearing a passage through the wrath 
 
 and fear) 
 And roared so wild, and smote from 
 
 all the hills 
 Such fast keen echoes crumbling 
 
 down the vales 
 Precipitately, — that the forest beasts, 
 One after one, ditl mutter a response 
 Of savage and of sorrowful complaint 
 Which trailed along the gorges. Then, 
 
 at once, 
 He fell back, and rolled crashing from 
 
 the height 
 Into the dusk of pines. 
 
 Adam. It might have been. 
 
 I heard the curse alone. 
 Earth-spirits. I wail, I wail! 
 
 Luc. That lion is the type of what 
 
 I am. 
 And as he fixed thee with his full- 
 faced hate. 
 And roared O Adam, comprehending 
 
 doom, 
 
 And 
 Left 
 He 
 
 So, gazing on the face of the Unseen, 
 I cry out here between the heavens 
 
 and earth 
 My conscience of this sin, this woe, 
 
 this wrath, 
 "Which damn me to this depth. 
 Earth-spirits. I wail, I wail! 
 
 Eve. I wail — O God! 
 Luc. I scorn you that ye wail, 
 
 "Who use your petty griefs for pedes- 
 tals 
 To stand on, beckoning pity from 
 
 without. 
 And deal in pathos of antithesis 
 Of what ye rvere forsooth, and what 
 
 ye are ! — 
 I scorn you like an angel ! Yet one 
 
 cry 
 I, too, would drive up like a column 
 
 erect, 
 Marble to marble, from my heart to 
 
 heaven, 
 A monument of anguish to transpierce 
 And overtop your vapory complaints 
 Expressed from feeble woes. 
 Earth-spirits. I wail, I wail! 
 
 Luc. For, O ye heavens, ye are my 
 
 witnesses, 
 That J, struck out from nature in a 
 
 blot, 
 The outcast and the mildew of things 
 
 good, 
 The leper of angels, the excepted dust 
 Under the common rain of daily 
 
 gifts, — 
 I the snake, I the tempter, I the 
 
 cursed, — 
 To whom the highest and the lowest 
 
 alike 
 Say, Go from us : we have no need 
 
 of thee, — 
 "Was made by God like others. Good 
 
 and fair 
 He did create me! ask him if not 
 
 fair; 
 Ask if I caught not fair and silverly 
 His blessing for chief angels on my 
 
 head 
 Until it grew there, a crown crystal- 
 lized; 
 Ask if he never called me by my name, 
 Lucifer, kindly said as " Gabriel " — 
 Lucifer, soft as "Michael! " while se- 
 rene 
 I, standing in the glory of the lamps, 
 Answered, " My Father," innocent of 
 
 shame 
 And of the sense of thunder. Ha! ye 
 
 think. 
 
200 
 
 A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 "White angels in jonr niches, I re- 
 pent, 
 And would tread down my own of- 
 
 To service at the footstool ? That's 
 
 read wrong! 
 I cry as the beast did, that I may cry 
 Expansive, not appealing! Fallen so 
 
 deep, 
 Against the sides of this prodigious 
 
 pit 
 I cry, cry, dashing out the hands of 
 
 wail 
 On each side, to meet anguish every- 
 where. 
 And to attest it in the ecstasy 
 And exaltation of a woe sustained. 
 Because provoked and chosen. 
 
 Pass along 
 Your wilderness, A'ain mortals! Puny 
 
 griefs 
 In transitory shapes, be henceforth 
 
 dwarfed 
 To your own conscience by the dread 
 
 extremes 
 Of what I am and have been. If ye 
 
 have fallen. 
 It is but a step's fall, the whole ground 
 
 beneath 
 Strewn woolly soft with promise: if 
 
 ye have sinned, 
 Your jn-ayers tread high as angels; if 
 
 ye have grieved. 
 Ye are too mortal to be pitiable : 
 The power to die disproves the right 
 
 to grieve. 
 Go to ! Ye call this ruin ? I half 
 
 scorn 
 The ill I did you! Were ye wronged 
 
 by me. 
 Hated and tempted and undone of 
 
 me, 
 Still, what's your hurt to mine of 
 
 doing hurt, 
 Of hating, tempting, and so ruining ? 
 This sword's hilt is the sharpest, and 
 
 cuts through 
 The hand that wields it. 
 
 Go! I curse you all. 
 Hate one another, — feebly, — as ye 
 
 can ! 
 I would not certes cut you short in 
 
 hate: 
 Far be it from me! Hate on as ye 
 
 can ! 
 I breathe into your faces, Spirits of 
 
 earth. 
 As wintry blast may breathe on win- 
 try leaves, 
 
 And, lifting up their brownness, show 
 beneath 
 
 The branches bare. Beseech you, 
 Spirits, give 
 
 To Eve, who beggarly entreats your 
 love 
 
 For her and Adam when they shall be 
 dead. 
 
 An answer rather fitting to the sin 
 
 Than to the sorrow, as the heavens, 
 I trow, 
 
 For justice' sake gave theirs. 
 
 I curse you both, 
 
 Adam and Eve. Say grace, as after 
 meat. 
 
 After my curses. May your tears 
 fall hot 
 
 On all the hissing scorns o' the crea- 
 tures here — 
 
 And yet rejoice ! Increase and mul- 
 tiply, 
 
 Ye in your generations, in all plagues, 
 
 Corruptions, melancholies, poverties, 
 
 And hideous forms of life and fears of 
 death, 
 
 The thought of death being alway 
 eminent. 
 
 Immovable, and dreadful in your 
 life. 
 
 And deafly and dumbly insignificant 
 
 Of any hope beyond, as death itself, 
 
 Whichever of you lieth dead the first. 
 
 Shall seem to the survivor, yet re- 
 
 joice 
 
 My curse catch at you strongly, body 
 
 and soul, 
 And He find no redemption, nor the 
 
 wing 
 Of seraph move your way — and yet 
 
 rejoice 
 
 l_ 
 
 Rejoice, because ye have not set in 
 
 you 
 This hate which shall pursue you, — 
 
 this fire-hate 
 Which glares without, because it 
 
 burns within ; 
 Which kills from ashes, — this poten- 
 tial hate. 
 Wherein I, angel, in antagonism 
 To God and his reflex beatitudes, 
 Moan ever in the central universe 
 With the great woe of striving against 
 
 Love, 
 And gasp for space amid the Infinite, 
 And toss for rest amid the Desert- 
 
 ness. 
 Self-orphaned by my will, and self- 
 elect 
 To kingship of resistant agony 
 
 i 
 
A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 201 
 
 Toward the Good round ine, hating; 
 
 good and love, 
 And willing to hate good and to hate 
 
 love, 
 And willing to will on so evermore, 
 Scorning the Past, and damning the 
 
 To come — 
 Gro and rejoice ! — I curse you. 
 
 [LuciFKR vanishes. 
 Earth-spirits. 
 And we scorn you ! There's no par- 
 don 
 Which can lean to you aright. 
 When your bodies take the guerdon 
 Of the death-curse in oiir sight. 
 Then the bee that hummeth lowest 
 shall transcend you; 
 Then ye shall not move an eyelid, 
 Though the stars look down your 
 eyes ; 
 And the earth which ye defiled 
 Shall expose you to the skies, — 
 " Lo ! these kings of ours, wlio sought 
 
 to comprehend you." 
 First Sjiirit. 
 And the elements shall boldly 
 
 All your dust to dust constrain. 
 Unresistedly and coldly 
 
 I will smite you with my rain. 
 From the slowest of my frosts is no 
 
 receding. 
 Second Spirit. 
 And my little worm, aiJjiointed 
 
 To assume a royal part. 
 He shall reign, crowned and anoint- 
 ed, 
 O'er the noble human heart. 
 Give him counsel against losing of 
 that Eden ! 
 Adam. Do ye scorn us ? Back your 
 
 scorn 
 Toward your faces gray and lorn, 
 
 As the wind drives back the rain. 
 Thus I drive with passion-strife, — 
 I, who stand beneath God's sun, 
 Made like God, and, though un- 
 done, 
 Not unmade for love and life. 
 Lo ! ye utter threats in vain. 
 By my free will that chose sin, 
 By mine agony within 
 Round the passage of the fire, 
 
 By the pinings which disclose 
 That my native soul is higher 
 Than what it chose. 
 We are yet too high, O SiJirits, for 
 your disdain. 
 Eve. Nay, beloved ! If these be 
 low. 
 
 We confront them from no height. 
 Wp have stooped down to their 
 
 level 
 By infecting them with evil, 
 And their scorn that meets our blow 
 
 Scathes aright. 
 Amen. Let it be so. 
 Earth-spirits. 
 We shall triumpli, triumph greatly. 
 
 When ye lie beneath the sward. 
 There our lily shall grow stately, 
 Though ye answer not a word, 
 And her fragrance shall be scornful of 
 your silence: 
 While your throne ascending calm- 
 ly, 
 We, in heirdom of your soul, 
 Flash the river, lift the palm-tree. 
 The dilated ocean roll. 
 By the thoughts that throbbed within 
 you, round the islands. 
 
 Alp and torrent shall inherit 
 
 Your significance of will, 
 And the grandeur of your spirit 
 Shall our broad savannahs fill; 
 In our winds your exultations shall 
 be springing. 
 Even your parlance, which invei- 
 ■ gles, 
 Bj' our rudeness shall be won. 
 Hearts poetic in our eagles 
 Shall beat up against the sun, 
 And strike downward in articulate 
 clear singing. 
 
 Your bold speeches our Behemoth 
 With his thunderous jaw shall 
 wield. 
 Your high fancies shall our Mam- 
 moth 
 Breathe sublimely up the shield 
 Of St. Michael at God's throne, who 
 waits to speed him, 
 Till the heavens' smooth-grooved 
 thunder, 
 Spinning back, shall leave them 
 clear. 
 And the angels, smiling wonder 
 With dropt looks from sphere to 
 sphere. 
 Shall cry, "Ho, ye heirs of Adam ! ye 
 exceed him." 
 Adam. Root oiat thine eyes, sweet, 
 from the dreary ground I 
 Beloved, we may be overcome by 
 
 God, 
 But not bj' these. 
 Eve, By God, perhaps, in these. 
 
A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 Adam. I think not so. Had God 
 
 foredoomed despair, 
 He had not spoken hope. He may 
 
 destroy 
 Certes, but not deceive. 
 
 Eve. Behold this rose ! 
 
 I plucked it in our bower of Paradise 
 This morning, as I went forth, and my 
 
 heart 
 Has beat against its petals all the 
 
 day. 
 I thought it would be always red and 
 
 full, 
 As when I plucked it. Is it? Ye 
 
 may see. 
 I cast it down to you that ye may see, 
 All of you ! Count the petals lost of 
 
 it, 
 And note the colors fainted ! Ye may 
 
 see ! 
 And I am as it is, who yesterday 
 Grew in the same place. Oh ye 
 
 Spirits of earth, 
 I almost, from my miserable heart. 
 Could here ujibraid you for your cruel 
 
 heart. 
 Which will not let me, down the slope 
 
 of death. 
 Draw any of your pity after me. 
 Or lie still in the quiet of your looks, 
 As my flower, there, in mine. 
 
 [A bleak wind, quickened with indistinct 
 human voices, spins around the 
 earth-zodiac, filling the circle with 
 its presence, and then, wailing off 
 into the east, carries the 7-ose away 
 with it. 'Eve falls upon her face. 
 Adam stands erect. 
 
 Adcmi. So, verily. 
 
 The last departs. 
 Eve. So memory follows hope. 
 
 And life both. Love said to me, 
 " Do not die," 
 
 And I replied, " O Love, I will not 
 die. 
 
 I exiled and I will not orphan Love."' 
 
 But now it is no choice of mine to 
 die: 
 
 My heart throbs from me. 
 Adam. Call it straightway back ! 
 
 Death's consummation crowns com- 
 pleted life, 
 
 Or comes too early. Hope being set 
 on thee 
 
 For others, if for others, then for 
 thee, — 
 
 For thee and me. 
 
 [The wind revolves from the east, and 
 
 round again to the east, perfumed 
 by the Fden-rose, and full of voices 
 iDhich sioeep oxit into articulation as 
 they pass. 
 
 Let thy soul shake its leaves 
 To feel the mystic wind — hark ! 
 Eve. I hear life. 
 
 Infant Voices passing in the vjind. 
 
 Oh, we live ! oh, we live ! 
 
 And this life that we receive 
 Is a warm thing and a new. 
 Which we softly bud into 
 From the heart and from the brain. 
 Something strange that overmuch is 
 
 Of the sound and of the sight. 
 Flowing round in trickling touches'. 
 
 With a sorrow and delight; 
 Yet is it all in vain ? 
 
 Rock us softly, 
 Lest it be all in vain. 
 Youthful Voices passing. 
 Oh, we live! oh, we live ! 
 And this life that we achieve 
 Is a loud thing and a bold. 
 Which, with pulses manifold. 
 Strikes the heart out full and fain, — 
 Active doer, noble liver. 
 
 Strong to struggle, sure to conquer. 
 Though the vessel's prow will quiver 
 
 At the lifting of the anchor; 
 Yet do we strive in vain ? 
 Infant Voices passing. 
 
 Rock us softly, 
 Lest it be all in vain. 
 Poet Voices passing . 
 Oh, we live ! oh, we live ! 
 And this life that we conceive 
 Is a clear thing and a fair. 
 Which we set in crystal air 
 That its beauty may be plain. 
 With a breathing and a flooding 
 
 Of the heaven-life on the whole, 
 While we hear the forests budding 
 
 To the music of the soul ; 
 Yet is it tuned in vain ? 
 Infant Voices passing . 
 
 Rock us softly. 
 Lest it be all in vain. 
 Philosophic Voices passing. 
 Oh, we live ! oh, we live ! 
 And this life that we perceive 
 Is a great thing and a grave. 
 Which for others' use we have, 
 Duty-laden to remain. 
 We are helpers, fellow-creatures. 
 
 Of the right against the wrong, 
 We are earnest-hearted teachers 
 
 Of the truth which maketh strong; 
 Yet do we teach in vain ? 
 
.1 DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 20.3 
 
 " 
 
 Infant Voices passing. 
 
 Rock us softly, 
 Lest it be all in vain. 
 lievel Voices passing. 
 Oh, we live ! oh, we live ! 
 And this life that we reprieve 
 Is a low thing and a light, 
 Which is jested out of siglat. 
 And made worthy of disdain. 
 Strike with bold electric laughter 
 The high tops of things divine: 
 Turn thy head, my brother, after. 
 
 Lest thy tears fall in my wine ; 
 For is all laughed in vain ? 
 Infant Voices passing. 
 
 Rock us softly. 
 Lest it be all in vain. 
 Eve. I hear a sound of life, — of life 
 like ours, 
 Of laughter and of wailing, of grave 
 
 speech, 
 Of little plaintive voices innocent, 
 Of life in separate courses, flowing 
 
 out 
 Like our four rivers to some outward 
 
 main. 
 I hear life — life! 
 Adam. And so thy cheeks have 
 snatched 
 Scarlet to paleness, and thine eyes 
 
 drink fast 
 Of glory from full cups, and thy moist 
 
 lips 
 Seem trembling, both of them, with 
 
 earnest doubts 
 Whether to utter words, or only 
 smile. 
 Eve. Shall I be mother of the com- 
 ing life ? 
 Hear the steep generations, how they 
 
 fall 
 Adown the visionary stairs of Time 
 Like supernatural thunders, far, yet 
 
 near. 
 Sowing their fiery echoes through the 
 
 hills ! 
 Am I a cloud to these, — mother to 
 these ? 
 Earth-spirits. And bringer of the 
 curse upon all these. 
 
 [Eve sinks dozen again. 
 Poet Voices passing, 
 Oh, we live ! oh, we live ! 
 And this life that we conceive 
 Is a noble thing and high. 
 Which we climb up loftily 
 To view God without a stain, 
 Till, recoiling where the shade is, 
 We retread our steps again. 
 
 sur- 
 
 And descend the gloomy Hades 
 To resume man's mortal pain. 
 Shall it be climbed in vain ? 
 Infant Voices passing. 
 
 Rock us softly. 
 Lest it be all in vain. 
 Love Voices ixissing. 
 Oh, we live ! oh, we live ! 
 And this life we would retrieve 
 Is a faithful thing apart 
 Which we love in, heart to heart, 
 Until one heart fitteth twain. 
 " Wilt thou be one with me ? " 
 " I will be one with thee." 
 " Ha, ha! we love and live ! " 
 Alas ! ye love and die. 
 Shriek — who shall reply? 
 For is it not loved in vain ? 
 Infant Voices passing. 
 
 Rock us softly, 
 Though it be all in vain. 
 Aged Voices passing. 
 Oh, we live ! oh, we live ! 
 And this life we would 
 
 vive 
 Is a gloomy thing and brief. 
 Which, consummated in grief, 
 Leaveth ashes for all gain. 
 Is it not all in vain ? 
 Infant Voices passing. 
 
 Rock us softly. 
 Though it be all in vain. 
 
 [ Voices die aioay. 
 Earth-spirits. And bringer of the 
 
 curse upon all these. 
 Eve. The voices of foreshown hu- 
 manity 
 Die off: so let me die. 
 
 Adam. So let us die, 
 
 When God's will soundeth the right 
 hour of death. 
 Earth-spirits. And bringer of the 
 
 curse upon all these. 
 Eve. O Spirits ! by the gentleness 
 ye use 
 In winds at night, and floating clouds 
 
 at noon, 
 In gliding waters under lily-leaves. 
 In chirp of crickets, and the settling 
 
 hush 
 A bird makes in her nest with feet 
 
 and wings, — 
 Fulfil your natures now ! 
 
 Earth-spirits. Agreed, allowed I 
 
 We gather out our natures like a 
 
 cloud, 
 And thus fulfil their lightnings ! 
 Thus, and thus ! 
 
 Harken, oh, barken to us ! 
 
204 
 
 A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 First Spirit. 
 As the storm-wind blows bleakly 
 
 from the norland, 
 As the snow-wind beats blindly on 
 
 the moorland, 
 As the simoom drives hot across the 
 
 desert, 
 As the thunder roars deep in the 
 
 Unmeasured, 
 As the torrent tears the ocean-world 
 
 to atoms, 
 As the whirlpool grinds it fathoms 
 below fathoms, 
 
 Thus — and thus ! 
 Second Spirit. 
 As the yellow toad, that spits its poi- 
 son chilly, 
 As the tiger in the jungle crouching 
 
 stilly. 
 As the wild boar, with ragged tusks 
 
 of anger. 
 As the wolf-dog, with teeth of glitter- 
 ing clangor, 
 As the vultures, that scream against 
 
 the thunder, 
 As the owlets, that sit, and moan 
 asunder; 
 
 Thus — and thus 1 
 Eve. Adam ! God ! 
 Adam. Cruel, unrelenting Spirits ! 
 By the power in me of the sovran soul, 
 Whose thoughts keep pace yet with 
 
 the angel's march, 
 I charge you into silence, trample 
 
 you " 
 Down to obedience. I am king of 
 you ! 
 Earth-Hpirit.'i. 
 Ha, ha ! thou art king ! 
 With a sin for a crown. 
 And a soul undone ! 
 Thou, the antagonized. 
 Tortured, and agonized, 
 Held in the ring 
 Of the zodiac ! 
 Now, king, beware ! 
 We are many and strong, 
 Whom thou standest among; 
 And we press on the air. 
 And we stifle thee back, 
 And we multiply where 
 Thou wouldst trample us down 
 From rights of our own 
 To an utter wrong. 
 And from under the feet of thy 
 scorn, 
 
 O forlorn, 
 We shall spring up like corn. 
 And our stubble be strong. 
 
 Adam. God, there is power in thee ! 
 I make appeal 
 Unto thy kingship. 
 Eve. There is pity in Thee, 
 
 sinned against, great God ! My 
 
 seed, my seed, 
 
 There is hope set on Thee, — I cry to 
 thee, 
 
 Thou mystic Seed that shalt be ! — 
 leave us not 
 
 In agony beyond what we can bear, 
 
 Fallen in debasement below thunder- 
 mark, 
 
 A mark for scorning, taunted and 
 perplext 
 
 By all these creatures we ruled yes- 
 terday, 
 
 Whom thou. Lord, rulest alway ! O 
 my Seed, 
 
 Through the tempestous years that 
 rain so thick 
 
 Betwixt my ghostly vision and thy 
 face. 
 
 Let me have token ! for my soul is 
 bruised 
 
 Before the serpent's head is. 
 
 [A vision of Christ appears in the 
 midst of the zodiac, xohich pales be- 
 fore the heavenly light. The Earth- 
 spirits grow grayer and fainter. 
 
 Christ. I am here ! 
 
 Adam. This is God I Curse us not, 
 
 God, any more ! 
 Eve. But gazing so, so, with om- 
 nific eyes. 
 Lift my soul upward till it touch thy 
 
 feet! 
 Or lift it only — not to seem too 
 
 proud — 
 To the low height of some good 
 
 angel's feet, 
 For such to tread on when he walketh 
 
 straight. 
 And thy lips praise him ! 
 Christ. Spirits of the earth, 
 
 1 meet you with rebuke for the re- 
 
 proach 
 
 And cruel and unmitigated blame 
 
 Ye cast upon your masters. True, 
 they have sinned; 
 
 And true their sin is reckoned into 
 loss 
 
 For you the sinless. Yet your inno- 
 cence, 
 
 Which of you praises ? since God 
 made your acts 
 
 Inherent in your lives, and bound 
 your hands 
 
A DRAMA OF EXILE 
 
 205 
 
 With instincts and imperious sancti- 
 ties 
 
 From self-defacement. Which of 
 j'ou disdains 
 
 These sinners, who in falling proved 
 their height 
 
 Above you by their liberty to fall? 
 
 And which of you complains of loss 
 by them, 
 
 For whose delight and use ye have 
 your life 
 
 And honor in creation ? Ponder it ! 
 
 This regent and sublime Humanity, 
 
 Though fallen, exceeds you ! this 
 shall film your sun, 
 
 Shall hunt your lightning to its lair 
 of cloud, 
 
 Turn back your rivers, footpath all 
 your seas, 
 
 Lay flat your forests, master with a 
 look 
 
 Your lion at his fasting, and fetch 
 down 
 
 Your eagle flying. Nay, without this 
 law 
 
 Of mandom, ye would perish, — beast 
 by beast 
 
 Devouring, — tree by tree, with stran- 
 gling roots 
 
 And trunks set tuskwise. Ye would 
 gaze on God 
 
 With imperceptive blankness up the 
 stars. 
 
 And mutter, " Why, God, hast thou 
 made us thus?" 
 
 And, pining to a sallow idiocy. 
 
 Stagger up blindly against the ends 
 of life. 
 
 Then stagnate into rottenness, and 
 drop 
 
 Heavily — poor, dead matter — piece- 
 meal down 
 
 The abysmal spaces, like a little stone 
 
 Let fall to chaos. Therefore over you 
 
 Receive man's sceptre ! therefore be 
 content 
 
 To minister with voluntary grace 
 
 And melancholy pardon every rite 
 
 And function in you to the human 
 hand ! 
 
 Be ye to man as angels are to God, — 
 
 Servants in pleasure, singers of de- 
 light, 
 
 Siiggesters to his soul of higher things 
 
 Than any of your highest ! So at last. 
 
 He shall look round on you with lids 
 too straight 
 
 To hold the grateful tears, and thank 
 you well, 
 
 And 
 
 he prays his 
 he sings his 
 he has learnt 
 
 bless you when 
 
 secret prayers. 
 And praise you, when 
 
 open songs. 
 For the clear song-note 
 
 in you 
 Of purifying sweetness, and extend 
 Across your head his golden fantasies 
 Which glorify you into soul from 
 
 sense. 
 Go, serve him for such price ! That 
 
 not in vain. 
 Nor yet ignobly, ye shall serve, I place 
 My word here for an oath, mine oath 
 
 for act 
 To be hereafter. In the name of 
 
 which 
 Perfect redemption and perpetual 
 
 grace 
 I bless you through the hope and 
 
 through the peace 
 Which are mine, — to the love which 
 
 is myself. 
 Eve. Speak on still, Christ ! Albeit 
 
 thou bless me not 
 In set words, I am blessed in barken- 
 ing thee — 
 Speak, Christ ! 
 Chbist. Speak, Adam ! Bless the 
 
 woman, man. 
 It is thine office. 
 
 Adam. Mother of the world. 
 
 Take heart before this Presence ! Lo, 
 
 my voice. 
 Which, naming erst the creatures, did 
 
 express 
 (God breathing through my breath) 
 
 the attributes 
 And instincts of each creature in its 
 
 name. 
 Floats to the same afflatus, — floats 
 
 and heaves. 
 Like a water-weed that opens to a 
 
 wave, 
 A full-leaved prophecy affecting thee, 
 Out fairly and wide. Henceforward 
 
 arise, aspire 
 To all the calms and magnanimities. 
 The lofty iises and the noble ends. 
 The sanctified devotion and full work, 
 To which thou art elect forevermore. 
 First woman, wife, and mother ! 
 Eve. And first in sin. 
 
 Adam. And also the sole V)earer of 
 
 the Seed 
 Whereby sin dieth. Raise the majes- 
 ties 
 Of thy disconsolate brows, O well- 
 beloved, 
 
 H^-ll-^H 
 
 I 
 
206 
 
 A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 And front with level eyelids the To 
 
 come, 
 And all the dark o' the world ! Rise, 
 
 woman, rise 
 To thy peculiar and best altitudes 
 Of doing good and of enduring ill, 
 Of comforting for ill, and teaching 
 
 good, 
 And reconciling all that ill and good 
 Unto the patience of a constant 
 
 hope, — 
 Rise with thy daughters ! If sin 
 
 came by thee. 
 And by sin, death, the ransom-right- 
 eousness 
 The heavenly life and compensative 
 
 rest, 
 Shall come by means of thee. If woe 
 
 by thee 
 Had issue to the world, thou shalt go 
 
 forth 
 An angel of the woe thou didst 
 
 achieve. 
 Found acceptable to the world instead 
 Of others of that name, of whose 
 
 bright steps 
 Thy deed stripped bare the hills. Be 
 
 satisfied: 
 Something thou hast to bear through 
 
 womanhood. 
 Peculiar suffering answering to the 
 
 sin, — 
 Some pang paid down for each new 
 
 human life, 
 Some weariness in guarding such a 
 
 life. 
 Some coldness from the guarded, 
 
 some mistrust 
 From those thou hast too well served, 
 
 from those beloved 
 Too loyally some treason ; feebleness 
 Within thy heart, and cruelty with- 
 out, 
 And pressures of an alien tyranny 
 "With its dynastic reasons of larger 
 
 bones 
 And stronger sinews. But go to ! 
 
 thy love 
 Shall chant itself its own beatitudes 
 After its own life-working. A child's 
 
 kiss 
 Set on thy sighing lips shall make 
 
 thee glad; 
 A poor man served by thee shall 
 
 make thee rich; 
 A sick man helped by thee shall 
 
 make thee strong; 
 Thou shalt be served thyself by every 
 
 sense 
 
 Of service which thou rendereat. 
 Such a crown 
 
 I set upon thy head, — Christ wit- 
 nessing 
 
 With looks of prompting love, — to 
 keep thee clear 
 
 Of all reproach against the sin for- 
 gone, 
 
 From all the generations which suc- 
 ceed. 
 
 Thy hand which plucked the apple 
 I clasp close; 
 
 Thy lips which spake wrong counsel 
 I kiss close; 
 
 I bless thee in the name of Paradise 
 
 And by the memory of Edenic joys 
 
 Forfeit and lost, — by that last cy- 
 press-tree, 
 
 Green at the gate, which thrilled as 
 we came out ; 
 
 And by the blessed nightingale which 
 threw 
 
 Its melancholy music after us ; 
 
 And by the flowers, whose spirits full 
 of smells 
 
 Did follow softly, plucking us behind 
 
 Back to the gradual banks, and ver- 
 nal bowers. 
 
 And fourfold river-courses. By all 
 these 
 
 I bless thee to the contraries of these ; 
 
 I bless thee to the desert and the 
 thorns, 
 
 To the elemental change and turbu- 
 lence, 
 
 And to the roar of the estranged 
 beasts. 
 
 And to the solemn dignities of grief, 
 
 To each one of these ends, and to 
 their end 
 
 Of death and the hereafter. 
 Eve. I accept 
 
 For me and for my daughters this 
 high part. 
 
 Which lowly shall be counted. No- 
 ble work 
 
 Shall hold me in the place of garden 
 rest. 
 
 And, in the place of Eden's lost de- 
 light. 
 
 Worthy endurance of permitted pain ; 
 
 While on my longest patience there 
 shall wait 
 
 Death's speechless angel, smiling in 
 the east 
 
 Whence cometh the cold wind. I 
 bow myself 
 
 Humbly henceforward on the ill I 
 did, 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 That bumbleness may keep it in the 
 
 shade. 
 Shall it be so ? Shall I smile, saying 
 
 so? 
 
 Seed ! O King ! O God, who shalt 
 
 be seed, — 
 
 What shall I say ? As Eden's foun- 
 tains swelled 
 
 Brightly betwixt their banks, so 
 swells my soul 
 
 Betwixt thy love and power. 
 
 And, sweetest thoughts 
 
 Of foregone Eden, now, for the first 
 time 
 
 Since God said " Adam," walking 
 through the trees, 
 
 1 dare to pluck you, as I plucked ere- 
 
 while 
 
 The lily or pink, the rose or helio- 
 trope. 
 
 So pluck I you — so largely — with 
 both hands. 
 
 And throw you forward on the outer 
 earth 
 
 Wherein we are cast out, to sweeten it. 
 Adam. As thou, Christ, to illume it, 
 boldest Heaven 
 
 Broadly over our heads 
 
 [The Christ is gradually tranrfigiired, 
 during the following phrases of dia- 
 logue, into humanity and suffering. 
 
 Eve. O Saviour Christ, 
 
 Thou standest mute in glory, like the 
 sun ! 
 Adam. We worship in thy silence. 
 
 Saviour Christ. 
 Eve. Thy brows grow grander with 
 a forecast woe ; 
 Diviner, with the possible of death. 
 We worship in thy sorrow, Saviour 
 Christ. 
 Adam. How do thy clear still eyes 
 transpierce our souls. 
 As gazing through them, toward the 
 
 Father-throne 
 In a pathetical, full Deity, 
 Serenely as the stars gaze through the 
 
 air 
 Straight on each other ! 
 
 Eve. O pathetic Christ, 
 
 Thou standest mute in glory, like the 
 
 moon ! 
 
 Christ. Eternity stands alway 
 
 fronting God; 
 
 A stern colossal image, with blind 
 
 eyes, 
 :^nd grand dim lips that murmur 
 evermore, 
 
 God, God, God ! while the rush of life 
 
 and death, 
 The roar of act and thought, of evil 
 
 and good. 
 The avalanches of the ruining worlds 
 Tolling down space, — the new worlds' 
 
 genesis 
 Budding in fire, — the gradual hum- 
 ming growth 
 Of the ancient atoms and first forms 
 
 of earth. 
 The slow procession of the swathing 
 
 seas 
 And firmamental waters, and the 
 
 noise 
 Of the broad, fluent strata of pure 
 
 airs, — 
 All these flow onward in the intervals 
 Of that reiterated sound of — God ! 
 Which WORD innumerous angels 
 
 straightway lift 
 Wide on celestial altitudes of song 
 And choral adoration, and then drop 
 The burden softly, shutting the last 
 
 notes 
 In silver wings. Howbeit, in the 
 
 noon of time 
 Eternity shall wax as dumb as death. 
 While a new voice beneath the 
 
 spheres shall cry, 
 " God ! Why hast thou forsaken me, 
 
 my God?" 
 And not a voice in heaven shall an- 
 swer it. 
 
 [ The transfiguration is com- 
 plete in sadness. 
 
 Adam. Thy speech is of the heaven- 
 lies, yet, O Christ, 
 
 Awfully human are thy voice and 
 face 1 
 Eve. My nature overcomes me from 
 
 thine eyes. 
 Christ. In the set noon of time 
 shall one from heaven. 
 
 An angel fresh from looking upon 
 God, 
 
 Descend before a woman, blessing 
 her. 
 
 With perfect benediction of pure love. 
 
 For all the world in all its elements. 
 
 For all the creatures of earth, air, and 
 sea. 
 
 For all men in the body and in the 
 soul. 
 
 Unto all ends of glory and sanctity. 
 Eve. O laale pathetic Christ, I wor- 
 ship thee ! 
 
 I thank thee for that woman ! 
 
208 
 
 A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 Christ. Then at last, 
 
 I, wrapping round me your human- 
 ity, 
 Which, being sustained, shall neither 
 
 break nor burn 
 Beneath the fire of Godhead, will 
 
 tread earth. 
 And ransom you and it, and set 
 
 strong peace 
 Betwixt you and its creatures. With 
 
 my pangs 
 I will confront your sins; and, since 
 
 those sins 
 Have sunken to all Nature's heart 
 
 from j'ours, 
 The tears of my clean soul .shall fol- 
 low them, 
 And set a holy passion to work clear 
 Absolute consecration. In my brow 
 Of kingly whiteness shall be crowned 
 
 anew 
 Your discrowned human nature. 
 
 Look on me ! 
 As I shall be uplifted on a cross 
 In darkness of eclipse and anguish 
 
 dread. 
 So shall I lift up in my pierced 
 
 hands, — 
 Not into dark, but light; not unto 
 
 death. 
 But life, — beyond the reach of guilt 
 
 and grief. 
 The whole creation. Henceforth in 
 
 my name 
 Take courage, O thou woman, — man, 
 
 take hope ! 
 Your grave shall be as smooth as 
 
 Eden's sward 
 Beneath the steps of your prospective 
 
 thoughts, 
 And, one step past it, a new Eden- 
 gate 
 Shall open on a hinge of harmony. 
 And let you through to niercv." Ye 
 
 shall fall 
 No more within that Eden, nor jiass 
 
 out 
 Any more from it. In which hope, 
 
 move on, 
 First sinners and lirst mourners. 
 
 Live and love, 
 Doing both nobly, because lowlih-; 
 Live and work, strongly, because jja- 
 
 tiently ! 
 And, for the deed of death, trust it to 
 
 God 
 That it be well done, unrepented of, 
 And not to loss. And thence witli 
 
 constant prayers 
 
 Fasten your souls so high, that con- 
 
 tantly 
 The smile of your heroic cheer may 
 
 float 
 Above all floods of earthly agonies. 
 Purification being the joy of pain I 
 
 [ T/ie vision o/CuEisT vanishes. Adam 
 and Eve stand in an ecstasy. The 
 earth-zodiac pales away shade by 
 shade, as the stars, star by star, 
 shine out in the sky ; and the fol- 
 lowing chant from the two Earth- 
 spirits {as they sweejj back into the 
 zodiac, and disappear icith it) ac- 
 companies the process of change. 
 
 Earth-spirits. 
 
 By the mighty word thus spoken 
 
 Both for living and for dying. 
 We our homage oath, once broken. 
 Fasten back again in sighing. 
 And the creatures and the elements 
 renew their covenanting. 
 
 Here forgive us all our scorning; 
 Here we promise milder duty; 
 And the evening and the morning 
 Shall re-organize in beautj- 
 A sabbath day of sabbath joy, for 
 imiversal chanting. 
 
 And if, still, this melancholy 
 
 INIay be strong to overcome us; 
 If this mortal and unholy 
 We still fail to cast out from us ; 
 If we turn upon you unaware your 
 own dark influences; 
 
 If ye tremble when surrounded 
 
 By our forest pine and palm trees; 
 If we cannot cure the wounded 
 With our gum-trees and our balm- 
 trees; 
 And if your souls all mournfully sit 
 down among your senses, — 
 
 Yet, O mortals do not fear us 1 
 
 We are gentle in our languor; 
 Much more good ye shall have nour 
 us 
 Than any pain or anger. 
 And our God's refracted blessing in 
 our blessing shall be given. 
 
 By the desert's endless vigil 
 
 We will solemnize your passions; 
 By the wheel of the black eagle 
 We will teach you exaltations, 
 When he sails against the wind, to 
 the white spot up in heaven. 
 
A DRA.AfA OF EXILE. 
 
 209 
 
 Ye shall find us tender nurses 
 
 To your weariness of nature, 
 And our hands shall stroke the 
 curse's 
 Dreary furrows from the creature, 
 Till your bodies shall lie smooth in 
 death, and straight and slum- 
 berful. 
 
 Then a couch we will provide you 
 Where no summer heats shall 
 dazzle, 
 Strewing ou you and beside you 
 Thyme and rosemary and basil, 
 And the yew-tree shall grow over- 
 head to keep all safe and cool. 
 
 Till the Holy Blood awaited 
 Shall be chrism arouud us run- 
 ning. 
 Whereby, newly consecrated, 
 We shall leap up in God's sun- 
 ning, 
 To join the spheric company which 
 purer worlds assemble; 
 
 While, renewed by new evangels, 
 Soul-consummated, made glori- 
 ous. 
 Ye shall brighten past the angels. 
 Ye shall kneel to Christ victori- 
 ous, 
 And the rays around his feet beneath 
 your sobbing lips shall trem- 
 ble. 
 
 [The phantastic vision has all passed; 
 the earth-zodiac has broken like a 
 belt, and is dissolved from the des- 
 ert. The Earth-spirits vanish, and 
 the stars shine out above. 
 
 CHORUS OF INVISIBLE ANGELS, 
 
 While Adam and Eve advance into the 
 desert, hand in hand. 
 
 Hear our heavenly promise 
 
 Through your mortal passion 1 
 Love ye shall have from us, 
 
 In a pure relation. 
 As a fish or bird 
 
 Swims or flies, if moving, 
 We unseen are heard 
 
 To live on by loving. 
 Far above the glances 
 
 Of your eager eyes, 
 Listen ! we are loving. 
 Listen, through man's ignorances, 
 Listen, through God's mysteries. 
 
 Listen, down the heart of things, — 
 Ye shall hear our mystic wings 
 Murmurous with loving. 
 
 Through the opal door 
 
 Listen evermore 
 
 How we live by loving ! 
 First semichorvs. 
 When your bodies therefore 
 
 Reach the grave, their goal, 
 Softly will we care for 
 
 Each enfranchised soul. 
 Softly and unloathly, 
 
 Through the door of opal, 
 
 Toward the heavenly people. 
 Floated on a minor fine 
 Into the full chant divine. 
 
 We will draw you smoothly, 
 While the human in the minor 
 Makes the harmony diviner. 
 Listen to our loving I 
 Second semichorus. 
 There, a sough of glory 
 
 Shall breathe on you as you come, 
 Rutfling round the doorway 
 
 All the light of angeldom. 
 From the empyrean centre 
 
 Heavenly voices shall repeat, 
 " Souls, redeemed and pardoned, 
 enter. 
 
 For the chrism on you is sweet." 
 And every angel in the place 
 Lowlily shall bow his face, 
 
 Folded fair on softened sounds, 
 Because upon your hands and feet 
 
 He images his Master's wounds. 
 Listen to our loving ! 
 First seinichoras. 
 So, in the universe's 
 
 Consummated undoing. 
 Our seraphs of white mercies 
 
 Shall hover round the ruin. 
 Their wings shall stream upon the 
 
 flame 
 As if incorporate of the same 
 
 In elemental fusion; 
 And calm their faces shall burn out 
 With a pale and mastering thought, 
 And a steadfast looking of desire 
 From out between the clefts of fire, 
 While they cry, in the Holy's name, 
 
 To the final Restitution. 
 Listen to our loving ! 
 Second semichorti.'i. 
 So, when the day of God is 
 
 ■To the thick graves accompted, 
 Awaking the dead bodies, 
 
 The angel of the trumpet 
 Shall split and shatter the earth 
 
 To the roots of the grave 
 
210 
 
 A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 Which never before were slackened, 
 
 And quicken the charnel birth 
 With his blast so clear and brave 
 That the dead shall start, and 
 stand erect, 
 And every face of the bnrial-place 
 Shall the awful single look reflect 
 Wherewith he them awakened. 
 Listen to our loving ! 
 First semichorKs. 
 But wild is the horse of Death. 
 He will leap up wild at the clamor 
 Above and beneath. 
 And where is his Tamer 
 On that last day. 
 When he crieth. Ha, ha! 
 To the trumpet's blare, 
 And paweth the earth's Aceldama ? 
 When he tosseth his head. 
 The drear-white steed. 
 And ghastlily chamjoeth the last 
 moon-ray, 
 What angel there 
 Can lead him away, 
 That the living may rule for the 
 dead? 
 Second semichorus. 
 Yet a Tajvier shall be found ! 
 One more bright than seraph 
 
 crowned, 
 And more strong than cherub bold. 
 Elder, too, than angel old, 
 By his gray eternities. 
 He shall master and surprise 
 
 The steed of Death. 
 For he is strong, and he is fain: 
 He shall quell him with a breath. 
 And shall lead him where he will, 
 With a whisper in the ear, 
 
 Full of fear, 
 And a hand upon the mane, 
 
 Grand and still. 
 First semichorus. 
 Through the flats of Hades, where the 
 
 souls assemble, 
 He will guide the Death-steed calm 
 
 between their ranks, 
 While, like beaten dogs, they a little 
 
 moan and tremble 
 To see the darkness curdle from the 
 
 horse's glittering flanks. 
 Through the flats of Hades, where the 
 
 dreary shade is. 
 Up the steep of heaven, will the Tamer 
 
 guide the steed, — 
 Up the spheric circles, circle above 
 
 circle, 
 We who count the ages shall count 
 the tolling tread ; 
 
 Every hoof-fall striking a blinder, 
 
 blanker sparkle 
 From the stony orbs, which shall show 
 
 as they were dead. 
 Second semichorus. 
 All the way the Death-steed with toll- 
 ing hoofs shall travel; 
 Ashen gray the planets shall be mo- 
 tionless as stones; 
 Loosely shall the systems eject their 
 
 parts coeval ; 
 Stagnant in the spaces shall float the 
 
 pallid moons: 
 Suns that touch their apogees, reeling 
 
 from their level, 
 Shall run back on their axles in wild, 
 
 low, broken tunes. 
 Chorus. 
 Up against the arches of the crystal 
 
 ceiling, 
 From the horse's nostrils, shall steam 
 
 the blurting breath ; 
 Up between the angels pale with si- 
 lent feeling, 
 AVill the Tamer calmly lead the horse 
 
 of Death. 
 Semi-chorus. 
 Cleaving all that silence, cleaving all 
 
 that glory, 
 Will the Tamer lead him straightway 
 
 to the Throne ; 
 "Look out, O Jehovah, to this I bring 
 
 before thee. 
 With a hand nail-pierced, — I who am 
 
 thy Son." 
 Then the Eye Divinest, from the 
 
 Deepest, flaming. 
 On the mystic courser shall look out 
 
 in fire: 
 Blind the beast shall stagger where it 
 
 overcame him. 
 Meek as lamb at pasture, bloodless in 
 
 desire. 
 Down the beast shall shiver, slain 
 
 amid the taming. 
 And by Life essential the phantasm 
 
 Death exjiire. 
 Chorxis. 
 Listen, man, through life and 
 
 death, 
 Through the dust and through the 
 breath ; 
 Listen down the heart of things ! 
 Ye shall hear our mystic wings 
 
 Murmurous with loving. 
 A Voice from, below. Gabriel, thou 
 
 Gabriel ! 
 A Voice from above. What wouldst 
 
 thou with me ? 
 
 i 
 
A DRAMA OF EXILE. 
 
 211 
 
 First Voice. I heard thy voice sound 
 in the angels' song, 
 And I would give thee question. 
 Second Voice. Question me ! 
 First Voice. Why have I called 
 thrice to my morning star, 
 And had no answer ? All the stars 
 
 are out, 
 Andanswerintheiri^laces. Only invain 
 I cast my voice against the outer rays 
 Of my star shut in light behind the sun. 
 No more reply than from a breaking 
 
 string, 
 Breaking when touched. Or is she 
 
 not my star ? 
 "Where is my star, my star ? Have 
 
 ye cast down 
 Her glory like my glory ? Has she 
 
 waxed 
 Mortal, like Adam ? Has she learnt 
 
 to hate 
 Like any angel ? 
 
 Second Voice. She is sad for thee. 
 All things grow sadder to thee, one 
 by one. 
 Angel Chorus. 
 Live, work on, O Earthy ! 
 By the Actual's tension 
 Speed the arrow worthy 
 
 Of a pure ascension ; 
 From the low earth round you 
 Reach the heights above you; 
 From the stripes that wound you 
 
 Seek the loves that love you. 
 God's divinest burnetii plain 
 Through the crystal diaphane 
 Of our loves that love you. 
 First Voice. Gabriel, O Gabriel ! 
 Second Voice. What wouldst thou 
 
 with me ? 
 First Voice. Is it true, O thou Ga- 
 briel, that the crown 
 Of sorrow which I claimed, another 
 
 claims ? 
 That He claims that too ? 
 Second Voice. Lost one, it is true. 
 First Voice. That He will be an ex- 
 ile from his heaA^en 
 To lead those exiles homeward ? 
 Second Voice. It is true. 
 
 First Voice. That He will be an ex- 
 ile by his will. 
 As I by mine election ? 
 Second Voice. It is true. 
 
 First Voice. That / shall stand sole 
 exile finally, — 
 Made desolate for fruition ? 
 Second Voice. It is true. 
 
 First Voice. Gabriel ! 
 
 Second Voice. I hearken. 
 
 First Voice. Is it true besides. 
 
 Aright true, that mine orient star 
 
 will give 
 Her name of " Bright and Morning 
 
 Star "to Him, 
 And take the fairness of his virtue back 
 To cover loss and sadness ? 
 Second Voice. It is true. 
 
 First Voice. UNtrue, UNtrue ! O 
 Morning Star, O Mine, 
 Who sittest secret in a veil of light 
 Far up the starry spaces, say — Untrue.' 
 Speak but so loud as doth a wasted 
 
 moon 
 To Tyrrhene waters. I am Lucifer. 
 
 [A pause. Silence in the stars. 
 All things grow sadder to me, one by 
 one. 
 Angel Chorus 
 Exiled human creatures. 
 
 Let your hope grow larger, 
 Larger grows the vision 
 
 Of the new delight. 
 From this chain of Nature's 
 
 God is the Discharger, 
 And the Actual's prison 
 
 Opens to your sight. 
 Semichorus. 
 Calm the stars and golden 
 
 In a light exceeding: 
 What their rays have measured 
 
 Let your feet fulfil ! 
 These are stars beholden 
 By your eyes in Eden; 
 Yet across the desert, 
 
 See them shining still ! 
 Chorus. 
 Future joy and far light. 
 
 Working such relations, 
 Hear us singing gently. 
 
 Exiled is not lost ! 
 God, above the starlight, 
 
 God, above the patience. 
 Shall at last j^resent ye 
 
 Guerdons worth the cost. 
 Patiently enduring, 
 
 Painfully surrounded. 
 Listen how we love you, 
 
 Hope the uttermost ! 
 Waiting for that curing 
 
 Which exalts the wounded. 
 Hear us sing above you — 
 Exiled, but not lost ! 
 
 [The stars shine on brightly ichile Xdath 
 and Eve ptirsue their way into the 
 far iDilderness. There is a souiid 
 through the silence, as of the falling 
 tears of an angel. 
 
THE SERAPHIM. 
 
 " I look for Angels' songs, and hear Him cry." 
 
 GILES FLETCHRB. 
 
 PART THE FIRST. 
 
 [It is the time of the crucifixion ; and 
 the angels of heaven have departed 
 towards the earth, except the two 
 seraphim, Ador the Strong, and 
 Zerah the Bright One. 
 
 The place is the outer side of the shut 
 heavenly gate.] 
 
 Ador. O SERAPH, pause no more ! 
 Beside this gate of heaven we stand 
 alone. 
 Zerah . Of heaven ! 
 Ador. Our brother-hosts are gone — 
 Zerah. Are gone before. 
 Ador. And the golden harps the 
 angels bore, 
 To help the songs of their desire. 
 Still burning from their hands of 
 
 fire, 
 Lie, without touch or tone, 
 Upon the glass-sea shore. 
 Zerah. Silent upon the glass-sea 
 
 shore ! 
 Ador. There the Shadow from the 
 throne. 
 Formless with infinity, 
 Hovers o'er the crystal sea 
 
 Awfuller than light derived, 
 And red with those primeval heats 
 Whereby all life has lived. 
 Zerah. Our visible God, our heav- 
 enly seats I 
 Ador. Beneath us sinks the pomp 
 angelical. 
 Cherub and seraph, powers and 
 virtues, all, 
 The roar of whose descent has 
 died 
 To a still sound , as thunder into rain. 
 Immeasurable space spreads, 
 magnified 
 With that thick life, along the 
 
 plane 
 The worlds slid out on. What a 
 fall 
 212 
 
 And eddy of wings innumerous, 
 
 crossed 
 By trailing curls that have not 
 
 lost 
 The glitter of the God-smile 
 
 shed 
 On every prostrate angel's head! 
 What gleaming-up of hands 
 
 that fling 
 Their homage in retorted rays, 
 From high instinct of worship- 
 
 And habitude of praise ! 
 Zerah. Rapidly they drop below us. 
 Pointed palm, and wing, and 
 
 hair 
 Indistinguishable, show us 
 Only pulses in the air 
 Throbbing with a fiery beat, 
 As if a new creation heard 
 Some divine and plastic word. 
 And, trembling at its new-found 
 being, 
 Awakened at our feet. 
 Ador. Zerah, do not wait for seeing ! 
 His voice, his, that thrills us so 
 As we our harpstrings, uttered 60, 
 Behold the Holy in his looe ! 
 And all are gone, save thee and — 
 Zerah. Thee ! 
 
 Ador. I stood the nearest to the 
 throne, 
 In hierarchical degree. 
 What time the Voice said Go ! 
 And whether I was moved alone 
 By the storm-pathos of the tone 
 Which- swept through heaven the 
 alien name of woe, 
 Or whether the subtle glory broke 
 Through my strong and shielding 
 
 wings, 
 Bearing to my finite essence 
 Incapacious of their presence. 
 Infinite imaginings, 
 None knoweth save the Throned who 
 spoke; 
 
THE SERAPHIM. 
 
 213 
 
 But I, who at creation stood upright, 
 And heard the God-breath move 
 Shaping the words that lightened, 
 "Be there light," 
 Nor trembled but with love, 
 Now fell down shudderingly, 
 My face upon the pavement whence I 
 
 had towered. 
 As if in mine immortal overpowered 
 By God's eternity. 
 Zcrah. Let me wait ! let me wait ! 
 Ador. Nay, gaze not backward 
 through the gate ! 
 God fills our heaven with God's own 
 solitude 
 Till all the pavements glow. 
 His Godhead being no more subdued 
 By itself, to glories low 
 
 Which seraphs can sustain. 
 What if thou, in gazing so, 
 Shouldst behold but only one 
 Attribute, the veil undone, — 
 Even that to which we dare to press 
 Nearest for its gentleness, — 
 
 Ay, his love ! 
 How the deep ecstatic pain 
 Thy being's strength would capture ! 
 Without language for the rapture. 
 Without music strong to come 
 
 And set the adoration free, 
 For ever, ever, wouldst thou be 
 Amid the general chorus dumb, 
 God-stricken to seraphic agony. 
 Or, brother, what if on thine eyes 
 In vision bare should rise 
 The life-fount whence his hand did 
 gather 
 With solitary force 
 Our immortalities I 
 Straightway how thine own would 
 wither. 
 Falter like a human breath, 
 And shrink into a point like death. 
 By gazing on its source I — 
 My words have imaged dread. 
 Meekly hast thou bent thine head. 
 And dropt thy wings in languish- 
 
 ment 
 Overclouding foot and face, 
 As if God's throne were eminent 
 Before thee in the place. 
 Yet not — not so, 
 O loving sjiirit and meek, dost thou 
 
 fulfil 
 The supreme Will. 
 Not for obeisance, but obedience, 
 Give motion to tliy wings 1 Depart 
 from hence 1 
 The Voice said, " Go ! 
 
 Zerah. Beloved, I depart. 
 His will is as a spirit within my spirit, 
 A portion of the being I inherit. 
 His will is mine obedience. I resem- 
 ble 
 A flame all undefilM, though it trem- 
 ble: 
 I go and tremble. Love me, O beloved ! 
 
 O thou, who stronger art. 
 And standest ever near the Infinite, 
 
 Pale with the light of Light, 
 Love me, beloved ! — me, more newly 
 made. 
 More feeble, more afraid. 
 And let me hear with mine thy pin- 
 ions moved. 
 As close and gentle as the loving are, 
 That, love being near, heaven may 
 not seem so far. 
 Ador. I am near thee, and I love thee. 
 Were I loveless, from thee gone. 
 Love is roiind, beneath, above 
 
 thee, 
 God, the omnipresent one. 
 Spread the wing, and lift the brow! 
 Well-beloved, what fearest thou ? 
 Zerah. I fear, I fear — 
 Ador. What fear ? 
 
 Zerah. The fear of earth. 
 
 Ador. Of earth, the God-created, 
 and God-praised 
 In the hour of birth ? 
 Where every night the moon in light 
 Doth lead the waters silver-faced ? 
 
 Where every day tlie sun doth lay 
 A rapture to the heart of all 
 The leafy and reeded pastoral. 
 As if the joyous shout which burst 
 From angel lips to see him first 
 Had left a silent echo in his ray ? 
 Zerah. Of earth, the God-created 
 and God-curst, 
 Where man is, and the thorn ; 
 Where sun and moon have borne 
 No light to souls forlorn; 
 Where Eden's tree of life no more 
 uprears 
 Its spiral leaves and fruitage, but 
 
 instead 
 The yew-tree bows its melancholy 
 head. 
 And all the undergrasses kills and 
 sears. 
 Ador. Of earth the weak. 
 Made and unmade ? 
 Where men that faint do strive for 
 
 crowns that fade ? 
 Where, having won the profit which 
 they seek. 
 
214 
 
 THE SERAPHIM. 
 
 They lie beside the sceptre and the 
 
 gold 
 "With tleshless hands that cannot 
 
 wield or hold, 
 And the stars shine in their unwink- 
 ing eyes ? 
 Zerah. Of earth the bold, 
 Where the blind matter wrings 
 An awful potence out of impotence. 
 Bowing the spiritual things 
 To the things of sense ; 
 Where the human will replies 
 With ay and no, 
 Because the human pulse is quick or 
 
 slow; 
 Where Love succumbs to Change, 
 With only his own memories, for re- 
 venge. 
 And the fearful mystery — 
 Ador. Called Death ? 
 
 Zerah. Nay, death is fearful; but 
 
 who saith 
 " To die," is comprehensible. 
 What's fearfuUer, thou knowest well, 
 Though the iitterance be not for thee, 
 Lest it blanch thy lips from glory — 
 Ay ! the cursed thing that moved 
 A shadow of ill, long time ago, 
 Across our heaven's own shining 
 
 floor, 
 And when it vanished some who 
 
 were 
 On thrones of holy empire there, 
 Did reign — were seen — were — never 
 
 more. 
 Come nearer, O teeloved ! 
 Ador. I am near thee. Didst thou 
 
 bear thee 
 Ever to this earth ? 
 
 Zerah. Before. 
 
 When thrilling from his hand along 
 Its lustrous path with spheric song 
 The earth was deathless, sorrowless. 
 Unfearing, then, pure feet might 
 
 press 
 The grasses brightening with their 
 
 feet. 
 For God's own voice did mix its 
 
 sound 
 In a solemn confluence oft 
 With the rivers' flowing round, 
 And the life-tree's waving soft. 
 Beautiful new earth and strange ! 
 Ador. Hast thou seen it since — the 
 
 change ? 
 Zerah. Nay; or wherefore should I 
 
 fear 
 To look upon it now ? 
 I have beheld the ruined things 
 
 Only in depicturings 
 
 Of angels from an earthly mission. 
 
 Strong one, even upon thy brow, 
 
 When, with task completed, given 
 
 Back to us in that transition, 
 
 I have beheld thee silent stand, 
 
 Abstracted in the seraph band. 
 Without a smile in heaven. 
 Ador. Then thou wast not one of 
 those 
 
 Whom the loving Father chose 
 
 In visionary pomp to sweep 
 
 O'er Judaea's grassy places. 
 
 O'er the shepherds and the sheep. 
 
 Though thou art so tender, dim- 
 ming 
 
 All the stars excej)t one star 
 
 With their brighter, kindei faces ? 
 
 And using heaven's own tune in 
 hymning, 
 
 While deep response from earth's own 
 mountains ran, 
 
 " Peace upon earth, good-will to 
 man." 
 Zerah. " Glory to God." I said 
 amen afar. 
 
 And those who fi"om that earthly mis- 
 sion are. 
 Within mine ears have told 
 
 That the seven everlasting Spirits did 
 hold 
 
 With such a sweet and prodigal con- 
 straint 
 
 The meaning yet the mystery of the 
 song 
 
 What time they sang it, on their na- 
 tures strong, 
 
 That, gazing down on earth's dark 
 steadfastness, 
 
 And speaking the new i>eace in ]>rom- 
 ises. 
 
 The love and pity made their voices 
 faint 
 
 Into the low and tender music, keep- 
 ing 
 
 The place in heaven of what on earth 
 is weeping. 
 Ador. Peace upon earth. Come 
 
 down to it. 
 Zerah. Ah me ! 
 
 I hear thereof uncomprehendingly. 
 
 Peace where the tem^jest, where the 
 sighing is, 
 
 And worship of the idol, 'stead of 
 His? 
 Ador. Yea, peace, where He is. 
 Zerah. He ! 
 
 Say it again. 
 Ador. Where He is. 
 
THE BERAPniM. 
 
 215 
 
 Zerah. Can it be 
 
 That earth retains a tree 
 Whose leaves like Eden foliage can 
 
 be swayed 
 By the breathing of His voice, nor 
 shrink and fade ? 
 Ado7\ There is a tree ! — it hath no 
 leaf nor root; 
 Upon it hangs a curse for all its fruit: 
 Its shadow on His head is laid. 
 For He, the crowned Son, 
 Has left his crown and throne, 
 Walks earth in Adam's clay, 
 Eve's snake to bruise and slay — 
 Zerah. Walks earth in clay ? 
 Ador. And, walking in the clay 
 
 which he created, 
 He through it shall touch death. 
 What do I utter ? what conceive ? did 
 
 breath 
 Of demon howl it in a blasphemy ? 
 Or was it mine own voice, informed, 
 
 dilated 
 By the seven confluent Spirits — Speak 
 
 — answer me ! 
 Who said man's victim was his deity ? 
 Zerah. Beloved, beloved, the word 
 came forth from thee. 
 Thine eyes are rolling a tempestuous 
 light 
 Above, below, around. 
 As putting thunder questions without 
 cloud, 
 Reverberate without sound, 
 To universal nature's depth and 
 
 height. 
 The tremor of an inexpressive thought 
 Too self-amazed to shape itself aloud 
 O'erruns the awful curving of thy lips ; 
 And while thine hands are stretched 
 above, 
 As newly they had caught 
 Some lightning from the throne, or 
 showed the Lord 
 Some retributive sword. 
 Thy brows do alternate with wild 
 
 eclipse 
 And radiance, with contrasted wrath 
 and love, 
 As God had called thee to a 
 seraph's part. 
 With a man's quailing heart. 
 Ador. O heart, O heart of man! 
 O ta'eu from human clay 
 To be no seraph's, but Jehovah's 
 own! 
 Made holy in the taking. 
 And yet unseparate 
 From death's perpetual ban. 
 
 And human feelings sad and passion- 
 ate; 
 
 Still subject to the treacherous for- 
 saking 
 
 Of other hearts, and its own steadfast 
 pain. 
 
 O heart of man — of God! which God 
 has ta'eu 
 
 From out the dust, with its humanity 
 
 Mournful and weak, yet innocent, 
 around it. 
 
 And bade its many pulses beating 
 lie 
 
 Beside that incommunicable stir 
 
 Of Deity wherewith he interwound it. 
 
 O man 1 and is thy nature so defiled 
 
 That all that holy heart's devout law- 
 keeping. 
 
 And low pathetic beat in deserts wild. 
 
 And gushings pitiful of tender weep- 
 ing 
 
 For traitors who consigned it to such 
 woe, — 
 
 That all could cleanse thee not, with- 
 out the flow 
 
 Of blood, the life-blood — 7//s — and 
 streaming so ? 
 
 O earth the thundercleft, windshaken, 
 where 
 
 The louder voice of " blood and 
 blood" doth rise, 
 
 Hast thou an altar for this sacrifice ? 
 O heaven ! O vacant throne ! 
 
 crowned hierarchies that wear your 
 
 crown 
 When his is put away I 
 Are ye unshamed that ye cannot dim 
 Your alien brightness to be liker him, 
 Assume a human passion, and down- 
 lay 
 Your sweet secureness for congenial 
 
 fears, 
 And teach your cloudless ever-burn- 
 ing eyes 
 The mystery of his tears ? 
 Zerah. I am strong, I am strong. 
 Were I never to see my heaven again, 
 
 1 would wheel to earth like the tem- 
 
 pest rain 
 Which sweeps there with an exultant 
 
 sound 
 To lose its life as it reaches the 
 
 ground. 
 I am strong, I am strong. 
 Away from mine inward vision swim 
 The shining seats of my heaveulv 
 
 birth, 
 I see but his, I see but him — 
 The Maker's steps on his cruel earth. 
 
21G 
 
 THE SEEAPHJAf. 
 
 Will the Litter herbs of earth grow 
 
 sweet 
 To me, as trodden by his feet ? 
 Will the vexed accurst humanity, 
 As worn by him, begin to be 
 A blessed, yea, a sacred thing, 
 For love and awe and ministering ? 
 
 I am strong, I am strong. 
 By our angel ken shall we survey 
 His loving smile throiigh his woful 
 clay? 
 I am swift, I am strong, 
 The love is bearing me along. 
 Ador. One love is bearing us along. 
 
 PART THE SECOND. 
 
 [Mid-air, above Judma. Ador and Ze- 
 RAU are a little apart from the visi- 
 ble angelic hosts.] 
 
 Ador. Beloved, dost thou see ? 
 Zerah. Thee — thee. 
 
 Thy burning eyes already are 
 Grown wild and mournful as a 
 
 star 
 Whose occupation is for aye 
 To look upon the place of clay 
 
 Whereon thou lookest now. 
 Thy crown is fainting on thy brow 
 To the likeness of a cloud. 
 The forehead's self a little bowed 
 From its aspect high and holy. 
 As it would in meekness meet 
 Some seraphic melancholy: 
 Thy very wings that lately flung 
 An outline clear do flicker here 
 And wear to each a shadow hung, 
 
 Dropped across thy feet. 
 In these strange contrasting 
 
 glooms 
 Stagnant with the scent of tombs. 
 Seraph faces, O my brother, 
 Show awfully to one another. 
 Ador. Dost thou see ? 
 Zerah, Even so: I see 
 
 Our empyreal company. 
 Alone the memory of their bright- 
 ness 
 Left in them, as in thee. 
 The circle upon circle, tier on tier, 
 Piling earth's hemisphere 
 With heavenly infiniteness, 
 Above us and around, 
 Straining the whole horizon like a 
 bow: 
 
 Their songful lips divorced from all 
 
 sound, 
 A darkness gliding down their silvery 
 
 glances. 
 Bowing their steadfast solemn counte- 
 nances 
 As if they heard God speak, and could 
 not glow. 
 Ador. Look downward ! dost thou 
 
 see ? 
 Zerah. And wouldst thou press that 
 vision on my words ? 
 Doth not earth speak enough 
 Of change and of undoing, 
 Without a seraph's witness ? Oceans 
 
 rough 
 With tempest, pastoral swards 
 Displaced by fiery deserts, mountains 
 
 ruing 
 The bolt fallen yesterday. 
 That shake their piny heads, as who 
 
 would say 
 " We are too beautiful for our de- 
 cay "— 
 Shall seraphs speak of these things ? 
 Let alone 
 Earth to her earthly moan ! 
 Voice of all things. Is there no moan 
 
 but hers ? 
 Ador. Hearest thou the attestation 
 Of the roused universe 
 Like a desert lion shaking 
 Dews of silence from its mane ? 
 With an irrepressive passion 
 
 Uprising at once, 
 Rising up and forsaking 
 Its solemn state in the circle of suns. 
 
 To attest the jiain 
 Of him who stands (O patience 
 
 sweet !) 
 In his own handprints of creation, 
 With human feet ? 
 Voice of all things. Is there no 
 
 moan but ours ? 
 Zerah. Forms, Spaces, Motions 
 
 wide, 
 O meek, insensate things, 
 O congregated matters ! who inherit 
 Instead of vital powers, 
 Impulsions God-supplied; 
 Instead of influent spirit, 
 A clear informing beauty; 
 Instead of creature-duty 
 Submission calm as rest. 
 Lights, without feet or wings. 
 In golden courses sliding ! 
 Glooms, stagnantly subsiding. 
 Whose lustrous heart away was prest 
 Into the argent stars 1 
 
THE SERAPHIM. 
 
 217 
 
 Ye crystal, firmamental bars 
 That hold the skyey waters free 
 From tide or tempest's ecstasy ! 
 Airs universal ! thunders lorn 
 That wait your lightnings in cloud- 
 cave 
 Hewn out by the winds ! O brave 
 And subtle elements ! the Holy 
 Hath charged me by your voice 
 with folly. 1 
 Enough, the mystic arrow leaves its 
 
 wound. 
 Return ye to your silences inborn. 
 Or to your inarticulated sound. 
 Ador. Zerah! 
 Zerah. Wilt thou rebuke ? 
 God hath rebuked me, brother. I am 
 weak. 
 Ador. Zerah, my brother Zerah ! 
 could I speak 
 Of thee, 'twould be of love to thee. 
 
 Zemh. Thy look 
 
 Is fixed on earth, as mine upon thy 
 
 face. 
 Where shall I seek His ? 
 
 I have thrown 
 One look upon earth, but one. 
 Over the blue mountain lines, 
 Over the forests of palms and pines, 
 Over the harvest-lands golden, 
 Over the vallej's that fold in 
 The gardens and vines — 
 
 He is not there. 
 All these are unworthy 
 Those footsteps to bear, 
 Before which, bowing down 
 I would fain quench the stars of my 
 crown 
 In the dark of the earthy. 
 Where shall I seek him ? 
 
 No reply ? 
 Hath language left thy lips, to place 
 
 Its vocal in thine eye ? 
 Ador, Ador ! are we come 
 To a double portent, that 
 Dumb matter grows articulate, 
 And songful seraphs dumb ? 
 Ador, Ador ! 
 
 Ador. I constrain 
 
 The passion of my silence. None 
 Of those places gazed upon 
 Are gloomy enow to fit his pain. 
 Unto Him whose forming word 
 Gave to nature flower and sward. 
 She hath given back again 
 For the myrtle, the thorn. 
 For the sylvan calm, the human scorn. 
 1 "His angels he charged with folly." — 
 Job iv. 18. 
 
 Still, still, reluctant seraph, gaze be- 
 neath ! 
 There is a city — 
 
 Zerah. Temple and tower. 
 
 Palace and purple, would droop like a 
 flower, 
 (Or a cloud at our breath) 
 If He neared in his state 
 The outermost gate. 
 Ador. Ah me, not so 
 
 In the state of a king did the victim 
 
 go! 
 And Thou who hangest mute of 
 speech 
 'Twixt heaven and earth, with fore- 
 head yet 
 Stained by the bloody sweat, 
 God ! man ! thou hast forgone thy 
 throne in each. 
 Zerah. Thine eyes behold him ! 
 Ador. Yea, below. 
 
 Track the gazing of mine eyes, 
 Naming God within thine heart 
 That its weakness may depart. 
 
 And the vision rise ! 
 Seest thou yet, beloved ? 
 Zerah. I see 
 
 Beyond the city, crosses three. 
 And mortals three that hang there- 
 on 
 'Ghast and silent to the sun. 
 Round them blacken and welter 
 
 and press 
 Staring multitudes whose father 
 Adam was, whose brows are dark 
 With his Cain's corroded mark. 
 Who curse with looks. Nay — let 
 
 me rather 
 Turn unto the wilderness ! 
 Ador. Turn not ! God dwells with 
 
 men. 
 Zerah. Above 
 
 He dwells with angels, and they love. 
 Can these love ? With the living's 
 
 pride 
 They stare at those who die, who 
 
 hang 
 In their sight and die. They bear 
 
 the streak 
 Of the crosses' shadow, black not 
 
 wide, 
 To fall on their heads, as it swerves 
 aside 
 When the victims' pang 
 Makes the dry wood creak. 
 Ador. The cross — the cross ! 
 Zerah. A woman kneels 
 
 The mid cross under. 
 With white lips asunder, 
 
218 
 
 THE SERAPHIM. 
 
 And motion on each. 
 They throb as she feels, 
 With a spasm, not a speech; 
 And her lids, close as sleep. 
 Are less calm, for the eyes 
 Have made room there to weep 
 Drop on drop — 
 Ador. Weep? Weep blood, 
 
 All women, all men ! 
 He sweated it, He, 
 For yonr pale womanhood 
 And base manhood. Agree 
 That these water-tears, then, 
 Are vain, mocking like laugh- 
 ter. 
 Weep blood ! Shall the flood 
 Of salt curses, whose foam is the 
 
 darkness, on roll 
 Forward, on from the strand of the 
 
 storm-beaten years, 
 And back from the rocks of the hor- 
 rid hereafter. 
 And up in a coil from the present's 
 
 wrath-spring, 
 Yea, down from the windows of 
 
 heaven opening. 
 Deep calling to deep as they meet on 
 His soul — 
 And men weep only tears ? 
 Zerah. Little drops in the lapse ! 
 And yet, Ador, perhaps 
 It is all that they can. 
 Tears ! the lovingest man 
 Has no better bestowed 
 Upon man. 
 Ador. Nor on God. 
 
 Zerah. Do all-givers need gifts ? 
 If the Giver said "Give," the first 
 
 motion would slay 
 Our Immortals, the echo would ruin 
 
 away 
 The same worlds which he made. 
 Why, what angel uplifts 
 Such a music, so clear, 
 It may seem in God's ear 
 Worth more than a woman's hoarse 
 
 weeping ? And thus, 
 Pity tender as tears I above thee 
 
 would speak, 
 Thou woman that wee pest ! weep uu- 
 
 scorned of us ! 
 I, the tearless and pure, am but loving 
 and weak. 
 Ador. Speak low, my brother, low, 
 — and not of love 
 Or human or angelic ! Rather stand 
 Before the throne of that Supreme 
 
 above. 
 In whose infinitude the secrecies 
 
 Of thine own being lie hid, and lift 
 
 thine hand 
 Exultant, saying, " Lord God, I am 
 
 wise ! " 
 Than utter here, " I love." 
 
 Zerah. And yet thine eyes 
 
 Do utter it. They melt in tender 
 
 light, — 
 The tears of heaven. 
 Ador. Of heaven. Ah, me ! 
 
 Zerah. Ador ! 
 Ador. Say on ! 
 
 Zerah, The crucified are three. 
 
 Beloved, they are unlike. 
 Ador. Unlike. 
 
 Zerah. For one 
 
 Is as a man who has sinned, and 
 
 still 
 Doth wear the wicked will, 
 The hard, malign life-energy. 
 Tossed outward, in the parting soul's 
 
 disdain, 
 On brow and lip that cannot change 
 again. 
 Ador. And one — 
 
 Zerah. Has also sinned. 
 
 And yet (O marvel !) doth the Spirit- 
 wind 
 Blow white those waters ? Death 
 upon his face 
 Is rather shine than shade, — 
 A tender shine by looks beloved 
 
 made: 
 He seemeth dying in a quiet place. 
 And less by iron wounds in hands 
 
 and feet 
 Than heart-broke by new joy too sud- 
 den and sweet. 
 Ador. And one ! — 
 Zerah. And one ! — 
 Ador. Whv dost thou pause ? 
 
 Zerah. God ! God ! 
 
 Spirit of my spirit ! who movest 
 Through seraph veins in burning 
 
 deity 
 To light the quenchless pulses ! — 
 
 Ador. But hast trod 
 
 The depths of love in thy peculiar 
 
 nature. 
 And not in any thou hast made and 
 
 lovest 
 In narrow seraph hearts ! — 
 
 Zerah. Above, Creator ! 
 
 Within, Upholder ! 
 
 Ador. And below, below, 
 
 The creature's and the upholden's 
 sacrifice ! 
 Zerah. Why do I pause ? 
 Ador. There is a silentness 
 
THE SERAPHIM. 
 
 219 
 
 That answers thee enow, 
 
 That, like a brazen sound 
 
 Excluding others, doth ensheathe us 
 
 round : 
 Hear it. It is not from the visible 
 skies, 
 Though they are still. 
 Unconscious that their own dropped 
 
 dews express 
 The light of heaven on everv earthly 
 
 hill. 
 It is not from the hills, though calm 
 and bare 
 They, since their first creation. 
 Through midnight cloud or morning's 
 
 glittering air. 
 Or the deep deluge blindness, toward 
 
 the place 
 Whence thrilled the mystic word's 
 creative grace, 
 And whence again shall come 
 The word that uncreates, 
 Have lift their brows in voiceless ex- 
 pectation. 
 It is not from the places that en- 
 tomb 
 Man's dead, though common Silence 
 
 there dilates 
 Her soul to grand proportions, wor- 
 thily 
 To fill life's vacant room. 
 Not there — not there. 
 Not vet within those chambers lieth 
 
 He, 
 A dead one in hi.s living world; his 
 
 south 
 And west winds blowing over earth 
 
 and sea, 
 And not a breath on that creating 
 mouth. 
 But now a silence kee]is 
 (Not death's, nor sleep's) 
 The lips whose whispered word 
 Might roll the thunders round rever- 
 berated. 
 Silent art thou, O my Lord, 
 Bowing down thy stricken head ! 
 Fearest thou a groan of thine 
 Would make the jnilse of thy crea- 
 tion fail 
 As thine own pulse? — would rend 
 
 the veil 
 Of visible things, and let the Hood 
 Of the unseen Light, the essential 
 
 God, 
 Rush in to whelm the undivine ? 
 Thy silence, to my thinking, is as 
 dread. 
 Zerah. O silence ! 
 
 Ad07-. Doth it say to thee 
 
 — the NAME, 
 
 Slow-learning seraph ? 
 Zerah. I have learnt. 
 
 Ador. The flame 
 
 Perishes in thine eyes. 
 
 Zerah. He opened his, 
 
 And looked. I cannot bear — 
 Ador. Their agony ? 
 
 Zerah. Their love. God's depth" is 
 in them. From his brows 
 White, terrible in meekness, didst 
 thou see 
 The lifted eyes unclose ? 
 He is God, seraph ! Look no more on 
 
 me, 
 O God — I am not God. 
 
 Ador. The loving is 
 
 Sublimed within them bv the sorrow- 
 ful. 
 In heaven we could sustain them. 
 
 Zerah. Heaven is dull, 
 
 Mine Ador, to man's earth. The 
 light that burns 
 In fluent, refluent motion 
 Along the crystal ocean ; 
 The springing of the golden harps be- 
 tween 
 The bowery wings, in fountains of 
 
 sweet sound; 
 The winding, wandering music that 
 
 returns 
 Upon itself, exultingly self-bound 
 In the great spheric round 
 Of everlasting praises ; 
 The God-thoughts in our midst that 
 
 intervene, 
 Visibly flashing from the supreme 
 throne 
 Full in seraphic faces 
 Till each astonishes the other, grown 
 More Ijeautiful with worship and de- 
 
 liglit — 
 My heaven ! my home of heaven ! my 
 
 infinite 
 Heaven choirs ! what are ye to this 
 
 dust and death, 
 This cloud, this cold, these tears, this 
 
 failing breath, 
 Where God's immortal love now is- 
 sueth 
 In this man's woe ? 
 Ador. His eyes are very deep, yet 
 
 calm. 
 Zerah. No more 
 
 On me, Jehovah-man — 
 
 Ador. Calm-deep. They show 
 
 A passion which is tranquil. They 
 are seeing 
 
 I 
 
220 
 
 THE SERAPHIM. 
 
 No earth, no heaven, no men that 
 
 slay and curse, 
 No seraphs that adore ; 
 Their gaze is on the invisible, the 
 
 dread. 
 The things we cannot view or think 
 
 or speak, 
 Because we are too happy, or too 
 
 weak, — 
 The sea of ill for which the universe 
 With all its piled space, can find no 
 
 shore. 
 With all its life no living foot to 
 
 tread. 
 But he, accomplished in Jehovah- 
 being, 
 Sustains the gaze adown. 
 Conceives the vast despair. 
 And feels the billowy griefs come up 
 
 to drown, 
 Nor fears, nor faints, nor fails, till all 
 
 be finished. 
 Zerah. Thus, do I fiud Thee thus? 
 
 My undiminished 
 And undiminishable God! — my God! 
 The echoes are still tremulous along 
 The heavenly mountains, of the latest 
 
 song 
 Thy manifested glory swept abroad 
 In rushing past our lips: they echo 
 
 aye 
 " Creator, thou art strong ! 
 Creator, thou art blessed over all." 
 By what new utterance shall I now 
 
 recall, 
 Unteaching the heaven-echoes? dare 
 
 I say, 
 " Creator, thou art feebler than thy 
 
 work ! 
 Creator, thou art sadder than thy 
 
 creature ! 
 A worm, and not a man. 
 Yea, no worm, but a curse " ? 
 I dare not so mine heavenly phrase 
 
 reverse. 
 Albeit the piercing thorn and thistle- 
 fork 
 (Whose seed disordered ran 
 From Eve's hand trembling when the 
 
 curse did reach her) 
 Be garnered darklier in thy soul, the 
 
 rod 
 That smites thee never blossoming, 
 
 and thou 
 Grief-bearer for thy world, with un- 
 kinged brow — 
 I leave to men their song of Ichabod: 
 I have an angel-tongue — I know but 
 
 praise. 
 
 Ador. Hereafter shall the blood- 
 bought captives raise 
 The passion-song of blood. 
 
 Zerah. And we, extend 
 
 Our holy vacant hands towards the 
 
 throne. 
 Crying, " We have no music." 
 Ador. Rather, blend 
 
 Both musics into one. 
 The sanctities and sanctified above 
 Shall each to each, with lifted looks 
 serene, 
 Their shining faces lean, 
 And mix the adoring breath. 
 And breathe the full thanksgiving. 
 
 Zerah. But the love — 
 
 The love, mine Ador ! 
 Ador. Do we love not ? 
 
 Zerah. Yea, 
 
 But not as man shall ! not with life 
 
 for death. 
 New-throbbing through the startled 
 
 being; not 
 With strange astonished smiles, that 
 
 ever may 
 Gush passionate, like tears, and fill 
 
 their place; 
 Nor yet with speechless memories of 
 
 what 
 Earth's winters were, enverduring the 
 green 
 Of every heavenly palm 
 Whose windless, shadeless calm 
 Moves only at the breath of the Un- 
 seen. 
 Oh, not with this blood on us, and 
 
 this face. 
 Still, haply, pale with sorrow that it 
 
 bore 
 In our behalf, and tender evermore, 
 Witli nature all our own, upon us 
 
 gazing, 
 Nor yet with these forgiving hands 
 
 upraising 
 Their unreproachful wounds, alone to 
 
 bless ! 
 Alas, Creator ! shall we love thee less 
 Than mortals shall ? 
 
 Ador. Amen I so let it be. 
 
 We love in our proportion to the 
 
 bound 
 Thine infinite our finite set around. 
 And that is finitely, thou infinite, 
 And worthy infinite love ! And our 
 
 delight 
 Is watching the dear love poured out 
 
 to thee 
 From ever fuller chalice. Blessed 
 they, 
 
THE SERAPHIM. 
 
 221 
 
 Who love tliee more than we do : 
 
 blessed we, 
 Viewing that love which shall exceed 
 
 even this, 
 And winning in the sight a double 
 
 bliss 
 For all so lost in love's supremacy. 
 The bliss is better. Only on the sad 
 
 Cold earth there are who say 
 It seemeth better to be great than 
 
 glad. 
 The bliss is better. Love him more, 
 O man, 
 Than sinless seraphs can ! 
 Zerah. Yea, love him more ! 
 Voices of the angelic multitude. Yea, 
 
 more ! 
 Ador. The loving word 
 
 Is caught by those from whom we 
 
 stand apart; 
 For silence hath no deepness in her 
 
 heart 
 AVhere love's low name low breathed 
 
 would not be heard 
 By angels, clear as thunder. 
 Angelic Voices. Love him more. 
 Ador. Sweet voices, swooning o'er 
 The music which ye make ! 
 Albeit to love there were not ever 
 
 given 
 A mournful sound when uttered out 
 
 of heaven. 
 That angel-sadness ye would fitly 
 
 take. 
 Of love be silent now ! We gaze 
 
 adown 
 Upon the incarnate Love who wears 
 no crown. 
 Zerah. No crown ! the woe instead 
 Is heavy on his head, 
 Pressing inward on his brain 
 With a hot and clinging pain 
 Till all tears are prest away, 
 And clear and calm his vision may 
 Peruse the black abyss. 
 No rod, no sceptre, is 
 Holden in his fingers pale: 
 They close instead upon the nail. 
 
 Concealing the sharp dole, 
 Never stirring to put by 
 
 The fair hair jjeaked with blood, 
 Drooping forward from the rood 
 
 Helplessly, heavily. 
 On the cheek that waxeth colder, 
 Whiter ever, and the shoulder 
 Where the government was laid. 
 His glory made the heavens afraid : 
 Will he not unearth this cross from 
 its hole ? 
 
 His pity makes his piteous state; 
 Will he be uncompassionate 
 Alone to his proper soul ? 
 Yea, will he not lift up 
 His lips from the bitter cup, 
 His brows from the dreary weight, 
 His hand from the clinching cross, 
 Crying, " My Father, give to me 
 Again the joy I had with thee 
 Or ere this earth was made for 
 loss"? 
 No stir — no sound. 
 The love and woe being interwound, 
 
 He cleaveth to the woe. 
 And putteth forth heaven's strength 
 below — 
 
 To bear. 
 Ador. And that creates his anguish 
 now, 
 Which made his glory there. 
 Zerah. Shall it need be so ? 
 
 Awake, thou Earth! behold, — 
 Thou, uttered forth of old 
 In all thy life-emotion. 
 In all thy vernal noises; 
 In the rollings of thine ocean, 
 Leaping founts, and rivers run- 
 ning. 
 In thy woods' prophetic heaving 
 Ere the rains a stroke have 
 
 given; 
 In thy winds' exultant voices 
 When they feel the hills anear; 
 In the firmamental sunning. 
 And the tempest which rejoices 
 Thy full heart with an awful cheer ! 
 
 "Thou, uttered forth of old. 
 
 And Mith all thy music rolled 
 
 In a breath abroad 
 
 By the breathing God ! 
 
 Awake ! He is here ! behold ! 
 
 Even thou — 
 
 Beseems it good 
 To thy vacant vision dim. 
 That the deadly ruin should 
 For thy sake encompass him ? 
 That the Master-word should lie 
 A mere silence, while his own 
 
 Processive harmony. 
 The faintest echo of his lightest tone, 
 Is sweeping in a choral triumph by ? 
 Awake ! emit a cry ! 
 And say, albeit used 
 From Adam's ancient years 
 To falls of acrid tears. 
 To frequent sighs unloosed, 
 Caught back to press again 
 On bosoms zoned with pain, — 
 To corses still and sullen 
 
 <> 
 

 222 
 
 THE SERAPHIM. 
 
 The shine and music dulling 
 
 To that Atoner making calm and free? 
 
 "With closed eyes and ears 
 
 Am I a God as he. 
 
 That nothing sweet can enter. 
 
 To lay down peace and power as will- 
 
 Commoving thee no less 
 
 ingly ? 
 
 With that forced quietness 
 
 Ador. He looked for some to pity: 
 
 Than the earthquake in thy cen- 
 
 there is none. 
 
 tre— 
 
 All pity is within him, and not for 
 
 Thou hast not learnt to bear 
 
 him. 
 
 This new divine despair ! 
 
 His earth is iron under him, and o'er 
 
 These tears that sink into thee, 
 
 him 
 
 These dying eyes that view thee, 
 
 His skies are brass. 
 
 This dropping blood from lifted 
 
 His seraphs cry, " Alas ! " 
 
 rood. 
 
 With hallelujah voice that cannot 
 
 They darken and undo thee. 
 
 weep. 
 
 Thou canst not presently sustain 
 
 And man, for whom the dreadful 
 
 this corse — 
 
 work is done . . . 
 
 Cry, cry, thou hast not force ! 
 
 Scornful Voices from the Earth. If 
 
 Cry, thou wouldst fainer keep 
 
 verily this be the Eternal's 
 
 Thy hopeless charnels deep, 
 
 son — 
 
 Thyself a general tomb 
 
 Ador. Thou hearest. Man is grate- 
 
 Where the first and the second 
 
 ful. 
 
 Death 
 
 Zerah. Can I hear, 
 
 Sit gazing face to face, 
 
 Nor darken into man, and cease for- 
 
 And mar each other's breath. 
 
 ever 
 
 While silent bones through all the 
 
 My seraph smile to wear ? 
 
 place 
 
 Was it for such 
 
 'Neath sun and moon do faintly 
 
 It pleased liim to overleap 
 
 glisten, 
 
 His glory with his love, and sever 
 
 And seem to lie and listen 
 
 From the God-light and the 
 
 For the tramp of the coming Doom. 
 
 throne. 
 
 Is it not meet 
 
 And all angels bowing down. 
 
 That they who erst the Eden fruit 
 
 From whom his every look did 
 
 did eat 
 
 touch 
 
 Should champ the ashes ? 
 
 New notes of joy on the unworn 
 
 That they who wrap them in the 
 
 string 
 
 thunder-cloud 
 
 Of an eternal worshipping ? 
 
 Should wear it as a shroud, 
 
 For such he left his heaven ? 
 
 Perishing by its flashes ? 
 
 There, though never bought by 
 
 That they who vexed the lion should 
 
 blood 
 
 be rent ? 
 
 And tears, we gave him gratitude : 
 
 Cry, cry, " I will sustain my pun- 
 
 We loved him there, though un- 
 
 ishment, 
 
 forgiven. 
 
 The sin being mine, but take away 
 
 Ador. The light is riven 
 
 from me 
 
 Above, around. 
 
 This visioned dread — this Man — 
 
 And down in lurid fragments flung. 
 
 this Deity ! " 
 
 That catch the mountain-peak and 
 
 The Earth. I halve groaned; I have 
 
 stream 
 
 travailed: I am weary. 
 
 With momentary gleam, 
 
 I am blind with my own grief, and 
 
 Then perish in the water and tlie 
 
 cannot see, 
 
 ground. 
 
 As clear-eyed angels can, his agony; 
 
 River and waterfall, 
 
 And what I see I also can sustain, 
 
 Forest and wilderness, 
 
 Because his power protects me from 
 
 Mountain and city, are together 
 
 his pain. 
 
 wrung 
 
 I have groaned; I have travailed: I 
 
 Into one shape, and that is shapeless- 
 
 am dreary, 
 
 ness: 
 
 Harkening the thick sobs of my 
 
 The darkness stands for all. 
 
 children's heart: 
 
 Zerah. The pathos hath the day un- 
 
 How can I say " Depart " 
 
 done: 
 
 II 
 
THE SERAPHTM. 
 
 223 
 
 Tlie death-look of his eyes 
 Hath overcome the sun, 
 And made it sicken in its narrow 
 skies. 
 Ador. Is it to death ? He dieth. 
 Zerah. Through the dark 
 
 He still, he only, is discernible. 
 The naked hands and feet transfixed 
 
 stark, 
 The countenance of patient anguish 
 white. 
 Do make themselves a light 
 More dreadful than the glooms which 
 
 round them dwell, 
 And therein do thev shine. 
 
 Ador. God ! Father-God ! 
 
 Perpetual Radiance on the radiant 
 
 throne ! 
 Uplift the lids of inward deity, 
 Flashing abi'oad 
 Thy burning Infinite ! 
 Light up this dark where there is 
 
 nought to see 
 Except the uuimagined agony 
 Upon the sinless forehead of the Son ! 
 Zerah. God, tarry not ! Behold, 
 enow 
 Hath he wandered as a stranger, 
 Sorrowed as a victim. Thou 
 Appear for him, O Father ! 
 Appear for him. Avenger ! 
 Apjjear for him. Just One and Holy 
 One, 
 For he is holy and just ! 
 At once the darkness and dishonor 
 
 rather 
 To the ragged jaws of hungry chaos 
 rake. 
 And hixrl aback to ancient dust 
 These mortals that make blasphe- 
 mies 
 "With their made breath, this earth 
 and skies 
 That only grow a little dim. 
 Seeing their curse on him. 
 But him, of all forsaken. 
 Of creature and of brother, 
 Never wilt thou forsake ! 
 Thy living and thy loving cannot 
 
 slacken 
 Their firm essential hold upon each 
 
 other, 
 And well thou dost remember how 
 
 his part 
 Was still to lie upon thy breast, and 
 
 be 
 Partaker of the light that dwelt in 
 thee 
 Ere sun or seraph shone ; 
 
 And how, while silence trembled 
 
 round the throne. 
 Thou countedst by the beatings of 
 
 his heart 
 The moments of thine own eternity. 
 
 Awaken, 
 O right hand with the lightnings ! 
 
 Again gather 
 His glory to thy glory ! What es- 
 
 tranger, 
 What ill supreme in evil, can be thrust 
 Between the faithful Father and the 
 Son? 
 Appear for him, O Father ! 
 Appear for him. Avenger ! 
 Appear for him, Just One and Holy 
 One, 
 For he is holy and just ! 
 Adoi'. Thy face upturned toward 
 the throne is dark; 
 Thou hast no answer, Zerah. 
 
 Zerah. No replj% 
 
 O unforsaking Father ? 
 
 Ador. Hark ! 
 
 Instead of downward voice, a cry 
 Is uttered from beneath. 
 Zerah. And by a sharper sound 
 than death 
 Mine immortality is riven. 
 The heavy darkness which doth tent 
 
 the sky 
 Floats backward as by a sudden wind; 
 But I see no light behind; 
 But I feel the farthest stars are all 
 Stricken and shaken. 
 And I know a shadow sad and broad 
 
 Doth fall — doth fall 
 On our vacant thrones in heaven. 
 Voice from the Cross. My God, my 
 God, 
 Why hast thou me forsaken? 
 The Earth. Ah me, ah me, ah me ! 
 the dreadful why ! 
 My sin is on thee, sinless one ! Thou 
 
 art 
 God-orphaned for my burden on thy 
 
 head. 
 Dark sin, white innocence, endurance 
 
 dread ! 
 Be still within yoiir shrouds, my 
 
 buried dead, 
 Nor work with this quick horror 
 round mine heart. 
 Zerah. He hath forsaken Him. I 
 
 perish. 
 Ador. Hold 
 
 Upon his name ! we perish not. Of 
 
 old 
 His will — 
 
I 
 
 224 
 
 THE SERAPHIM. 
 
 Zerah. I seek liis will. Seek, sera- 
 phim ! 
 My God, my God ! where is it ? 
 
 Doth that curse 
 Reverberate spare us, seraph or uni- 
 verse ? 
 He hath forsaken Him. 
 Ador. He cannot fail. 
 Anqel Voices. We faint, we droop; 
 
 Our love doth tremble like fear. 
 Voices of Fallen Angels from the 
 Earth. Do we prevail ? 
 Or are we lost ? Hath not the ill we 
 did 
 Been heretofore our good ? 
 Is it not ill that One, all sinless, 
 
 should 
 Hang heavy with all curses on a 
 
 cross ? 
 Nathless, that cry ! With huddled 
 
 faces hid 
 Within the empty graves which men 
 
 did scoop 
 To hold more damned dead, we shud- 
 der through 
 What shall exalt us, or undo, — 
 Our triumph, or our loss. 
 Voice from the Cross. It is finished. 
 Zerah. Hark, again ! 
 
 Like a victor speaks the slain. 
 Angel Voices. Finished be the trem- 
 bling vain ! 
 Ador. Upward, like a well-loved 
 son, 
 Looketh He, the orphaned One. 
 Angel Voices. Finished is the mystic 
 
 pain. 
 Voices of Fallen Angels, His deathly 
 forehead at the word 
 Gleameth like a seraph sword. 
 Angel Voices. Finished is the demon 
 
 reign. 
 Ador. His breath, as living God, 
 createth ; 
 His breath, as dying man, completeth. 
 Angel Voices. Finished work his 
 
 hands sustain. 
 The Earth. In mine ancient sepul- 
 chres. 
 Where my kings and prophets freeze, 
 Adam dead four thousand years, 
 Unwakened by the universe's 
 Everlasting moan. 
 Aye his ghastly silence mocking — 
 Unwakened by his children's knock- 
 ing 
 At his old sepulchral stone, 
 " Adam, Adam, all this curse is 
 Thine and on us yet ! " — 
 
 Unwakened by the ceaseless tears 
 Wherewith they made his cerement 
 wet, 
 " Adam, must thy curse remain? " — 
 Starts with sudden life and hears. 
 Through the slow dripping of the cav- 
 erned eaves, — 
 Angel Voices. Finished is his bane. 
 Voice from the Cross. Father ! my 
 
 SPIRIT TO THINE HANDS IS GIVEN. 
 
 Ador. Hear the wailing winds that 
 be 
 By wings of unclean spirits made 1 
 They in that last look surveyed 
 The love they lost in losing heaven, 
 And passionately fiee 
 With a desolate cry that cleaves 
 The natural storms, though the]/ are 
 
 lifting 
 God's strong cedar-roots like leaves, 
 And the earthquake and the thun- 
 der. 
 Neither keeping either under. 
 Roar and hurtle through the glooms, 
 And a few pale stars are drifting 
 Past the dark to disappear. 
 What time, from the splitting tombs 
 Gleauiingly the dead arise, 
 Viewing with their death-calmed 
 
 eyes 
 The elemental strategies. 
 To witness, victory is the Lord's. 
 Hear the wail o' the spirits ! hear ! 
 Zerah. I hear alone the memory of 
 his words. 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 My song is done. 
 
 My voice that long hath faltered shall 
 be still. 
 
 The mystic darkness drops from Cal- 
 vary's hill 
 
 Into the common light of this day's 
 sun. 
 
 II. 
 
 I see no more thy cross, O holy Slain! 
 I hear no more the horror and the 
 
 coil 
 Of the great world's turmoil 
 Feeling thy countenance too still, — 
 
 nor yell 
 
PROMETHEUS BOUND. 
 
 225 
 
 Of demons sweeping past it to their 
 
 prison. 
 Tiie skies that turned to darkness 
 with thy pain 
 Make now a summer's day ; 
 And on my changed ear that sabbath 
 bell 
 Records how Christ is risen. 
 
 III. 
 
 And I —ah, what am I 
 
 To counterfeit, with faculty earth- 
 darkened, 
 Seraphic brows of light. 
 
 And seraph language never used nor 
 barkened ? 
 
 Ah me ! what word that seraphs say, 
 could come 
 
 From mouth so used to sighs, so soon 
 to lie 
 
 Sighless, because then breathless, in 
 the tomb ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Bright ministers of God and grace, 
 
 of grace 
 Because of God ! — whether ye bow 
 
 adown 
 In your own heaven, before the living 
 
 face 
 Of Him who died, and deathless wears 
 
 the crown. 
 Or whether at this hour ye haply are 
 
 Anear, around me, hiding in the night 
 Of this permitted ignorance your Ihigt, 
 
 This feebleness to spare, — 
 Forgive me, that mine earthly heart 
 
 should dare 
 Shape images of unincarnate spirits. 
 And lay upon their burning lips a 
 
 thought 
 Cold with the weeping which mine 
 
 earth inherits. 
 And though ye find in such hoarse 
 
 music, wrought 
 To copy yours, a cadence all the while 
 Of sin and sorrow, only pitying smile! 
 Ye know to pity, well. 
 
 /, too, may haply smile another day 
 At the fair recollection of this lay. 
 When God may call me in your midst 
 
 to dwell. 
 To hear your most sweet music's mir- 
 acle. 
 And see your wondrous faces. May 
 
 it be ! 
 For his remembered sake, the Slain 
 
 on rood, 
 "Who rolled his earthly garment red 
 
 in blood 
 (Treading the wine-press) that the 
 
 weak, like me, 
 Before his heavenly throne should 
 
 walk in white. 
 
 PROMETHEUS BOUND. 
 
 FROM THE GREEK OP .ffliSCHYLUS. 
 
 PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 
 
 Prometheus. Heph^stus. 
 OcEANUS. lo, daughter of Ina- 
 
 Hermes. chus. 
 
 Strength and Force. 
 Chorus of Ocean Nymphs. 
 
 Scene. — Strength and Force, Heph^s- 
 tus and Prometheus, at the Rocks. 
 
 Strength. "We reach the utmost limit 
 of the earth, — 
 The Scythian track, the desert with- 
 out man. 
 
 J^ 
 
 And now, Hephsestus, thou must 
 
 needs fulfil 
 The mandate of our Father, and wtih 
 
 links 
 Indissoluble of adamantine chains 
 Fasten against this beetling precipice 
 This guilty god. Because he filched 
 
 away 
 Thine own bright flower, the glory of 
 
 plastic fire. 
 And gifted mortals with it, — such a 
 
 sin 
 It doth behoove he expiate to the gods, 
 
226 
 
 PROMETHEUS BOUND. 
 
 Learning to accept the empery of Zeus, 
 And leave off his old trielc of loving 
 
 man. 
 Ilephcestus. O Strength and Force, 
 
 for you our Zeus's will 
 Presents a deed for doing, no more ! — 
 
 But I, 
 I lack your daring, up this storm-rent 
 
 chasm 
 To fix with violent hands a kindred 
 
 god, 
 Howbeit necessity compels me so 
 That I must dare it, and our Zeus 
 
 commands 
 With a most inevitahle word. Ho, 
 
 thou ! 
 High-thoughted son of Themis, who is 
 
 sage ! 
 Thee loath, I loath must rivet fast in 
 
 chains 
 Against this rocky height unclomb by 
 
 man. 
 Where never human voice nor face 
 
 shall find 
 Out thee who lov'st them; and thy 
 
 beauty's flower, 
 Scorched in the sun's clear heat, shall 
 
 fade away. 
 Night shall come up with garnitiire of 
 
 stars 
 To comfort thee with shadow, and the 
 
 sun 
 Disperse with retrickt beams the 
 
 morning-frosts; 
 But through all changes, sense of pres- 
 ent woe 
 Shall vex thee sore, because with 
 
 none of them 
 There comes a hand to free. Such 
 
 fruit is plucked 
 From love of man ! And in that thou, 
 
 a god, 
 Didst brave the wrath of gods, and 
 
 give away 
 Undue respect to mortals, for that 
 
 crime 
 Thou art adjudged to guard this joy- 
 less rock. 
 Erect, unslumberiug, bending not the 
 
 knee. 
 And many a cry and unavailing moan 
 To utter on the air. For Zeus is stern, 
 And new-made kings are cruel. 
 
 Strewjth. Be it so. 
 
 Why loiter in vain pity ? Why not 
 
 hate 
 A god the gods hate ? — one, too, who 
 
 l)etrayed 
 Thy glory unto men ? 
 
 Jlephcestus. An awful thing 
 
 Is kinshijj joined to friendship. 
 
 Strength. Grant it be: 
 
 Is disobedience to the Father's word 
 A possible thing ? Dost quail not 
 more for that ? 
 
 Ilephcestus. Thou, at least, art a 
 stern one, ever bold. 
 
 Strength. Why, if I wept, it were no 
 remedy; 
 And do not thou spend labor on the air 
 To bootless uses. 
 
 HephcEstus. Cursed handicraft ! 
 
 I curse and hate thee, O my craft ! 
 
 Strength. Why hate 
 
 Thy craft most plainly innocent of all 
 These pending ills ? 
 
 Heioh(B.^tus. I would some other hand 
 Were here to work it ! 
 
 Strength. All work hath its pain. 
 Except to rule the gods. There is 
 
 none free 
 Except King Zeus. 
 
 IlephcBStus. I know it very well ; 
 
 I argue not against it. 
 
 Strength. Wliy not, then, 
 
 Make haste and lock the fetters over 
 
 HIM, 
 
 Lest Zeus behold thee lagging ? 
 
 Hephaestus. Here be chains. 
 
 Zeus may behold these. 
 
 Strength. Seize him; strike amain; 
 Strike with the hammer on each side 
 
 his hands; 
 Rivet him to the rock. 
 
 Hephcestus. The work is done. 
 
 And thoroughly done. 
 
 Strength. Still faster grai^ple him; 
 Wedge him in decider; leave no inch 
 
 to stir. 
 He's terrible for finding a way out 
 From the irremediable. 
 
 Ilephcestus. Here's an arm, at least. 
 Grappled past freeing. 
 
 Strength. Now, then, btickle me 
 
 The otlier securely. Let this wise one 
 
 learn 
 He's duller than our Zeus. 
 
 Hepjhoestus. Oh, none but he 
 
 Accuse me justly. 
 Strength. Now, straight through the 
 ciiest, 
 Take him and bite him with the 
 
 clenching tooth 
 Of the adamantine wedge, and rivet 
 him. 
 Ilephcestus. Alas, Prometheus, what 
 thou sufferest here 
 I sorrow over. 
 
" Behold nie, a god, what I endure from gods ! "—Page 227. 
 
"♦z;;:^. 
 
PROMETHEUS BOUND. 
 
 Strencitli. Dost thou flinch again, 
 Autl breathe groans lor the enemies 
 
 of Zens? 
 Beware lest tliine own pity tind thee 
 
 out. 
 Iliphagtiis. Thou dost l>ehokl a spec- 
 
 taele tliat turns 
 The sight o' the eyes to pity. 
 
 Strength. I l)ehohl 
 
 A sinner suffer his sin's ]ienalty. 
 But lash the thongs about his sides. 
 
 Ilephcestus. So much 
 
 I must do. Urge no farther tlian I 
 
 must. 
 Strength. Ay, but I v!// urge ! and, 
 
 with sliout on sht)nt, 
 Will hound tliee at this (piarry. (let 
 
 thee down, 
 And ring amain the iron round liis 
 
 legs. 
 Hephoistus. That work was not long 
 
 doing. 
 Strength. Heavily now 
 
 Let fall the strokes upon the perfo- 
 
 rant gyves; 
 For he who rates the work lias a 
 
 heavy hand. 
 IlepMestus. Thy speech is savage as 
 
 thy shape. 
 ■ Strength. Be thou 
 
 Gentle and tender, but revile not me 
 For the firm will and the untruc- 
 
 kling hate, 
 llephce!<tiis. Ijet us go. He is net- 
 ted round with chains. 
 Strength. Here, now, taunt on ! and, 
 
 having spoiled the gods 
 Of honors, crown withal tliy mortal 
 
 men 
 AVho live a whole day out. Why, 
 
 how could theg 
 Draw off from thee one single of thy 
 
 griefs ? 
 Metliinks the Diemons gave thee a 
 
 wrong name, 
 PrornetheKH, which means Providence, 
 
 because 
 riiou dost thyself need providence to 
 
 see 
 Thy roll and ruin from the toji of 
 
 doom. 
 Prometheus {(dune). O holy ^'Ether, 
 
 and swift-winged Winds, 
 And River-wells, and Laughter innu- 
 
 merous 
 of yon sea-waves ! Earth, mother of 
 
 us all. 
 And all-viewing cyclic Sun, I cry on 
 
 you, — 
 
 Behold me a god, what I endure from 
 gods ! 
 Behold, with throe on throe, 
 How, wasted by this woe, 
 I wrestle down the myriad yt^ars of 
 time ! 
 Behold how, fast around me, 
 The new King of the hai>py ones 
 
 sublime 
 Has flung the chain he forged, has 
 
 shamed and bound me ! 
 Woe, woe ! to-day's woe and the 
 
 coming morrow's 
 I cover with one groan. And where 
 is found me 
 A limit to these sorrows ? 
 And yet what word do I say ? I 
 
 have foreknown 
 Clearly all things that should be; 
 
 nothing done 
 Comes sudden to my soul; and I 
 
 must bear 
 What is ordained with patience, 
 
 being aware 
 Necessity doth front the universe 
 With an invincible gesture. Yet 
 
 this curse 
 Which strikes me now I find it hard 
 
 to brave 
 In silence or in speech. Because 1 
 
 gave 
 Honor to mortals, I have voiced my 
 
 soul 
 To this compelling fate. Because I 
 
 stole 
 The secret fount of fire, whose bnl>- 
 
 bles went 
 Over the ferule's brim, and man- 
 ward sent 
 Art's mighty means and perfect ru- 
 diment, 
 That sin I expiate in this agony. 
 Hung here in fetters, 'neath the 
 blanching sky. 
 Ah, ah me ! what a sountl ! 
 What a fragrance sweeps up from a 
 
 pinion unseen 
 Of a god, or a mortal, or nature be- 
 tween. 
 Sweeping up to this rock where the 
 
 Earth has her bound, 
 To have siglit of my pangs, or some 
 
 guerdon obtain. 
 Lo, a god in the anguish, a god in the 
 chain ! 
 The god Zeus hateth sore, 
 And ids gods hate again. 
 As many as tread on his glorified 
 floor, 
 
PROMETHEUS BOUND. 
 
 Because I loved mortals too much 
 
 evermore. 
 Alas me ! what a mnrniur and motion 
 I hear, 
 As of birds flying near ! 
 And the air undersings 
 The light stroke of their wings, 
 And all life that approaches I wait for 
 in fear. 
 
 Chorvs of Sea-iii/nipJis, 1st strophe. 
 Fear nothing ! our troop 
 Floats lovingly up 
 ^^'ith a cpiick-oaring stroke 
 Of wings steered to the rock, 
 Ha\ing softened the soul of our 
 
 father below. 
 For the gales of swift-bearing have 
 
 . sent me a sound, 
 And the clank of the iron, the mal- 
 letted blow. 
 Smote down the profound 
 Of my caverns of old. 
 And struck the red light in a blush 
 
 from my brow. 
 Till I sprang up unsandalled, m haste 
 
 to behold, 
 And rushed forth on my chariot of 
 wings manifold. 
 
 Promi'theiis. Alas me ! alas me ! 
 Ye offspring of Tethys, who bore at 
 
 her breast 
 Many children, and eke of Oceanus, he. 
 Coiling still around earth with per- 
 isetual unrest ! 
 Behold me and see 
 How transfixed with the fang 
 Of a fetter I hang 
 On the high-jutting rocks of this fis- 
 sure, and keep 
 An uncoveted watch o'er the world 
 and the deep. 
 
 Chorus, 1st antistrophe. 
 
 I behold thee, Prometheus; yet now, 
 yet now, 
 
 A terrible cloud whose rain is tears 
 
 Sweeps over mine eyes that witness 
 how 
 
 Thy body appears 
 
 Hung awaste on the rocks by infran- 
 gible chains: 
 
 For new is the hand, new the rudder, 
 that steers 
 
 The ship of Olympus through surge 
 and wind, 
 
 And of old things. passed, uo track is 
 behind. 
 
 PrometheKs. Under earth, under 
 
 Hades, 
 
 Where the home of the shade is. 
 
 All into the deep, deep Tartarus, 
 
 I would he had hurled me adown. 
 
 I would he had plunged me, fastened 
 
 thus 
 In the knotted chain, with the savage 
 
 clang, 
 All into the dark, where there should 
 
 be none, 
 Neither god nor another, to laugh and 
 see. 
 But now the winds sing through 
 
 and shake 
 The hurtling chains wherein I 
 
 hang, 
 And I in my naked sorrows make 
 Much mirth for my enemy. 
 
 Chorus, 2(1 strophe. 
 Nay ! who of the gods hath a heart so 
 stern 
 As to use thy woe for a mock and 
 mirth ? 
 "Who would not turn more mild to learn 
 Thy sorrows ? who of the heaven 
 and earth 
 Save Zeus ? But he 
 Right wrathfuUy 
 Bears on his sceptral soul unbent, 
 And rules thereby the heavenly 
 
 seed. 
 Nor will he pause till he content 
 His thirsty heart in a finished deed. 
 Or till Another shall appear. 
 To win by fraud, to seize by fear, 
 The hard -to -be -captured govern- 
 ment. 
 
 Prometheus. Yet even of me he shall 
 
 have need, 
 That monarch of the blessed seed, — 
 Of me, of me who now am cursed 
 
 By his fetters dire, — 
 To wring my secret out withal. 
 And learn by whom his sceptre 
 shall 
 Be filched from him, as was at first 
 His heavenly tire. 
 But he never shall enchant me 
 With his honey-lipped persua- 
 sion; 
 Never, never, shall he daunt me. 
 With the oath and threat of passion, 
 Into speaking as they want me, 
 Till he loost' this savage chain, 
 
 And accept the expiation 
 Of my sorrow in his pain. 
 
PROMETHEUS ROUND. 
 
 Cliiinas, 2d antistrophe. 
 Thou art, sootli, a brave fjod, 
 
 And, for all thou liast borno 
 From the stroke of the rod, 
 
 Nought relaxest from scorn. 
 l!ut thou speakest unto me 
 
 Too free and unworn ; 
 And a terror sti'ikes througli me 
 
 And festers my soul. 
 
 And I fear, in the roll 
 Of the storm, for thy fate 
 
 In the shii) far from shore; 
 Since the son of Saturnus is hard in 
 
 his hate. 
 And unmoved in his heart ever- 
 more. 
 
 Prometheus. I know that Zeus is 
 
 stern; 
 I know he metes bis justice by his will ; 
 And yet his soul shall learn 
 More s )ftness when once broken by 
 
 this ill; 
 And, curbing his unconquerable 
 
 vaunt, 
 He shall rush on in fear to meet with 
 
 me 
 "Who rush to meet with him in agony, 
 To issues of harmonious covenant. 
 Chorus. Remove the veil from all 
 
 things, and relate 
 The story to us, — of what crime ac- 
 cused, 
 Zeus smites thee with dishonoral)le 
 
 pangs. 
 Speak, if to teach iis do not grieve 
 
 thyself. 
 Prometlivus. The utterance of these 
 
 things is torture to me. 
 But so, too, is their silence: cacii way 
 
 lies 
 Woe strong as fate. 
 
 When gods began with wrath, 
 And war rose uji between their starry 
 
 brows. 
 Some choosing to cast Chronos from 
 
 his throne 
 That Zeus might king it there, and 
 
 some in haste 
 With opposite oaths, that they would 
 
 have no Zeus 
 To rule the gods forever, — I, who 
 
 brought 
 The counsel I thought meetest, could 
 
 not move 
 The Titans, children of the Heaven 
 
 aTid Earth, 
 What time, disdaining in their rugged 
 
 souls 
 
 M3' subtle machinations, they as- 
 sumed 
 It was an easy thing for force to 
 
 take 
 The mastery of fate. My mother, 
 
 then, 
 Who is called not only Thenus, but 
 
 Earth too, 
 (Her single beauty joys in many 
 
 names) 
 Did teach me with reiterant prophec\- 
 What future should be, and how con- 
 quering gods 
 Should not prevail by strength and 
 
 violence, 
 But by guile only. When I told them 
 
 so, 
 They would not deign to contemplate 
 
 the truth 
 On all sides round; whereat I deemed 
 
 it best 
 To lead my willing mother upwardly, 
 And set my Themis face to face with 
 
 Zeus 
 As willing to receive her. Tartarus, 
 With its abysmal cloister of the Dark, 
 Because I gave that counsel, covers 
 
 up 
 The antique Chronos and his siding 
 
 hosts, 
 And, by that counsel helped, the king 
 
 of gods 
 Hath recompensed me with these bit- 
 ter pangs; 
 For kingshii:) wears a cancer at the 
 
 heart, — 
 Distrust in friendship. Do ye also 
 
 ask 
 What crime it is for which he tortures 
 
 me ? 
 That shall be clear before you. When 
 
 at first 
 He filled his father's throne, he in- 
 stantly 
 Made various gifts of glory to the 
 
 gods. 
 And dealt the empire out. Alone of 
 
 men, 
 Of miserable men, he took no count. 
 But yearned to sweep their track off 
 
 from the world, 
 Aiul plant a newer race there. Not a 
 
 god 
 Resisted such desii'e, except mysell. 
 / dared it ! I drew mortals back to 
 
 light. 
 From meditated ruin deep as hell ! 
 For whi<h wrong I am bent down in 
 
 these pangs 
 
 I 
 
i 
 
 230 
 
 PRO MET HE US BO UND. 
 
 Dreadful to suffer, mournful to be- 
 hold, 
 And I who pitied mau aiu thouglit 
 
 myself 
 Unworthy of pity;, while I render 
 
 out 
 Deep rhythms of anguish 'nfath the 
 
 harping hand 
 That strikes me thus, — a sight to 
 shame your Zeus ! 
 Chorus. Hard as thy chains, and 
 cold as all these rocks, 
 Is he, Prometheus, who withholds his 
 
 heart 
 From joining in thy woe. I j-earned 
 
 before 
 To flv this sight; and, now I gaze on 
 
 'it, 
 I sicken inwards. 
 
 Pi-oinethetis. To my friends, indeed, 
 I must be a sad sight. 
 
 ChoriiK. And didst thou sin 
 
 No more than so ? 
 
 Pro met he as. I did restrain besides 
 
 My mortals from premeditating death. 
 
 Chorus. How didst thou medicine 
 
 the plague-fear of death ? 
 Prometheus. I set blind Hopes to 
 
 inhabit in tlieir house. 
 Chorus. By that gift thou didst help 
 
 thy mortals well. 
 Prometheus. I gave them also fire. 
 Chorus. And have they now, 
 
 Those creatures of a day, the red- 
 eyed tire ? 
 Prometheus. They have, and shall 
 
 learn by it many arts. 
 Chorus. And truly tor sucli sins 
 Zeus tortures thee, 
 And will remit no anguish ? Is there 
 
 set 
 No limit before thee to thine agony ? 
 Prometheus. No other — only what 
 
 seems good to him. 
 Chorus. And how will it seem good ? 
 what hope remains ? 
 Seest thou not tliat thou hast sinned ? 
 
 But that tliou hast sinned 
 It glads me not to s])eak of, and 
 
 grieves thee; 
 Then let it pass from botli, and seek 
 
 thyself 
 Some outlet from distress^. 
 
 Prometheus. It is in truth 
 
 An easy thing to stand aloof from 
 
 pain, 
 And lavish exhortation and advice 
 On one vexed sorely by it. I have 
 known 
 
 All in prevision. By my choice, my 
 
 choice, 
 I freel.v sinned, — I will confess my 
 
 sin, — 
 And, helping mortals, found mine 
 
 own despair. 
 I did not think indeed that I should 
 
 pine 
 Beneath such pangs against such 
 
 skyey rocks, 
 Doomed to this drear hill, and nn 
 
 neighboring 
 Of any life. But mourn not ye for 
 
 griefs 
 I bear to-day: hear rather, diopping 
 
 down 
 To the plain, how other woes creep 
 
 on to me, 
 And learn the consummation of my 
 
 doom. 
 Beseech you, nymphs, beseech you, 
 
 grieve for me 
 Who now am grieving; for Grief 
 
 walks the earth. 
 And sits down at the foot of each by 
 turns. 
 Chorus. We hear the deep clasli of 
 th,y words, 
 Prometheus, and obey. 
 And I spring with a rapid foot 
 
 away 
 From the rushing car and the holy 
 air, 
 Tlie track of birds; 
 And I drop to the rugged ground, 
 and there 
 Await the tale of thy despair. 
 
 OcEANUS enters. 
 
 Oceanus. I reach the bourne of my 
 weary road 
 Where I may see and answer 
 
 thee, 
 Prometheus, in thine agony. 
 On the back of the quick-winged l)ird 
 I glode. 
 And I bridled him in 
 With the will of a god. 
 Behold, thy sorrow aches in me 
 
 Constrained by the force of kin. 
 Nay, though that tie were all un- 
 done, 
 For the life of none beneath tlie sun 
 Would I seek a larger benison 
 
 Than I seek for thine. 
 And thou shalt learn my words are 
 
 truth , 
 That no fair parlance of the mouth 
 Grows falsely out of mine. 
 
h»HI-#H 
 
 FRUMKTIIE US BO UND. 
 
 231 
 
 Now give me a deed to prove my 
 
 faith; 
 For no faster friend is named in 
 breath 
 Than I, Oceanus, am thine 
 J'rometheus. Ha 1 what has brought 
 
 thee ? Hast thou also come 
 To look npon my woe? How hast 
 
 thou dared 
 To leave the depths called after tlio(? ? 
 
 the caves 
 Self-hewn, and self-roofed with sjion- 
 
 taueous rock, 
 To visit Earth, the mother of my 
 
 chain ? 
 Hast come, indeed, to view my doom, 
 
 and mourn 
 That I should sorrow thus? Gaze 
 
 on, and see 
 How I, the fast friend of your Zeus, 
 
 — how I 
 The erector of the empire in his hand. 
 Am bent beneath that hand in this 
 
 despair. 
 Oceanus. Prometheus, I behold; 
 
 and I would fain 
 Exhort thee, though already subtle 
 
 enough. 
 To a better wisdom. Titan, know 
 
 thyself. 
 And take new softness to thy man- 
 ners, since 
 A new king rules the gods. If words 
 
 like these, 
 Harsh words and trenchant, thon 
 
 wilt fling abroad, 
 Zeus haply, though he sit so far and 
 
 high', 
 May hear thee do it, and so this wrath 
 
 of his, 
 ■Which now affects thee fien^ely, shall 
 
 appear 
 A mere child's sport at vengeance. 
 
 "Wretched god, 
 Rather dismiss the passion which 
 
 thou hast. 
 And seek a change from grief. Per- 
 haps I seem 
 To address thee with old saws and 
 
 outworn sense; 
 Yet such a curse, Prometheus, surely 
 
 waits 
 On lips that speak too proudly: thou, 
 
 meantime, 
 Art none the meeker, nor dost yield 
 
 a jot 
 To evil cii'cumstance, preparing still 
 To swell the account of grief with 
 
 other griefs 
 
 Than what are borne. Beseech thee, 
 
 use me, then. 
 For counsel: do not spurn against the 
 
 pricks. 
 Seeing that wlio reigns, reigns by 
 
 cruelty 
 Instead of right. And now I go 
 
 from hence, 
 And will endeavor if a power of 
 
 mine 
 Can brea.k thj^ fetters through. For 
 
 thee — be calm. 
 And smooth thy words from passion. 
 
 Knowest thou not 
 Of perfect knowledge, thou who 
 
 knowest too much. 
 That, where the tongue wags, ruin 
 
 never lags ? 
 Promethevs. I gratulate thee wlio 
 
 hast shared and dared 
 All things with me, except their pen- 
 alty. 
 Enough so ! leave these thoughts. 
 
 It cannot be 
 That thou shouldst move him. He 
 
 may iivt be moved; 
 And thou, beware of sorrow on this 
 
 road. 
 Oceanus. Ay ! ever wiser for an- 
 other's use 
 Than thine. Tlie event, and not the 
 
 prophecy, 
 Attests it to me. Yet, where now I 
 
 rush, 
 Thy wisdom hath no power to drag 
 
 me back, 
 Because I glory, glory, to go hence, 
 And win for thee deliverance from 
 
 thy i«angs, 
 As a free gift from Zeus. 
 
 Prometheus. Why there, again, 
 
 I give thee gratulation' and applause. 
 Thou lackest no good will. But, as 
 
 for deeds. 
 Do nought! 'twere all done vainly, 
 
 helping nought. 
 Whatever thou wouldst do. Rather 
 
 take rest, 
 And keep thyself from evil. If I 
 
 grieve, 
 I do not therefore wish to multiply 
 The griefs of others. Verily, not so! 
 For still my brother's doom doth vex 
 
 my soul, — 
 My brother Atlas, standing in the 
 
 west, 
 Shouldering the column of the heaven 
 
 and earth, 
 A difficult burden! I have also seen. 
 
232 
 
 I'ROMETUK US BO UXD. 
 
 And 
 
 as I saw, the earth-born 
 
 pitied 
 
 one, 
 The inlaabitant of old Cilician caves. 
 The great war-monster of tlie linndred 
 
 heads, 
 (All taken and bowed beneath the 
 
 violent Hand) 
 Typhon the fierce, who did resist the 
 
 gods, 
 And, hissing slaughter from his dread- 
 ful jaws, 
 Flash out ferocious glory from his eyes 
 As if to storm the tlirone of Zeus. 
 
 Whereat, 
 The sleepless arrow of Zeus flew 
 
 straight at him. 
 The headlong bolt of thunder ])reath- 
 
 ing flame. 
 And struck him downward from his 
 
 eminence 
 Of exultation ; through the very soul 
 It struck him, and his strength was 
 
 withered up 
 To ashes, thunder-blasted. Now he 
 
 lies, 
 A heli>less trunk, supinely, at full- 
 length 
 Beside the strait of ocean, spurred into 
 By roots of ^Etna, high upon whose 
 
 tops 
 Hephnestus sits, and strikes the flash- 
 ing ore. 
 From thence the rivers of fire shall 
 
 burst away 
 Hereafter, and devour with savage 
 
 jaws 
 The equal plains of fruitful Sicily, 
 Such passion he shall boil back in hot 
 
 darts 
 Of an insatiate fury and sough of flame, 
 Fallen Typhon, howsoever struck and 
 
 charred 
 By Zeus's bolted thunder. But for 
 
 thee. 
 Thou art not so unlearned as to need 
 My teaching; let thy knowledge save 
 
 thyself. 
 I quaff the full cup of a present doom. 
 And wait till Zeus hath quenched his 
 
 will in wrath. 
 Oceatuis. Prometheus, art thou ig- 
 norant of this. 
 That words do medicine anger ? 
 
 Prometheus. If the word 
 
 With seasonable softness touch the 
 
 soul. 
 And, where the parts are ulcerous, 
 
 sear them not 
 By any rudeness. 
 
 With a noble aim 
 -is there harm in 
 
 Oceanus. 
 To dare as nobl^- 
 
 tliat ? 
 Dost thou discern it ? Teach me. 
 
 Prometheus. I discern 
 
 Vain aspiration, unresultive work. 
 Oceanus. Then suffer me to bear 
 the brunt of this. 
 Since it is profitable that one who is 
 
 wise 
 Should seem not wise at all. 
 Prometheus. And such would 
 
 seem 
 My very crime. 
 
 Oceanus. In truth thine argu- 
 
 ment 
 Sends me back home. 
 Prometheus. Lest anj- lament 
 
 for me 
 Should cast thee down to hate. 
 
 Oceanus. The hate of him 
 
 Who sits a new king on the absolute 
 throne ? 
 Prometheus. Beware of him, lest 
 
 thine heart grieve by him. 
 Oceanus. Thy doom, Prometheus, 
 
 be mj^ teacher ! 
 Prometheus. Go ! 
 
 Depart ! Beware! And keep the 
 mind thou hast. 
 Oceanus. Thy words drive after, as 
 I rush before. 
 Lo, my four-footed bird sweeps smooth 
 
 and wide 
 The flats of air with balanced pinions, 
 
 glad 
 To bend his knee at home in the ocean- 
 .stall. 
 
 [Oceanus departs. 
 
 Chorus, 1st strophe. 
 I moan thj^ fate, I moan for thee, 
 Prometheus! From my ej-es too 
 tender 
 Drop after drop incessantly 
 
 The tears of my heart's pity render 
 My cheeks wet from their fountains 
 
 free; 
 Because that Zeus, the stern and cold, 
 Whose law is taken from his breast, 
 Uplifts his sceptre manifest 
 Over the gods of old. 
 
 1st antistrophe. 
 All the land is moaning 
 With a murmured plaint to-day; 
 All the mortal nations 
 Having habitations 
 In the holv Asia 
 
 
mo MET hi: us bound. 
 
 2fJ3 
 
 i 
 
 T 
 
 Are a dirge entoning 
 For thine lionor and thy brothers', 
 Once majestic beyond others 
 
 In the old belief, — 
 Now are groaning in the groaning 
 
 Of thy deep-voiced grief. 
 
 2d strophe 
 Mourn the maids inhabitant 
 
 Of the Colchian land. 
 Who with white, calm bosoms stand 
 
 In the battle's roar : 
 Mourn the Scythian tribes that haunt 
 The verge of earth, Ma^otis' shore. 
 
 2(i (oitistrophe. 
 Yea ! Arabia's battle crown. 
 And dwellers in the beetling 
 
 town 
 Mt. Caucasus sublimely nears — 
 An iron squadron, thundering 
 down 
 With the sharp-prowed spears. 
 
 But one other before have I seen to 
 remain 
 By invincible pain, 
 Bound and vanquished, — one Titan! 
 
 'twas Atlas, who bears 
 In a curse from the gods, by that 
 strength of his own 
 Which he evermore wears, 
 The weight of the heaven on his shoul- 
 der alone, 
 While he sighs up the stars; 
 And the tides of the ocean wail, bursts 
 ing their bars; 
 Murmurs still the profound, 
 And black Hades roars up tlirough the 
 
 chasm of the ground. 
 And the fountains of pure-running 
 rivers moan low 
 In a pathos of woe. 
 Prometheus. Beseech you, think not 
 I am silent thus 
 Through pride or scorn. I onl^' gnaw 
 
 my heart 
 With meditation, seeing myself so 
 
 wronged. 
 For see — their honors to these new- 
 made gods, 
 What other gave but I, and dealt them 
 
 out 
 With distribution? Ay! but here I 
 
 am dumb: 
 For here I should repeat your knowl- 
 edge to you, 
 If I spake aught. List rather to the 
 deeds 
 
 I (lid for mortals; how, being fools 
 before, 
 
 I made them wise and true in aim of 
 soul. 
 
 And let me tell you, ^ not as taunt- 
 ing men. 
 
 But teaching you the intention of my 
 gifts, — 
 
 How, first beholding, they beheld in 
 vain. 
 
 And, hearing, heard not, but. like 
 shapes in dreams. 
 
 Mixed all things wildly down the te- 
 dious time, 
 
 Nor knew to build a house against the 
 sun 
 
 With wicketed sides, nor any wood- 
 craft knew. 
 
 But lived, like silly ants, beneath the 
 ground 
 
 In hollow caves unsunned. There 
 came to them 
 
 No steadfast sign of winter, nor of 
 spring 
 
 Flower-perfumed, nor of summer full 
 of fruit. 
 
 But blindlj' and lawlessly theytlid all 
 things. 
 
 Until I taught them how the stars do 
 rise 
 
 And set in mystery, and devised for 
 them 
 
 Number, the inducer of philoso- 
 phies. 
 
 The synthesis of letters, and, beside. 
 
 The artificer of all things, memory. 
 
 That sweet muse-mother. I was first 
 to yoke 
 
 The servile beasts in couples, carry- 
 ing 
 
 An heirdom of man's burdens on their 
 backs. 
 
 I joined to chariots, steeds, that love 
 the bit 
 
 They champ at, — the chief pomji of 
 golden ease. 
 
 And none but I originated ships. 
 
 The seaman's chariots, wanderings on 
 the brine 
 
 With linen wings. And I — oh, mis- 
 eral)le ! — 
 
 Who did devise for mortals all these 
 arts. 
 
 Have no device left now to save my- 
 self 
 
 From the woe I suffer. 
 
 Cliorns. Most unseemly woe 
 
 Thou sufferest, and dost stagger from 
 the sense 
 
2^4 
 
 rROMETHEUS BOUND. 
 
 Bewildered ! I^ike a bad leerh falling 
 sick. 
 
 Tlion art. faint at soul, and canst not 
 lind the drugs 
 
 Required to save thyself. 
 Prometlu'-iis. Harken the rest, 
 
 And marvel further, what more arts 
 and means 
 
 I did invent, — this, greatest: if a 
 man 
 
 Fell sick, there was no cure, nor escu- 
 lent 
 
 Nor chrism nor liquid, hut for lack of 
 drugs 
 
 Men pined and wasted, till I showed 
 them all 
 
 Those mixtures of emollient reme- 
 dies 
 
 Whereby they might be rescued from 
 disease. 
 
 I fixed the various rules of mantic 
 art. 
 
 Discerned the vision from the com- 
 mon dream. 
 
 Instructed them in vocal auguries 
 
 Hard to interpret, and defined as 
 plain 
 
 The waysi<le omens, — flights of crook- 
 clawed birds, — 
 
 Showed which are by their nature 
 fortunate, 
 
 And which not so, and what the food 
 of each, 
 
 And what the hates, affections, social 
 needs 
 
 Of all to one another, — taught what 
 sign 
 
 Of visceral lightness, colored to a 
 shade, 
 
 May charm the genial gods, and what 
 fair spots 
 
 Commentl the lung and liver. Burn- 
 ing so 
 
 The limbs incased in fat, and the long 
 chine, 
 
 I led my mortals on to an art ab- 
 struse, 
 
 And cleared their eyes to the image in 
 the fire, 
 
 Erst filmed in dark. Enough said 
 now of this. 
 
 For the other helps of man hid un- 
 derground. 
 
 The iron and the brass, silver and 
 gold. 
 
 Can any dare aflfirm he found them 
 out 
 
 Before me? None, I know ! unless he 
 choose 
 
 To lie in his vaunt. In one word 
 
 learn the whole, — 
 That all arts came to mortals from 
 Prometheus. 
 Choriix. Give mortals now no inex- 
 pedient help, 
 Neglecting thine own sorrow. I have 
 
 hope still 
 To see tliee, breaking from the fetter 
 
 here, 
 Stand up as strong as Zeus. 
 
 Promethcvs. This ends not thus, 
 
 Tlip oracular fate ordains. I must be 
 
 bowed 
 By infinite woes and pangs to escape 
 
 this cliain. 
 Necessity is stronger than mine art. 
 Chorus. Who holds the helm of that 
 
 Necessity ? 
 Promcthciit:. The threefold Fates 
 
 and the unforgetting Furies. 
 Chums. Is Zeus less absolute than 
 
 these are ? 
 Prometheus. Yea, 
 
 And therefore cannot fly what is or- 
 dained. 
 Chorus. What is ordained for Zeus, 
 except to be 
 A king forever ? 
 
 Prometheus. 'Tis too early yet 
 
 For thee to learn it: ask no more- 
 
 CJionis. Perhaps 
 
 Thy secret may be .something holy ? 
 Prometheus. Turn 
 
 To another matter: this, it is not time 
 To speak abroad, but utterly to veil 
 In silence. Forbythatsamesecretkept, 
 I 'scape this chain's dishonor, and its 
 woe. 
 
 Chonct, 1st strophe. 
 Never, oh never. 
 May Zeus, the all-giver, 
 W^restle down from his throne 
 In that might of his own 
 To antagonize mine ! 
 Nor let me delay < 
 
 As I bend on my way 
 Toward the gods of the shrine 
 W^here the altar is full 
 Of the blood of the bull. 
 Near the tossing brine 
 Of Ocean my father. 
 May no sin lie sjied in the word that 
 
 is said. 
 But my vow be rather 
 Consummated, 
 Nor evermore fail, nor evermore 
 
 pine. 
 
riiOMI-.THEUS BOUND. 
 
 l>it antistrophe. 
 'Tis sweet to liave 
 
 Life lengthened out 
 With hopes proved brave 
 
 Bv the very doubt, 
 Till' the spirit infold 
 Those manifest joys wliieli were 
 foretold. 
 But I tlirill to behold 
 
 Thee, victim doomed, 
 By the countless cares 
 And the drear despairs 
 Forever consumed, — 
 And all because thou, who art fear- 
 less now 
 Of Zeus above. 
 Didst overflow for mankind below 
 With a free-souled, reverent love. 
 
 All, friend, behold and see ! 
 What's all the beauty <jf humanity ? 
 
 Can it be fair ? 
 What's all the strength ? Is it 
 strong ? 
 And what hope can they bear, 
 These dying livers, living one dav 
 long? 
 Ah, seest thou not, my friend. 
 How feeble and slow. 
 And like a dream, doth go 
 This i)Oor blind manhood, drifted 
 from its end '? 
 And how no mortal wrauglings 
 can confuse 
 The harmony of Zeus ? 
 
 Prometheus, I ha\e learnt these 
 things 
 From the sorrow in thy face. 
 
 Another song did fold its wings 
 Upon my lips in other days, 
 When round the liath and round 
 
 the bed 
 Tlie hymeneal chant instead 
 
 I sang for thee, and smiled. 
 And thou didst lead, with gifts and 
 vows, 
 Hesione, my father's child, 
 To be thy wedded spouse. 
 
 lo enters. 
 
 I'j. What land is this ? what people 
 is here ? 
 And who is he that writhes, I see, 
 
 In the rock-hung chain ? 
 Now what is the crime that hath 
 
 brouglit thee to pain ? 
 Now what is the land — make answer 
 free — 
 
 Which I wander tlirougli in my wrong 
 
 and fear ? 
 Ah, ah, ah me ! 
 The gad-fly stingeth to agony ! 
 O Earth, keep off that pliantasm pale 
 Of earth-born Argus ! — ah ! I quail 
 
 When my soul descries 
 That herdsman with the myriad eyes 
 Which seem, as he comes, one crafty 
 
 eye. 
 Graves hide liim not, thougli he 
 
 should die; 
 But he doggeth me in my misery 
 From the roots of dc>atli, on high, on 
 
 high; 
 And along the sands of the siding 
 
 deep. 
 All famine-worn, he follows me, 
 And his waxen reed doth under.sound 
 
 The waters round. 
 And giveth a measure that giveth 
 
 sleej). 
 
 Woe, woe, woe ! 
 Where shall my weary course be 
 
 done ? 
 What wouldst thou with me, Saturn's 
 
 son ? 
 And in what have I sinned, that I 
 
 should go 
 Thus yoked to grief by tliine hand 
 forever ? 
 Ah, ah ! dost vex me so 
 
 That I madden and shiver 
 Stung through with dread ? 
 Flasli the fire down to burn me ! 
 Heave the earth w]) to cover me ! 
 Plunge me in the deep, with the salt 
 waves over me. 
 That the sea-beasts may be fed ! 
 
 king do not spurn me 
 
 In my prayer ! 
 For this wandering everlouger, 
 evermore, 
 
 Hath overworn me, 
 And I know not on what shore 
 
 1 may rest from my desimir. 
 
 C'hurtis. Hearest thou what the ox- 
 horned maiden saith ? 
 
 Prometheus. How could I choose 
 
 but harken what she saith, 
 The frenzied maiden ? — Inachus's 
 
 child? — 
 Who love-warms Zeus's heart, and 
 
 now is lashed 
 By Here's hate along the unending 
 
 ways? 
 
23C 
 
 ntOMETHE US BO UN J). 
 
 Jo. Wlio taught tlipfi to articulate 
 that name, — 
 My father's ? Speak to his child 
 By grief and shame defiled ! 
 Who art thou, victim, thou who dost 
 
 acclaim 
 Mine anguish in true words on the 
 
 wide air, 
 And callest, too, by name the curse 
 that came 
 From Here unaware, 
 To waste and pierce me with its mad- 
 dening goad ? 
 Ah, ah, I leap 
 With the pang of the hungry; I hound 
 on the road; 
 I am driven by my doom ; 
 I am overcome 
 By the wrath of an enemy strong and 
 
 deep ! 
 Are any of those who liave tasted 
 pain, 
 Alas ! as wretched as I ? 
 Now tell me plain, doth aught remain 
 For my soul to endure beneath the sky? 
 Is there any help to be holpen by ? 
 If knowledge be in thee, let it be 
 said ! 
 Cry aloud — crj- 
 To the wandering, woful maid. 
 
 Promethena. Whatever thou wouldst 
 learn, I will declare; 
 No riddle upon my lips, but such 
 
 straight words 
 As friends should use to each other 
 
 when they talk. 
 Thou seest Prometheus, who gave 
 mortals fire. 
 lo. O common help of all men, 
 known of all, 
 O miserable Prometheus, for what 
 
 cause 
 Dost thou endui-c thus ? 
 
 Prometheus. I have done with wail 
 For my own griefs but lately. 
 
 lo. Wilt thou not 
 
 Vouchsafe the boon to me ? 
 
 Promethens. Say what thou wilt. 
 For I vouchsafe all. 
 
 lo. Si>cak, then, and reveal 
 
 Who shut thee in this chasm. 
 
 Prometheus. The will of Zeus, 
 
 The hand of his Hepbiestus 
 lo. ■ " 
 
 Dost expiate so ? 
 
 PrometheKS. 
 liave told 
 In so nnu?h onlv. 
 
 And what crime 
 Enouiih for thee I 
 
 lo. Nay, but show besides 
 
 The limit of iny wandering, and the 
 
 time 
 Which yet is lacking to fulfil my 
 grief. 
 Prometheus. Why, not to know were 
 better than to know 
 For such as thou. 
 
 lo. Beseech thee, blind me not 
 
 To that which I must sutfer. 
 
 Prometheus. If I do. 
 
 The reason is not tliat I grudge a 
 boon. 
 /'). What reason, then, prevents thy 
 
 speaking out? 
 Prometheus. No grudging, but a 
 
 fear to break thine heart. 
 /'). Less care for me, I pray thee. 
 Certainty 
 I count for advantage. 
 
 Prometlu'u.t. Thou wilt have it so, 
 And therefore I must speak. Now 
 liear — 
 Chorus. Not yet. 
 
 Give half the guerdon my way. Let 
 
 us learn 
 First what the curse is that befell the 
 
 maid. 
 Her own voice telling her own wast- 
 ing woes : 
 The sequence of that anguish shall 
 
 await 
 The teaching of thy lips. 
 
 Prometheus. It doth behoove 
 
 That thou, maid lo, shouldst vouch- 
 safe to these 
 The grace they pray, — the more, be- 
 cause they are called 
 Thy father's sisters; since to open out 
 And mourn out grief, where it is pos- 
 sible 
 To draw a tear from the audience, is 
 
 a work 
 That pays its own price well. 
 
 lo. " I cannot choose 
 
 But trust you, nymphs, and tell you 
 
 all ye ask, 
 In clear 'words, though I sob amid 
 
 my speech 
 In speaking of the storm-curse sent 
 
 from Zeus, 
 And of my beauty, from which height 
 
 it took 
 Its swoop on me, poor wretch ! left 
 
 thus deformed 
 And monstrous to your eyes. For 
 
 evermore 
 Around my virgin-chamber, wander- 
 ing went 
 
PROMETHEUS BOUND. 
 
 237 
 
 The nightly visions which entreatad 
 
 me 
 With syllabled smooth sweetness. — 
 
 " Blessetl maid, 
 Why lengthen out thy maiden liours. 
 
 when fate 
 Permits the noblest spousal in the 
 
 world ? 
 When Zeus burns' with the arrow of 
 
 thy love. 
 And fain would touch thy beauty? — 
 
 jMaiden, thou 
 Despise not Zeus ! depart to Lerne's 
 
 mead 
 That's green around thy father's 
 
 tlocks and stalls, 
 Until the passion of the heavenly 
 
 Eye 
 Be quenched in sight." Such dreams 
 
 did all night long 
 Constrain me, — me, unhappy ! — till I 
 
 dared 
 To tell my father how they trod the 
 
 dark 
 With visionary steps. AVhereat he 
 
 sent 
 His frequent heralds t<j the Tythian 
 
 fane. 
 And also to Dodona, and iuijitired 
 How best, by act or sjieech, to please 
 
 the gods. 
 The same returning brought back 
 
 oracles 
 Of doubtful sense, indefinite response, 
 Dark to interpret; but at last there 
 
 came 
 To Inachus an answer that was clear, 
 Thrown straight as any bolt, and 
 
 spoken out, — 
 This: " He should drive me from my 
 
 home and land, 
 And bid me wander to the extreme 
 
 verge 
 Of all the earth; or, if lie- willed it 
 
 not. 
 Should have a thunder with a tiery 
 
 eye 
 Leap straight from Zeus to burn up 
 
 all his race 
 To the last root of it." By which 
 
 Loxian word 
 Subdued, he drove me forth, and shut 
 
 me out. 
 He loath, me loath; but Zeus's violent 
 
 bit 
 Compelled him to the deed : when in- 
 stantly 
 My body and soul were changed and 
 
 distraught, 
 
 And, horned as ye see, and spurred 
 along 
 
 By the fanged insect, with a maniac 
 leap 
 
 I rushed on to Cenchrea's limjiid 
 stream. 
 
 And Lerne's fountain-water. There, 
 the earth-born, 
 
 The herdsman Argus, most immitiga- 
 ble 
 
 Of wrath, did find me out, and track 
 me out 
 
 With countless eyes set staring at my 
 steps; 
 
 And though an unexpected sudden 
 doom 
 
 Drew him from life, I, curse-torment- 
 ed still. 
 
 Am driven from land to land before 
 the scourge 
 
 The gods hold o'er me. So thou hast 
 heard the past; 
 
 And, if a bitter future thou canst tell. 
 
 Speak on. I charge thee, do not flat- 
 ter me. 
 
 Through pity, with false words; for 
 in my mind 
 
 Deceiving works more shame than 
 torturing doth. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Ah, silence here ! 
 
 Nevermore, nevermoi'e, 
 
 Would I languish for 
 
 The stranger's word 
 
 To thrill in mine ear — 
 Nevermore for the wrong and the woe 
 and the fear 
 
 So hard to ])eliold. 
 
 So cruel to bear, 
 Piercing my soul with a double-edged 
 sword 
 
 Of a sliding cold. 
 
 Ah, Fate ! ah, me ! 
 
 I shudder to see 
 This wandering maid in her agony. 
 
 Pi-omcthciis. Grief is too quick in 
 thee, and fear too full: 
 Be patient till tht)U hast learnt the r(>sT. 
 
 Choj-Ks. Speak: teach, > 
 To those who are sad alreadj', it 
 
 seems sweet. 
 By clear foreknowledge to make per- 
 fect, pain. 
 Prometheus. The boon ye asked me 
 first was lightly won; 
 For tirst ye asked the story of this 
 maid's grief. 
 
 I 
 h-»Hi I ^m I 
 
I 
 
 238 
 
 rnOMETHEUS BOUND. 
 
 As her own lips might tell it. Now 
 
 reiuains 
 To list what other sorrows she so 
 
 young 
 Must ])ear from Here. Inachns's 
 
 child, 
 O thou ! drop down thy soul my 
 
 weighty words, 
 And measure out the landmarks 
 
 which are set 
 To end thy wandering. Toward the 
 
 orient sun 
 First turn thy face from mine, and 
 
 journey on 
 Along the desert-flats till tliou shalt 
 
 come 
 Where Scythia's shepherd-peoples 
 
 dwell aloft, 
 Perched in wheeled wagons under 
 
 woven roofs, 
 And twang the rapid arrow past the 
 
 liow. 
 .A]>proach them not, but, siding in 
 
 thy course 
 The rugged sliore-rocks resonant to 
 
 the sea. 
 Dc])art that country. On the left 
 
 hand dwell 
 Th(! iron-workers, calh^d the Chaly- 
 
 hes. 
 Of whom beware, for certes they are 
 
 uncouth. 
 And nowise bland to strangers. 
 
 Reaching so 
 The stream Hybristes (well the 
 
 scorner called). 
 Attempt no pa.ssage, — it is hard to 
 
 pass, — 
 Or ere thou come to Caucasus itself. 
 That highest of mountains, where the 
 
 river leaps 
 The [)recipice in his strength. Thou 
 
 must toil up 
 Those mountain-tops that neighbor 
 
 with the stars. 
 And tread the soutli way, and draw- 
 near, at last, 
 Tlu; Amazonian host that hateth 
 
 man. 
 Inhabitants of Themiscyra, close 
 Upon Thernjodon, where the sea's 
 
 rough jaw 
 Doth gnash at Salmydessa, and ]>ro- 
 
 vide 
 A cruel host to seamen, and to ships 
 A stepdame. They, with unreluctant 
 
 hand, 
 Shall lead thee on aud on till thou 
 
 arrive 
 
 Just where the ocean-gates show nar- 
 rowest 
 
 On the Cimmerian isthmus. Leaving 
 which, 
 
 Behooves thee swim with fortitude of 
 soul 
 
 The strait Mseotis. Ay, and ever- 
 more 
 
 That traverse shrfll be famous on 
 men's lips. 
 
 That strait called Bosphorus, the 
 horned one's road, 
 
 So named because of thee, who so 
 wilt pass 
 
 From Europe's ]ilain to Asia's conti- 
 nent. 
 
 How think ye, nymplis ? the king of 
 gods appears 
 
 Impartial in ferocitms deeds? Be- 
 hold ! 
 
 The god desirous of this mortal's love 
 
 Hath cursed lier with these wander- 
 ings. Ah, fair child, 
 
 Thou hast met a bitter groom for bri- 
 dal troth ! 
 
 For all thou yet hast heard can only 
 prove 
 
 The incompleted ])reludeof thy doom. 
 lo. Ah, ah ! 
 
 Prometheus. Is't tlij- turn now to 
 shriek and moan " 
 
 How wilt thou, when thou hast bar- 
 kened what remains? 
 Chorus. Besides the grief thou liast 
 
 told, can aught remain ? 
 Prometheus. A sea of foredoomed 
 
 evil worked to storm. 
 III. What boots juy life, then ? why 
 not cast myself 
 
 Down headlong from this miserable 
 rock, 
 
 That, dashed against the flats, I may 
 redeem 
 
 My soul -from sorrow ? Better once 
 to die 
 
 Than day by day to stiffer. 
 
 Protnetheiis. Verily, 
 
 It would be hard for thee to bear my 
 woe 
 
 For whom it is appointed not to die. 
 
 Death frees from woe; but I befoj-e 
 me see 
 
 In all my far prevision not a bound 
 
 To all I suffer, ere that Zeus shall fall 
 
 From being a king. 
 lo. And can it ever Ix- 
 
 That Zeus sliall fall from empire ? 
 Primiethcus. Thou, methinks, 
 
 Wouldst take some joy to see it. 
 
PROM KTUE US BO UND. 
 
 239 
 
 lo. Could I choose ? 
 
 / who endure siicli i)ano;s now, by that 
 god ! 
 Prometheus. Learn Ironi me, there- 
 fore, that the event sliall be. 
 lo. By wlioni shall his imperial 
 sceptred hand 
 Be emptied so ? 
 
 Prometheus. Himself shall sjioil 
 himself, 
 Throufih his idiotic counsels. 
 
 lo. How? declare, 
 
 Unless the word bring evil. 
 
 Prometheus. He shall wed. 
 
 And in the marriage-bond be joined 
 to grief. 
 lo. A heavenly bride, or human ? 
 Speak it out, 
 If it be utterable. 
 
 Prometheus. Why should I .sav 
 
 which ? 
 It ought not to be uttered, verily. 
 
 lo. Then 
 
 It is his wife shall tear him from his 
 throne ? 
 Prometheus. It is his wife shall bear 
 a sou to him 
 More mighty than tlie father. 
 
 To. From this doom 
 
 Hath lie no refuge ? 
 
 Prometheus. None: or ere that I 
 Loosed from these fetters — 
 
 lo. Yea; bvit who shall loose 
 
 While Zeus is adverse ? 
 
 Prometheus. Onewho is born of thee : 
 It is ordained so. 
 
 lo. What is this thou sayest ? 
 
 A son of mine shall liberate thee 
 from w'oe ? 
 Prometlieiis. After ten generations 
 count three more, 
 And find him in the third. 
 
 lo. The oracle 
 
 Remains obscure. 
 
 Prometheus. And search it not to 
 learn 
 Thine own griefs from it. 
 
 lo. Point me not to a good 
 
 To leave me straight bereaved. 
 
 Prometheus. I am prepared 
 
 To grant thee one of two things. 
 
 lo. But which two ? 
 
 Set them before me; grant me jiower 
 
 to choose. 
 
 Prometheus. I grant it; choose now! 
 
 Shall I name aloud 
 
 What griefs remain to wound thee, 
 
 or what hand 
 Shall save me out of mine V 
 
 Chorus. Vouchsafe, O god, 
 
 The one grace of the twain to her 
 
 who prays, 
 The next to me, and turn back nei- 
 ther prayer 
 Dishonored by denial. To herself 
 Recount the future wandering of her 
 
 feet; 
 Then point me to the looser of thy 
 
 chain, 
 Because I yearn to know him. 
 
 Prometheus. Since ye will. 
 
 Of absolute will, this knowledge, I 
 
 will set 
 No contrary against it, nor keep back 
 A word of all ye ask for. lo, first 
 To thee I must relate thy wandering 
 
 course 
 Far winding. As I tell it, write it 
 
 down 
 In thy soul's book of memories. 
 
 When thou hast past 
 The refluent bound that jiarts two 
 
 continents, 
 Track on the footsteps of the orient 
 
 sun 
 In his own tire across the roar of 
 
 seas, — 
 Fly till thou hast reached the Gor- 
 
 gona^an flats 
 Beside Cisthene. There the Phorci- 
 
 des. 
 Three ancient maidens, live, with 
 
 shape of swan, 
 One tooth between them, and one 
 
 common eye. 
 On whom the sun doth n<'ver look at 
 
 all 
 With all his rays, nor evermore the 
 
 moon 
 M'hen she looks through the night. 
 
 Auear to whom 
 Are the Gorgon sisters three, en- 
 
 clotheel with wings. 
 With twisted snakes for ringlets, 
 
 man-abhorred : 
 There is no mortal gazes in their face, 
 And gazing can breathe on. I speak 
 
 of such 
 To guard thee from their horror. Ay, 
 
 and list 
 Another tale of a dreadful sight: be- 
 ware 
 The Griffins, those unbarking dogs of 
 
 Zeus, 
 Those sharp-mouthed dogs! — and 
 
 the Arimaspian host 
 Of one-eyed horsemen, habiting be- 
 side 
 
240 
 
 PROMETHEUS BO VXD. 
 
 The river of Pluto that runs bright 
 
 with gold: 
 Approach thein not, beseech thee. 
 
 Presently 
 Thon'lt come to a distant land, a 
 
 dusky tribe 
 Of dwellers at the fountain of the 
 
 Sun, 
 Whence Hows the River ^Ethiops; 
 
 wind along 
 Its lianks, and turn off at the cata- 
 racts, 
 Just as the Nile pours from the Byb- 
 
 line hills 
 His holy and sweet wave: his course 
 
 shall guide 
 Thine own to that triangular Nile- 
 ground 
 Where, lo, is ordained for thee and 
 
 thine 
 A lengthened exile. Have I said in 
 
 this 
 Aught darkly or incompletely? — 
 
 now repeat 
 The question, make the knowledge 
 
 fuller ! Lo, 
 I have more leisure than I covet here. 
 Chords. If thou canst tell us aught 
 
 that's left untold. 
 Or loosely told, of her most dreary 
 
 flight, 
 Declare it straight; but, if thou hast 
 
 uttered all, 
 Grant us that latter grace for which 
 
 we prayed, 
 liemembering Low we prayed it. 
 
 I'roiiietheiis. She lias heard 
 
 The uttermost of her wandering. 
 
 There it ends. 
 But, that she may be certain not to 
 
 have heard 
 All vainly, I will speak what she en- 
 dured 
 Ere coming hither, and invoke the 
 
 past 
 To prove my prescience true. And 
 
 so — to leave 
 A multitude of words, and pass at 
 
 once 
 To the subject of thy course — when 
 
 thou hadst gone 
 To those Molossian ])lains which 
 
 sweep around 
 Dodona shouldering Heaven, where- 
 by the fane 
 Of Zeus Thesprotian keepeth oracle, 
 And, wonder past belief, where oaks 
 
 do wave 
 Articulate adjurations — (ay, the same 
 
 Saluted thee in no perplexed phrase, 
 But clear with glory, noble wife of 
 
 Zeus 
 That shouldst be, there some sweet- 
 ness took thy sense !) 
 Thou didst rush further onward, 
 
 stung along 
 The ocean-shore, toward Rhea's 
 
 mighty bay. 
 And, tost back from it, wast tost to ir- 
 
 again 
 In stormy evolution: and know well. 
 In coming time that hollow of the sea 
 Shall bear the name Ionian, and pre- 
 sent 
 A monument of lo's passage Through, 
 Unto all mortals. Be these words the 
 
 signs 
 Of my soul's jiower to look beyoml 
 
 the veil 
 Of visible things. The rest to you 
 
 and her 
 I will deelai'e in common audience, 
 
 nymphs, 
 Returning thither where my speech 
 
 brake off. 
 There is a town, Canobus, built upon 
 The earth's fair margin, at the month 
 
 of Nile, 
 And on the mound washed up by it: 
 
 lo, there 
 Shall Zeus give back to thee thy jjcr- 
 
 fect mind, 
 And only by the pressure and the 
 
 touch 
 Of a hand not terrible; and thou to 
 
 Zeus 
 Shalt bear a dusky son who shall be 
 
 called 
 Thence Epajihns, Tom-hed. That son 
 
 shall pluck the fruit 
 Of all that land wide-watered by the 
 
 rtow 
 Of Nile; but after him, when counting 
 
 out 
 As far as the fifth full generation, 
 
 then 
 Full fifty maidens, a fair woman-race. 
 Shall back to Argos turn reluctantly, 
 To tiy the proffered nuj^tials of their 
 
 kin, 
 Their father's brothers. The.se being 
 
 ]>assion-struck , 
 Like falcons l.iearing hard on flying 
 
 doves. 
 Shall follow hunting at a quarry of 
 
 love 
 They should not hunt; till envious 
 
 Heaven maintain 
 
 i 
 
 "T 
 
rROMETHEUS BOUND. 
 
 241 
 
 A curse betwixt tliat beauty and their 
 
 desire, 
 And Greece receive them, to be over- 
 come 
 In imirtherous woman-war liy fierce 
 
 red hands 
 Kept savage by the night. For every 
 
 wife 
 Shall slay a husband, dyeing deeji in 
 
 blood 
 Tlie sword of a double edge — (I wish 
 
 indeed 
 As fair a marriage-joy to all my foes !) 
 One bride alone shall fail to smite to 
 
 death 
 The liead upon her pillow, touched 
 
 with love. 
 Made impotent of purpose, and im- 
 
 l^elled 
 To choose the lesser evil, — shame on 
 
 her cheeks. 
 Than blood-guilt on her hands; which 
 
 bride sliall bear 
 A royal race in Argos. Tedious speech 
 AVere needed to relate particulars 
 Of these things; 'tis enough that from 
 
 her seed 
 Shall spring the strong He, famous 
 
 with the bow, 
 Whose arm shall break my fetters off. 
 
 Behold, 
 My mother Themis, that old Titaness, 
 Delivered to me such an oracle; 
 But how and when, I should l)e long 
 
 to speak, 
 And thou, in hearing, wouldst not 
 
 gain at all. 
 
 /('. Eleleu, eleleu ! 
 How the spasm and the pain, 
 And the fire on the l)rain, 
 Strike, burning me through ! 
 How the sting of the curse, all aflame 
 as it flew, 
 Pricks me onward again ! 
 How my heart in its terror is spurning 
 
 my breast. 
 And my eyes like the wheels of a 
 
 chariot roll round ! 
 I am whirled from my course, to the 
 
 east, to the west. 
 In the whirlwind of frenzy all mad- 
 ly inwound; 
 And my mouth is unbridled for an- 
 guish and hate. 
 And my words beat in vain, in wild 
 storms of unrest, 
 On the sea of my desolate fate. 
 
 [To t-usUes out. 
 
 Chorus, — strophe. 
 Oh, wise was he, oh, wise was he, 
 Who first within his spirit knew, 
 And with his tongue declared it true, 
 That love comes best that cijmes unto 
 
 The equal of degree ! 
 And that the poor and that the low 
 Should seek no love from those above, 
 Whose souls are fluttered witli the 
 
 flow 
 Of airs about their golden height. 
 Or proud because they see arow 
 Ancestral crowns of light. 
 
 Antisfrophr. 
 Oh. never, never, may ye, Fates, 
 
 Behohl me with your awful eyes 
 
 Lift mine too fondly up the skies 
 Where Zeus upon the purple waits ! 
 
 Nor let me step too near, too near, 
 To any suitor bright from heaven; 
 
 Because I see, because I fear. 
 This loveless maiden vexed and laden 
 By this fell curse of Here, driven 
 
 On wanderings dread and drear. 
 
 Nay, grant an equal troth instead 
 
 Of nujitial love, to bind me by ! 
 
 It will not hurt, I shall not dread 
 
 To meet it in reply. 
 But let not love from those above 
 Revert and fix me, as I said. 
 With that inevitable Eye ! 
 I have no sword to fight that fight, 
 I have no strength to tread that 
 
 path, 
 I know not if my nature hath 
 The power to l)ear, I cannot see 
 Whither from Zeus's infinite 
 I have the power to flee. 
 
 Promcthcns. Yet Zeus, albeit most 
 
 absolute of will. 
 Shall turn to meekness, — such a mar- 
 riage-rite 
 He holds in preparation, which anon 
 Shall thrust him headlong from his 
 
 gerent seat 
 Adown the abysmal void; and so the 
 
 curse 
 His father Chronos muttered in his 
 
 fall. 
 As he fell from his ancient throne and 
 
 cursed, 
 Shall be accomplished wholly. No 
 
 escape 
 From all tliat ruin shall the filial 
 
 Zeus 
 
242 
 
 PROMETHEUS BOUND. 
 
 to liiDj from any of his 
 him. I the refuge 
 
 Now, therefore, 
 
 Find granteil 
 
 gods, 
 Unless I teach 
 
 know, 
 And I, the means. 
 
 let him sit 
 And brave the imminent doom, and 
 
 lix his faith 
 On his supernal noise.s hurtling on 
 With restless hand the bolt that 
 
 breathes out fire: 
 For these things shall not help him, 
 
 none of them, 
 Nor hinder his perdition when he falls 
 To shame, and lower than patience: 
 
 such a foe 
 He doth himself prepare against him- 
 self, 
 A wonder of unconquerable hate, 
 An organizer of suhlimer fire 
 Than glares in lightnings, and of 
 
 grander sound 
 Than aught the thunder rolls, out- 
 thundering it, 
 With jiowerto shatter in Poseidon's 
 
 fist 
 The trident-spear, which, while 
 
 plagues the sea, 
 Doth shake the shores around 
 
 Ay, and Zeus, 
 Precipitated thus, shall learn 
 
 length 
 The difference betwixt rule and servi- 
 tude. 
 Chorus. Thou makest threats for 
 
 Zeus of thy desires. 
 Prometheus. 1 tell you all these 
 
 things shall be fulfilled 
 Even so as I desire them. 
 
 Chorus. Must we, then. 
 
 Look ovit for one shall come to master 
 
 Zeus? 
 Prometheus. These chains weigh 
 
 lighter than his sorrows shall. 
 Cliorvs. How art thou not afraid 
 
 to utter such words ? 
 Prometheus. What should / fear, 
 
 who cannot die ? 
 Chorus. But he 
 
 Can visit thee with dreader woe than 
 
 death's. 
 Prometheus. Why, let him do it! 
 
 I am here, prepared 
 For all things and their pangs. 
 
 Chorus. The wise are they 
 
 Who reverence Adrasteia. 
 
 Prometheus. Reverence thou. 
 
 Adore thou, flatter thou, whomever 
 
 reigus, 
 
 it 
 
 it. 
 
 at 
 
 Whenever reigning! But forme, your 
 Zeus 
 
 Is less than nothing. Let him act and 
 reign 
 
 His brief hour out according to his 
 will: 
 
 He will not, therefore, rule the gods 
 too long. 
 
 But lo! I see that courier-god of Zeus, 
 
 That new-made menial of the new- 
 crowned king: 
 
 He, doubtless, comes to announce to 
 us something new. 
 
 Hermes enters. 
 Hermes. I speak to thee, the soph- 
 ist, the talker-down 
 
 Of scorn by scorn, the sinner against 
 gods. 
 
 The reverencer of men, the thief of 
 fire, — 
 
 I speak to thee and adjure thee: 
 Zeus requires 
 
 Thy declaration of what marriage-rite 
 
 Thus moves thy vaunt, and shall here- 
 after cause 
 
 His fall from empire. Do not wrap 
 thj' speecla 
 
 In riddles, but speak clearly. Never 
 cast 
 
 Ambiguous paths, Prometheus, for 
 my feet, 
 
 Since Zeus, thou mayst perceive, is 
 scarcely won 
 
 To mercy by such means. 
 Prometheus. A speech well- 
 
 mouthed 
 
 In the utterance, and full-minded in 
 the sense, 
 
 As doth befit a servant of the gods! 
 
 New gods, ye newly reign, and think, 
 forsooth, 
 
 Ye dwell in towers too high for any 
 dart 
 
 To carry awoxxnd there ! Have I not 
 stood by 
 
 While two kings fell from thence ? 
 and shall I not 
 
 Behold the third, the same who rules 
 you now, 
 
 Fall, shamed to sudden ruin? Do I 
 seem 
 
 To tremble and quail before your 
 modern gods ? 
 
 Far be it from me ! For thyself, de- 
 part; 
 
 Re-tread thy steps in haste. To All 
 thou hast asked 
 
 I answer nothing. 
 
PROMETHEUS BOUND. 
 
 243 
 
 Hirnii s. Such a wind of pride 
 
 Impelled thee of yore full sail upon 
 these rocks. 
 Prometheus. I would not barter — 
 learn thou soothl y that ! — 
 My suffering for thy service. I main- 
 tain 
 It is a nobler thing to serve these 
 
 rocks 
 Than live a faithful slave to father 
 
 Zeus. 
 Thus upon scorners I retort their 
 scorn. 
 Hermes. It seems that thou dost 
 
 glory in thy despair. 
 Prometheus. I glory ? Would my 
 foes did glory so, 
 And I stood by to see them! — naming 
 
 wliom, 
 Thou art not unremembered. 
 
 Hermes. Dost thou cliarge 
 
 Me also Avith the blame of thy mis- 
 chance ? 
 Prometheus. 1 tell thee I loathe the 
 universal gods, 
 Who, for tlie good I gave them, ren- 
 dered back 
 The ill of their injustice. 
 
 Hermes. Thou art mad, 
 
 Thou art raving, Titan, at the fever- 
 height. 
 Prometheus. If it be madness to 
 abhor my foes, 
 May I be mad ! 
 
 Hermes. If thou wert jirosperous. 
 Thou wouldst be unendurable. 
 Prometheus. Alas! 
 
 Hermes. Zeus knows not that 
 
 word. 
 Prometheus. But maturing Time 
 Teaches all things. 
 Hermes. Howbeit, thou hast not 
 learnt 
 The wisdom yet, thou needest. 
 
 Prometheus. If I had, 
 
 I should not talk thus with a slave 
 like thee. 
 Hermes. No answer thou vouch- 
 safest, I believe. 
 To the great Sire's requirement. 
 
 Prometheus. Verily 
 
 I owe him grateful service, and shoiUd 
 pay it. 
 Hermes. Why, thou dost mock me, 
 Titan, as I stood 
 A child before thy face. 
 
 PrometheAis. No child, forsooth, 
 
 But yet more foolish than 'a foolish 
 child, 
 
 If thou expect that I should answer 
 
 aught 
 Thy Zeus can ask. No torture frotn 
 
 his hand. 
 Nor any machination in the world, 
 Shall force mine utterance ere he 
 
 loose, himself. 
 These cankerous fetters from me. 
 
 For the rest, 
 Let him now hurl his blanching light- 
 nings down. 
 And with his white-winged snows, 
 
 and mutterings deei) 
 Of subterranean thunders, mix all 
 
 things. 
 Confound them in disorder. None of 
 
 this 
 Shall bend my sturdy will, and make 
 
 me speak 
 The name of his dethroner who shall 
 
 come. 
 Hermes. Can this avail thee? Look 
 
 to it ! 
 Prometheus. Long ago 
 
 It was looked forward to, jirecoun- 
 
 selled of. 
 Hermes. Vain god, take righteous 
 
 courage! Dare for once 
 To apprehend and front thine agonies 
 With a just prudence. 
 
 Prometheus. Vainly dost thou chafe 
 My soul with exhortation, as yonder 
 
 sea 
 Goes beating on the rock. Oh! think 
 
 no more 
 That I, fear-struck by Zeus to a wo- 
 man's mind. 
 Will supjilicate him, loathed as he is, 
 With feminine upliftings of myhands. 
 To break these chains. Far from me 
 
 be the thought! 
 Hermes. I have indeed, methinks, 
 
 said much in vain. 
 For still thy heart beneath my show- 
 ers of prayers 
 Lies dry and hard, nay, leaps like a 
 
 young horse 
 Who bites against the new bit in his 
 
 teeth. 
 And tugs and struggles against the 
 
 new-tried rein. 
 Still fiercest in the feeblest thing of 
 
 all, 
 Wliicli sophism is; since absolute will 
 
 (.lisjoined 
 From perfect mind is worse than 
 
 weak. Behold, 
 Unless my words persuade thee, what 
 
 a blast 
 
 — I — 
 
i 
 
 244 
 
 PROMETHEUS BOUND. 
 
 And wliii-lwind of inevitable woe 
 Must sweep persuasion through thee ! 
 
 For at first 
 The Father will split up this jut of 
 
 rock 
 With the great thunder and the 
 
 bolted tlame, 
 And liide thy body where a hinge of 
 
 stone 
 Shall catch it like an arm; and, when 
 
 thou hast passed 
 A long black time witliin, thou shalt 
 
 come out 
 To front the svm while Zeiis's winged 
 
 hound, 
 The strong, carnivorous eagle, shall 
 
 wheel down 
 To meet thee, self-called to a daily 
 
 feast, 
 And set his fierce beak in thee, and 
 
 tear off 
 The long rags of thy flesh, and l>atten 
 
 deep 
 Upon thy dusky liver. Do not look 
 For any end, moreover, to this curse. 
 Or ere "some god appear to accept thy 
 
 pangs 
 On his own head vicarious, and de- 
 scend 
 With unreluctant step the darks of 
 
 hell 
 And gloomy abysses around Tartarus. 
 Then ponder this, — this threat is not 
 
 a growth 
 Of vain invention; it is spoken and 
 
 meant: 
 King Zeus's mouth is impotent to lie, 
 Consummating the utterance by the 
 
 act. 
 So, look to it, thou ! take heed, and 
 
 nevermore 
 Forget good counsel to indulge self- 
 will. 
 Chorus. Our Hermes suits his I'ea^ 
 
 sons to the times, 
 At least I think so, since he bids thee 
 
 drop 
 Self-will for prudent counsel. Yield 
 
 to him ! 
 When the wise err, their wisdom 
 
 makes their shame. 
 Prometheus. Unto me the fore- 
 
 knower, this mandate of power 
 He cries, to reveal it. 
 What's strange in my fate, if I suffer 
 
 from hate 
 At the hour that I feel it? 
 Let the locks of the lightning, all 
 
 bristling and whitening, 
 
 Flasli, coiling me round. 
 While the ether goes surging 'neath 
 thunder and scourging 
 Of wild winds unbound ! 
 Let the blast of the firmament whirl 
 from its place 
 The earth rooted below, 
 Anvl the brine of the ocean, in rapid 
 (^motion, 
 
 Be driven in the face 
 Of the stars up in heaven, as they 
 
 walk To and fro ! 
 Let him hurl jne anon into Tartarus 
 — on — 
 To the blackest degree, 
 With Necessity's vortices strangling 
 
 me down; 
 But he cannot join deatli to a fate 
 meant for me ! 
 Hermes. Why, the words that he 
 speaks and the thoughts that 
 he thinks 
 Are maniacal ! — add, 
 If the Fate who hath bound him 
 should loose not the links. 
 He were utterly mad. 
 Then depart ye who groan with 
 
 him. 
 Leaving to moan with him; 
 Go in haste ! lest the roar of the 
 
 thunder anearing 
 Should blast you to idiocy, living and 
 hearing. 
 Chorus. Change thy speech for 
 another, thy thought for a new, 
 If to move me and teach me indeed 
 be thy care ; 
 For thy words swerve so far from the 
 loyal and true 
 That "the thunder of Zeus seems 
 more easy to bear. 
 How 1 couldst teach me to venture 
 such vileness ? behold ! 
 I choose with this victim this an- 
 guish foretold 1 
 I recoil from the traitor in haste and 
 
 disdain, 
 And I know that the curse of the 
 treason is worse 
 Than the pang of the chain. 
 Hermes. Then remember, O nymphs, 
 
 what I tell you before. 
 Nor, when pierced by the arrows 
 that Ate will throw you. 
 Cast blame on your fate, and declare 
 evermore 
 That Zeus thrust you on anguish he 
 did not foreshow you. 
 Nay, verily, nay 1 for ye perish anon 
 
A LAMENT FOR AD ON IS 
 
 245 
 
 For your deed, by your choice. By 
 no blindness of douitt, 
 No abruptness of doom, but by mad- 
 ness alone, 
 In the great net of Ate, whence 
 none cometh out. 
 Ye are wound and undone. 
 Prometheus. Ay ! in act now, in 
 word now no more. 
 Earth is rocking in space. 
 And the thunders crash up with a 
 roar upon roar. 
 And the eddying lightnings flash 
 fire in my face. 
 And the whirlwinds are whirling the 
 dust round and round, 
 
 And the blasts of the winds univer- 
 sal leap free, 
 And blow each upon each with a pas- 
 sion of sound. 
 And ether goes mingling in storm 
 with the sea. 
 Such a curse on my head, in a mani- 
 fest dread. 
 From the hand of your Zeus has 
 been hurtled along. 
 Oh my mother's fair glory ! O Ether, 
 
 enringing 
 All eyes with the sweet common 
 light of thy bringing ! 
 Dost see how I suffer this 
 wrong ? 
 
 A LAMENT FOR ADONIS. 
 
 FROM THK GREEK OF BION. 
 
 I mourn for Adonis — Adonis is dead, 
 Fair Adonis is dead, and the Loves 
 are lamenting. 
 Sleep, Cypris, no more on thy purple- 
 strewed bed : 
 Arise, wretch stoled in black. Iteat 
 thy breast unrelenting, 
 And shriek to the worlds, "Fair 
 Adonis is dead." 
 
 I mourn for Adonis — the Loves are 
 lamenting. 
 He lies on the hills in his beauty 
 and death : 
 The white tusk of a boar has trans- 
 pierced his white tliigh. 
 Cytherea grow.s mad at his thin, 
 gasping breatli, 
 M'hile the black blood drips d.own on 
 the pale ivory. 
 And his eyeballs lie (iiu'.nched with 
 the weight of his brows: 
 The rose fades from his lips, and upon 
 them just parted 
 The kiss dies the goddess consents 
 not to lose, 
 
 Though the kiss of the dead cannot 
 make her glad-hearted: 
 He knows not who kisses him deail 
 in the dews. 
 
 HI. 
 
 I mourn for Adonis — the Loves are 
 lamenting. 
 Deep, deep, in the thigh is Adonis's 
 wound; 
 But a deeper, is Cypris's bosom pre- 
 senting. 
 The youth lieth dead while his dogs 
 howl around, 
 And the nymphs weep aloud from 
 the mists of the hill. 
 And the poor Aphrodite', with 
 tresses unbound. 
 All dishevelled, unsandalled, shrieks 
 mf)urnful and shrill 
 Through the dusk of the groves. 
 The thorns, tearing her feet. 
 Gather up the red tiower of her blood 
 which is holy, 
 Each footstep she takes; and the 
 valleys repeat 
 The sharp cry she utters, and draw it 
 out slowlv. 
 
 i 
 
24G 
 
 .1 LAMENT FOR ADONIS. 
 
 She calls on lier spouse, lier Assy- 
 rian, on him 
 Her own youth, while the dark blood 
 sjireads over his body. 
 The chest taking luie from the gash 
 in the limb. 
 And the bosom once ivory turning to 
 ruddy. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ah, ah, Cytherea ! the Loves are Ja- 
 menting. 
 She lost her fair spouse, and so lost 
 her fair smile: 
 "When he lived she was fair, by the 
 whole world's consenting, 
 Whose fairness is dead with liim: 
 woe W(jrth the while ! 
 All the mountains above, and the oak- 
 lands below. 
 Murmur, ah, ah, Adonis! the streams 
 overflow 
 Aphrodite's deep wail; river-fountains 
 in pity 
 Weep soft in the hills; and the flow- 
 ers as they blow 
 Redden outward with sorrow, while 
 all hear her go 
 With the song of her sadness through 
 mountain and city. 
 
 Ah, 
 
 V. 
 
 Cytherea ! 
 
 Adonis is 
 
 ah, 
 dead. 
 
 Fair Adonis is dead — Echo an- 
 swers Adonis ! 
 Who weeps not for Cypris, when bow- 
 ing her head 
 She stares at the wound where it 
 gapes and astonies ? 
 
 — When, ah, ah!— she saw how the 
 
 blood ran away 
 And empurpled the thigh, and, with 
 wild hands Hung out, 
 Said with sobs, " Stay, Adonis ! un- 
 happy one, stay, 
 Let me feel thee once more, let me 
 ring thee about 
 With the clasp of my arms, and press 
 kiss into kiss ! 
 Wait a little, Adonis, and kiss me 
 again. 
 For the last time, beloved; and but so 
 nnich of this 
 That the kiss may learn life from the 
 warmth of the strain ! 
 
 — Till thy breath shall exude from thy 
 
 soul to my mouth, 
 
 To my heart, and, the love-charm I 
 once more receiving, 
 May drink thy love in it, and keep of 
 a truth 
 That one kiss in the jjlace of Adonis 
 the living. 
 Thou fiiest me, mournful one, fliest 
 me far. 
 My Adonis, and seekest the Acheron 
 portal, 
 To Hell's cruel King goest down with 
 a scar. 
 While I weep and live on like a 
 wretched immortal. 
 And follow no step ! O Persephone', 
 take him. 
 ]My husband ! thou'rt better and 
 brighter than I, 
 So all beauty flows down to thee: / 
 cannot make him 
 Look up at my grief: there's despair 
 in my cry, 
 Since I wail for Adonis who died to 
 me — died to me — 
 Then, I fear thee! Art thou dead, 
 my Adored ? 
 Passionends like a dream in the sleep 
 that's denied to me, 
 Cypris is widowed, the Loves seek 
 their lord 
 All the house through in vain. Charm 
 of cestus has ceased 
 With thy clasp ! O too bold in the 
 hunt past preventing. 
 Ay, mad, thou so fair, to have strife 
 with a beast ! " 
 Thus the goodess wailed on; and 
 the Loves are lamenting. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Ah, 
 
 is 
 
 ah, Cytherea! Adonis 
 
 dead. 
 She wept tear after tear with the blood 
 
 which was shed. 
 And both turned into flowers for the 
 
 earth's garden-close, — 
 Her tear, to the wind-flower; his 
 
 blood to the rose. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I mourn for Adonis — Adonis is 
 dead. 
 Weep no more in the woods, Cythe- 
 rea, thy lover ! 
 So, well: make a place for liis corse in 
 thy bed. 
 With the purples thou sleepest in, 
 under and over. 
 
 [-♦-•-♦H 
 
A VISION OF POETS. 
 
 247 
 
 He's fair, though a corse, — a fair corse, 
 like a sleeper. 
 Lay him soft in the silks he had 
 pleasure to fold 
 When, beside thee at night, holy 
 dreams deep and deeper 
 Enclosed his young life on the couch 
 made of gold. 
 Love him still, poor Adonis; cast on 
 him together 
 The crowns and the flowers: since 
 he died from the place. 
 Why, let all die with him; let the 
 blossoms go wither; 
 Rain myrtles and olive-buds down 
 on his face. 
 Rain the myrrh down, let all that is 
 best fall a-pining 
 Since the myrrh of his life from thy 
 keeping is swept. 
 Pale he lay, thine Adonis, in purples 
 reclining: 
 The Loves raised their voices around 
 him and wejii. 
 They have shorn their bright curls off 
 
 to cast on Adonis: 
 One treads on his bow; on his arrows, 
 
 another; 
 One breaks up a well-feathered quiv- 
 er; and one is 
 Bent low at a sandal, untying the 
 
 strings; 
 And one carries the vases of gold 
 from the springs, 
 
 AVhile one washes the wound, and bo- 
 hind them a brother 
 Fans down on the body sweet air 
 with, his wings. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Cytherea herself now the Loves are 
 lamenting. 
 Each torch at the door Hymenreus 
 blew out; 
 And, the marriage-wreath dropping 
 its leaves as repenting. 
 No more "Hymen, Hymen," is 
 chanted about; 
 But the «/ ai instead — "ai alas"i.s 
 begun 
 For Adonis, and then follows " ai 
 HymenjEus ! " 
 The Graces are weeping for Cinyris' 
 son, 
 Sobbing low, each to each " His fair 
 eyes cannot see us ! " 
 Their wail strikes more shrill than the 
 
 sadder Dione's. 
 The Fates mourn aloud for Adonis, 
 
 Adonis, 
 Deep chanting: he hears not a word 
 that they say : 
 He would hear, but Persephone has 
 him in keeping. 
 — Cease moan, Cytherea ! leave pomps 
 for to-daj' , 
 And weep new when a new year re- 
 fits thee for weeping. 
 
 A VISION OF POETS. 
 
 O sacred Essence, lighting me this liour. 
 How may I lightly stile thy great 
 power? 
 Echo. Power. 
 
 Power! but of whence? under the green- 
 wood spraye? 
 Or liv'st in Heaven? saye. 
 Echo. In Heavens aye. 
 
 In Heavens aye ! tell, may I it obtayne 
 By alm.s, by fasting, prayer, — by painc ? 
 Echo. By paine. 
 
 Show mo the paine, it shall be under 
 
 gone : 
 I to mine end will still go on. 
 Echo. Go on. 
 
 Britannia's pastorals. 
 
 A POET could not sleep aright, 
 
 For his soul kept up too much 
 
 light 
 Under his eyelids for the night. 
 
 And thus he rose disquieted, 
 
 With sweet rhymes ringing through 
 
 his head. 
 And in the forest wandered. 
 
i 
 
 248 
 
 A VISION OF FOETS. 
 
 Where, sloping up the darkest glades, 
 The moon had drawn long colonnades 
 Upon whose floor the verdure fades 
 
 To a faint silver, pavement fair 
 
 The antique wood-nymphs scarce 
 
 would dare 
 To footprint o'er, had such heen there. 
 
 And rather sit by breathlessly, 
 With fear in their large eyes, to see 
 The consecrated sight. But hk 
 
 The poet, who, with spirit-kiss 
 Familiar, had long claimed fqr his 
 Whatever earthly beauty is, 
 
 Who also in his spirit bore 
 
 A beauty passing the earth's stoi^, 
 
 Walked calmly onward evermore. 
 
 His aimless thoughts in metre went 
 Like a babe's hand, without intent, 
 Drawn down a seven-stringed instru- 
 ment ; 
 
 Nor jarred it with his humor as. 
 With a faint stirring of the grass, 
 An apparition fair did pass. 
 
 He might have feared another time; 
 But all things fair and strange did 
 
 chime 
 With his thoughts then, as rhyme to 
 
 rhyme. 
 
 An angel had not startled him. 
 Alighted from heaven's burning rim 
 To breathe from glory iu the Dim; 
 
 Much less a lady riding slow 
 
 Upon a paU'i'ey white as snow. 
 
 And smooth as a snow-cloud could go. 
 
 Full upon his she turned her face: 
 " What ho, sir i>oet ! dost thou pace 
 Our woods at night in ghostly chase 
 
 " Of some fair dryad of old tales. 
 Who chants between the nightingales 
 And over sleep by song prevails ? " 
 
 She smiled; but he could see arise 
 Her soul fr|)m far adown her eyes, 
 Prepared as if for sacrifice. 
 
 She looked a queen who seeuieth gay 
 From royal grace alone. " Now, nay," 
 He answered, " slumber passed away 
 
 " Compelled by instincts in my head 
 That I should see to-night, instead 
 Of a fair nymph, some fairer Dread." 
 
 She looked up quickly to the sky 
 And spake: "The moon's regality 
 Will hear no praise; she is as I. 
 
 " She is in heaven, and I on eartli; 
 This is my kingdom: I come forth 
 To crown all poets to their worth." 
 
 He brake iu with a voice tlial 
 
 mourned : 
 "To their worth, lady? They are 
 
 scorned 
 By men they sing for, till inurned. 
 
 "To their worth? Beauty in the 
 mind 
 
 Leaves the hearth cold, and love-re- 
 fined 
 
 Ambitions make the world unkind. 
 
 "The boor who ploughs the daisy 
 
 down, 
 The chief whose mortgage of renown 
 Fixed upon graves has bought a 
 
 crown — 
 
 " Both these are happier, more ap- 
 proved. 
 Than poets! — why should I be moved 
 In saying both are more beloved ? " 
 
 "The south can judge Udt of the 
 
 north," 
 She resumed calmly: " I come forth 
 To crown all poets to their worth. 
 
 " Yea, verily, to anoint them all 
 With blessed oils, which surely shall 
 Smell sweeter as the ages fall." 
 
 "As sweet," the poet said, and rung 
 A low sad laugh, "as flowers are, 
 
 sprung 
 Out of their graves when they die 
 
 young ; 
 
 " As sweet as window-eglantine. 
 Some bough of which, as they tle- 
 
 cline. 
 The hired uurse gathers at their sign; 
 
 " As sweet, iu short, as perfumed 
 
 shroud 
 Which the gay Roman maidens sewed 
 For English Keats, singing aloud." 
 
A VIS/ON OF POETS. 
 
 249 
 
 The lady answered, " Yea, as sweet ! 
 The things thou naraest being com- 
 plete 
 In fragrance, as I measure it. 
 
 " Since sweet the death-clothes and 
 
 the knell 
 Of him who, having lived, dies well; 
 And wholly sweet the asphodel 
 
 " Stirred softly by that foot of his. 
 When he treads brave on all that is. 
 Into the world of souls, from this. 
 
 "Since sweet the tears dropped at 
 
 the door 
 Of tearless death, and even before — 
 Sweet, consecrated evermore. 
 
 "What, dost thou judge it a strange 
 
 thing 
 That poets, crowned for vanquishing. 
 Should l)ear some dust from out the 
 
 ring? 
 
 " Come on with me, come on with me, 
 And learn in coming: let me free 
 Thy spirit into verity." 
 
 She ceased: her palfrey's jiaces sent 
 No separate noises as she went: 
 'Twas a bee's hum, a little spent. 
 
 And, while the poet seemed to tread 
 Along the drowsy noise so made, 
 The forest heaved up overhead 
 
 Its billowy foliage through the air. 
 And the calm stars did far and spare 
 O'erswim the masses everywhere. 
 
 Save when the overtopping pines 
 Did bar their tremulous light with 
 
 lines 
 All fixed and black. Now the moon 
 
 shines 
 
 A broader glory. You may see 
 The trees grow rarer jn-esently ; 
 The air blows u]i more fresh and free: 
 
 Until they coine from dark to light. 
 And from the forest to the sight 
 Of the large heaven-heart, bare with 
 night, 
 
 A fiery throb in every star. 
 Those burning arteries that are 
 The conduits of God's life afar. 
 
 A wild brown moorland underneath, 
 And four pools breaking up the heath 
 With white h>w gleamings blank as 
 death. 
 
 Beside the first pool, near the wood, 
 A dead tree in set horror stood, 
 Peeled and disjointed, stark as rood: 
 
 Since thunder-stricken years ago. 
 Fixed in the spe(;tral strain and throe 
 Wherewith it struggled from the 
 blow: 
 
 A monumental tree, alone, 
 
 That will not bend in storms, nor 
 
 groan. 
 But break off sudden like a stone. 
 
 Its lifeless shadow lies oblique 
 Upon the pool where, javelin-like, 
 The .star-rays quiver while they strike. 
 
 " Drink," said the ladv, verv still: 
 " Be holv and cold.'' He" did her 
 
 will. 
 And drank the starry water chili. 
 
 The next pool they came near unto 
 Was bare of trees; there, only grew 
 Straight fiags, and lilies just a few, 
 
 Which sullen on the water sate. 
 And leant their faces on the fiat, 
 As weary of the starlight-state. 
 
 " Drink," said the lady, grave and 
 
 slow : 
 " M'drhVs ii.se behooveth thee to 
 
 know." 
 He drank the bitter wave below. 
 
 The third pool, girt with thorny 
 
 bushes, 
 And flaunting weeds and reeds and 
 
 rushes 
 That winds sang through in mournful 
 
 gushes. 
 
 Was whitely smeared in many a 
 
 round 
 By a slow slime: the starlight swound 
 Over the ghastly light it found. 
 
 •' Drink," said the lady, sad and 
 
 slow: 
 " World'n love behooveth thee to 
 
 know." 
 He looked to her commauding so; 
 
250 
 
 A VISION OF POETS. 
 
 Her Ijrow was troubled; but her eye 
 Struck clear to his soul. For all 
 
 reply 
 He drauk the water suddenly, 
 
 Then, with a deathly sickness, passed 
 Beside the fourth pool and the last, 
 Where weights of shadow were down- 
 cast 
 
 From yew and alder, and rank trails 
 Of nightshade clasping the trunk- 
 scales, 
 And flung across the intervals 
 
 From yew to yew: who dares to stoop 
 "Where those dank branches over- 
 droop, 
 Into his heart the cliill strikes up. 
 
 He hears a silent gliding coil, 
 
 The snakes strain hard against the 
 
 soil. 
 His foot slips in their slimj* oil, 
 
 And toads seem crawling on liis hand, 
 And clinging bats, but dimly scanned, 
 Full in his face their wings expand. 
 
 A paleness took the poet's cheek: 
 
 " Must I drink here?" he seemed to 
 
 seek 
 The lady's will with utterance meek: 
 
 " Ay, ay," she said, " it so must be: " 
 (And this time she spake cheerfully) 
 "Behooves thee know icorkVs cruel- 
 ty." 
 
 He bowed his forehead till liis mouth 
 Curved in the wave, and drank un- 
 
 loath 
 As if from rivers of the south; 
 
 His lips sobbed through the water 
 
 rank. 
 His heart paused in him while he 
 
 drank. 
 His brain beat heart-like, rose and 
 
 sank. 
 
 And he swooned backward to a dream 
 Wherein he lay 'twixt gloom and 
 
 gleam, 
 With death and life at each extreme: 
 
 And spiritual thunders, born of soul. 
 Not cloud, did leap from mystic pole. 
 And o'er him roll and counter-roll. 
 
 Crushing their echoes reboant 
 
 With their own wheels. Did Heaven 
 
 so grant 
 His spirit a sign of covenant ? 
 
 At last came silence. A slow kiss 
 Did crown his forehead after this; 
 His eyelids flew back for the bliss. 
 
 The lady stood beside his head. 
 Smiling a thought with hair dispread: 
 The moonshine seemed dishevelled 
 
 In her sleek tresses manifold. 
 Like Danae's in the rain of old 
 That dripped with melancholy gold: 
 
 But SHE was holy, pale and high 
 As one who saw an ecstasy 
 Beyond a foretold agony. 
 
 " Rise up ! " said she with voice where 
 
 song 
 Eddied through speech, — " rise up, be 
 
 strong; 
 And learn how right avenges wrong." 
 
 The poet rose up on his feet: 
 He stood before an altar set 
 For sacrament with vessels meet. 
 
 And mystic altar-lights, which shine 
 As if their flames were crystal- 
 line 
 Carved flames that would not shrink 
 or pine. 
 
 The altar filled the central place 
 
 Of a great church, and toward its 
 
 face 
 Long aisles did shout and interlace, 
 
 And from it a continuous mist 
 Of incense (round the edges kissed 
 By a yellow light of amethyst) 
 
 Wound upward slowly and throb- 
 
 bingly. 
 Cloud within cloiul, right silverly. 
 Cloud above cloud, victoriously, — 
 
 Broke full against the arched roof. 
 And thence refracting eddied off, 
 And floated through the marble woof 
 
 Of many a fine-wrought architrave. 
 Then, poising its white masses brave. 
 Swept solemnly down aisle an(l 
 nave, 
 
" Alone amid the shifting scene 
 That central altar stood serene." — Page 251. 
 
''.'£., 
 
A \'isjON OF roars. 
 
 251 
 
 Where now in dai-k, and now in light, 
 The countless columns, glimmering 
 
 white, 
 Seemed leading out to the Infinite: 
 
 Plunged halfway up the shaft they 
 
 showed, 
 In that pale shifting incense-cloud 
 Which flowed them l>y, and over- 
 flowed, 
 
 Till mist and marble seemed to bleud 
 And the whole temple at the end, 
 With its own incense to distend, — 
 
 The arches like a giant's bow 
 
 To bend and slacken; and, below. 
 
 The niched saints to come and go: 
 
 Alone amid the shifting scene 
 That central altar stood serene 
 In its clear, steadfast taper-sheen. 
 
 Then first the poet was aware 
 Of a chief angel standing there 
 Before that altar, in the glare. 
 
 His ej'es were dreadful, for you saw 
 That they saw God; his lips and jaw, 
 Grand-made and strong, as Sinai's law 
 
 They could enunciate, and refrain 
 
 From vibratory after-pain; 
 
 And his brow's height was sovereign: 
 
 On the vast background of his wings 
 
 Rises his image, and he flings 
 
 From each plumed arc pale glitteriugs 
 
 And fiery flakes (as beateth more 
 Or less the angel-heart) before 
 And round him upon roof 'and floor. 
 
 Edging with fire the shifting fumes; 
 While at his side, 'twixt lights and 
 
 glooms. 
 The phantasm of an organ booms. 
 
 Extending from which instrument 
 And angel, right and left way bent, 
 The poet's sight grew sentient 
 
 Of a strange company around 
 
 And toward the altar; pale and bound, 
 
 With bay above the eyes profound. 
 
 Deathful their faces were, and yet 
 The power of life was in them set. 
 Never forgot, nor to forget: 
 
 Sublime significance of mouth. 
 
 Dilated nostril full of youth, 
 
 And forehead royal with the truth. 
 
 These faces were not multiplied 
 Beyond your count, but, side by side, 
 Did front the altar, glorified. 
 
 Still as a vision, yet exprest 
 
 Full as an action, — look and geste 
 
 Of buried saint in risen rest. 
 
 The poet knew them. Faint and dim 
 His spirits seemed to sink in him; 
 Then, like a dolphin, change, and 
 swim 
 
 The current: these were poets true. 
 Who died for Beauty, as martyrs do 
 For Truth; the ends being scarcely 
 two. 
 
 God's prophets of the Beautiful 
 These jioets were; of iron rule, 
 The rugged cilix, serge of wool. 
 
 Here Homer, with the broad suspense 
 Of thunderous brows, and lips intense 
 Of garrulous god-innocence. 
 
 There Shakspeare, on whose forehead 
 climb 
 
 The crowns o' the world: O eyes sub- 
 lime 
 
 With tears and laughters for all time! 
 
 Here ^schylus, the women swooned 
 To see so awful when he frowned 
 As the gods did: he standeth crowned. 
 
 Euripides, with close and mild 
 Scholastic lips, that could be wild, 
 And laugh or sob out like a child, 
 
 Even in the classes. Sophocles, 
 With that king's look which down the 
 
 trees 
 Followed the dark eflSgies 
 
 Of the lost Theban. Hesiod old. 
 Who, somewhat blind and deaf and 
 
 cold. 
 Cared most for gods and bulls. And 
 
 bold 
 
 Electric Pindar, quick as fear, 
 
 With race-dust on his cheeks, and 
 
 clear. 
 Slant, startled eyes that seem to hear 
 
252 
 
 A VISION OF POKTS. 
 
 The chariot rounding the last goal, 
 To hurtle past it in his soul. 
 And Saijpho, with that gloriole 
 
 Of ebon hair on calmed brows — 
 O poet-woman! none foregoes 
 The leap, attaining the repose. 
 
 Theocritus, with glittering locks 
 Dropt sideway, as betwixt the rocks 
 He watched the visionary flocks. 
 
 And Aristophanes, who took 
 The world with mirth, and laughter- 
 struck 
 The hollow caves of Thought, and 
 woke 
 
 The infinite echoes hid in each. 
 And Virgil : shade of Mantuan beech 
 Did help the shade of bay to reach 
 
 And knit around his forehead high; 
 For his gods wore less majesty 
 Than his brown bees hummed death- 
 lessly. 
 
 Lucretius, nobler than his mood. 
 Who dropped his plummet down the 
 
 broad, 
 Deei) universe, and said " No God," 
 
 Finding no bottom : he denied 
 Divinely the divine, and died 
 Chief jioet on the Tibei'-side 
 
 By grace of God: his face is stern 
 As one compelled, in sjiite of scorn. 
 To teach a truth he would not learn. 
 
 And Ossian, dimly seen or guessed; 
 Once counted greater than the rest. 
 When mountain-winds blew out his 
 vest. 
 
 And Spenser drooped his dreaming 
 
 head 
 (With languid sleep-smile, you had 
 
 said, 
 From his own verse engendered) 
 
 On Ariosto's, till they ran 
 Their curls in one: the Italian 
 Shot nimbler heat of bolder man 
 
 From his fine lids. And Dante, 
 
 stern 
 And sweet, whose spirit was an urn 
 For wine and milk poured out in turn. 
 
 Hard-souled Alfieri: and fancy-willed 
 Boiardo, wlio with laughter filled 
 The pauses of the jostled shield. 
 
 And Berni, with a hand stretched out 
 To sleek that storm. And, not witli- 
 
 out 
 The wreath he died in, and the doubt 
 
 He died by, Tasso, bard and lover, 
 Whose visions were too thin to cover 
 The face of a false woman over. 
 
 And soft Racine; and grave Corneille, 
 The orator of rhymes, whose wail 
 Scarce shook his purple. And Pe- 
 trarch pale. 
 
 From wliose brain-lighted heart were 
 
 thrown 
 A thousand thoughts beneath the sun. 
 Each lucid with the name of One. 
 
 And Camoens, with that look he had, 
 Compelling India's Genius sad 
 From the wa\e tlirough the Lusiad; 
 
 The murmui's of tlie storm-cape ocean 
 Indrawn in vibrative emotion 
 Alongthe verse. And, while devotion 
 
 In his wild eyes fantastic shone 
 Under the tonsure blown upon 
 By airs celestial, Calderon. 
 
 And bold De Vega, who breathed 
 
 quick 
 Verse after verse, till death's old trick 
 Put pause to life and rhetoric. 
 
 And Goethe, with tliat reaching eye 
 His soul reached out from, far and 
 
 high. 
 And fell from inner entity. 
 
 And Schiller, with heroic front 
 Worthy of Plutarch's kiss iipon't, — 
 Too large for wreath of modern wont. 
 
 And Chaucer, with his infantine 
 Familiar clasp of things divine: 
 That mark ujion his lip is wine. 
 
 Here Milton's eyes strike piercing- 
 dim: 
 
 The shapes of suns and stars did 
 swim 
 
 Like clouds from them, and granted 
 him 
 
T 
 
 .4 VISION OF POETS. 
 
 253 
 
 God for sole vision. Cowley, there, 
 
 Wliose active fancy deljonair 
 
 Drew straws like amber — foul to fair. 
 
 Drayton and Browne, with smiles 
 
 they drew 
 From outward nature, still kept new 
 From their own inward nature true. 
 
 And Marlowe, Webster, Fletcher, 
 
 Ben, 
 Whose fire-hearts sowed our furrows 
 
 when 
 The world was worthy of such men. 
 
 And Burns, with punpjent passionings 
 Set in his ej'es: deep lyric springs 
 Are of the fire-mount's issuings. 
 
 And Shelley, in his white ideal, 
 
 All statue-blind. And Keats, the real 
 
 Adonis with the hymeneal 
 
 Fresh vernal Inids half sunk between 
 His youthful curls, kissed straight 
 
 and sheen 
 In his Rome-grave by Venus queen. 
 
 And poor, proud Byron, sad as grave, 
 And salt as life; forlornly brave, 
 And quivering'with the dart he drave. 
 
 And visionary Coleridge, who 
 
 Did sweep his thoughts as angels do 
 
 Their wings with cadence up the Blue. 
 
 These poets faced (and many more) 
 
 The lighted altar looming o'er 
 
 The clouds of incense dim and hoar; 
 
 And all their faces, in the lull 
 Of natural things, looked wonderful 
 With life and death and deathless 
 rule. 
 
 All, still as stone, and yet intense, 
 As if by spirit's vehemence 
 That stone were carved, and not bj' 
 sense. 
 
 But where the heart of each should 
 
 beat. 
 There seemed a wound instead of it, 
 From whence the blood dropjied to 
 
 their feet 
 
 Drop after drop, — dropped heavily 
 As century follows century 
 Into the deep eternity. 
 
 Then said the lady, — and her word 
 Came distant, as wide waves were 
 
 stirred 
 Between lier and the ear that heard, — 
 
 " WorlcVii i(se is cold; ivorkVs Inre is 
 
 vain; 
 World's cruelty is bitter bane: 
 But pain is not the fruit of jiain. 
 
 " Harken, O poet, whom I led 
 
 From the dark wood ! dismissing 
 
 dread, 
 Now hear this angel in my stead. 
 
 " His organ's clavier strikes along 
 These poets' hearts, sonorous, strong, 
 Thej' gave him without count of 
 wrong, — 
 
 " A diapason whence to guide 
 
 Up to God's feet, from these who 
 
 died. 
 An anthem fully glorified, 
 
 "Whereat God's blessing, Ibarak 
 
 qu') 
 
 Breathes back this music, folds it 
 
 back 
 About the earth in vapory rack, 
 
 " And men walk in it, crviug, 
 
 'Lo 
 The world is wider, and we know 
 The very heavens look brighter 
 
 so;- 
 
 " ' The stars move statelier round the 
 
 edge 
 Of the silver spheres, and give in 
 
 pledge 
 Their light for nobler privilege; 
 
 " ' No little flower but joys or grieves; 
 Full life is rustling in the sheaves; 
 Full spirit sweeps the forest-leaves.' 
 
 " So works this music on the earth; 
 God so admits it, sends it forth 
 To add another worth to worth, — 
 
 "A new creation-bloom, that rounds 
 The old creation, and expounds 
 His Beautiful in tuneful sounds, 
 
 "Now harken!" Then the poet 
 
 gazed 
 Upon the angel, glorious-faced. 
 Whose hand, majestically raised, 
 
2:)4 
 
 A VISION OF POETS. 
 
 Floated across the organ-keys, 
 
 Like a pale inoon o'er murmuring seas, 
 
 With no touch but with influences: 
 
 Then rose and fell (with swell imd 
 
 swound 
 Of shapeless noises wandering round 
 A concord which at last they found) 
 
 Those mystic keys: the tones were 
 
 mixt. 
 Dim, faint, and tlirilled and throbbed 
 
 betwixt 
 The incomplete and the unfixt; 
 
 And therein mighty minds were 
 
 heard 
 In mighty musings, inly stirred. 
 And struggling outward for a word. 
 
 Until these surges, having run 
 Tins way and that, gave out as one 
 An Aphrodite of sweet tune, 
 
 A harmony, that, finding vent, 
 Upward in grand ascension went. 
 Winged to a heavenly argument, — 
 
 Up, upward like a saint who strips 
 The shroud liack from his eyes and 
 
 lips, 
 And rises in apocalypse; 
 
 A liarmony sublime and plain. 
 Which cleft (as flying swan, the rain. 
 Throwing the drops off with a strain 
 
 Of her white wing) those undertones 
 Of perplext chords, and soared at 
 
 once. 
 And struck out from the starry 
 
 thrones 
 
 Their several silver octaves as 
 It passed to God. The music was 
 Of divine stature, strong to pass; 
 
 And those who heard it understood 
 Something of life in spirit and blood, 
 Something of Nature's fair and good. 
 
 And while it souniled, those great 
 
 souls 
 Did thrill as racers at the goals, 
 And burn in all their aureoles: 
 
 But she the lady, as vapor-bound, 
 Stood calmly in the joy of sound, 
 Like Nature, with the showers around ; 
 
 And when it ceased, the blood which 
 
 fell 
 Again, alone grew audible, ,, 
 Tolling the silence as a bell. 
 
 The .so\ran angel lifted high 
 
 His hand, and spake out .sovranly : 
 
 " Tried poets, hearken and reply ! 
 
 " Give me true answers. If we 
 
 grant 
 That not to suffer is to want 
 The conscience of the jubilant; 
 
 " If ignorance of anguish is 
 But ignorance, and mortals miss 
 Far prospects by a level bliss; 
 
 " If, as two colors must be viewed 
 In a visible image, mortals should 
 Need good and evil to see good; 
 
 " If to speak nobly comprehends 
 To feel profoundly; if the ends 
 Of power and suffering. Nature 
 blends; 
 
 " If poets on the tripod must 
 
 Writhe like the Pj'thian to make just 
 
 Their oracles, and merit trust; 
 
 " If every vatic word that sweeps 
 To change the world must pale their 
 
 lips, 
 And leave their own souls in eclipse; 
 
 " If to search deep the universe 
 Must pierce the searcher with the 
 
 curse. 
 Because that bolt (in man's reverse) 
 
 " Was shot to the heart o' the wood, 
 
 and lies 
 Wedged deepest in the best; if eyes 
 That look for visions and surprise 
 
 "From influent angels must shut 
 
 down 
 Their eyelids flrst to sun and moon, 
 The head asleep upon a stone; 
 
 " If One who did redeem you back, 
 By his own loss, from final wrack, 
 Did consecrate by touch and track 
 
 "Those temporal sorrows till the 
 
 taste 
 Of brackish waters of the waste 
 Is salt with tears lie dropt too fast; 
 
A VISION OF POETS. 
 
 255 
 
 " If all the crowns of eai'th must 
 
 wound 
 With prickings of the thorns lie 
 
 found ; 
 If saddest sighs swell sweetest 
 
 sound, — 
 
 " What say ye unto this? Refuse 
 This baptism in salt water ? Choose 
 Calm breasts, mute lips, and labor 
 loose ? 
 
 " Or, O ye gifted givers! ye 
 
 Who give your liberal hearts to me 
 
 To make the world this harmony, 
 
 " Are ve resigned that they be spent 
 To such world's help ? " 
 
 The spirits bent 
 Their awful brows, and said, " Con- 
 tent." 
 
 Content! it soun'ded like Amen 
 Said by a choir of mourning men; 
 An affirmation full of i)ain 
 
 And patience; ay, of glorying 
 
 And adoration, as a king 
 
 Might seal an oath for governing. 
 
 Then said the angel, — and his face 
 Lightened abroad until the place 
 Grew larger for a moment's space. 
 
 The long aisles flashing out in light, 
 And nave and transept, columns 
 
 white 
 And arches crossed, being clear to 
 
 sight 
 
 As if the roof were off, and all 
 Stood in the noon-sun, — " Lo! I 
 
 call 
 To other hearts as liberal. 
 
 " This pedal strikes out in the air: 
 My instrument has room to bear 
 Still fuller strains and jjerfecter. 
 
 " Herein is room, and shall be room 
 While time lasts, for new hearts to 
 
 come 
 Consummating while they consume. 
 
 " What living man will bring a 
 
 gift . 
 Of his own heart, and help to lift 
 The tune ? The race is to the 
 
 swift." 
 
 So asked the angel. Straight, the 
 
 while, 
 A company came up the aisle 
 With measured step and sorted smile; 
 
 Cleaving the incense - clouds that 
 
 rise, 
 With winking, unaccustomed eyes, 
 And lovelocks smelling sweet of spice. 
 
 One bore his head above the rest 
 As if the world were dispossest; 
 And one did pillow chin on breast, 
 
 Right languid, an as he should faint; 
 One shook his curls across liis jiaint, 
 And moralized on worldly taint; 
 
 One, slanting up his face, did wink 
 The salt rheum To the eyelid's brink, 
 To think, O gods ! or — not to think. 
 
 Some trod out stealthily and slow, 
 As if the sun would fall in snow 
 If they walked to instead of fro; 
 
 And some, with conscious ambling 
 
 free. 
 Did shake their bells right daintily 
 On hand and foot, for harmony; 
 
 And some, composing sudden sighs 
 In attitudes of j^oint-device, 
 Rehearsed impromptu agonies. 
 
 And when this company drew near 
 The spirits crowned, it might appear 
 Submitted to a ghastly fear; 
 
 As a sane eye in master-passion 
 Constrains a maniac to the fashion 
 Of hideous maniac imitation 
 
 In the least geste, — the dropping low 
 O' the lid, the wrinkling of the brow, 
 Exaggerate with mock and mow: 
 
 So mastered was rliat coniiiany 
 By the crowned vision utterly. 
 Swayed to a maniac mockery. 
 
 One dulled his eyeballs, as they ached 
 With Homer's forehead, though he 
 
 lacked 
 An inch of any; and one racked 
 
 His lower lip with restless tootli, 
 As Pindar's rushing words forsooth 
 Were jient behind it; one his smooth 
 
I 
 
 250 
 
 A VISION OF POETS. 
 
 Piuk cheeks did rumple passionate 
 Like ^sehyhis, and tried to prate 
 On trolling tongue of fate and fate ; 
 
 One set her eyes like Sappho's — or 
 Any light woman's; one forbore 
 Like Dante, or any man as poor 
 
 In mirth, to let a smile undo 
 
 His hard-shut lips; and one that drew 
 
 Sour humors from his mother blew 
 
 His sunken cheeks out to the size 
 Of most unnatural jollities, 
 Because Anacreon looked jest-wise; 
 
 So with the rest: it was a sight 
 A great world-laughter would requite. 
 Or great world-wrath, with equal 
 right. 
 
 Out came a speaker from that crowd 
 To speak for all, in sleek and proud 
 Exordial periods, while he bowed 
 
 His knee before the angel: "Thus, 
 O angel who hast called for us, 
 We bring thee service emulous, — 
 
 " Fit service from sufficient soul, 
 Hand-service to receive world's dole, 
 Lip-service in world's ear to roll 
 
 " Adjusted concords soft enow 
 
 To hear the wine-cups passing 
 
 through, 
 And not too grave to spoil the show: 
 
 " Thou, certes, when thou askest 
 
 more, 
 O sapient angel ! leanest o'er 
 The window-sill of metaphor. 
 
 " To give our hearts up? Fie 1 that 
 
 rage 
 Barbaric antedates the age: 
 It is not done on any stage. 
 
 " Because your scald or gleeman went 
 With seven or nine stringed instrument 
 Upon his back, — must ours be bent ? 
 
 " We are not pilgrims, by your leave; 
 No, nor yet martyrs: if we grieve, 
 It is to rhyme to — summer eve: 
 
 " And if we labor, it shall be 
 As suitetli best with our degi'ee. 
 In after-dinner revery." 
 
 More yet that speaker would have 
 
 said. 
 Poising between his smiles fair-fed 
 Each separate phrase till finished; 
 
 But all the foreheads of those born 
 And dead true i)oets flashed with 
 
 scorn 
 Betwixt the bay-leaves round them 
 
 worn ; 
 
 Ay, jetted such brave fire, that they. 
 The new-come, shrank and paled 
 
 away 
 Like leaden ashes when the day 
 
 Strikes on the hearth. A spirit-blast, 
 A presence known by power, at last 
 Took them up mutely: they had 
 passed. 
 
 And he, our pilgrim poet, saw 
 Only their places in deep awe. 
 What time the angel s smile did 
 draw 
 
 His gazing upward. Smiling on, 
 The angel in the angel shone, 
 Revealing glory in benison; 
 
 Till, ripened in the light which shut 
 The poet in, his spirit mute 
 Dropiied sudden as a perfect fruit: 
 
 He fell before the angel's feet. 
 Saying, " If what is true is sweet, 
 In something I may compass it: 
 
 " For, where my worthiness is poor, 
 My will stands richly at the door 
 To pay shortcomings evermore. 
 
 " Accejit me, therefore: not for price, 
 And not for pride, my sacrifice 
 Is tendered; for mj' soul is nice, 
 
 " And will beat down those dusty 
 
 seeds 
 Of bearded corn if she succeeds 
 In soaring while the covey feeds. 
 
 " I soar; I am drawn up like the lark 
 To its white cloud: so high my mark. 
 Albeit my wing is small and dark. 
 
 " I ask no wages, seek no fame: 
 Sew me for shroud, round face and 
 
 name, 
 God's banner of the oriflamme. 
 
A VISWi\ OF POETS. 
 
 257 
 
 " I only would have leave to loose 
 (In tears and blood if so He choose) 
 Mine inward music out to use; 
 
 " I only would be spent — in pain 
 And loss perchance, but not in vain — 
 Upon the sweetness of that strain: 
 
 " Only project beyond the bound 
 Of mine own life, so lost and found. 
 My voice, and live on in its sound; 
 
 " Only embrace and be embraced 
 By fiery ends, whereby to waste. 
 And light God's future with my 
 past." 
 
 The angel's smile grew more divine. 
 The mortal speaking; ay, its shine 
 Swelled fuller, like a choir-note tine, 
 
 Till the broad glory round his brow 
 Did vibrate with the light below; 
 But what he said, I do not know. 
 
 Nor know I if the man who prayed 
 Rose up accepted, unforbade, 
 From the church-tioor where he was 
 laid ; 
 
 Nor if a listening life did run 
 Through the king-poets, one by one 
 Rejoicing in a worthy son: 
 
 My soul, which might have seen, grew 
 
 blind 
 By what it looked on: I can find 
 No certain count of things behind. 
 
 I saw alone, dim white and grand 
 As in a dream, the angel's hand 
 Stretched forth in gesture of command 
 
 Straight tlirough the haze. And so, 
 
 as erst, 
 A strain more noble than tlie first 
 Mused in tlie organ, and outburst: 
 
 With giant march from floor to roof 
 Ivose the full notes now parted off 
 In pauses massively aloof 
 
 Like measured thunders, now rejoined 
 In concords of mysterious kind 
 Which fused together sense and mind. 
 
 Now flashing sharp on sharp along, 
 Exultant in a mounting throng, 
 Now dying off to a low song 
 
 Fed upon minors, wavelike sonnd.s 
 Re-eddying into silver rounds. 
 Enlarging liberty with bounds: 
 
 And every rhythm that seemed to 
 
 close 
 Survived in confluent underflows 
 Symphonious with the next that rose. 
 
 Thus the whole strain being multi- 
 plied 
 And greatened, with its glorified 
 Wings shot abroad from side to side, 
 
 Waved backward (as a wind might 
 
 wave 
 A Brocken mist, and with as lirave 
 Wild roaring) arch and architrave. 
 
 Aisle, transept, columii, marble wall, 
 Then swelling outward, prodigal 
 Of aspiration beyond thrall, 
 
 Soared, and drew up with it the whole 
 Of this said vision, as a soul 
 Is raised by a thought. And as a 
 scroll 
 
 Of bright devices is unrolled 
 Still upward with a gradual gold, 
 So rose the vision manifold. 
 
 Angel and organ, and the round 
 Of spirits, solemnized and crowned; 
 While the freed clouds of incense 
 wound 
 
 Ascending, following in their track, 
 And glimmering faintly like the rack 
 O' the moon in her own light cast 
 back. 
 
 And as that solemn dream withdrew, 
 The lady's kiss did fall anew 
 Cold on the poet's brow as dew. 
 
 And that same kiss which bound him 
 
 first 
 Beyond the senses, now reversed 
 I(S own law, and most subtly pierced 
 
 His sjiirit with the sense of things 
 Sensual and present. Vanishiugs 
 Of glory with ^olian wings 
 
 Struck him and passed: the lady's 
 
 face 
 Did melt back in the chrysopras 
 Of the orient morning sky, that waa 
 
(-•-■-♦H 
 
 258 
 
 A VISION OF rOKTS. 
 
 Yet clear of lark; ami there and so 
 She melted as a star might do, 
 Still smiling as she melted slow, — 
 
 Smiling so slow, he seemed to see 
 Her smile the last thing, gloriously 
 Bej'ond her, far as memory. 
 
 Then he looked round: he was alone. 
 He lay before the V)reaking sun, 
 As Jacob at the Bethel stone. 
 
 And thought's entangled skein being 
 
 wound, 
 He knew the moorland of his swound. 
 And the pale pools that smeared the 
 
 ground ; 
 
 The far wood-pines like oflfing ships; 
 The fourth pool's yew anear him drips. 
 World's cruelty attaints his lips, 
 
 And still he tastes it, bitter still: 
 Through all that glorious possible 
 He had the sight of present ill. 
 
 Yet rising calmly up and slowly. 
 With such a cheer as scorneth folly, 
 A mild, delightsome melancholy, 
 
 He journeyed homeward through the 
 
 wood. 
 And prayed along the solitude 
 Betwixt the pines, " O God, my God! " 
 
 The golden morning's open tiowings 
 Did sway the trees to murmurous 
 
 bowings, 
 In metric chant of blessed poems. 
 
 And passing homeward through the 
 
 wood, 
 He prayed along the solitude, 
 " Thou, Poet-God, art great and good ! 
 
 " And though we must have, and have 
 
 had 
 Right reason to be earthly sad. 
 Thou, Poet-God, art great and glad! " 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Life treads on life, and heart on heart: 
 We press too close in church and mart 
 To keep a dream or grave apart. 
 
 And I was 'ware of walking down 
 That same greenforest,,wherehadgoue 
 The poet-i>ilgrim. One by one 
 
 I traced his footsteps. From the east 
 A red and tender radiance pressed 
 Through the near trees, until I guessed 
 
 The sun behind shone full and round; 
 While up the leafiness profound 
 A wind scarce old enough for sound 
 
 Stood ready to blow on me when 
 
 I turned that way; and now and then 
 
 The birds sang, and brake off again 
 
 To shake their pretty feathers dry 
 Of the dew, sliding droppingly 
 From the leaf-edges, and apply 
 
 Back to their song: 'twixt dew and 
 
 bird 
 So sweet a silence ministered, 
 God seemed to use it for a word; 
 
 Yet morning souls did leap and run 
 In all things, as the least had won 
 A joyous insight of the sun. 
 
 And no one, looking round the wood, 
 Could help confessing as he stood, 
 This Poet-God is f/lad and good. 
 
 But hark! a distant sound that grows, 
 A heaving, sinking of the boughs, 
 A rustling murmur, not of those, 
 
 A breezy noise which is not breeze! 
 And white-clad children by degrees 
 Steal out in troops among the trees, — 
 
 Fair little children morning-bright. 
 With faces grave, yet soft to sight, 
 Expressive of restrained delight. 
 
 Some plucked the palm-boughs within 
 
 reach. 
 And others leapt up high to catch 
 The upper boughs, and shake from 
 
 each 
 
 A rain of dew, till, wetted so. 
 
 The child who held the branch let go. 
 
 And it swang backward with a flow 
 
 Of faster drippings. Then I knew 
 The children laughed; but the laugli 
 
 flew 
 From its own chirrup as might do 
 
 A frightened song-bird; and a child 
 Who seemed the chief said very mild, 
 " Hush! keep this morning undefiled." 
 
A V/SION OF POETS. 
 
 259 
 
 His eyes reljiiked them from calm 
 
 spheres; 
 His soul upon his brow appears 
 In waiting for more holy years. 
 
 I called the child to me, and said, 
 
 '• What are your palms for? " — " To 
 
 be spread," 
 He answered, " on a poet dead. 
 
 "The poet died last month, and now 
 The world, which had been some- 
 what slow 
 In honoring his living brow, 
 
 "Commands the jialms: they must 
 
 be strown 
 On his new marble very soon, 
 In a procession of the town." 
 
 I sighed and said, " Did lie foresee 
 Any such honor ? " — " Verily 
 I cannot tell you," answered he. 
 
 " But this I know. I fain would lay 
 My own head down, another day, 
 As he did — with the fame away. 
 
 " A lily a friend's hand had plucked 
 Lay by his death-bed, which he looked 
 As deeyi down as a bee had sucked, 
 
 " Then, turning to the lattice, gazed 
 O'er hill and river, and upraised 
 His eyes illumined, and amazed 
 
 " With the world's beauty, up to God, 
 Re-offering on their iris broad 
 The images of things bestowed 
 
 " By the chief Poet. ' God,' he cried, 
 ' Be jn-aised for anguish which has 
 
 tried. 
 For beauty which has satisfied; 
 
 " ' For this world's jiresence half 
 
 within 
 And half without me, — thought and 
 
 scene, — 
 This sense of Being and Having Been . 
 
 " ' I thank thee that my soul hath room 
 For thy grand world: both guests 
 
 may come — 
 Beauty, to soul; body, to tomb. 
 
 " ' I am content to be so weak: 
 
 Put strength into the words I speak, 
 
 And I am strong in what I seek 
 
 " ' I am content to he so bare 
 Before the archers, everywhere 
 My wounds being stroked by heav- 
 enly air. 
 
 " ' I laid my soul before thy feet. 
 That images of fair and sweet 
 Should walk to other men on it. 
 
 " ' I am content to feel the step 
 Of each pure image: let those keep 
 To mandragore who care to sleep. 
 
 " ' I am content to touch the brink 
 Of the other goblet, and I think 
 My bitter drink a wholesome drink. 
 
 " ' Because my portion was assigned 
 Wholesome and bitter, thou art kind. 
 And I am blessed to my mind. 
 
 " 'Gifted for giving, I receive 
 
 The may thorn, and its scent outgive: 
 
 1 grieve not that I once did grieve. 
 
 " ' In my large joy of sight and touch 
 Beyond what others count for such, 
 I am content to suffer much. 
 
 " ' I knoic — is all the mourner saitb, 
 Knowledge by suffering entereth. 
 And life is perfected by death.' " 
 
 The child spake nobly : strange to hear, 
 His infantine soft accents clear. 
 Charged with high meanings did ap- 
 pear; 
 
 And, fair to see, his form and face 
 Winged out with whiteness and pure 
 
 grace 
 From the green darkness of the place. 
 
 Behind his head a palm-tree grew; 
 An orient beam which pierced 
 
 through 
 Transversely on his forehead drew 
 
 it 
 
 The figure of a palm-branch brown, 
 Traced on its brightness up and down 
 In tine fair lines, — a shadow-crown: 
 
 Guido might paint his angels so, — 
 
 A little angel taught to go 
 
 With holy words to saints below, — 
 
 Such innocence of action, yet 
 
 Significance of object, met 
 
 In his whole bearing strong and sweet. 
 
 ! 
 
260 
 
 A VISION OF POETS. 
 
 And all the children, tlie whole band, 
 Did round in rosy reverence stand. 
 Each with a palm-bough in his hand. 
 
 "And so he died," I whispered. 
 
 " Nay, 
 Not so," the childish voice did say: 
 "That poet turned hiiu first to pray 
 
 " In silence, and God heard the rest 
 'Twixt the sun's footsteps down the 
 
 west. 
 Then he called one who loved him 
 
 best, 
 
 "Yea, he called softly through the 
 
 room 
 (His voice was weak, yet tender) — 
 
 'Come,' 
 He said, ' come nearer ! Let the 
 
 bloom 
 
 " ' Of life grow over, iindenied. 
 
 This bridge of death, which is not 
 
 wide : 
 I shall be soon at the other side. 
 
 " ' Come, kiss me ! ' So the one in 
 
 truth 
 "Who loved him best, in love, not ruth, 
 Bowed down, and kissed him mouth 
 
 to mouth: 
 
 " And in that kiss of love was won 
 Life's manumission. All was done: 
 The mouth that kissed last kissed 
 
 alone. 
 
 " But in the former, confluent kiss. 
 The same was sealed, I think, by His, 
 To words of truth and uprightness." 
 
 The child's voice trembled, his lips 
 
 shook 
 Like a rose leaning o'er a brook, 
 "Which vibrates, though it is not 
 
 struck. 
 
 "And who," I asked, a little moved, 
 Yet curious-eyed, " was this that 
 
 loved 
 And kissed him last, as it behoved ? " 
 
 "/," softly said the child; and then, 
 " /," said he louder, once again: 
 " His son, my rank is among men: 
 
 " And, now that men exalt his name, 
 I come to gather palms with them, 
 That holy love may hallow fame. 
 
 " He did not die alone, nor should 
 His memory live so, 'mid these rude 
 "World-praises — a worse solitude. 
 
 " Me, a voice calleth to that tomb 
 "Where these are strewing branch and 
 
 bloom, 
 Saying, ' Come nearer: ' and I come. 
 
 " Glory to God ! " resumed he, 
 And his eyes smiled for victory 
 O'er their own tears which I could 
 see 
 
 Fallen on the palm, down cheek and 
 
 chin — 
 " That poet now has entered in 
 The place of rest which is not sin. 
 
 "And while he rests, his songs in 
 
 troops 
 "Walk up and down our earthly 
 
 slopes, 
 Companioned by diviner hopes." 
 
 " But thou," I murmured to engage 
 The child's speech farther, " hast an 
 
 age 
 Too tender for this orphanage. ' 
 
 " Glory to God — to God ! " he saith, 
 " Knowledge by suffering EXTEn- 
 
 ETH, 
 
 And life is pekfected by death." 
 
THE POET'S VOW. 
 
 " Oh, be -wiser tlioii, 
 
 Instnieted that true knowledge leads to love." 
 
 woRDSwoitTir. 
 
 PART THE FIRST. 
 
 SHOWING WHEREFORE THE VOW WAf3 MADE. 
 I. 
 
 EvK is a twofold mystery; 
 
 The stillness Earth doth keep, 
 The motion wherewith human hearts 
 
 Do each to either leap 
 As if all souls between the poles 
 
 Felt " Parting comes in sleep." 
 
 II. 
 
 The rowers lift their oars to view 
 
 Each other in the sea; 
 The landsmen watch the rocking 
 boats 
 
 In a pleasant company; 
 While up the hill go gladlier still 
 
 Dear friends by two and three. 
 
 III. 
 
 The peasant's wife hath looked with- 
 out 
 Her cottage-door, and smiled: 
 For there the peasant drops his spade 
 
 To clasp his youngest child, 
 Which hath no speech; but its hand 
 can reach 
 And stroke his forehead mild. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A poet sate that eventide 
 
 Within his hall alone. 
 As silent as its ancient lords 
 
 In the coffined place of stone, 
 When the bat hath shrunk from the 
 praying monk, 
 
 And the praying monk is gone. 
 
 Nor wore the dead a stiller face 
 Beneath the cerement's roll: 
 His lips refusing out in words 
 
 Their mystic thoughts to dole', 
 His steadfast eye burnt inwardly, 
 As burning out his soul. 
 
 VI. 
 
 You would not think that brow could 
 e'er 
 Ungentle moods express ; 
 Yet seemed it, in this troubled world. 
 
 Too calm for gentleness, 
 When the very star that shines from 
 far 
 Shines trembling ne'ertheless. 
 
 VII. 
 
 It lacked, all need, the softening light 
 Which other brows supply: 
 
 We should conjoin the scathed trunks 
 Of our humanity, 
 
 That each leafless spray intwining may 
 Look softer 'gainst the sky. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 None gazed within the poet's face; 
 
 The poet gazed in none : 
 He threw a lonely sliadow straight 
 
 Before the moon and sun. 
 Affronting Nature's heaven-dwelling 
 creatures 
 
 With wrong to Nature done: 
 
 IX. 
 
 Because this poet daringly 
 
 — The nature at liis heart, 
 And that quick tune along his veins 
 
 He could not change by art — 
 Had vowed his blood of brotherhood 
 
 To a stagnant place apart. 
 
 He did not vow in fear, or wrath, 
 
 Or grief's fantastic whim, 
 But, weights and sliows of sensual 
 things 
 
 2G1 
 
2C.2 
 
 THE POET'S row. 
 
 Too closely crossing him, 
 On his soul's eyelid the pressure 
 slid, 
 And made its vision dim. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And darkening in the dark he strove, 
 'Twixt earth and sea and sky, 
 
 To lose in shadow, wave, and cloud. 
 His brother's haunting cry: 
 
 The winds were welcome as thej' 
 swept, 
 
 God's five-day work he would accept, 
 But let the rest go by. 
 
 XII. 
 
 He cried, " O touching, patient Earth, 
 
 That weepest in thy glee. 
 Whom God created verj- good, 
 
 And verj' mournful, we ! 
 Thy voice of moan doth reach his 
 throne. 
 
 As Abel's rose from thee. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " Poor crystal sky with stars astray ! 
 
 Mad winds tliat howling go 
 From east to west! perplexed seas 
 
 That stagger from their blow ! 
 O motion wild ! O wave defiled ! 
 
 Our curse hath made you so. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " We ! and ovr curse ! do I partake 
 
 The desiccating sin ? 
 Have / the apple at my lips ? 
 
 The money-lust within ? 
 Do / human stand with the wounding 
 hand. 
 
 To the blasting heart akin ? 
 
 XV. 
 
 " Thou solemn pathos of all things, 
 
 For solemn joy designed ! 
 Behold, submissive to your cause. 
 
 An holy wrath I find, 
 And for your sake the bondage break 
 
 That knits me to my kind. 
 
 man s sympa- 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " Hear me forswear 
 thies. 
 
 His pleasant yea and no, 
 His riot on the piteous earth 
 
 Whereon his thistles grow, 
 His changing love -«• with stars above. 
 
 His i)ride — with graves below. 
 
 xvxi. 
 
 " Hear me forswear his roof by night. 
 His bread and salt by day. 
 
 His talkings at the wood-fire hearth, 
 His greetings by the wai% 
 
 His answering looks, his systemed 
 books. 
 All man, for aye and aye. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 purged, once 
 
 human 
 
 " Tliat so my 
 heart. 
 
 From all the human rent. 
 May gather strength to pledge and 
 drink 
 Your wine of wonderment. 
 While you pardon me all blessingly 
 The woe mine Adam sent. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " And I shall feel your unseen looks 
 Innumerous, constant, deep, 
 
 And soft as haunted Adam once. 
 Though sadder round me creep — 
 
 As slumbering men have mj^stic ken 
 Of watchers on their sleep. 
 
 XX. 
 
 " And ever, when I lift my brow 
 
 At evening to the sun. 
 No voice of woman or of child 
 
 Recording ' Day is done.' 
 Your silences shall a love express. 
 
 More deep than such an one." 
 
 PART THE SECOND. 
 
 SHOWING TO WHOM THE VOW WAS DE- 
 CLARED. 
 
 The poet's vow was inly sworn, 
 
 The i:)oet's vow was told. 
 He shared among his crowding friends 
 
 The silver and the gold; 
 They clasping bland his gift, his hand 
 
 In a somewhat slacker hold. 
 
 II. 
 
 They wended forth, the crowding 
 
 friends. 
 With farewells smooth and kind. 
 They wended forth, the solaced 
 
 friends, 
 
riri: poet'S vow. 
 
 263 
 
 ! 
 
 And left but twain beliind: 
 One loved him true as brothers do, 
 And one was Rosalind. 
 
 III. 
 
 He said, "My friends have wended 
 
 forth 
 
 With farewells smooth and kind; 
 
 Mine oldest friend, my plifj^lited bride, 
 
 Ye need not stay l)ehind: 
 Friend, wed my fair bride for my 
 
 sake. 
 And let my lands ancestral make 
 A dower for Rosalind. 
 
 rv. 
 " And when beside your wassail board 
 
 Ye bless your social lot, 
 I charge you that the giver be 
 
 In all his gifts forgot. 
 Or alone of all his words recall 
 
 The last, — Lament me not." 
 
 She looked upon him silently 
 With her large, doubting eyes, 
 
 Like a child that never knew but love. 
 Whom words of wrath surprise, 
 
 Till the rose did break from either 
 cheek. 
 And the sudden tears did rise. 
 
 VI. 
 
 She looked upon him mournfully, 
 While her large eyes were grown 
 
 Yet larger with the steady tears. 
 Till, all his purpose known, 
 
 She turned slow, as she would go — 
 The tears were shaken down. 
 
 VII. 
 
 She turned slow, as she would go. 
 Then quickly turned again. 
 
 And gazing in his face to seek 
 Some little touch of pain, 
 
 "I thought," she said, — but shook 
 her head : 
 She tried that speech in vain. 
 
 viri. 
 
 " I thought — but I am half a child, 
 
 And very sage art thou — 
 The teachings of the lieaven and earth 
 
 Should keep us soft and low. 
 They have drawn iny tears in early 
 years. 
 
 Or ere I wept — as now. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " But now that in thy face I read 
 
 Their cruel homily, 
 Before their beauty I would fain 
 
 Untouched, unsoftened be, — 
 If I indeed could look on even 
 The senseless, loveless earth and 
 heaven 
 
 As thou canst look on me ! 
 
 X. 
 
 " And couldest thou as coldly view 
 
 Thy childhood's far abode, 
 Where little feet kept time with 
 thine 
 Along the dewy sod. 
 And thy mother's look from holy 
 book 
 Rose like a thought of God ? 
 
 XI. 
 
 O 
 
 brother, — called so, e'er her 
 last 
 Betrothing words were said ! 
 O fellow-watcher in her room. 
 
 With hushed voice and tread ! 
 Remeraberest thou how, liand in 
 hand, 
 
 friend, O lover, we did stand, 
 And knew that she was dead ? 
 
 XII. 
 
 " I will not live Sir Roland's bride, 
 That dower I will not hold; 
 
 1 tread below my feet that go. 
 These jiarchments bouglit and 
 
 sold: 
 The tears I weep are mine to keep. 
 And worthier than thy gold." 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The poet and Sir Roland stood 
 Alone, each turned to each. 
 
 Till Roland brake the silence left 
 By that soft-throbbing speech — 
 
 " Poor heart ! " he cried, " it vainly 
 tried 
 The distant heart to reach. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " And tliou, O distant, sinful heart 
 
 That climbest up so high 
 To wrap and blind thee with the 
 snows 
 
 That cause to dream and die. 
 What blessing can from lips of man 
 
 Approach thee with his sigh ? 
 
264 
 
 THE POET'S VOW. 
 
 XV. 
 
 " Ay, what from earth — create for 
 man, 
 And moaning in his moan ? 
 Ay, what from stars — revealed to 
 man. 
 And man-named one by one ? 
 Ay, more ! what blessing can be 
 
 given 
 Where the spirits seven do show in 
 heaven 
 A MAN upon the throne ? 
 
 XVI. 
 
 "A man on earth he vrandered once. 
 
 All meek and undefiled, 
 And those who loved him said ' He 
 wept ; ' 
 None ever said ' He smiled : ' 
 Yet there might have been a smile 
 
 unseen, 
 When he bowed his holy face, I ween, 
 To bless that happy child. 
 
 xvir. 
 
 " And now he jileadeth up in heaven 
 
 For our humanities, 
 Till the ruddy light on seraphs' wings 
 
 In pale emotion dies. 
 They can better bear their Godhead's 
 glare 
 
 Than the pathos of his eyes. 
 
 x^'lII. 
 
 " I will go pray our God to-day 
 
 To teach thee how to scan 
 His work divine, for human use. 
 
 Since earth on axle ran; 
 To teach thee to discern as plain 
 His grief divine, the blood-drop's 
 stain 
 
 He left there, .MAy for man. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " So, for the blood's sake shed by Him 
 Whom angels God declare. 
 
 Tears like it, moist and warm with 
 love. 
 Thy reverent eyes shall wear. 
 
 To see i' the face of Adam's race 
 The nature God doth share." 
 
 XX. 
 
 " I heard," the poet said, " thy voice 
 
 As dimly as thy breath: 
 The sound was like the noise of life 
 
 To one auear his death; 
 
 Or of waves that fail to stir the pale 
 Sear leaf they roll beneath. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 between 
 
 the sound and 
 
 "And still 
 me 
 White creatures like a mist 
 Did interfloat confusedly. 
 
 Mysterious shapes unwist: 
 Across im' heart and across my brow 
 I felt them droop like wreaths of 
 snow. 
 To still the pulse they kist. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 " The castle and its lands are thine — 
 
 The poor's — it shall be done. 
 Go, man, to love! I go to live 
 
 In Courland hall, alone: 
 The bats along the ceilings cling, 
 The lizards in the floors do run. 
 And storms and years have worn and 
 
 reft 
 The stain by human builders left 
 In working at the stone." 
 
 PART THE THIRD. 
 
 SHOWING HOW THE VOW WAS KEPT. 
 1. 
 
 He dwelt alone, and sun and moon 
 Were witness that he made 
 
 Rejection of his humanness 
 Until they seemed to fade : 
 
 His face did so, for he did grow 
 Of his own soul afraid. 
 
 II. 
 
 The self-poised God may dwell alone 
 
 With inward glorying; 
 But God's chief angel waiteth for 
 
 A brother's voice to sing; 
 And a lonely creature of sinful nature^ 
 
 It is an awful thing. 
 
 III. 
 
 An awful thing that feared itself; 
 
 While many years did roll, 
 A lonely man, a feeble man, 
 
 A part beneath the whole, 
 He bore by day, he bore by night. 
 That pressure of God's infinite 
 
 Upon his finite soul. 
 
THE POET'S VOIV. 
 
 265 
 
 IV. 
 
 The poet at his lattice sate 
 
 And downward looked he. 
 Three Christians wended by to 
 prayers, 
 
 With mute ones in their ee; 
 Each turned above a face of love, 
 
 And called him to the far chapelle 
 With voice more tuneful than its bell; 
 
 But still they wended three. 
 
 V. 
 
 There journeyed by a bridal pomp, 
 A bridegroom and his dame; 
 
 He speaketh low for happiness, 
 She blusheth red for shame : 
 
 But never a tone of benison 
 From out the lattice came. 
 
 VI. 
 
 A little child with inward song^ 
 
 No louder noise to dare, 
 Stood near the wall to see at play 
 
 The lizards green and rare; 
 Unblessed the while for his childish 
 smile. 
 
 Which Cometh unaware. 
 
 PART THE FOURTH. 
 
 SHOWING HOW ROSALIND FARED BY THE 
 KEEPINS OP THE VOW. 
 
 In death-sheets lieth Rosalind, 
 
 As white and still as they; 
 And the old nurse thatwatchedherbed 
 
 Rose up with " Well-a-day ! " 
 And oped the casement to let in 
 The sun, and that sweet, doubtful din 
 Whict droppeth from the grass and 
 
 bough 
 Sans wind and bird, none knoweth 
 how, 
 To cheer her as she lay. 
 
 II. 
 
 The old nurse started when she saw 
 
 Her sudden look of woe; 
 But the quick, wan tremblings round 
 her mouth 
 
 In a meek smile did go, 
 And calm she said, " When I am dead, 
 
 Dear nurse it shall be so. 
 
 III. 
 
 " Till then, shut out those sights and 
 sounds. 
 And pray God jiardon me 
 That I without this jiain no more 
 
 His blessed works can see ; 
 And lean beside me, loving nurse. 
 That thou mayst hear, ere I am 
 worse 
 What thy last love should be." 
 
 IV- 
 
 The loving nurse leant over her, 
 As white she lay beneath, — 
 
 The old eyes searching, dim with 
 life. 
 The young ones dim with death, — 
 
 To read their look if sound forsook 
 The trying, trembling breath. 
 
 V. 
 
 " When all this feeble breath is done, 
 
 And I on bier aui laid, 
 My tresses smoothed for never a feast, 
 
 My body in shroud arrayed, 
 Uplift each palm in a saintly calm, 
 
 As if that still I prayed. 
 
 VI. 
 
 "And heap beneath mine head the 
 fiowers 
 You stoop so low to pull, — 
 The little white flowers from the wood 
 
 Which grow there in the cool, 
 Which he and I, in childhood's 
 
 games. 
 Went plucking, knowing not their 
 names. 
 And filled thine apron full. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " Weep not ! / weep not. Death is 
 strong; 
 
 The eyes of Death are dry: 
 But lay this scroll upon my breast 
 
 When hushed its heavings lie, 
 And wait a while for the corpse's smile 
 
 Which shineth presently. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " And when it shineth, straightway 
 call 
 
 Thy youngest children dear. 
 And bid them gently carry me 
 
 All barefaced on the bier; 
 But bid them pass my kirkyard grass 
 
 That waveth long anear. 
 
I 
 
 266 
 
 THE POET'S VOW. 
 
 the 
 
 IX. 
 
 bank where I 
 
 used to 
 
 " And up 
 sit, 
 And dream what life would be; 
 Along the brook with its sunny look 
 
 Akin to living glee; 
 O'er the windy hill, through the for- 
 est still, — 
 Let them gently carry me. 
 
 " And through the piney forest still, 
 And down the open moorland, 
 
 Round where the sea beats mistily 
 And blindly on the foreland; 
 
 And let them chant that hymn I know. 
 
 Bearing me soft, bearing me slow, 
 To the ancient hall of Courland. 
 
 XI. 
 
 " And when withal they near the hall, 
 
 In silence let them lay 
 Mj' bier l^efore the bolted door. 
 
 And leave it for a day: 
 For I have vowed, though I am proud. 
 To go there as a guest in shroud. 
 
 And not be turned away." 
 
 XII. 
 
 The old nurse looked within her eyes, 
 
 Whose mutual look was gone; 
 The old nurse stooped upon her 
 mouth, 
 
 Whose answ^ering voice was done; 
 And nought she heard, till a little bird. 
 
 Upon "the casement's woodbine 
 swinging. 
 Broke out into a loud, sweet singing 
 
 For joy o' the summer sun: 
 " Alack I alack ! " — she watched no 
 more; 
 
 With head on knee she wailed sore, 
 And the little bird sang o'er and o'er 
 
 For joy o' the summer sun. 
 
 PART THE FIFTH. 
 
 SHOWING HOW THE VOW WAS BROKEN. 
 I. 
 
 The poet oped his bolted door 
 
 The midnight sky to view; 
 A spirit-feel was in the air 
 Which seemed to touch his spirit bare 
 
 Whenever his breath he drew; 
 And the stars a liquid softness had, 
 As alone their holiness forbade 
 
 Their falling with the dew, 
 
 II. 
 
 They shine upon the steadfast hills, 
 
 Upon the swinging tide. 
 Upon the narrow track of beach, 
 
 And the murmuring pebbles pied: 
 They shine on every lovely place. 
 They shine upon the corpse's face, 
 
 As it were fair beside. 
 
 III. 
 
 It lay before him, human-like, 
 
 Yet so unlike a thing ! 
 More awful in its shrouded pomp 
 
 Than any crowned king; 
 All calm and cold, as it did hold 
 
 Some secret, glorying. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A heavier weight than of its clay 
 Clung to his heart and knee: 
 
 As if those folded palms could strike. 
 He staggered groaningly, 
 
 And then o'erhung, without a groan. 
 
 The meek, close mouth that smiled 
 alone. 
 Whose speech the scroll must be. 
 
 THE 
 
 WORDS OF 
 SCROLL. 
 
 ROSALIND'S 
 
 " I left thee last a child at heart, 
 
 A woman scarce in years: 
 I come to thee a solemn corpse, 
 
 Which neither feels nor fears. 
 I have no breath to use in sighs: 
 They laid the dead-weights on mine 
 eyes 
 
 To seal them safe from tears. 
 
 " Look on me with thine own calm 
 look: 
 I meet it calm as thou. 
 No look of thine can change this smile. 
 
 Or break thy sinful vow. 
 I tell thee that my poor scorned heart 
 Is of thine earth — thine earth, a part: 
 It cannot vex thee now. 
 
 " But out, alas ! these words are writ 
 
 By a living, loving one, 
 Adown whose cheeks the proofs of 
 life, 
 
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 3 a> 
 
 
 
 a- a- 
 
 
 
 < o 
 
 
 
 < ^ 
 
 n < 
 
 C 
 
 
 t3 a 
 
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 01 -^ 
 
 
 ^" 
 
 ? 
 
 
 Trj^^- 
 
 i^ 
 
 
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 'V* 
 
 ^^^ 's. 
 
 
 
 5 r? 
 
 1 L* 
 
 
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 fy\ 
 
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i 
 
 THE FOKT'S VOIV 
 
 267 
 
 The warm quick tears, do run: 
 Ah, let the unloviiij,' corpse con- 
 trol 
 Thy scorn back from tlie loving soul 
 
 AVhose place of rest is won. 
 
 " I have prayed for thee, with liurst- 
 ingf sobs, 
 When jiassion's course was free; 
 I liave jirayed for thee, with silent 
 lips, 
 In the anguish none could see: 
 They whispered oft, ' She sleepeth 
 soft ' — 
 But I only prayed for thee. 
 
 " Go to ! I pray for thee no more: 
 The corpse's tongue is still; 
 
 Its folded lingers point to heaven, 
 But point there stiff and chill: 
 
 No further wrong, no further woe, 
 
 Hath license from the sin l)elow 
 Its tranquil heart to thrill. 
 
 li)v th 
 
 livinj 
 
 "I charge thee, 
 prayer, 
 And the dead's silentness, 
 To wring from out thy soul a cry 
 
 Which God shall hear and bless ! 
 Lest Heaven's own j)alm drooji in my 
 
 hand, 
 And pale among the saints I stand, 
 A saint companiouless.' 
 
 Bow lower down before tlu^ throne. 
 
 Triumphant Rosalind! 
 He ])oweth on thy corpse his face. 
 
 And weepeth as the blind : 
 'Twas a dread sight to see them so. 
 For the senseless corpse rocked to 
 and fro 
 
 With the wail of his living mind. 
 
 ^'I. 
 
 But 
 
 dreader sight, could such be 
 seen. 
 His inward mind did lie, 
 Wliose long-sul)jected humanness 
 
 Gave out its lion cry, 
 And fiercely rent its tenement 
 lu a mortal agony. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I tell you, friends, had you lieard his 
 wail, 
 "Twould haunt you in coiirt and 
 mart, 
 And in merry feast, mitil you set 
 
 Your cup down to depart, — 
 That weeping wild of a reckless child 
 From a proud man's hrok«?n heart. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 O broken heart, O broken vow, 
 That wore so proud a feature I 
 
 God, grasping as a thunderbolt 
 The man's rejected nature. 
 
 Smote him tlierewitli i' the presence 
 high 
 
 Of his so worshipped earth and sky 
 
 That looked on all indifferently — 
 A wailing human creature. 
 
 IX. 
 
 A human creature found too weak 
 
 To bear his human jiain : 
 (May Heaven's dear grace have spo- 
 ken peace 
 
 To his dying heart and brain !) 
 For when tliey came at dawn of day 
 To lift the lady's corjise away, 
 
 Her bier was holding twain. 
 
 X. 
 
 They dug beneath the kirkyard grass 
 
 For botli one dwelling deep; 
 To which, when years had mossed 
 
 the stone, 
 Sir Koland brought liis little son 
 
 To watch the funeral heaj): 
 And when the hajipy boy would 
 rather 
 Turn upward his blithe eyes to see 
 The wood-doves nodding from the 
 tree, 
 " Nay, boy, look downward," said his 
 
 father, 
 " Upon this human dust asleeji. 
 And liold it in thy constant ken 
 That God's own unity compresses 
 (One into one) the human many, 
 And that his everlastingness is 
 The bond which is not loosed by 
 any; 
 That thou and I this law must keep. 
 If not in love, in sorrow then — 
 Though smiling not like other men, 
 Still, like them we must weep." 
 
 
 " 
 
 I » ■ ♦ I 
 
THE PtOMAUNT OF MARGRET. 
 
 " Can ray affections find out nothing bust, 
 But Btill and still remove? " 
 
 tJUABLES. 
 
 I PLANT a tree whose leaf 
 
 The yew-tree leaf will suit; 
 But when its shade is-o'er yoii laid, 
 
 Turn round, and pluck the fruit. 
 Now reach iny harp from off the wall 
 
 Where shines the sun aslant: 
 The sitn may shine and we he cold ! 
 O liarken, loving hearts and bold, 
 
 Unto my wild romaunt. 
 
 Margret, Margret. 
 
 II. 
 
 Sitteth the fair ladye 
 Close to the river-side 
 "Which runneth on with a merry tone 
 Her merry thoughts to guide: 
 It runneth through the trees. 
 It runneth by the hill, 
 Nathless the lady's thoughts have 
 found 
 A way more jileasant still. 
 
 Margret, Margret. 
 
 III. 
 
 The night is in her hair. 
 And giveth shade to shade; 
 And the pale moonlight on her fore- 
 head white 
 Like a spirit's hand is laid; 
 Her lips ])art with a smile 
 Instead of speakings done: 
 I ween she thinketh of a voice, 
 Albeit uttering none. 
 
 Margret, Margret. 
 
 IV. 
 
 All little birds do sit 
 
 With heads beneath their wings; 
 Nature doth seem in a mj'Stic dream, 
 Absorbed from her living things: 
 268 
 
 high 
 
 cold 
 
 That dream by that ladye 
 Is certes ttnpartook. 
 For she looketh to the 
 stars 
 With a tender human look. 
 
 Margret, Margret. 
 
 The lady's shadow lies 
 Upon the running river; 
 It lieth no less in its quietness, 
 For that which resteth never: 
 Most like a trusting heart 
 
 Upon a passing faith, 
 Or as upon the course of life 
 The steadfast doom of death. 
 
 Margret, Margret. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The lady doth not move, 
 The lady doth not dream; 
 Yet she seeth her shade no longer 
 laid 
 In rest upon the stream: 
 It shaketh without wind, 
 
 It parteth from the tide, 
 It standeth upright in the cleft moon- 
 light, 
 It sitteth at her side. 
 
 Margret, Margret. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Look in its face, ladye, 
 And keep thee from thy swound; 
 With a spirit bold thy pulses hold, 
 And hear its voice's sound: 
 For so will sound thy voice 
 When thy face is to the wall, 
 And such will be thy face, ladye. 
 
 When the maidens work thy pall. 
 Margret, Margret. 
 
THE ROM AUNT OF MARGRET. 
 
 269 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " Am I not like to thee ? " 
 The voice was calm and low, 
 And between each word you might 
 have heard 
 The silent forests grow: 
 " Tlie like may sway the like ; " 
 By which mysterious law 
 Mine "eyes from thine, and my lips 
 from thine, 
 The light and breath may draw. 
 Margret, Margret. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " My lips do need thy breath. 
 My lips do need thy smile. 
 And my pallid eyne, that light in 
 thine 
 Which met the stars ere while: 
 Yet go with light and life, 
 If that thou lovest one 
 In all the earth who loveth thee 
 As truly as the sun. 
 
 Margret, Margret. 
 
 Her cheek had waxed white. 
 Like cloud at fall of snow; 
 Then, like to one at set of sun. 
 It wa:ied red also : 
 For love's name maketh bold, 
 As if the loved were near: 
 And then she sighed the deep, long 
 sigh 
 Which cometh after fear. 
 
 Margret, Margret. 
 
 XI. 
 
 " Now, sooth, I fear thee not — 
 Shall never fear thee now ! " 
 (And a noble sight was the sudden 
 light 
 Which lit her lifted brow.) 
 " Can earth be dry of streams, 
 Or hearts of love ? " she said; 
 " Who doubteth love can know not 
 love: 
 He is already dead." 
 
 Margret, Margret. 
 
 XII. 
 
 "I have" . . . and here her lips 
 Some word in pause did keep. 
 And gave the while a quiet smile, 
 As if they paused in sleep, — 
 
 " I have ... a brother dear, 
 A knight of knightly fame: 
 I broidered him a knightly scarf 
 With letters of my name. 
 
 Margret, Margret 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " I fed his gray gosshawk, 
 I kissed his fierce bloodhound, 
 I sate at home when he might come, 
 And caught his horn's far sound: 
 I sang him hunter's songs, 
 I poured him the red wine. 
 He looked across the cup, and said, 
 / love thee, sister mine." 
 
 Margret, Margret. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 IT trembled on the grass 
 With a low, shadowy laughter; 
 The sounding river which rolled, for- 
 ever 
 Stood dumb and stagnant after: 
 " Brave knight thy brother is ! 
 But better loveth he 
 Thy chaliced wine than thy chanted 
 song, 
 And better both than thee, 
 
 Margret, Margret." 
 
 XV. 
 
 The lady did not heed 
 The river's silence, while 
 Her own thoughts still ran at their 
 will. 
 And calm was still her smile. 
 " My little sister wears 
 The look our mother wore: 
 I smooth her locks with a golden 
 comb, 
 I bless her evermore." 
 
 Margret, Margret. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " I gave her my first bird 
 When first my voice it knewj 
 I made her share my posies rare, 
 And told her where they grew: 
 I taught her God's dear name 
 With prayer and praise to tell: 
 She looked from heaven into my face. 
 And said, I love thee loell." 
 
 Margret, Margret. 
 
 I 
 
270 
 
 Tni: ROM AUNT OF MARGRET. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 IT trembled on tlie grass. 
 
 With a low, shadowy laughter; 
 Yon could see eath bird as it woke 
 and stared 
 Through the shrivelled foliage 
 after. 
 " Fair child thy sister is ! 
 But Itetter loveth she 
 Thy golden comb than thy gathered 
 Hower.s, 
 And better both than thee, 
 
 Margret, Margret." 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Thv lady did not heed 
 
 The withering on the bough: 
 Still calm her smile, albeit the while 
 A little pale her brow: 
 " I have a father old, 
 The lord of ancient halls; 
 An hundred friends are in his court, 
 Yet only me he calls. 
 
 Margret, Margret. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 "An hundred knights are in his 
 court, 
 Yet read I by his knee; 
 And when forth' they go to the tour- 
 nej' show 
 I rise not up to see: 
 'Tis a weary book to read. 
 My tryst's at set of sun ; 
 But loving and dear beneath the stars 
 Is his blessing when I've done." 
 Margret, Margret. 
 
 XX. 
 
 IT trembled on the grass 
 
 With a low, shadowy laughter: 
 And moon and star, thougli bright 
 and far. 
 Did shrink and darken after. 
 " High lord thy father is ! 
 But better loveth he 
 His ancient halls than his hundred 
 friends, 
 His ancient halls, than thee, 
 
 Margret, Margret." 
 
 XXI. 
 
 The lady did not heed 
 That tlie far stars did fail; 
 Still calm her smile, albeit the while — 
 Nay, but she is not pale ! 
 
 " I have more than a friend 
 Across the mountains dim: 
 No other's voice is soft to me. 
 Unless it nameth him." 
 
 Margret. Margret 
 
 XXIT. 
 
 " Though louder beats my heart, 
 I know his tread again. 
 And his fair plume aye, unless turned 
 away, 
 For the tears do blind me then: 
 We brake no gold, a sign 
 Of stronger faith to be; 
 But I wear his last look in my soul, 
 ^^'hich said, / Ioi-p but thee ! "' 
 
 Margret, Margret. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 IT trembled on the grass 
 
 With a low, shadowy laughter; 
 And the wind did toll, as a passing 
 soul 
 ^^'ere sped by church-bell after; 
 And shadows, 'stead of light, 
 Fell from the stars above. 
 In flakes of darkness on her face 
 Still bright with trusting love. 
 
 Margret, Margret. 
 
 XXIV, 
 
 "He loved but only thee ! 
 Tliat love is transient too. 
 The wild hawk's bill doth dabble still 
 I' the mouth that vowed thee true: 
 Will he open his dull eyes. 
 When tears fall on his brow ? 
 Behold the death-worm to his heart 
 Is a nearer thing than tliou, 
 
 Margret, Margret.'- 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Her face was on the ground, 
 None saw the agony; 
 But the men at sea did that night 
 agree 
 They heard a drowning cry: 
 And when the morning brake. 
 Fast rolled the river's tide, 
 With the green trees wavingoverhead. 
 And a white corse laid beside. 
 
 Margret, Margret 
 
 
JSOBEL\S CHILD. 
 
 271 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 A knight's bloodhound and he 
 
 Hang up my harp again 1 
 
 The funeral watch did keep; 
 
 I have no voice for song. 
 
 With a thought o' the chase, he stroked 
 
 Not song, but wail, and mourners 
 
 its face, 
 
 pale, 
 
 As it howled to see him weep. 
 
 Not bards, to love belong. 
 
 A fair child kissed the dead. 
 
 failing human love ! 
 
 But shrank before its cold. 
 
 O light, by darkness known ! 
 
 And alone yet proudly in his hall 
 
 Oh false, the while thou treadest earth! 
 
 Did stand a baron old. 
 
 Oh deaf beneath the stone ! 
 
 Margret, Margret. 
 
 Margret, Margret. 
 
 ISOBEL'S CHILD. 
 
 " so find we pi ofit, 
 
 By losing of our prayers." 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 To rest the weary nurse has gone: 
 An eight-day watch had watched 
 .she. 
 Still rocking beneath sun and moon 
 
 The baby on her knee. 
 Till Isobel its mother said, 
 " The fever wanetli, wend to l)ed. 
 For now the watch comes round to 
 me." 
 
 II. 
 
 Then wearily the nurse did throw 
 Her pallet in the darkest place 
 Of that sick-room, and slept and 
 dreamed : 
 For, as the gusty wind did blow 
 The night-lamp's flare across her 
 face. 
 She saw or .seemed lo see, but 
 dreamed. 
 That the poplars tall on the opposite 
 
 hill, 
 The seven tall poplars on the hill, 
 Did clasp the setting sun until 
 His rays dropped from him, pined and 
 still 
 As blossoms in frost, 
 Till he waned and paled, so weirdly 
 crossed, 
 
 To the color of moonlight wliich doth 
 
 pass 
 Over the dank ridged churchyard 
 
 grass. 
 The poplars held the sun, and he 
 The eyes of the nurse that they should 
 
 not see 
 — Not for a moment, the babe on her 
 
 knee, 
 Though she shuddered to feel that it 
 
 grew to be 
 Too chill, and lay too heavily. 
 
 III. 
 
 She only dreamed ; for all the while 
 "Twas Lady Isobel that kept 
 The little baby: and it sle]it 
 Fast, warm, as if its mother's smile, 
 Laden with love's dewy weight. 
 And red as rose of Harpocrate, 
 Dropt upon its eyelids, prest 
 Lashes to cheek in a sealed rest. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And more and more smiled Isobel 
 To see the baby sleep so well : 
 She knew not that she smiled. 
 Against the lattice, dull and wild 
 Drive the heavy, droning drops, 
 Drop by drop, the sound being one; 
 
272 
 
 JSOBEL'S CHILD. 
 
 As momentl.y time's segments fall 
 Ou the ear of God, wlio hears tlirough 
 all 
 Eternity's unbroken monotone. 
 And more and more smiled Isobel 
 To see the baby sleep so well : 
 She knew not that she smiled. 
 The wind in intermission stops 
 Down in the beechen forest, 
 
 Then cries alond 
 As one at the sorest, 
 Self-stung, self-driven, 
 And rises up to its very tops, 
 Stiffening erect the branches bowed, 
 Dilating with a tempest-sonl 
 The trees that with their dark hands 
 break 
 Through their own outline, and heavy 
 roll 
 Shadows as massive as clouds in 
 heaven 
 Across the castle lake. 
 And more and more smiled Isobel 
 To see the baby sleep so well. 
 She knew not that she smiled; 
 She knew not that the storm was wild ; 
 Through the uproar drear she could 
 
 not hear 
 The castle clock which struck anear : 
 She heard the low, light breathing of 
 her child. 
 
 V. 
 
 Oh ! sight for wondering look, 
 While the external nature broke 
 Into such abandonment, 
 Wliile the verj' mist, lieart-rent 
 By the lightning, seemed to eddy 
 Against nature, with a din, — 
 A sense of silence and of steady 
 Natural calm appeared to come 
 From things without, and enter in 
 The human creature's room. 
 
 VI. 
 
 So motionless she sate. 
 
 The babe asleep upon her knees. 
 You might have dreamed their souls 
 
 had gone 
 Away to things inanimate. 
 In such to live, in such to moan. 
 And that their bodies had ta'en back. 
 
 In mystic change, all silences 
 That cross the sky in cloudy rack, 
 Or dwell beneath the reedy ground 
 In waters safe from their own sound: 
 Only she wore 
 The deepening smile I named before, 
 
 And that a deepening love exprest; 
 And who at once can love and rest ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 In 
 
 sooth the smile that then was 
 keeping 
 Watch upon the baby sleeping, 
 
 Floated with its tender light 
 Downward, from the drooping eyes. 
 Upward, from the lips apart, 
 
 Over cheeks which had grown whitt. 
 With an eight-day weeping : 
 All smiles come in such a wise 
 Where tears shall fall or have of old -'- 
 Like northern lights that fill the heart 
 Of heaven in sign of cold. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Motionless slie sate. 
 Her hair had fallen by its weight 
 On each side of her smile, and lay 
 Very blackly on the arm 
 Wliere the baby nestled warm, 
 Pale as baby carved in stone 
 Seen by glimpses of the moon 
 
 Up a dark cathedral aisle; 
 But tlirough the storm no moonbeam 
 
 fell 
 Upon the child of Isobel — 
 Perhaps you saw it by the ray 
 
 Alone of her still smile. 
 
 IX. 
 
 A solemn thing it is to me 
 
 To look upon a babe that sleeps. 
 
 Wearing in its spirit-deexis 
 The undeveloped mystery 
 
 Of our Adam's taint and woe, 
 Which, when they developed be, 
 
 Will not let it slumber so; 
 Lying new in life beneath 
 The shadow of the coming death. 
 With that soft, low, quiet breath, 
 
 As if it felt the sun; 
 Knowing all things by their blooms. 
 Not their roots, yea, sun and sky 
 Only by the warmth that comes 
 Out of each; earth only by 
 
 The iJleasant hues that o'er it run ; 
 And human love by drops of sweet 
 
 White nourishment still hanging 
 round 
 
 The little mouth so slumber- 
 bound : 
 All which broken sentiency 
 And conclusion incomplete. 
 
 Will gather and unite, and climb 
 To an immortality 
 
 hM»-»H 
 
ISOBEL 'S CHILD. 
 
 273 
 
 Good or evil, each suljlime, 
 Through life and death to life again. 
 O little lids, now folded fast, 
 Must ye learn to drop at last 
 Our large and burning tears? 
 O warm quick body, must thou lie, 
 When the time comes round to die, 
 Still from all the whirl of years. 
 Bare of all the joy and pain ? 
 O small frail being, wilt thou stand 
 At God's right hand, 
 Lifting up those sleeping eyes 
 Dilated by great destinies. 
 To an endless waking? thrones and 
 seraphim. 
 Through the long ranks of their solem- 
 nities. 
 Sunning thee with calm looks of 
 Heaven's surprise. 
 But thine alone, on Him ? 
 Or else, self-willed, to tread the God- 
 less place, 
 (God keep thy will !) feel thine own 
 
 energies 
 Cold, strong, objectless, like a dead 
 
 man's clasp. 
 The sleepless, deathless life within 
 
 thee grasp. 
 While myriad faces, like one change- 
 less face, 
 With woe, not love's, shall glass thee 
 
 everywhere. 
 And overcome thee with tliiue own 
 desi)air " 
 
 X. 
 
 More soft, less solemn images 
 Drifted o'er the lady's heart 
 
 Silently as snow. 
 She had seen eiglit days depart 
 Hour by hour on bended knees. 
 
 With pale wrung hands and pray- 
 ings low 
 And broken, through which came the 
 
 sound 
 Of tears that fell against the ground. 
 Making sad stops: " Dear Lord, dear 
 
 Lord { " 
 She still had prayed (the heavenly 
 
 word 
 Broken by an earthly sigh) 
 — '• Thou who didst not erst deny 
 The mother-joy to ISIarj- mild, 
 Blessed in the blessed child 
 Which barkened in meek babyhood 
 Her cradle-hymn, albeit used 
 To all that music interfused 
 Tr» breasts of angels high and good ! 
 
 Oh, take not, Lord, my babe away I 
 Oh, take not to thy songful heaven 
 The pretty babj- thou hast given. 
 Or ere that I have seen him play 
 Around his father's knees and known 
 That hi' knew how my love has gone 
 From all the world to him. 
 Think, God among the cherubim. 
 How I shall shiver every day 
 In thy June sunshine, knowing where 
 The grave-grass keeps it from his fair 
 Still cheeks, and feel at every tread 
 His little body which is uead, 
 And hidden in thy tiirfy fold. 
 Doth make thj" whole warm earth 
 
 a-cold ! 
 O God, I am so young, so j'oung — 
 I am not used to tears at nights 
 Instead of slumber — not to prayer 
 With sobbing lips, and hands out- 
 wrung ! 
 Thou knowest all mj- prayings were 
 ' I bless thee, God, for past de- 
 lights — 
 Thank God ! ' I am not used to bear 
 Hard thoughts of death; the earth 
 
 doth cover 
 No face from me of friend or lover: 
 And must the first who teaches me 
 The form of shrouds and funerals be 
 Mine own first-born beloved — he 
 Who taught me first this mother-love ? 
 Dear Lord, who spreadest out above 
 Thy loving, transpierced hands to 
 
 meet 
 All lifted hearts with blessing sweet, 
 Pierce not my heart, my tender heart 
 Thou madest tender ! Thou who art 
 So happy in thj' heaven alway, 
 Take not mine only bliss away ! " 
 
 XI. 
 
 She 
 
 so had prayed; and God, who 
 
 hears 
 Through seraph-songs the sound of 
 
 tears, 
 From that beloved babe had ta'en 
 The fever and the beating pain. 
 And more and more smiled Isobel 
 To see the baby sleep so well. 
 (She knew not that she smiled, I 
 
 wis) 
 Until the pleasant gradual thought 
 Which near her heart the smile in 
 
 wrought. 
 Now soft and slow, itself did seem 
 To float along a happy dream, 
 Beyond it into speech like this- 
 
274 
 
 ISOBLL-S CHILD. 
 
 xn. 
 
 " I prayed for tliee, uiy little child, 
 And God has heard my prayer ! 
 
 And when thy babyhood is gone, 
 
 We two togetlier undefiled 
 
 By men's repinings, will kneel down 
 Upon his earth which will be fair 
 
 (Not covering thee, sweet !) to ns 
 twain, 
 And give him thankful praise." 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Dully and wildly drives the rain: 
 Against the lattices drives the rain. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " I thank liim now, that I can think 
 Of those same future days, 
 
 Nor from the harmless image shrink 
 Of what I there might see. — 
 
 Strange babies on their mothers' knee. 
 
 AVhose innocent soft faces might 
 
 From off mine eyelids strike the light. 
 With looks not meant for me ! " 
 
 XV. 
 
 Gustily blows the wind through the 
 
 rain, 
 As against the lattices drives the rain. 
 
 X\'I. 
 
 " But now, O baby mine, together 
 We turn this hope of ours again 
 To many an hour of summer 
 weather, 
 When we shall sit and intertwine 
 Our spirits, and instruct each other 
 In the pure loves of child and 
 mother ! 
 Two human loves make one divine." 
 
 xvii. 
 The thunder tears through the wind 
 
 and the rain. 
 As full on the lattices drives the rain. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 "My little child, what wilt thou 
 choose ? 
 Now let me look at thee and pon- 
 der. 
 What gladness from the gladnesses 
 
 Futurity is spreading under 
 Thy gladsome sight? Beneath the 
 
 trees 
 Wilt thou lean all day, and lose 
 
 Thy spirit with the river seen 
 Intermittently between 
 
 The winding beechen alleys, — 
 Half in labor, half repose. 
 
 Like a shepherd keeping sheep, 
 
 Thou, with only thoughts to keep 
 Which never a bound will overpass. 
 And which are innocent as those 
 
 That feed among Arcadian valleys 
 Upon the dewy grass ? " 
 
 The large white owl that with age is 
 blind. 
 That hath sate for years in the old 
 tree hollow, 
 
 Is carried away in a gust of wind; 
 
 His wings could bear him not as fast 
 
 As he goeth now the lattice past; 
 He is borne by the winds, the rains 
 do follow. 
 
 His white wings to the blast outflow- 
 ing. 
 
 He hooteth in going. 
 
 And still in the lightnings coldly 
 glitter 
 His round unblinking eyes. 
 
 XX. 
 
 " Or, Viaby, wilt thou think it fitter 
 
 To be eloquent and wise, — 
 One upon whose lips the air 
 
 Turns to solemn verities 
 For men to breathe anew, and win 
 A deeper-seated life within ? 
 Wilt be a philosopher, 
 
 By whose voice the earth and skies 
 Shall speak to the unborn ? 
 Or a poet, Ijroadly spreading 
 
 The golden immortalities 
 Of thy soul ou natures lorn 
 
 And poor of such, them all to guard 
 From their decay, — beneath thy 
 
 treading. 
 Earth's Howers recovering hues of 
 
 Eden, — 
 And stars drawn downward by thy 
 
 looks, 
 To shine ascendant in thy books ? " 
 
 XXI. 
 
 The tame hawk in the castle-yard. 
 How it screams to the lightning, with 
 
 its wet 
 Jagged plumes o\-erhanging the para- 
 pet ! 
 And at the lady's door the hound 
 Scratches witli a crying sound. 
 
ISOBEL'S CHILD. 
 
 275 
 
 X X 1 1 . 
 
 " But, O my babe, tliy lids are laid 
 
 Close, fast upon tby cheek. 
 And not a dream of ]>ower and sheen 
 Can make a passage up between. 
 Thy heart is of thy mother's made, 
 
 Thy looks are very meek, 
 And it will lie their chosen place 
 To rest on some beloved face, 
 
 As these on thine, ami let the noise 
 Of the whole world go on, nor drown 
 
 The tender silence of thy joys: 
 Or.when that silence shall have grown 
 
 Too tender for itself, the same 
 Vtiarning for sound, — to look abo\'e 
 And utter its one meaning, love, 
 
 That He may hear His name." 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 No wind, no rain, no thunder ! 
 The waters had trickled not slowly, 
 The thunder was not sjtent. 
 Nor the wind near finishing : 
 Who would have said that the storm 
 
 was diminishing? 
 No wind, no rain, no thunder ! 
 Their noises dropped asunder 
 From the earth and the firmament. 
 From the towers ami the lattices. 
 Abrupt and echoless 
 As ripe fruits on the ground unshaken 
 wholly 
 As life in death. 
 And sudden and solemn the silence 
 
 fell. 
 Startling the heart of Isobel 
 
 As the tempest could not 
 Against the door went panting the 
 
 breath 
 Of the lady's hound whose cry was 
 still. 
 And she, constrainctl howe'er she 
 would not. 
 Lifted her eyes, and saw the moon 
 Looking out of heaven alone 
 Upon the i)oplared liill, — 
 A calm of God, made visible 
 That men might bless it at their 
 will. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The moonshine ou the baby's face 
 
 Falleth clear and cold; 
 The mother's looks have fallen back 
 
 To the same place: 
 Hecause no moon with .silver rack, 
 Nor broad sunrise in jasper skies. 
 Has power to hold 
 Our loving eyes, 
 
 Which still rtivert, as ever must 
 Wonder and Hope, to gaze on the 
 dust. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 The moonshine on the baby's face 
 
 Cold and clear remaineth; 
 The mother's looks do shrink away, 
 The mother's looks return to stay, 
 
 As charmed by what paineth: 
 Is any glamour in the case ? 
 
 Is it dream, or is it sight ? 
 Hath the change ui)on the wild 
 
 Elements that signs the night, 
 Passed upon the child ? 
 
 It is not dream, but sight. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The babe lias awakened from sleep, 
 And unto the gaze of its mother 
 Bent over it, lifted another, — 
 Not the baby-looks that go 
 Unaimingly to and fro. 
 But an earnest gazing deep 
 Such as soul gives soul at length 
 
 When by work and wail of years 
 It winneth a solemn strength, 
 
 And mourneth as it wears. 
 A strong man could not brook, 
 
 With pulse unhurried by fears, 
 To meet that baby's look 
 
 O'erglazed by manhood's tears, 
 The tears of a man full grown. 
 With a power to wring our own, 
 In the eyes all undefiled 
 Of a little three-months' child, — 
 To see that babe-brow wrought 
 By the witnessing of thought 
 
 To judgment's ])rodigy. 
 And the small soft mouth miweaued, 
 By mother's kiss o'erleaned, 
 (Putting the sound of loving 
 Where no sound else was moving 
 
 Except the speechless cry) 
 Quickened to mind's expression, 
 Shaped to articulation. 
 Yea, uttering words, yva., naming woe. 
 
 In tones that w\X\\ it strangely 
 went. 
 
 Because so baby-innocent. 
 As the child spalie out to the mother, 
 so: — 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " O mother, mother, loose thy jirayer, 
 
 Christ's name hath made it strong. 
 It bindeth me, it holdcth me. 
 With its nit)st lo^■ing cruelty. 
 
I 
 
 276 
 
 ISOBEL'S CHILD 
 
 From Hoating my new soul along 
 
 The liappy lieavenly air. 
 It biniletli me, it liohleth me 
 
 In all this tlark, upou this ilull 
 Low earth by only weepers troil. 
 It bimleth me, it hokleth me ! 
 
 Mine angel looketh sorrowful 
 Upon the face of God.i 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 " Mother, mother, can I dream 
 Beneatli your eartlily trees ? 
 
 I had a vision and a gleam; 
 I heard a sountl more sweet than 
 these 
 
 When rippled by the wind: 
 Did you see the Dove with wings, 
 Bathetl in golden glisterlngs 
 
 from a sunless light behind. 
 Dropping on me from the sky, 
 
 Soft as mother's kiss, until 
 
 1 seemed to leap, and yet was still ? 
 Saw you how his love-large eye, 
 
 Looked upon me mystic calms, 
 Till the power of His divine 
 Vision was indrawn to mine ? 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 •' Oh the dream within the dream ! 
 
 I saw celestial places even. 
 Oh the vistas of high palms 
 
 Making finites of delight 
 
 Through the heavenly infinite. 
 Lifting up their green still tops 
 
 To the heaven of heaven ! 
 Oh the sweet life-tree that drops 
 Shade like light across the river 
 Glorified in its forever 
 
 Flowing from the Throne ! 
 Oh the shining holiuesses 
 Of the thousand, thousand faces 
 
 God-sunned by the throned One, 
 And made intense with such a love, 
 That, though I saw them turned above, 
 Each loving seemed for also me ! 
 A.nd,. oh the Unspeakable, the He, 
 The manifest in secrecies. 
 
 Yet of mine own heart partaker 
 With the overcoming look 
 Of One who hath been once forsook, 
 
 And blesseth the forsaker ! 
 Mother, mother, let me go 
 Toward the Face that looketh so ! 
 
 Through the mystic winged Four 
 
 ' " For I say unto yoii that in bcavon 
 iboir ana:els do always beliold the faco of my 
 Fatbor which is in 'heaven." — Matt, xviii. 
 10. 
 
 Whose are inward, outward eyes 
 Dark with light of mysteries 
 
 And the restless evermore 
 "Holy, holy, holj'," — through 
 The sevenfold lamps that burn in 
 view 
 
 Of cherubim and seraphim, 
 Through the four and twenty crowned 
 Stately elders white around, 
 
 SufTer lue lo go to Him ! 
 
 XXX. 
 
 " Is your wisdom very wise. 
 
 Mother, on the narrow earth. 
 
 Very liajipy, very worth 
 That i should stay to learn ? 
 Are these air-corrupting sighs 
 
 Fashioned by unlearned breath? 
 Do the students' lamps that burn 
 
 All night illumine death ? 
 Mother, albeit this be so. 
 Loose thy i)rayer, and let me go 
 Where that bright chief angel stands, 
 Apart from all liis brother bands. 
 Too glad for smiling, having bent 
 In angelic wilderment 
 O'er the depths of God, and brought 
 Reeling thence one only thought 
 To fill his own eternity. 
 He the teacher is for me. 
 He can teach what I would know: 
 Mother, mother, let me go ! 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 " Can your poet make an Eden 
 
 No winter will undo. 
 And light a starry fire, while heed- 
 ing 
 
 His hearth's is burning too ? 
 Drown in music the earth's din, 
 And keep his own wild soul within 
 
 The law of his own harmony ? 
 Mother, albeit this be so, 
 Let ine to my heaven go ! 
 
 A little harp me waits thereby, — 
 A harp whose strings are golden all. 
 And tuned to music spherical. 
 Hanging on the green life-tree 
 Where no willows ever be. 
 Shall I miss that harp of mine ? 
 INIother, no ! the Eye divine 
 Turned upon it makes it shine; 
 And, when I touch it, poems sweet, 
 Like separate souls, shall fiy from 
 
 it, 
 Each to the immortal fytte. 
 We shall all be poets there. 
 Gazing on the chiefest Fair. 
 
THE ROM AUNT OF THE PAGE. 
 
 xxxri. 
 
 "Love! earth's love! and can we 
 
 love 
 Fixedly where all things move? 
 Can the sinning love each other ? 
 Mother, mother, 
 I tremble in thy close embrace; 
 I feel thy tears adown my face: 
 
 Thy prayers do keep me ont of 
 bliss, — 
 Oh dreary earthly love ? 
 Loose thy prayer, and let me go 
 
 To the place which loving is, 
 Yet not sad; and when is given 
 Escape to thee from this below, 
 Thou slialt behold me, that I wait 
 For thee beside the happy gate, 
 And silence shall be up in heaven 
 
 To hear our greeting kiss." 
 
 xxxiri. 
 
 The nurse awakes in the morning 
 sun. 
 And starts to see beside her bed 
 The lady with a grandeur spread 
 Like pathos o'er her face, as ou,e 
 God-satisfied and earth-undone. 
 The babe upon her arm was dead; 
 And the nurse could utter forth no 
 cry, — 
 
 was awed by the calm in the 
 mother's eye. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 She 
 
 ""Wake, nurse ! " the lady said: 
 " We are waking, — he and I, — 
 I on earth, and he in sky: 
 
 And thou must help me to o'erlay 
 With garment white this little clay 
 Which needs no more our lullaby. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 " I changed the cruel prayer I made^ 
 And bowed my meekened face, ana 
 
 prayed 
 That God would do his will; and 
 
 thus 
 He did it, nurse ! He parted us; 
 And his sun shows victorious 
 The dead calm face, — and / am 
 
 calm. 
 And heaven is liarkening a new 
 
 psalm. 
 
 xxxvr. 
 
 " This earthly noise is too anear, 
 Too loud, and will not let me hear 
 The little harp. My death will soon 
 Make silence." 
 
 And a sense of tune, 
 A satisfied love meanwhile 
 Which nothing earthly could de- 
 spoil, 
 Saug on within her soul. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Oh you. 
 Earth's tender and impassioned few, 
 Take courage to intrust your love 
 To Him so named, who guards above 
 
 Its ends, and shall fulfil ! 
 Breaking the narrow prayers that 
 
 may 
 Befit your narrow liearts away 
 In his broad, loving will. 
 
 THE ROMAUl^T OF THE PAGE. 
 
 A KNIGHT of gallant deeds, 
 And a young page at his side. 
 
 From the holy war in Palestine 
 Did slow and thoughtful ride. 
 
 As each were a palmer, and told for 
 beads 
 The dews of the eventide. 
 
 II 
 
 " O young page," said the knight, 
 
 '■ A noble page art thou! 
 Thou fearest not to steep in blood 
 
 The curls upon thy brow; 
 And once in the tent, and twice in the 
 fight, 
 
 Didst ward me a mortal blow." 
 
27« 
 
 THE ROM AUNT OF THE PAGE. 
 
 iir. 
 
 "O brave knight," said the page, 
 
 " Or ere we hither came, 
 We talked in tent, we talked in 
 field. 
 Of the bloody battle-game; 
 Bnt here, below this greenwood 
 bough, 
 I cannot speak the same. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Our troop is far behind. 
 The woodland caliu is new, 
 
 Our steeds, with slow grass-muffled 
 lioofs. 
 Tread dee]) the shadows through; 
 
 And in my inind some blessing kind 
 Is dropping with the dew^. 
 
 " The Avoodland calm is pure: 
 
 I cannot choose but have 
 A thought from these o' the beechen- 
 trees 
 
 Which in our England wave. 
 And of the little finches fine 
 Which sang there while in Palestine 
 
 The waiTior-hilt we drave. 
 
 vr. 
 
 " Methinks, a moment gone, 
 
 1 heard my mother pray: 
 I heard, sir knight, the prayer for me 
 
 Wherein she passed away; 
 And I know the heavens are leaning 
 down 
 
 To hear what I shall say." 
 
 VII. 
 
 The page spake calm and high, 
 
 As of no mean degree; 
 Perhaps he felt in nature's broatl 
 
 Full heart his own was free: 
 And the knight looked up to his lifted 
 eye, 
 
 Then answered, smilingly, — 
 
 VHI. 
 
 " Sir iiage, T jiray your grace ! 
 
 Certes, I meant not so 
 To cross your pastoral mood, sir 
 page. 
 With the crook of the battle- bow; 
 But a knight may speak of a lady's 
 
 face, 
 I ween, in any mood or place, 
 If the grasses die or grow. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " And this I meant to say, — 
 My lady's face shall shine 
 
 As ladies' faces use, to greet 
 My page from Palestine: 
 
 Or speak she fair, or prank she gay. 
 She is no lady of mine. 
 
 " And this I meant to fear, — 
 
 Her bower may suit thee ill; 
 For, sooth, in that same field and tent 
 
 Thy talk was somewhat still: 
 And fitter thy hand for my knightly 
 spear 
 Than thy tongue for mv lady's 
 will." 
 
 XI. 
 
 Slowly and tliankfully 
 
 The young page bowed his head ; 
 His large eyes seemed to muse a smile, 
 
 Until he blushed instead; 
 And no lady in her bower, pardi& 
 
 Could blush more sudden red. 
 " Sir knight, thy lady's bower to me 
 
 Is suited well," he said. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Beati, beati, mortui! 
 
 From the convent on the sea, 
 
 One mde off, or scarce so uigh. 
 
 Swells the dirge as clear and high 
 
 As if that, over brake and lea. 
 
 Bodily the wind did carry 
 
 The great altar of St. Mary, 
 
 And the fifty tapers burning o'er 
 
 it, 
 Aiul the lady abbess dead before 
 
 it, 
 And the chanting nuns whom yes- 
 
 ter week 
 Her voice did (jharge and bless, — 
 Chanting steady, chanting meek. 
 Chanting witli a solemn breath, 
 Because that they are thinking les.-? 
 Upon the dead than upon death. 
 Beati, beati, mortui! 
 Now the vision in the sound 
 Wheeleth on the wind around; 
 Now it sweepeth back, away, — 
 The uplands will not let it stay 
 To dark the western sun: 
 MortiH .' away at last. 
 Or ere the page's blush is past! 
 Aud the knight heard all, and th# 
 
 page heard none. 
 

THE ROM AUNT OF THE PAGE. 
 
 279 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " A boon, thou noble knight, 
 
 If ever I served thee! 
 Though thou art a knight, and I am a 
 page. 
 
 Now grant a boon to me; 
 And tell me, sooth, if dark or bright 
 If little loved, or loved aright, 
 
 Be the face of thy ladye." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Gloomily looked the knight — 
 
 " As a son thou hast served me; 
 And would to none I had granted 
 boon, 
 Except to only thee! 
 For haply then I should love aright, 
 For then I should know if dark or 
 bright 
 Were the face of my ladye. 
 
 XV. 
 
 " Yet it ill suits my knightly tongue 
 To grudge that granted boon. 
 
 That heavy price from heart and life 
 I paid in silence down; 
 
 The hand that claimed it, cleared in 
 fine 
 
 My father's fame: 1 swear by mine 
 That price was nobly won! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " Earl Walter was a brave old earl. 
 He was my father's friend; 
 
 And while I rode the lists at court. 
 And little guessed the end, 
 
 My noble father in his shroud. 
 
 Against a slanderer lying loud, 
 He rose up to defend. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " Oh, calm below the marble gray 
 My father's dust was strewn! 
 
 Oh, meek above the marble gray 
 His image prayed alone! 
 
 The slanderer lied; the wretch was 
 brave — 
 
 For, looking up the minster-nave. 
 
 He saw my father's knightly glaive 
 Was changed from steel to stone. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " Earl Walter's glaive was steel, 
 
 With a brave old hand to wear it, 
 And dashed the lie back in the mouth 
 Which lied against the godly truth 
 And against the knightly merit: 
 
 The slanderer, 'neath the avenger's 
 
 heel, 
 Struck up the dagger in appeal 
 From stealthy lie to brutal force, 
 And out upon the traitor's corse 
 Was yielded the true spirit. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " I would mine hand had fouglit that 
 fight, 
 And justified my father I 
 I would mine heart had caught that 
 wound. 
 And slept beside him rather ! 
 I think it were a better thing 
 Than murdered friend and marriage- 
 ring 
 Forced on my life together. 
 
 XX. 
 
 " Wail shook Earl Walter's house; 
 
 His true wife shed no tear: 
 She lay upon her bed as mute 
 As the earl did on his bier. 
 Till — ' Ride, ride fast,' she said at 
 last, 
 ' And bring the avenged's son anear ! 
 Ride fast, ride free, as a dart can 
 
 flee; 
 For white of blee with waiting for 
 me 
 Is the corse in the next chambere.' 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " I came, I knelt beside her bed; 
 
 Her calm was worse than strife. 
 ' My husband, for thy father dear. 
 Gave freely, when thou wast not here, 
 
 His own and eke my life. 
 A boon ! Of that sweet child we 
 
 make 
 An orphan for thy father's sake, 
 
 Make thou, for ours, a wife.' 
 
 XXII. 
 
 " I said, ' My steed neighs in the 
 court. 
 My bark rocks on the brine. 
 Ami the warrior's vow I am under 
 now 
 To free the pilgrim's shrine; 
 But fetch the ring, and fetch the 
 priest, 
 And call that daughter of thine. 
 And rule she wide from my castle on 
 Nyde 
 While I am in Palestine.' 
 
280 
 
 THE ROM AUNT OF THE PAGE. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 " In the dark chambere, if the liride 
 was fair, 
 Ye wis, I coukl not see; 
 But the steed thrice neiglied, and the 
 priest fast prayed, 
 And wedded fast were we. 
 Her mother smiled upon her bed, 
 As at its side we Ivuelt to wed; 
 
 And the bride rose from lier knee. 
 And kissed tlie smile of her mother 
 dead. 
 Or ever she kissed me. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 "My page, my page, what grieves 
 thee so, 
 
 That the tears run down thy face?" — 
 " Alas, alas ! mine own sister 
 
 Was in thy lady's case: 
 But she laid dojvn the silks she wore, 
 And followed him she wed before, 
 Disguised as his true servitor. 
 
 To the very battle-place.' "' 
 
 XXV. 
 
 And wept the page, but laughed the 
 knight, 
 
 A careless laugh laughed he: 
 " Well done it were for thy sister. 
 
 But not for my ladye ! 
 My love, so please you, shall requite 
 No woman, whether dark or bright, 
 
 Unwomaned if she be.' " 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The page stopped weeping, and smiled 
 cold: 
 
 " Your wisdom may declare 
 That womanhood is jn-oved the best 
 By golden brooch and glossy vest 
 
 The mincing ladies wear; 
 Yet is it proved, and was of old, 
 Anear as well, I dare to bold. 
 
 By truth, or by despair.' " 
 
 xxvii. 
 
 He smiled no more, he wept no more; 
 
 But passionate he spake: 
 " Oh, womanly she prayed in tent. 
 
 When none beside did wake ! 
 Oh, womanly slie paled in fight, 
 
 For one beloved's sake ! — 
 And her little hand, defiled with 
 
 blood. 
 Her tender tears of womanhood 
 
 Most woman-pure did make." 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 — " Well done it were for thy sister, 
 Thou tellest well her tale; 
 
 But for my lady, she shall pray 
 
 I' the kirk of IS'ydesdale. 
 Not dread for me, but love for me. 
 
 Shall make my lady pale: 
 No casque shall hide her woman's 
 
 tear, 
 It shall have room to trickle clear 
 
 Behind her woman's veil." 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 — " But what if she mistook thy mind, 
 And followed thee to strife. 
 
 Then kneeling did entreat thy love, 
 As Paynims ask for life ? '' 
 
 — "I would forgive, and evermore 
 Would love her as my servitor. 
 
 But little as my wife. 
 
 Look up ! 
 
 XXX. 
 
 there is 
 
 a small bright 
 
 cloud 
 
 Alone amid the skies: 
 So high, so pure, and so apart, 
 
 A woman's honor lies." 
 The page looked up; the cloud was 
 
 sheen: 
 A sadder cloud did rush, I ween, 
 Betwixt it and his eyes." 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Then dimly dropped his eyes away 
 
 From welkin unto liill. 
 Ha ! who rides there ? the page is 
 'ware, 
 Though the crj' at his heart is still ; 
 Anil the page seeth all, and the knight 
 
 seeth none, 
 Though banner and spear do fleck the 
 sun. 
 And the Saracens ride at will. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 He speaketh calm, he speaketh low: 
 " Ride fast, my inaster, ride, 
 
 Or ere within the broadening dark 
 The narrow shadows hide." 
 
 " Yea, fast, my page, I will do so, 
 And keep thou at my side." 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 " Now nay, now nay, ride on thy way, 
 
 Thy faithful jjage precede: 
 For I must loose on saddle-bow 
 My battle-casque that galls, I trow, 
 
i 
 
 Tffr. ROM AUNT OF Till-: PAGi:. 
 
 281 
 
 Tlie shoulder of ruy steed; 
 And I must jiray, as I did vow, 
 For one in bitter need, 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 " Ere night I shall be near to thee, 
 Now ride, my master, ride ! 
 
 Ere night, as jiarted spirits cleave 
 
 To mortals too beloved to leave. 
 I shall be at thy side." • 
 
 The knight smiled free at the fantasy. 
 And adown the dell did ride. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Had the knight looked np to the 
 page's face. 
 No smile the word had won : 
 Had the knight looked up to the 
 page's face, 
 I ween he had never gone: 
 Had the knight looked bac^k to the 
 page's geste, 
 I ween he had turned anon, 
 For dread was the woe in the face so 
 
 young, 
 And wild was the silent geste that 
 
 tlung 
 Casque, sword, to earth, as the boy 
 down sprung 
 And stood — alone, alone. 
 
 XX.WI. 
 
 He clinched his hands as if to hold 
 
 His soul's great agony — 
 " HaA'e I renounced my womanhood 
 
 For wifehood unto ///ee, 
 And is this the last, last look of thine 
 
 That ever I shall see ? 
 
 xxxvri. 
 
 " Yet God thee save, and mayst thou 
 have 
 
 A lady to thy mind, 
 More woman-proud, and half as true, 
 
 As one thou leav'st behind I 
 And God me take with Him to dwell, 
 For Him I cannot love too well, 
 
 As I have loved my kind." 
 
 XXX\'11I. 
 
 Shk looketh up, in earth's despair. 
 The hopeful heavens to seek; 
 
 That little cloud still Hoateth tliere, 
 Whereof her loved did speak: 
 
 How bright the little cloud appears ! 
 
 Her eyelids fall upon the tears. 
 And the tears down eitlicr cheek. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 The tramp of hoof, the flash of steel — 
 The Paynims r<Miii(l her coming ! 
 
 The sound and sight liave made her 
 calm. — 
 False i>age, but truthful woman; 
 
 She stands amid them all unmoved: 
 
 A heart once broken by the loved 
 Is strong to meet the foeman. 
 
 XL. 
 
 "Ho, Cliristian page! art keeping 
 sheep, 
 From i)ouring wine-cujis rest- 
 ing?"— 
 " I keep my master's noble name 
 
 l<""or warring, not for feasting; 
 And if that here Sir Hubert were, 
 My master brave, my master dear, 
 Ye would not stay the questing." 
 
 xi,r. 
 
 "Where is th^' master, scornful page. 
 That we may slay or bind him ? " — 
 
 "Now search the lea, and search the 
 wood. 
 And see if ye can find him ! 
 
 Nathless, as hath been often tried, 
 
 Your Paynim heroes faster ride 
 Before liim than behind him." 
 
 XMI. 
 
 " Give smoother answei-s, lying page, 
 
 Or perish in the lying ! " — 
 " I trow that if the warrior brand 
 Beside my foot were in my hand, 
 
 . 'Twere better at replying ! " 
 They cursed her deep, they smote her 
 
 low, 
 They cleft her golden ringlets through; 
 The Loving is the Dying. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 She felt the cnuiter gleam down, 
 
 And met it from beneath 
 With smile more bright in victory 
 
 Than any sword from slieath. 
 Which flashed across her li]) serene, 
 Most like the spirit-light between 
 
 The darks of life and death. 
 
 xr.iv. 
 
 hiL/emisco, i)t</emisco ! 
 From the convent on the sea, 
 Now it sweepeth solemidy, 
 As over wood and over lea 
 
282 
 
 THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. 
 
 Bodily the wind did carry 
 The great altar of St. Mary, 
 And the tifty tapers paling o'er it, 
 And the lady abbess stark before 
 
 it, 
 And the weary nuns with hearts that 
 
 faintly 
 Beat along their voices saintly — 
 Jngemisco, inyemisco ! 
 
 Dirge for abbess laid in shroud 
 Sweepeth o'er the shroudless dead. 
 Page or lady, as we said. 
 With the dews upon her head, 
 All as sad if not as loud. 
 
 Iiif/ernisco, uu/emisco ! 
 Is ever a lament begun 
 By any mourner uniler sun, 
 Which, ere it endeth, suits but one^ 
 
 THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. 
 
 FIRST PART. 
 
 " Onoea, Onora ! " her inother is call- 
 ing; 
 
 She sits at the lattice and hears the 
 dew falling 
 
 Drop after drop from the sycamores 
 laden 
 
 With dew as with blossom, and calls 
 home the maiden: 
 "Night Cometh, Onora ! " 
 
 II. 
 
 She looks down the garden-walk cav- 
 erned with trees, 
 
 To the limes at the end where the 
 green arbor is : 
 
 " Some sweet thought or other may 
 keep where it found her. 
 
 While, forgot or unseen in the dream- 
 light around her. 
 Night Cometh — Onora ! " ' 
 
 in. 
 
 She looks up the forest whose alleys 
 
 shoot on 
 Like the mute minster-aisles when 
 
 the anthem is done. 
 And the choristers, sitting with faces 
 
 aslant, 
 Feel the silence to consecrate more 
 
 than the chant — 
 "Onora, Onora ! " 
 
 IV. 
 
 And forward she looketh across the 
 brown heath — 
 
 "Onora, art coming?" What is it 
 she seeth ? 
 
 Nought, nought but the gray border- 
 stone that is wist 
 
 To dilate, and assume a wild shape in 
 mist — 
 " My daughter ! " Then over 
 
 V. 
 
 The casement she leaneth, and as she 
 
 doth so 
 She is 'ware of her little son playing 
 
 below : 
 "Now where is Onora?" He hung 
 
 down his head 
 And spake not, then answering 
 blushed scarlet red, — 
 " At the tryst with her lover." 
 
 VI. 
 
 But his mother was wroth: in a stern- 
 ness quoth she, 
 
 " As thou play'st at the ball art thou 
 playing with me. 
 
 When we know that her lover to bat- 
 tle is gone, 
 
 And the saints know above that she 
 loveth but one, 
 And will ne'er wed another?" 
 
THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. 
 
 283 
 
 VII. 
 
 Then the boy wept aloud: 'twas a fair 
 
 sight, yet sad, 
 To see the tears run down the sweet 
 
 blooms he had. 
 He stamped with his foot, said, " The 
 
 saints know I lied 
 Because truth that is wicked is fittest 
 
 to hide: 
 Must I utter it, mother ? " 
 
 V'lII. 
 
 In his vehement childhood he hurried 
 
 within. 
 And knelt at her feet as in prayer 
 
 against sin; 
 But a child at a prayer never sobbeth 
 
 as he — 
 "Oh! she sits with the nun of the 
 
 brown rosary. 
 At nights in the ruin — 
 
 IX. 
 
 " The old convent ruin the ivy rots off, 
 Where the owl hoots by day, and the 
 
 toad is sun-proof. 
 Where no singing-birds build, and the 
 
 trees gaunt and gray 
 As in stormy seacoasts appear blasted 
 
 one way, — 
 But is this the wind's doing ? 
 
 ■'A nuu in the east wall was buried 
 
 alive, 
 Who mocked at the priest when he 
 
 called her to shrive, 
 And shrieked such a curse as the 
 
 stone took her breath. 
 The old abbess fell backwards, and 
 
 swooned unto death. 
 With an Ave half spoken. 
 
 XI. 
 
 " I tried once to pass it, myself and 
 
 my hound, 
 Till, as fearing the lash, down he 
 
 shivered to ground : 
 A brave hound, my mother ! a brave 
 
 hound, ye wot ! 
 And the wolf thought the same with 
 
 his fangs at her throat 
 In the pass of the Brocken. 
 
 XII. 
 
 "At dawn and at eve, mother, who 
 
 sitteth there 
 With the brown rosary never used for 
 
 a prayer ? 
 Stoop low, mother, low ! If we went 
 
 there to see. 
 What an ugly great hole in that east 
 
 wall must be 
 At dawn and at even I 
 
 xiir. 
 
 " Who meet there, my mother, at 
 
 dawn and at even ? 
 Who meet by that wall, never looking 
 
 to heaven ? 
 O sweetest my sister ! what doeth 
 
 with thee 
 The ghost of a nun with a brown 
 
 rosary, 
 And a face turned from heaven ? 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " St. Agnes o'erwatcheth my dreams, 
 
 and ere while 
 I have felt through mine eyelids the 
 
 warmth of her smile; 
 But last night, as a sadness like pity 
 
 came o'er her. 
 She whispered, ' Say two prayers at 
 
 dawn for Onora: 
 The Tempted is sinning.' " 
 
 XV. 
 
 "Onpra, Onora!" They heard her 
 
 not coming. 
 Not a step on the grass, not a voice 
 
 through the gloaming; 
 But her mother looked up, and she 
 
 stood on the floor. 
 Fair and still as the moonlight that 
 
 came there before. 
 And a smile just beginning. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 It touches her lips, but it dares not 
 
 arise 
 To the height of the mystical sphere 
 
 of her eyes; 
 And the large musing eyes, neither 
 
 joyous nor sorry, 
 Sing on like the angels in separate 
 
 glory 
 Between clouds of amber. 
 
284 
 
 THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 For the hair droops in clouds amber- 
 colored till stirred 
 
 Into gold by the gesture that comes 
 with a word ; 
 
 While — oh soft ! — her speaking is so 
 interwound 
 
 Of the dim and the sweet, 'tis a twi- 
 light of sound, 
 And floats through the chamber. 
 
 xvin. 
 
 " Since thou shrivest my brother, fair 
 mother," said she, 
 
 " I count on thy priesthood for marry- 
 ing of me ; 
 
 And I know by the hills tliat the battle 
 is done, 
 
 That my lover rides on, will be here 
 with the sun, 
 'Neath the eyes that behold thee." 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Her mother sate silent, too tender, I 
 
 wis. 
 Of the smile her dead father smiled 
 
 dying to kiss: 
 But the boy started up pale with tears, 
 
 passion-wrought, — 
 " Oh wicked fair sister! the hills utter 
 
 nought; 
 If he cometh, who told thee ? " 
 
 XX. 
 
 "I know by the hills," she resumed 
 
 calm and clear, 
 " By the beauty upon them, that he is 
 
 anear: 
 Did they ever look so since he bade 
 
 me adieu ? 
 Oh, love in the waking, sweet brother, 
 
 is true 
 As St. Agnes in sleeping ! " 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Half ashamed and half softened, the 
 
 boy did not speak. 
 And the blush met the lashes which 
 
 fell on his cheek. 
 She bowed down to kiss him: dear 
 
 saints, did he see 
 Or feel on her bosom the bkown 
 
 ROSAKY, 
 
 That he shrank away weeping? 
 
 SECOND PART. 
 
 A bed. 
 
 Onora sleeping, 
 not near. 
 
 Angels, but 
 
 First Angel. 
 Must we stand so far, and she 
 So very fair ? 
 
 Second Angel. 
 
 As bodies be. 
 
 First Angel. 
 And she so mild ? 
 
 SecondAngel. 
 
 As spirits when 
 They meeken, not to God, but men. 
 
 First Angel. 
 And she so young, that I who bring 
 
 Good dreams for saintly children, 
 might 
 
 Mistake that small soft face to-night. 
 And fetch her such a blessed thing. 
 That at her waking she would weep 
 For childhood lost anew in sleep. 
 How hath she sinned ? 
 
 Second Angel. 
 
 In bartering love, — 
 God's love for man's. 
 
 First Angel. 
 
 We may reprove 
 The world for this, not only her. 
 Let me approach to breathe away 
 This dust o' the heart with holy air. 
 
 Second Angel. 
 Stand oil ! She sleeps, and did not 
 pray. 
 
 First Angel. 
 Did none pray for her ? 
 
 Second Angel. 
 
 Ay, a child, 
 Who never, praying, wept before: 
 While in a mother undefiled 
 Prayer goeth on in sleep, as true 
 And pauseless as the pulses do. 
 
 First Angel. 
 Then I approach. 
 
 Second Angel. 
 
 It is not WILLED. 
 
 First Angel. 
 One word: is she redeemed? 
 Second Ayigel. 
 
 No more ! 
 The place is filled. [Angels vanish. 
 Evil Spirit in a nun's gai-b by the bed. 
 Forbear that dream, forbear that 
 dream ! too near to heaven it 
 leaned. 
 Onora in sleep. 
 Nay, leave me this, — but only this ! 
 'tis but a dream, sweet fiend. 
 
 I ^m I ■ I ^m 
 
THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. 
 
 285 
 
 Evil Spirit, 
 It is a thovf/ht. 
 
 Onora in sleep. 
 A sleeping thought, most innocent of 
 
 good: 
 It doth the Devil no harm, sweet 
 
 fiend : it cannot if it would. 
 I say in it no holy hymn, I do no holy 
 
 work, 
 t scarcely hear the sabbath-bell that 
 
 chimeth from the kirk. 
 Evil Spirit. 
 Forbear that dream, forbear that 
 
 dream ! 
 Onora in sleep. 
 
 Nay, let me dream at least. 
 That far-off bell, it may be took for 
 
 viol at a feast: 
 I only walk among the fields beneath 
 
 the autumn sun. 
 With my dead father, hand in hand, 
 
 as I have often done. 
 Evil Spirit. 
 Forbear that dream, forbear that 
 
 dream ! 
 Onora in sleep . 
 
 Nay, sweet fiend, let me go: 
 I nevermore can walk with him, oh, 
 
 nevermore but so ! 
 For they have tied my father's feet 
 
 beneath the kirkyard stone: 
 Oil, deep and straight, oh, very 
 
 straight, they move at nights 
 
 alone ; 
 A-ud then he calleth through my 
 
 dreams, he calleth tenderly, 
 "Come forth, my daughter, my be- 
 loved, and walk the fields with 
 
 me!" 
 Evil Spirit. 
 Forbear that dream, or else disprove 
 
 its pureness by a sign. 
 Onora in sleep. 
 Speak on, thou shalt be satisfied: my 
 
 word shall answer thine. 
 I heard a bird which used to sing 
 
 when I a child was praying, 
 I see the poppies in the corn I used to 
 
 sport away in: 
 What shall I do, — tread down the 
 
 dew, and pull the blossoms 
 
 blowing ? 
 Or clap my wicked hands to fright the 
 
 finches from the roweu ? 
 Evil Spirit. 
 Thou shalt do something harder still. 
 
 Stand up where thou dost stand, 
 Among the fields of Dreamland, with 
 
 thy father hand in hand, 
 
 And clear and slow repeat the vow, 
 
 declare its cause and kind, 
 Which not to break, in sleep or wake, 
 
 thou bearest on thy mind. 
 Onora in sleep. 
 1 bear a vow of sinful kind, a vow for 
 
 mournful cause; 
 I vowed it deep, I vowed it strong; 
 
 the spirits laughed applause; 
 The spirits trailed along the pines 
 
 low laughter like a breeze, 
 While, high atween their swinging 
 
 tops, the stars appeared to 
 
 freeze. 
 Evil Spirit. 
 More calm and free, speak out to me 
 
 why such a vow was made. 
 Onora in sleep. 
 Because that God decreed my death, 
 
 and I shrank back afraid. 
 Have patience, O dead father mine ! 
 
 I did not fear to die. 
 I wish I were a young dead child, and 
 
 had thy company ! 
 I wish I lay beside thy feet, a buried 
 
 three-year child, 
 And wearing only a kiss of thine upon 
 
 my lips that smiled ! 
 The linden-tree that covers thee might 
 
 so have shadowed twain; 
 For death itself I did not fear — 'tis 
 
 love that makes the pain : 
 Love feareth death. I was no child; 
 
 I was betrothed that day; 
 I wore a troth-kiss on my lips I could 
 
 not give away. 
 How could I bear to lie content and 
 
 still beneath a stone, 
 And feel mine own betrothed go 
 
 by — alas ! no more mine 
 
 own — 
 Go leading by in wedding pomp some 
 
 lovely lady brave. 
 With cheeks that blushed as red as 
 
 rose, while mine were white in 
 
 grave ? 
 How could I bear to sit in heaven, on 
 
 e'er so high a throne. 
 And hear him say to her — to her, 
 
 that else he loveth none ? 
 Though e'er so high I sate above, 
 
 though e'er so low he spake. 
 As clear as thunder I should hear the 
 
 new oath he might take. 
 That hers, forsooth, were heavenly 
 
 eyes — ah me, while very dim 
 Some heavenly eyes (indeed of 
 
 heaven!) would darken down to 
 
 him ! 
 
THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. 
 
 Evil Spirit. 
 Who told thee thou wast called to 
 
 death ? 
 Onora in sleep. 
 
 I sate all night beside thee: 
 The gray owl on the mined wall shut 
 
 both his ej'es to hide thee, 
 And ever he flapped his heavy wing 
 
 all brokenly and weak, 
 And the long grass waved against the 
 
 sky, around his gasping beak. 
 I sate beside thee all the night, while 
 
 the moonlight lay forlorn 
 Strewn round us like a dead world's 
 
 shroud in ghastly fragments 
 
 torn; 
 And through the night, and through 
 
 the hush, and over the flapping 
 
 wing, 
 We heard beside the heavenly gate 
 
 the angels murmuring. 
 We heard them say, " Put day to day, 
 
 and count the days to seven, 
 And God will draw Onora up the 
 
 golden stairs of heaven: 
 And yet the evil ones have leave 
 
 that purpose to defer ; 
 For if she has no need of Him, He 
 
 has no need of her." 
 Evil Spirit. 
 Speak out to me, speak bold and free. 
 Onora in sleep. 
 
 And then I heard thee say, 
 " I count upon my rosary brown the 
 
 hours thou hast to stay; 
 Yet God permits us evil ones to put 
 
 by that decree. 
 Since, if thou hast no need of Him, 
 
 He has no need of thee: 
 And, if thou wilt forego the sight of 
 
 angels, verily 
 Thy true love gazing on thy face 
 
 shall guess what angels be; 
 Nor bride shall pass, save thee" . . . 
 
 Alas ! my father's baud's a- 
 
 cold. 
 The meadows seem . , . 
 
 Evil Spirit. 
 Forbear the dream, or let the vow be 
 
 told. 
 Onora in sleep. 
 I vowed upon thy rosary brown, this 
 
 string of antique beads. 
 By charnel lichens overgrown, and 
 
 dank among the weeds. 
 This rosary brown which is thine 
 own, — lost soul of buried nun I 
 Who, lost by vow, wouldst render 
 now all souls alike undone, — 
 
 I vowed upon thy rosary brown, — 
 
 and, till such vow should break, 
 A pledge always of living days 'twas 
 
 hung around my neck, — 
 I vowed to thee on rosary (dead 
 
 father, look not so !) 
 / loould not thank God in my weal, nor 
 
 seek God in my looe. 
 Evil Spirit. 
 And canst thou prove . . . 
 Onora in sleep. 
 
 love, my love ! I felt him near again ! 
 
 1 saw his steed on mountain-head, I 
 
 heard it on the plain: 
 Was this no Aveal for me to feel ? Is 
 
 greater weal than this ? 
 Yet when he came I wept his name 
 
 — and the angels heard but his. 
 Evil Spirit. 
 Well done, well done ! 
 
 Onora in sleep. 
 Ah me, the sun ! the dreamlight 'gins 
 
 to pine, — 
 Ah me, how dread can look the dead ! 
 
 Aroyut thee, father mine ! 
 
 She starteth from slumber, she sitteth 
 
 upright, 
 And her breath comes in sobs, while 
 
 she stares through the night. 
 There is nought; the great willow, 
 
 her lattice before. 
 Large-drawn in the moon, lieth calm 
 
 on the floor; 
 But her hands tremble fast as their 
 
 pulses, and, free 
 From the death-clasp, close over — 
 
 the BKOWN ROSARV. 
 
 THIRD PART. 
 
 'Tis a morn for a bridal: the merry 
 
 bride-bell 
 Rings clear through the greenwood 
 
 that skirts the chapelle. 
 And the priest at the altar awaiteth 
 
 the bride, 
 And the sacristans slyly are jesting 
 
 aside 
 At the work shall be doing; 
 
 II. 
 While down through the wood rides 
 
 that fair company, 
 The youths with the courtship, the 
 
 maids with the glee, 
 
THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. 
 
 287 
 
 Till the chapel-cross opens to sight, 
 
 and at once 
 All the maids sigh demurely, an<I 
 
 think for the nonce, 
 " And so endeth a wooing ! " 
 
 III. 
 
 And the bride and the bridegroom 
 
 are leading the way, 
 With his hand on her rein, and a 
 
 word yet to say: 
 Her dropt eyelids suggest the soft 
 
 answers beneath, 
 And the little quick smiles come and 
 
 go with her breath 
 "When she sigheth or speaketh. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And the tender bride-mother breaks 
 off unaware 
 
 From an Ave, to think that her 
 daughter is fair, 
 
 Till in Hearing the chapel, and glan- 
 cing before. 
 
 She seeth her little son stand at the 
 door: 
 Is it play that he seeketh ? 
 
 Is it play when his eyes wander inno- 
 cent-wild, 
 
 And sublimed with a sadness unfitting 
 a child ? 
 
 He trembles not, weeps not: the pas- 
 sion is done. 
 
 And calmly he kneels in their midst, 
 with the sun 
 On his head like a glory. 
 
 A'l. 
 
 o 
 
 fair-featured maids, ye are 
 
 many ! " he cried, 
 " But in fairness and vileness who 
 
 matcheth the bride ? 
 O brave-hearted youths, ye are many ! 
 
 but whom 
 For the courage and woe can ye match 
 
 with the groom 
 As ye see them before ye ? " 
 
 VII. 
 
 Out spake the bride's mother, "The 
 
 vileness is thine. 
 If thou shame thine own sister, a 
 
 bride at the shrine I " 
 
 Out spake the bride's lover, " The 
 
 vileness be mine. 
 If he shame mine own wife at the 
 
 hearth or the shrine. 
 And the charge be unproved ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " Bring the charge, prove the charge, 
 brother ! speak it aloud: 
 
 Let thy father and hers hear it deep 
 in his shroud ! " 
 
 — " O father, thou seest, for dead eyes 
 can see. 
 
 How she wears on her bosom a brown 
 
 ROSARY, 
 
 O mv father beloved ! " 
 
 IX. 
 
 Then outlaughed the bridegroom, and 
 
 outlaughed withal 
 Both maidens and youths by the old 
 
 chapel-wall ; 
 " So she weareth no love-gift, kind 
 
 brother," quoth he, 
 " She may wear, an she listeth, a 
 
 brown rosary. 
 Like a pure-hearted lady." 
 
 X. 
 
 Then swept tlirough the chapel the 
 long bridal train ; 
 
 Though he spake to the bride, she 
 replied not again. 
 
 On, as one in a dream, pale and state- 
 ly she went 
 
 "Where the altar-lights burn o'er the 
 great sacrament, 
 Faint with daylight, but steady. 
 
 XI. 
 
 But her brother had passed in be- 
 tween them and her. 
 
 And calmly knelt down on the high 
 altar-stair — 
 
 Of an infantine aspect so stern to the 
 view 
 
 That the priest could not smile on the 
 child's eyes of blue 
 As he would for another. 
 
 XII. 
 
 He knelt like a child, marble-sculp- 
 tured and white, 
 
 That seems kneeling to pray on the 
 tomb of a knight, 
 
288 
 
 THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. 
 
 With a look taken up to each iris of 
 
 stone 
 From the greatness and death where 
 
 he kneeleth, but none 
 From the face of a mother. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 "In your chapel, O priest! ye have 
 
 wedded and sliriven 
 Fair wives for the hearth, and fair 
 
 sinners for heaven; 
 But this fairest, my sister, ye think 
 
 now to wed, 
 Bid her kneel where she standeth, 
 
 and shrive her instead : 
 Oh, shrive her, and wed not! " 
 
 XIV 
 
 In tears, the bride's mother, " Sir 
 
 priest, unto thee 
 Would he lie, as he lied to this fair 
 
 company." 
 In wrath, the bride's lover, " The lie 
 
 shall be clear! — 
 Speak it out, boy! the saints in their 
 
 niches shall hear: 
 Be the charge proved, or said 
 
 not!" 
 
 XV. 
 
 Then, serene in his childhood, he 
 
 lifted his face. 
 And his voice sounded holy, and fit 
 
 for the place, 
 " Look down from your niches, ye 
 
 still saints, and see 
 How she wears on her bosom a brown 
 
 ROSAKY ! 
 
 Is it used for the praying ? 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The youths looked aside, — to laugh 
 
 there were a sin, — 
 And the maidens' lips trembled from 
 
 smiles sliut within: 
 Quoth the priest, "Thou art wild, 
 
 pretty boy ! Blessed she 
 Who prefers at her bridal a brown 
 
 rosary 
 To a worldly arraying." 
 
 XVII 
 
 The bridegroom spake low, and led 
 
 onward the bride. 
 And before the high altar they stood 
 
 side by side ; 
 
 The rite-book is opened, the rite is 
 
 begun ; 
 They have knelt down together to rise 
 
 up as one. 
 Who laughed by the altar ? 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 The maidens looked forward, the 
 youths looked around, 
 
 The bridegroom's eye flashed from his 
 prayer at the sound; 
 
 And each saw the bride, as if no bride 
 she were. 
 
 Gazing cold at the priest without ges- 
 ture of prayer. 
 As he read from the psalter. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The priest never knew that she did so, 
 
 but still 
 He felt a power on him too strong for 
 
 his will; 
 And whenever the Great Name was 
 
 there to be read, 
 His voice sank to silence; that could 
 
 not be said. 
 Or the air could not hold it. 
 
 4 
 
 XX. 
 
 "I have sinned," quoth he: "I have 
 
 sinned, I wot; " 
 And the tears ran adown his old 
 
 cheeks at the thought: 
 They dropped fast on the book; but 
 
 he read on the same, 
 And aye was the silence where should 
 
 be the Name, 
 As the choristers told it. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 The rite-book is closed; and, the rite 
 
 being done, 
 They who knelt down together arise 
 
 up as one: 
 Fair riseth the bride — oh, a fair 
 
 bride is she! 
 But, for all (think the maidens) that 
 
 brown rosary. 
 No saint at her praying! 
 
 XXII. 
 
 He 
 
 What aileth the bridegroom ? 
 
 glares blank and wide. 
 Then, suddenly turning, he kisseth 
 
 the bride: 
 
THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. 
 
 289 
 
 His lips stung her with cold; she 
 glanced upwardly mute: 
 
 "Mine own wife," he said, and fell 
 6tark at her foot 
 In the word he was saying. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 They have lifted him n\)\ but his head 
 
 sinks away, 
 And his face showeth bleak in the 
 
 sunshine and gray. 
 Leave him now where he lieth; for 
 
 oh, nevermore 
 Will he kneel at an altar, or stand on 
 
 a floor! 
 Let his bride gaze upon him. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Long and still was her gaze, while 
 
 they chafed him there, 
 And breathed in the mouth whose last 
 
 life had kissed her. 
 But when they stood up — only they ! 
 
 with a start 
 The shriek from her soul struck her 
 
 pale lips apart: 
 She has lived, and forgone him! 
 
 XXV. 
 
 And low on his body she droppeth 
 adown. 
 
 "Didst call me thine own wife, be- 
 loved, thine own ? 
 
 Then take thine own with thee! thy 
 coldness is warm 
 
 To the world's cold without thee! 
 Come, keep me from harm 
 In a calm of thy teaching." 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 She looked in his face earnest-long, 
 
 as in sooth 
 There were hope of an answer, and 
 
 then kissed his mouth. 
 And with head on his bosom wept, 
 
 wept bitterly, — 
 ''Now, O God, take pity— take pity 
 
 on me ! 
 God, hear mv beseeching ! " 
 
 xxvii. 
 
 She was 'ware of a shadow that 
 crossed where she lay; 
 
 She was 'ware of a presence that 
 withered the day: 
 
 Wild she sprang to her feet, " I sur- 
 render to thee 
 
 The broken vow's pledge, the ac- 
 cursed rosary, — 
 T am ready for dying ! " 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 She dashed it in scorn to the marble- 
 paved ground, 
 
 Where it fell mute as snow, and a 
 weird music-sound 
 
 Crept up, like a chill, up the aisles 
 long and dim, 
 
 As the fiends tried to mock at the 
 choristers' hymn 
 And moaned in the trying. 
 
 FOURTH PART. 
 
 Onora looketh listlessly adown the 
 garden-walk: 
 
 " I am weary, O my mother, of thy 
 tender talk. 
 
 I am weary of the trees a-waving to 
 and fro. 
 
 Of the steadfast skies above, the run- 
 ning brooks below. 
 
 All things are the same but I, — only 
 I am dreary. 
 
 And, mother, of my dreariness behold 
 me very wearj\ 
 
 " Mother, brother, pull the flowers 
 
 I planted in the spring. 
 And smiled to think I should smile 
 
 more upon their gathering: 
 The bees will find out other flowers 
 
 — oh, pull them, dearest mine. 
 And carry them and carry me before 
 
 St. Agnes' shrine." 
 — Whereat they pulled the summer 
 
 flowers she planted in the 
 
 spring, 
 And her and them all mournfully to 
 
 Agnes' shrine did bring. 
 
 She looked up to the pictured saint, 
 
 and gently shook her head: 
 " The picture is too calm for me — too 
 
 calm for me," she said. 
 "The little flowers we brought with 
 
 us, before it we may lay, 
 For those are used to look at heaven ; 
 
 but / must turn away: 
 Because no sinner under sun can dare 
 
 or bear to gaze 
 On God's or angel's holiness, except 
 
 in Jesu's face." 
 
A ROMANCE OF THE GANGES. 
 
 She spoke with passion after pause: 
 
 " And were it wisely done 
 If we who cannot gaze above should 
 
 walk the eartJi alone ? 
 If we whose virtue is so weak should 
 
 have a will so strong, 
 And stand blind on the rocks to 
 
 choose the right path from the 
 
 wrong ? 
 To choose perhaps a love-lit hearth, 
 
 instead of love and heaven, — 
 A single rose for a rose-tree which 
 
 beareth seven times seven ? 
 A rose that droppeth from the hand, 
 
 that fadeth in the breast. 
 Until, iu grieving for the worst, we 
 
 learn what is the best ! " 
 
 Then breaking into tears: "Dear 
 
 God," she cried, " and must we 
 
 see 
 All blissful things depart from us or 
 
 ere we go to Thee ? 
 "We cannot guess thee in the wood, or 
 
 hear thee in the wind ? 
 Our cedars must fall round us ere we 
 
 see the light behind ? 
 
 Ay sooth, we feel too strong in weal 
 to need thee on that road; 
 
 But, woe being come, the soul is dumb 
 that crieth not on ' God.' " 
 
 Her mother could not speak for tears : 
 
 she ever mused thus, 
 " The bees ivill Jind out other ftoioers — 
 
 but what is left for ns ? 
 But her young brother stayed his 
 
 sobs, and knelt beside her knee, 
 — " Thou sweetest sister in the world, 
 
 hast never a word for me ? " 
 She passed her hand across his face, 
 
 she pressed in on his cheek, 
 So tenderly, so tenderly, she needed 
 
 not to speak. 
 
 The wreath which lay on shrine that 
 
 day, at vespers bloomed no 
 
 more. 
 The woman fair who placed it there 
 
 had died an hour before. 
 Both perished mute for lack of root 
 
 earth's nourishment to reach, 
 O reader, breathe (the ballad saith) 
 
 some sweetness out of each ! 
 
 A ROMANCE OF THE GANGES. 
 
 Seven maidens 'neath the midnight 
 
 Stand near the river-sea, 
 Whose water sweepeth white around 
 
 The shadow of the tree. 
 The moon and earth are face to face, 
 
 And earth is slumbering deep; 
 The wave-voice seems the A'oice of 
 dreams 
 
 That wander through her sleep. 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 II. 
 
 What bring they 'neath the mid- 
 night. 
 
 Beside the river-sea ? 
 They bring the human heart whereiu 
 
 No nightly calm cau be; 
 
 That droppeth never with the wind, 
 
 Nor drieth with the dew: 
 Oh, calm it, God ! thy calm is broad 
 
 To cover spirits too. 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 III. 
 
 The maidens lean them over 
 
 The waters, side by side, 
 And shun each other's deepening 
 eyes. 
 And gaze adown the tide ; 
 For each within a little boat 
 
 A little lamp hath put, 
 And heaped for freight some lily's 
 weight, 
 Or scarlet rose half shut. 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
A ROMANCE OF THE GANGES. 
 
 291 
 
 IV. 
 
 Of shell of cocoa carven 
 
 Each little boat is made: 
 Each carries a lamp, and carries a 
 flower, 
 And carries a hope unsaid; 
 And when the boat hath carried the 
 lamp 
 Unquenched till out of sight, 
 The maiden is sure that love will en- 
 dure; 
 But love will fail with light. 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 "Why, all the stars are ready 
 
 To sj'mbolize the soul, — 
 The stars untroubled bj" the wind. 
 
 Unwearied as they roll; 
 And yet the soul by instinct sad 
 
 Reverts to symbols low, — 
 To that small flame whose very name 
 
 Breathed o'er it, shakes it so. 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Six boats are on the river, 
 
 Seven maidens on the shore, 
 While still above them steadfastly 
 
 The stars shine evermore. 
 Go, little boats, go soft and safe, 
 
 And guard the symbol spark ! 
 The boats aright go safe and bright 
 
 Across the waters dark. 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The maiden Luti watcheth 
 
 "Where onwardly they float: 
 That look in her dilating eyes 
 
 Might seem to drive her boat: 
 Her eyes still mark the constant fire. 
 
 And kindling unawares 
 That hopeful while, she lets a smile 
 
 Creep silent through her prayers. 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The smile — where hath it wandered ? 
 
 She riseth from her knee, 
 She holds her dark, wet locks away — 
 
 There is no light to see ! 
 She cries a quick and bitter cry — 
 
 " Nuleeni, launch me thine ! 
 We must have light abroad to-night, 
 
 For all the wreck of mine." 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " I do remember watching 
 
 Beside this river-bed 
 When on my childish knee was leaned 
 
 My dying father's head: 
 I turned mine own to keep the tears 
 
 From falling on his face: 
 What doth it prove when Death and 
 Love 
 
 Choose out the selfsame pl.ice ? " 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 " They say the dead are joyful 
 
 The death-change here receiving: 
 Who say — ah me ! who dare to say 
 
 Where joy comes to the living? 
 Thy boat, Nuleeni ! look not sad — 
 
 Light up the waters rather ! 
 I weep no faithless lover where 
 
 I wept a loving father." 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 XI. 
 
 " My heart foretold bis falsehood 
 
 Ere my little boat grew dim; 
 And though I closed mine ej'es to 
 dream 
 
 That one last dream of him, 
 They shall not now be wet to see 
 
 The shining vision go: 
 From earth's cold love I look above 
 
 To the holy house of snow." i 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 XII. 
 
 " Come thou — thou never knewest 
 A grief that thou shouldst fear 
 one ! 
 Thou wearest still the happy look 
 That shines beneath a dear one: 
 Thy humming-bird is in the sun,^ 
 
 Thy cuckoo in the grove, 
 And all the three broad worlds for 
 thee 
 Are full of wandering love." 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 ' The Hindoo heaven is localized on the 
 summit of Mount Meru, one of the moun- 
 tains of Himalaya or Himmaleh, which sig 
 nifies, I believe, in Sanscrit, the abode of 
 snow, winter, or coldness. 
 
 2 Himadeva, the Indian god of love, Is im- 
 agined to wander through the three worlds, 
 accompanied by the humming-bird, cuckoo, 
 and gentle breezes. 
 
292 
 
 A ROMANCE OF THE GANGES. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " Why, maiden, dost thou loiter ? 
 
 What secret wouldst thou cover ? 
 That peepul cannot hide thy boat, 
 
 And I can guess thy lover ; 
 I heard thee sob his name in sleep, 
 
 It was a name I knew: 
 Come, little maid, be not afraid, 
 
 But let us prove him true ! " 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The little maiden cometh. 
 
 She cometh shy and slow ; 
 I ween she seeth through her lids, 
 
 They drop adown so low: 
 Her tresses meet her small bare feet. 
 
 She stands, and speaketh nought. 
 Yet blusheth red as if she said 
 
 The name she only thought. 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 XV. 
 
 She knelt beside the water, 
 
 She lighted up the flame, 
 And o'er her youthful forehead's calm 
 
 The fitful radiance came: 
 " Go, little boat, go soft and safe, 
 
 And guard the symbol spark ! " 
 Soft, safe doth float the little boat 
 
 Across the waters dark. 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Glad tears her eyes have blinded, 
 
 The light they cannot reach; 
 She turneth witli that sudden smile 
 
 She learnt before her speech. 
 " I do not hear his voice, the tears 
 
 Have dimmed my light away; 
 But the symbol light will last to- 
 night. 
 
 The love will last for aye ! " 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Then Luti spake behind her. 
 
 Out spake she bitterly: 
 " By the symbol light that lasts to- 
 night 
 Wilt vow a vow to me ? " 
 Nuleeni gazeth up her face. 
 Soft answer maketh she: 
 " By loves that last when lights are 
 past 
 1 vow that vow to thee." 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 An earthly look had Luti, 
 Though her voice was deep as 
 prayer: 
 " The rice is gathered from the plains 
 
 To cast upon thine hair; i 
 But when he comes his marriage-band 
 
 Around thy neck to throw. 
 Thy bride-smile raise to meet his 
 
 gaze, 
 And whisper, There is one betrays, 
 While Luti suffers woe." 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " And when, in seasons after, 
 
 Thy little bright-faced son 
 Shall lean against thy knee, and ask 
 
 What deeds his sire hath done. 
 Press deeper down thy mother-smile 
 
 His glossy curls among, 
 VieM' deep his pretty childish eyes, 
 And whisper. There is none denies, 
 
 While Luti speaks of ioron<j. 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Nuleeni looked in wonder, 
 Yet softly answered she: 
 " By loves that last when lights are 
 past 
 I vowed that vow to thee. 
 But why glads it thee that a bride-day 
 be 
 By a word of woe defiled ? 
 That a word of wrong take the cradle- 
 song 
 From the ear of a sinless child ? " — 
 "Why?" Luti said, and her laugh 
 was dread, 
 And her eyes dilated wild — 
 " That the fair new love may her 
 bridegroom prove. 
 And the father shame the child ! " 
 The river floweth on, 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " Thou flowest still, O river. 
 Thou flowest 'neath the moon; 
 
 Thy lily hath not changed a leaf,^ 
 Thy charmed lute a tune: 
 
 1 The casting of rice upon the head, and 
 tlie fixing of the band or tali about the neck, 
 are parts of the Hindoo marriage ceremonial. 
 
 2 The Ganges is represented as a white 
 woman, witli a water-lily in her right hand, 
 and in lier left a lute. 
 
RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 
 
 293 
 
 ! 
 
 He mixed his voice with thine, and 
 his 
 Was all I heard around ; 
 But now, beside his chosen bride, 
 I hear the river's sound." 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 XXIJ. 
 
 " I gaze upon her beauty 
 
 Through the tresses that inwreathe 
 it: 
 The light above thy wave is hers, 
 
 My rest alone beneath it: 
 Oh, give me back the dying look 
 
 My father gave thy water ! 
 
 Give back — and let a little love 
 O'erwatch his weary daughter ! 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 xxrii. 
 
 " Give back ! " she hath departed, 
 
 The word is wandering with her; 
 And the stricken maidens hear afar 
 
 The step and cry together. 
 Frail symbols ? None are frail enow 
 
 For mortal joys to borrow ! 
 "While bright doth float Nuleeni's 
 boat. 
 
 She weepeth dark with sorrow. 
 
 The river floweth on. 
 
 RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 
 
 To the belfry, one by one, went the 
 ringers from the sun, 
 {Toll dowly) 
 And the oldest ringer said, " Ours is 
 music for the dead 
 When the rebecs are all done." 
 
 II. 
 
 Six abeles i' the churchyard grow on 
 the north side in a row, 
 {Toll slowly) 
 And the shadows of their tops rock 
 across the little slopes 
 Of the grassy graves below. 
 
 III. 
 
 On 
 
 the south side and the west a 
 small river runs in haste, 
 {Toll slowly) 
 And, between the river flowing and 
 the fair green trees a-growing. 
 Do the dead lie at their rest. 
 
 IV. 
 
 On the east I sate that day, up against 
 a willow gray, 
 
 {Toll slowly) 
 Through the rain of willow-branches 
 i could see the low hill-ranges, 
 And the river on its way. 
 
 There I sate beneath the tree, and the 
 
 bell tolled solemnly, 
 (Toll sloivly) 
 While the trees', and river's voices 
 
 flowed between the solemn 
 
 noises, — 
 Yet death seemed 
 
 more loud to 
 
 me. 
 
 VI. 
 
 There I read this ancient rhyme while 
 the bell did all the time 
 {Toll sloivly) 
 And the solemn knell fell in with the 
 tale of life and sin. 
 Like a rhythmic fate sublime. 
 
 THE RHYME. 
 
 Broad the forests stood (I read) on the 
 
 hills of Linteged; 
 ; {Toll slowly) 
 
 'And three hundred years had stood 
 
 mute adown each hoary wood, 
 Like a full heart having prayed. 
 
RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 
 
 II. 
 
 And the little birds sang east, and the 
 little birds sang west; 
 {Toll slowly) 
 And but little thought was theirs of 
 the silent antique years, 
 In the building of their nest. 
 
 III. 
 
 Down the sun dropt large and red on 
 
 the towers of Linteged, — 
 
 {Toll slowly) 
 
 Lance and spear upon the height, 
 
 bristling strange in fiery light, 
 
 "While the castle stood in shade. 
 
 IV. 
 
 There the castle stood up black with 
 the red sun at its back, 
 {Toll sloioly) 
 Like a sullen, smouldering pyre with 
 a top that flickers fire 
 When the wind is on its track. 
 
 And five hundred archers tall did be- 
 siege the castle wall, 
 {Toll slowly) 
 And the castle seethed in blood, four- 
 teen days and nights had stood 
 And to-night was near its fall. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yet thereunto, blind to doom, three 
 
 months since, a bride did come, 
 
 {Toll slowly) 
 
 One who proudly trod the floors, and 
 
 softly whispered in the doors, 
 
 " May good angels bless our home." 
 
 VII. 
 
 Oh, a bride of queenly eyes, with a 
 
 front of constancies, 
 
 {Toll sloivly) 
 
 Oh, a l)ride of cordial mouth where 
 
 the untired smile of youth 
 
 Did light outward its own siglis ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Twas a duke's fair orphan-girl, and 
 her uncle's ward — the earl, 
 {Toll sloivly) 
 Who betrothed her twelve years old, 
 for the sake of dowry gold, 
 To his son Lord Leigh the churl. 
 
 IX. 
 
 But what time she had made good all 
 
 her years of womanhood, 
 
 {2"oll sloivly) 
 
 Unto both these lords of Leigh spake 
 
 she out right sovranly, 
 
 " My will runneth as my blood. 
 
 " And while this same blood makes 
 red this same right hand's 
 veins," she said, 
 
 {Toll slowly) 
 " 'Tis my will as lady free, not to wed 
 a lord of Leigh, 
 But Sir Guy of Linteged." 
 
 XI. 
 
 The old earl he smiled smooth, then 
 he sighed for wilful youth, — 
 {Toll slowly) 
 " Good my niece, that hand withal 
 looketh somewhat soft and 
 small 
 For so large a will in sooth." 
 
 XII. 
 
 She, too, smiled by that same sign; 
 but her smile was cold and fine. 
 {Toll sloiohj) 
 " Little hand clasps muckle gold, or 
 it were not worth the hold 
 Of thy son, good uncle mine." 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Then the young lord jerked his 
 breath, and sware thickly in his 
 teeth, — 
 
 {Toll slowly) 
 " He would wed his own betrothed, 
 an she loved him an she loathed. 
 Let the life come, or the death." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Up she rose with scornful eyes, as her 
 father's child might rise, — 
 (2b/; slowly) 
 " Thy hound's blood, my Lord of 
 Leigh, stains thy knightly heel," 
 quoth she, 
 " And he moans not where he lies; 
 
 XV. 
 
 " But a woman's will dies hard, in 
 
 the hall or on the sward — 
 
 {Toll slowly) 
 
RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 
 
 295 
 
 L^ 
 
 " By that grave, my lords, which 
 made me orphaned girl and 
 dowered lady, 
 I deny you wife and ward ! " 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Unto each she bowed her head, and 
 swept past with lofty tread. 
 {Toll slowly) 
 Ere the midnight-bell had ceased, in 
 the chapel had the priest 
 Blessed her, bride of Linteged. 
 
 xvri. 
 
 Fast 
 
 and fain the bridal train along 
 the night-storm rode amain: 
 ( Toll slowly) 
 Hard the steeds of lord and serf struck 
 their hoofs out on the turf, 
 In the pauses of the rain. 
 
 xvm. 
 Fast and fain the kinsmen's train 
 along the storm pursued amain, 
 {Toll slowly) 
 Steed on steed-track, dashing off, — 
 thickening, doubling, hoof on 
 hoof, 
 In the pauses of the rain. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 And the bridegroom led the flight on 
 his red-roan steed of might, 
 {Toll sloiuly) 
 And the bride lay on his arm, still, as 
 if she feared no harm. 
 Smiling out into the night. 
 
 XX. 
 
 " Dost thou fear ? " he said at last. 
 "Nay," she answered him in 
 haste, — 
 
 {Toll sloioly) 
 " Not such death as we could lind : 
 only life with one behind. 
 Ride on fast as fear, ride fast ! " 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Up the mountain wheeled the steed, 
 girth to ground, and fetlocks 
 spread, 
 
 {Toll slowly) 
 Headlong bounds, and rocking flanks, 
 — down he staggered, down the 
 banks. 
 To the towers of Linteged. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 High and low the serfs looked out, 
 
 red the flambeaus tossed about, 
 
 {Toll sloivly) 
 
 In the courtyard rose the cry, " Live 
 
 the duchess and Sir Guy ! " 
 
 But she never heard them shout. 
 
 XXIIX. 
 
 On the steed she dropped her cheek, 
 kissed his mane, and kissed his 
 
 {Toll sloioly) 
 " I had happier died by thee than 
 lived on a Lady Leigh," 
 Were the first words she did speak. 
 
 XXIV, 
 
 But a three-months' joyaunce lay 
 'twixt that moment and to-day, 
 {Tollslowhj) 
 When five hundred archers tall stand 
 beside the castle-wall 
 To recapture Duchess May. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 And the castle standeth black, with 
 
 the red sun at its back; 
 
 {Toll sloioly) 
 
 And a fortnight's siege is done; and, 
 
 except the duchess, none 
 
 Can misdoubt the coming wrack. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Then the captain, young Lord Leigh, 
 with his eves so gray of blee, 
 {Toll slowly) 
 And thin lips that scarcely sheath the 
 cold white gnashing of his teeth, 
 Gnashed in smiling, absently, 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Cried aloud, " So goes the day, bride- 
 groom fair of Duchess May ! ' ' 
 ( Toll slowly) 
 " Look thy last upon that sun ! if thou 
 seest to-morrow's one 
 'Twill be through a foot of clay. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 " Ha, fair bride ! dost hear no sound, 
 save that moaning of the 
 hound?" 
 
 {Toll slowly) 
 " Thou and I have parted troth; yet I 
 keep my vengeance-oath. 
 And the other may come round. 
 
296 
 
 ^ I ■ I ^ 
 
 RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 " Ha ! thy will is brave to dare, and 
 thy new love past compare; " 
 (Toll slowly) 
 " Yet thine old love's falchion brave 
 is as strong a thing to have 
 As the will of lady fair. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 " Peck on blindly, netted dove ! If a 
 wife's name thee behove," 
 {Toll slovdy) 
 " Thou shalt wear the same to-mor- 
 row, ere the grave has hid the 
 sorrow 
 Of thy last ill-mated love. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 " O'er his fixed and silent mouth thou 
 and I will call back troth; " 
 (Tollsloivly) 
 •' He shall altar be and priest; and he 
 will not cry at least, 
 ' I forbid you, I am loath ! ' 
 
 , XXXII. 
 
 " I will wring thy fingers pale in the 
 gauntlet of my mail: " 
 ( Toll sloioly) 
 " ' Little hand and mucklegold ' close 
 shall lie within my hold, 
 As the sword did to prevail." 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Oh, the little birds sang east, and the 
 
 little birds sang west, 
 
 (Toll sloioly) 
 
 Oh, and laughed the Duchess May, 
 
 and her soul did put away 
 
 All his boasting, for a jest. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 In her chamlier did she sit, laughing 
 low to think of it, — 
 (Toll slowly) 
 "Tower is strong, and will is free: 
 thou canst boast, my Lord of 
 Leigh ; 
 But thou boastest little wit." 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 In her tire-glass gazed she, and she 
 blushed right womanly: 
 (Toll sloioly) 
 She blushed half from her disdain, 
 half her beauty was so plain; 
 " Oath for oath, my Lord of Leigh! " 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Straight she called her maidens in, — 
 " Since ye gave me blame 
 herein," 
 
 (Toll slowly) 
 ' ' That a bridal such as mine should 
 lack gauds to make it fine, 
 Come and shrive me from that sin. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 " It is three months gone to-day since 
 
 I gave mine hand away: " 
 
 (Toll sloioly) 
 
 " Bring the gold, and bring the gem, 
 
 we will keep bride-state in them. 
 
 While we keep the foe at bay. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 "On your arms I loose mine hair; 
 comb it smooth, and crown it 
 fair: " 
 
 (Toll slowly) 
 " I would look in purple pall from 
 this lattice down the wall. 
 And throw scorn to one that's 
 there ! " 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Oh, the little birds sang east, and the 
 little birds sang west : 
 (Toll slowly) 
 On the tower the castle's lord leant 
 in silence on his sword. 
 With an anguish in his breast. 
 
 XL. 
 
 With a spirit-laden weight did he lean 
 down passionate : 
 (Toll slowly) 
 They have almost sapped the wall, — 
 they will enter therewithal 
 With no knocking at the gate. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Then the sword he leant upon shiv- 
 ered, snapped upon the stone: 
 (Toll sloioly) 
 " Sword," he thought with inward 
 laugh, " ill thou servest for a 
 staff 
 When thy nobler use is done I 
 
 XLII. 
 
 " Sword, thy nobler use is done ! 
 tower is lost, and shame begun." 
 (Toll slowly) 
 
 II 
 
liHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 
 
 297 
 
 If we met them in the breach, hilt 
 
 to hilt, or speech to speech, 
 "We should die there, each for one. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 " If we met them at the wall, we 
 should singly, vainly fall;" 
 {Toll slowly) 
 " Exit if /die here alone, — then I die 
 who am but one. 
 And die noblv for them all. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 " Five true friends lie, for my sake, in 
 the moat and in the brake; " 
 {Toll slowly) 
 " Thirteen warriors lie at rest, with a 
 black wound in the breast: 
 And not one of these will wake. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 So, no more of this shall be. Heart- 
 blood weighs too heavily ; " 
 {Tollsloioly) 
 
 And I could not sleej? in grave, with 
 the faithful and the brave 
 
 Heaped around and over me. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 " Since young Clare a mother hath, 
 and young Ralph a plighted 
 faith;" 
 
 {Toll sloivhj) 
 " Since my pale young sister's cheeks 
 blush like rose when Ronald 
 si^eaks, 
 Albeit never a word she saith, — 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 life- 
 
 " These shall never die for me: 
 blood falls too heavily." 
 {Toll sloioly) 
 " And if I die here apart, o'er my dead 
 and silent heart 
 They shall pass out safe and free. 
 
 XLviir. 
 
 ' When the foe hath heard it said, 
 ' Death holds Guy of Linteged,' " 
 {Toll slovily) 
 ' That new corse new peace shall 
 bring, and a blessed, blessed 
 thing 
 Shall the stone be at its head. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 " Then my friends shall pass out free, 
 and shall bear my memory; " 
 ( Toll slowly) 
 " Then my foes shall sleek their pride, 
 soothing fair ray widowed bride, 
 Whose sole sin was love of me. 
 
 " With their words all smooth and 
 sweet, they will front her, and 
 entreat," 
 
 {Toll sloivly) 
 " And their purple pall will spread 
 underneath her fainting head 
 While her tears drop over it. 
 
 LI. 
 
 "She will weep her woman's tears, she 
 will pray her woman's prayers ; ' ' 
 {Toll slowly) 
 " But her heart is young in pain, and 
 her hopes will spring again 
 By the suntime of her years. 
 
 LII. 
 
 " Ah, sweet May! ah, sweetest grief! 
 once I vowed thee my belief " 
 {Toll sloivly) 
 " That thy name exjiressed thy sweet- 
 ness, — May of poets in com- 
 pleteness I 
 Now my May-day seemeth brief." 
 
 LIII. 
 
 All these silent thoughts did swim o'er 
 his eves grown strange and dim, 
 {Toll slowly) 
 Till his true men in the place wished 
 thej' stood there face to face 
 With the foe, instead of him. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 " One last oath, my friends that wear 
 faithful hearts to do and dare! " 
 {Toll slowly) 
 " Tower must fall, and bride be lost: 
 swear me service worth the 
 cost ! " 
 Bold they stood around to swear. 
 
 LV. 
 
 " Each man clasp my hand, and swear, 
 by the deed we failed in there," 
 {Toll slowly) 
 
298 
 
 RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAT. 
 
 Not for vengeance, not for right, will 
 
 ye strike one blow to-night! " 
 Pale they stood around to swear. 
 
 tiVI. 
 
 One last boon, young Ralph and 
 Clare ! faithful hearts to do and 
 dare ! " 
 
 ( Toll slowly) 
 
 Bring that steed up from his stall, 
 which she kissed before you all, 
 
 Guide him up the turret-stair. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 ^Ye 
 
 shall harness him aright, and 
 lead upward to this height; " 
 {Toll sloioly) 
 " Once in love, and twice in war, hath 
 he borne me strong and far: 
 He shall bear me far to-night." 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 Then his men looked to and fro when 
 they heard him speaking so, 
 (Toll sloirly) 
 " 'Las ! the noble heart," they 
 thought: " he, in sooth, is grief- 
 distraught: 
 Would we stood here with the foe ! " 
 
 1,1 X. 
 
 But a fire flashed from his eye 'twixt 
 their thought and their reply, — 
 (Toll sloioly) 
 "Have ye so much time to waste? 
 We who ride here must ride 
 fast 
 As we wish our foes to fly." 
 
 LX. 
 
 They have fetched the steed with 
 care, in the harness he did wear, 
 ( Toll sloivly) 
 Past the court, and through the doors, 
 across the rushes of the floors ; 
 But they goad him up the stair. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Then, from out her bower chambere, 
 
 did the Duchess Mav repair: 
 
 (Toll sloioly) 
 
 " Tell me now what is your need," 
 
 said the lady, " of this steed, 
 
 That ye goad him up the stair ? " 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Calm she stood; unbodkined through 
 fell her dark hair to her shoe; 
 (Toll slowly) 
 And the smile upon her face, ere she 
 left the tiring-glass, 
 Had not time enough to go. 
 
 LXIIl. 
 
 " Get thee back, sweet Duchess May I 
 hope is gone like yesterday: " 
 (Toll slowly) 
 " One half-hour completes the breach; 
 and thy lord grows wild of 
 speech — 
 Get thee in, sweet lady, and pray I 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 " In the east tower, high'st of all, 
 loud he cries for steed from 
 stall; " 
 
 (Toll slowly) 
 
 " He would ride as far," quoth he, 
 
 " as for love and victory. 
 
 Though he rides the castle-wall." 
 
 LXV. 
 
 " And we fetch the steed from stalf, 
 up where never a hoof did 
 fall" — 
 
 ( 'Toll slowly) 
 " Wifely prayer meets deathly need: 
 may the sweet heavens hear 
 thee plead 
 If he rides the castle-wall ! " 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 Low she dropt her head, and lower, 
 till her hair coiled on the floor, 
 (Toll sloioly) 
 And tear after tear you heard fall dis- 
 tinct as any word 
 Which you might be listening for, 
 
 rxvii. 
 
 " Get thee in, thou soft ladye I here 
 is never a place for thee ! " 
 ( Toll slowly) 
 " Braid thine hair, and clasp thy gown, 
 that thy beauty in its moan 
 May find grace with Leigh of 
 Leigh." 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 She stood up in bitter case, with a 
 pale yet steady face, 
 (Toll sloioly) 
 
RH YME OF THE D U CHESS AfA V 
 
 299 
 
 II 
 
 Like a statue tlnniderstnick, wliicli. 
 thmifjli quivering, seems to look 
 Right against tlie thunder-plaee. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 And her foot trod in Avitli pride lier 
 own tears i' the stone beside: 
 (Toll slow! I/) 
 " Go to, faithful friends, go to ! judge 
 no more wliat ladies do, 
 No, nor how their lords may ride ! " 
 
 • LXX. 
 
 Then the good steed's rein she took, 
 
 and his neck did kiss and stroke : 
 
 (Toll slowly) 
 
 Soft he neighed to answer her, and 
 
 then followed up the stair 
 
 For the love of her sweet look. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 Oh, and steeply, steeph' wound up 
 the narrow stair around, 
 ( Toll slowly) 
 Oh, and closelj', closely speeding, 
 step by step beside her treading. 
 Did he follow, meek as hound. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 On the east tower, high'st of all, — 
 there, where never a hoof did 
 fall,— 
 
 (Toll shncly) 
 Out they swept, a vision steady, nolile 
 steed and lovely lady, 
 Calm as if in bower or stall. 
 
 Lxxni. 
 
 Down she knelt at her lord's knee, 
 and she looked up silently, 
 (Toll sloirly) 
 And he kissed her twice and thrice, 
 for that look within her eyes 
 Which he could not bear to see. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Quoth he, " Get thee from this strife, 
 and the sweet saints bless thy 
 life ! " 
 
 (Toll slowly) 
 
 "In this liour I stand in need of my 
 noble red-roan steed, 
 
 But no more of my noble wife." 
 
 i-x.\v. 
 
 Quoth she, " ^Meekly have I done all 
 
 thy biddings under sun; " 
 
 (Toll sloirly) 
 
 " But by all my womanhood, which 
 
 is proved so, true and good, 
 
 I will never do this one. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 " Now by womanhood's degree and 
 by wifehood's verity," 
 ( Toll slowly) 
 
 " In this hour, if thou hast need of thy 
 noble red-roan steed, 
 
 Thou hast also need of me. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 " By this golden ring ye see on this 
 
 lifted hand pardie," 
 
 ( Toll slowly) 
 
 " If this hour, on castle-wall can be 
 
 room for steed from .stall. 
 
 Shall be also room for inc. 
 
 Lxxvm. 
 
 " So the sweet saints with me be ! " 
 (did she ntter solemnlv) 
 (Toll slowly) 
 
 " If a man, this eventide, on this cas- 
 tle-wall will ride. 
 
 He shall ride the same with mc" 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 Oh, he sprang up in the selle, and he 
 
 laughed out bitter-well, — 
 
 (Toll slowly) 
 
 ' ' Wouldst thou ride among the leaves, 
 
 as we used on other eves. 
 
 To hear chime a vesper-bell ? " 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 She clung closer to his knee — " Ay, 
 
 beneath the cypress-tree! " 
 
 ( Toll slowly) 
 
 "Mock me not; for otherwhere than 
 
 along the greenwood fair 
 
 Have I ridden fast with thee. 
 
 I.XXXI. 
 
 " Fast I rode with new-made vows 
 from my angry kinsman's 
 house: " 
 
 (Tidlsloicly) 
 " AVhat ! and would you men should 
 reck that I dared more for love's 
 sake 
 As a bride than as a spouse ? 
 
T 
 
 300 
 
 RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 
 
 LXXXII. ' 
 
 " What ! and would you it should fall, 
 as a proverb, before all," 
 (Toll slou-bi) 
 "That a liride may keep your side 
 while through eastle-gate you 
 ride, 
 Yet eschew the castle-wall ? " 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 Ho! the breach yawns into ruin, and 
 
 roars up against her suing, 
 
 ( Toll slowly) 
 
 "With the inarticulate din, and the 
 
 dreadful falling-in — 
 
 Shrieks of doing and undoing ! 
 
 Lxxxrv. 
 Twice he wrung her hands in twain; 
 but the small hands closed 
 again. 
 
 ( Toll sloivly) 
 Back he reined the steed — back, 
 back! but she trailed along his 
 track 
 A^'ith a frantic clasp and strain. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Evermore the foemen pour through 
 the crash of window and door, 
 (Toll slowly) 
 And the shouts of Leigh and Leigh, 
 and the shrieks of " Kill! " and 
 "Flee!" 
 Strike up clear amid the roar. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 Thrice he wrung her hands in twain; 
 but thev closed antl clung again, 
 (Toll sloioly) 
 While she clung, as one, withstood, 
 clasps a Christ upon the rood, 
 In a spasm of deathly paiu. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 She clung wild, and she clung mute, 
 with her shuddering lips half- 
 .shut; 
 
 (Toll sloidy) 
 Her head fallen as half in swound, 
 hair and knee swept on the 
 ground. 
 She c^ung wild to stirrup and foot. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 Back he reined his steed back-thrown 
 on the slipperv coping-stone; i 
 (Tollsloirhf) 
 Back the iron hoofs did grind on the 
 battlement behind, 
 "Whence a Inuulrcd feet went down; 
 
 I.XXXIX. 
 
 And his heel did press and goad on 
 the quivering flank bestrode, — 
 (Toll slowly) 
 " Friends and brothers, save my wife! 
 Pardon, sweet, in change for 
 life: 
 But I ride alone to God." 
 
 xr. 
 
 Straight, as if the holy name had up- 
 breathed her like a flame, 
 (Toll slowly) 
 She upsprang, she rose upright, in his 
 selle she sate iu sight. 
 By her love she overcame. 
 
 xci. 
 
 And her head was on his breast, where 
 
 she smiled as one at rest, — 
 
 (Toll slowly) 
 
 "Ring," .she cried, " O vesper-bell, in 
 
 the beechwood's old chapelle. 
 
 But the passiug-1)ell rings best! '" 
 
 XCII. 
 
 They liave caught out at the rein which 
 Sir Guv threw loose, in vain; 
 \Toll slowly) 
 For the horse, iu stark despair, with 
 his front hoofs jioised in air. 
 On the last verge rears amain. 
 
 xciir. 
 
 Now he hangs, he' rocks between, and 
 
 Ijis nostrils curdle in; 
 
 (Toll slowly) 
 
 Now he shivers head and hoof, and 
 
 the flakes of foam fall off, 
 
 And his face grows fierce and thin; 
 
 XCI v. 
 And a look of human woe from liis 
 staring eyes did go; 
 (Toll sloivly) 
 And a sharp cry uttered he, iu a fore- 
 told agony 
 Of the headlong death below; 
 
B 
 
 Or 
 
 *"^^^ 
 
 '^%"' 
 
Rni'MK OF THK DUCHESS MAY. 
 
 301 
 
 xcv. 
 
 And, "Ring, ring, thou passing-bell," 
 still she cried, "i' the old cha- 
 pelle ! " 
 
 {ToJlslowbi) 
 Then back-toppling, crashing back, a 
 dead weight flnng out to wrack, 
 Horse and riders overfell. 
 
 I. 
 
 Oh, the little birds sang east, and the 
 little birds sang west, 
 {Toll sloicbi) 
 And I read this ancient Rhyme in the 
 churchyard, while the chime 
 Slowly tolled for one at rest. 
 
 II. 
 
 The abeles moved in the sun, and the 
 
 river smooth did run, 
 
 {Toll slowly) 
 
 And the ancient Rhyme rang strange, 
 
 with its x^assion and its change. 
 
 Here, where all done lay undone. 
 
 III. 
 And beneath a willow-tree I a little 
 graA'e did see, 
 
 {Toll slowly) 
 Where was graved, " Heke uxde- 
 
 FILED, LIETH MAUD, A THKEE- 
 YEAIi CHILD, 
 
 Eighteen hundred, fouty-thkee. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then, O spirits, did I say, ye who rode 
 so fast that day, 
 
 {Tollslowhj) 
 Did star-wheels and angel-wings, with 
 their holy winnowiugs, 
 Keep beside you all the way ? 
 
 v. 
 
 Though in passion ye would dash witli 
 a blind and heavy crash, 
 {ToUslowhj) 
 I'p against the thick-bossed shield of 
 God's judgment in the field, — 
 Though your heart and brain were 
 rash, — 
 
 Now your will is all unwilled, now 
 
 your pulses are all stilled, 
 
 {Tollslowhj) 
 
 Now ye lie as meek and mild (where- 
 
 so laid) as Maud, the child 
 
 "Whose small grave was lately filled. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Beating heart and burning brow, ye 
 are very i>atient now, 
 {Toll slowly) 
 And the children might be bold to 
 pluck the kingcups from your 
 mould. 
 Ere a month had let them grow. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And you let the goldfinch sing, in the 
 alder near in spring, — 
 {Toll slowly) 
 Let her build her nest, and sit all the 
 three weeks out on it. 
 Murmuring not at any thing. 
 
 IX. 
 
 In your patience ye are strong; cold 
 and heat ye take not wrong; 
 {Toll sloivly) 
 When the trumpet of the angel blows 
 eternity's evangel. 
 Time will seem to you not long. 
 
 X. 
 
 Oh, the little birds sang east, and the 
 little birds sang west, 
 ( Toll slotvly) 
 And I said in under-breath, " All our 
 life is mixed with death. 
 And who knoweth which is best ? " 
 
 XI. 
 
 Ol 
 
 the little birds sang east, and the ' 
 little birds sang west, 
 {Toll slotvly) 
 And I smiled to think God's greatness I 
 flowed around our incomplete- / 
 ness, — / 
 
 Round our restlessness, his rest. 
 
 ! 
 
THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST. 
 
 " So tlic dreams depart, 
 So the fadiiiiT pliaiitoms flee, 
 And the sharp reality 
 Now must aet its part." 
 
 Wkstwoou's Beads from a Rosary. 
 
 Little Ellie sits alone 
 
 'Mid the beeches of a meadow, 
 By a stream-side on the grass, 
 And the trees are showering down 
 Doubles of their leaves in shadow. 
 On her shining hair and face. 
 
 11. 
 
 .She has thrown her bonnet by, 
 And her feet she has been dipping 
 In the shallow water's flow ; 
 Now she holds them nakedly 
 In her hands, all sleek and dripping, 
 While she rocketh to and fro. 
 
 III. 
 
 Little Ellie sits alone. 
 And the smile she softly uses 
 Fills the silence like a speech. 
 While she thinks what shall be done. 
 And the sweetest pleasure chooses 
 For her future within reach. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Little Ellie in her smile 
 Chooses, " I will have a lover, 
 Riding on a steed of steeds : 
 He shall love me without guile, 
 And to him I will discover 
 The swan's nest among the reeds. 
 
 " And the steed shall be red-roan, 
 And the lover sliall be noble, 
 With an eye that takes the breath. 
 And the lute he plays upon 
 Shall strike ladies into trouble, 
 As his sword strikes men to death. 
 o02 
 
 VI. 
 
 " And the steed it shall be shod 
 All in silver, housed in azure; 
 And the the mane shall swim the 
 wind ; 
 And the hoofs along the sod 
 Shall flash onward, and keep meas- 
 ure, 
 Till the shepherds look behind. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " But my lover will not prize 
 All the glory that he rides in, 
 When he gazes in my face. 
 He will say, ' O Love, thine eyes 
 Build the shrine my soul abides in. 
 And I kneel here for thj- gracel' 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " Then, ay, then he shall kneel low, 
 With the red-roan steed anear him. 
 Which shall seem to understand, 
 Till I answer, ' Rise and go ! 
 
 For the world must love and feai 
 him 
 Whom I gift with heart and hand, 
 
 IX. 
 
 " Then he will arise so pale, 
 I shall feel my own lips tremble 
 With a yes I must not say : 
 Nathless maiden-brave, 'Farewell,' 
 I will utter, and dissemble — 
 ' Light to-morrow with to-day ! ' 
 
 X. 
 
 " Then he'll I'ide among the hills 
 
 To the wide world past the river, 
 
 There to put away all wrong. 
 
 To make straight distorted wills, 
 
 And to empty the broad quiver 
 
 Which the wicked bear along. 
 
BEWrnA IN THE LANE. 
 
 303 
 
 XI. 
 
 " Three times shall a young foot-page 
 Swim the stream, and climb the 
 mountain, 
 And kneel down heside my feet: 
 ' Lo! my master sends this gage. 
 Lady, for thy pity's counting. 
 What wilt thou exchange for it? ' 
 
 XII. 
 
 " And the first time I will send 
 A white rosebud for a guerdon: 
 And the second time, a glove; 
 But the third time I may bend 
 From my pride, and answer, — 
 ' Pardon, 
 If he comes to take my love.' 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " Then the .young foot-page will run; 
 Then my lover will ride faster, 
 Till he kneeleth at my knee: 
 ' I am a duke's eldest son, 
 Thousand serfs do call me master. 
 But, O Love, I love but tlwe ! ' 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " He will kiss me on the mouth 
 Then, and lead me as a lover 
 Through the crowds that praise 
 his deeds. 
 
 And, when soul-tied by one troth, 
 ITuto him t will discover 
 That swan's nest among the 
 reeds." 
 
 XV. 
 
 Little EUie, with her smile 
 Not yet ended, rose up gayly, 
 
 Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe, 
 And went liomeward, round a mile, 
 Just to see, as she did daily, 
 
 Wliat more eggs were with the 
 two. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Pushing through the elm-tree copse, 
 Winding \\\) the stream, light- 
 hearted, 
 Where the osier pathway leads. 
 Past the boughs she stoops, and stops. 
 Lo, the wild swan had deserted, 
 And a rat had gnawed the reeds ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Ellie went home sad and slow. 
 If she found the lover ever. 
 With his red-roan steed of steeds, 
 Sooth I know not; but I know 
 She could never show him — never. 
 That swan's nest among the reeds. 
 
 BERTHA m THE LANE. 
 
 Pri the broidery-frame away, 
 For my sewing is all done: 
 
 The last thread is used to-day, 
 And I need not join it on. 
 
 Though the clock stands at the noon, 
 
 I am weary. I have sewn. 
 
 Sweet, for thee, a wedding-gown. 
 
 II. 
 
 Sister, help me to the bed, 
 
 And stand near me, dearest sweet. 
 Do not shrink, nor be afraid, 
 
 Blushing with a sudden heat! 
 
 No one standeth in the street ? 
 By God's love I go to meet, 
 Love I thee with love complete. 
 
 III. 
 
 Lean thy face down; drop it in 
 
 These two hands, that I mav 
 hold 
 'Twixt their palms thy cheek and 
 chin. 
 Stroking back the curls of gold: 
 'Tis a fair, fair face, in sooth — 
 Larger eyes and redder mouth 
 Than mine were in my tirst youth. 
 
i 
 
 304 
 
 BERTHA IN THE LANE. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thou art younger by seven years — 
 Ah ! so bashful at my gaze. 
 
 That the lashes, hung with tears, 
 Grow too heavy to upraise ? 
 
 I would wound thee by no touch 
 
 Which thy shjniess feels as such. 
 
 Dost thou mind me. dear, so much ? 
 
 V. 
 
 Have I not been nigh a^nother 
 
 To thy sweetness ? — tell me, dear; 
 Have we not loved one another 
 
 Tenderly, from year to year, 
 Since our dying mother mild 
 Said, with accents undefiled, 
 " Child, be mother to this child " ? 
 
 VI. 
 
 Mother, mother, up in heaven. 
 
 Stand up on the jasper sea, 
 And be witness I have given 
 
 All the gifts required of me, — 
 Hope that blessed me, bliss that 
 
 crowned. 
 Love that left me with a wound, 
 Life itself that turueth round. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Mother, mother, thou art kind, 
 
 Thou art standing in the room. 
 In a molten glory shrined. 
 
 That rays off into the gloom ; 
 But thy smile is bright and bleak 
 Like cold waves: I cannot s^jeak, 
 I sob in it, aud grow weak. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Ghostly mother, keep aloof 
 One iiour longer from my soul ; 
 
 For I still am thinking of 
 Earth's warm-beating joy and dole ! 
 
 On my finger is a ring 
 
 AV'hicii I still see glittering 
 
 When the night hides every thing. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Little sister, thou art pale I 
 
 Ah, I have a wandering brain, — 
 But I lose that fever-bale, 
 
 And my thoughts grow calm again. 
 Lean down closer, closer still: 
 I have words thine ear to fill, 
 .\nd would kiss thee at mv will. 
 
 Dear, I heard thee in the spring, — 
 Thee and Robert, — through the 
 trees, — 
 
 When we all went gathering 
 Boughs of May-bloom for the bees. 
 
 Do not start so ! think instead 
 
 How the sunshine overhead 
 
 Seemed to trickle through the shade. 
 
 XI. 
 
 What a day it was that day ! 
 
 Hills and vales did openly 
 Seem to heave, and throb away 
 
 At the sight of the great sky ; 
 And the silence, as it stood 
 In the glory's golden flood, 
 Audibly did bud, aud bud. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Through the winding hedgerows 
 green 
 How we wandered, I and you, 
 With the bowery tops shut in, 
 And the gates that showed the 
 view 1 
 How we talked there: thrushes soft 
 Sang our praises out, or oft 
 Bleatings took them from the croft: 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Till the pleasure, grown too strong, 
 
 Left me muter evermore, 
 And, the winding road being long, 
 
 I walked out of sight, before. 
 And so, wrapt in musings fond. 
 Issued (past the wayside pond) 
 On the meadow-lands beyond. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 I sate down beneath the beech 
 Which leans over to the lane. 
 And the far sound of your sj)eech 
 
 Did not i^romise any pain ; 
 Aud I blessed you full and free. 
 With a smile stooped tenderly 
 O'er the May-flowers on my knee. 
 
 XV. 
 
 But the sound grew into word 
 As the speakers drew more near — 
 
 Sweet, forgive me that I heard 
 What j'ou wished me not to hear. 
 
 Do not weep so, do not shake; 
 
 Oh, I heard thee, Bertha, make 
 
 Good true answers for my sake. 
 
BERTHA IN THE LANE. 
 
 805 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Yes, and he too ! let liiiii stand 
 In thy tlioughts untouched by 
 blame. 
 
 Could he help it, if my hand 
 He had claimed with hasty claim ? 
 
 That was wrong, perhaps; but then 
 
 Such things be — and will again. 
 
 Women cannot judge for men. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Had he seen thee when he swore 
 He would love but me alone ? 
 
 Thou wast absent, sent before 
 To our kin in Sidmoutli town. 
 
 When he saw thee, who art best 
 
 Past compare, and loveliest, 
 
 He but judged thee as the rest. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Could we blame him witli grave 
 words. 
 
 Thou and I, dear, if we might ? 
 Thy brown eyes have looks like birds 
 
 Flying straightway to the light: 
 Mine are older. Hush ! Look out — 
 Up the street ! Is none without ? 
 How the poplar swings about ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 And that hour, beneath the beech, 
 When I listened in a dream. 
 
 And he said in his deep speech 
 That he owed me all esteem, — 
 
 Each word swam in on my brain 
 
 With a dim, dilating pain. 
 
 Till it burst with that last strain. 
 
 XX. 
 
 I fell flooded with a dark. 
 
 In the silence of a swoon. 
 When I rose, still cold and stark. 
 
 There was ■iMglit; I saw the moon : 
 And the stars tach in its jilace, 
 And the May-blooms on the grass, 
 Seemed to wonder what I was. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 And I walked as if apart 
 
 From myself, when I could stand; 
 And I pitied my own heart, 
 
 As if I held it in my hand. 
 Somewhat coldly, with a sense 
 Of fulfilled benevolence, 
 And a " poor thing " negligence. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 And I answered coldly, too. 
 
 When you met me at the door; 
 And I only heard the dew 
 
 Dripping from me to the floor; 
 And the flowers I bade you see 
 Were too withered for the bee, 
 As mv life lienceforth for me. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Do not weep so, dear — heart-warm! 
 
 All was best as it befell. 
 If I say he did me harm, 
 
 I speak wild — I am not well. 
 All his words were kind and good — 
 He esteemed me. Only, blood 
 Runs so faint in womanhood ! 
 
 XX tv. 
 
 Then I always was too grave. 
 
 Liked the saddest ballad sung, - 
 With that look, besides, we have 
 
 In our faces, who die young. 
 I had died, dear, all tlie same: 
 Life's long, joyous, jostling game 
 Is too loud for my meek shame. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 We are so unlike each other. 
 Thou and I, that none could gue.ss 
 
 We were children of one mother, 
 But for mutual tenderness. 
 
 Thou art rose-liued from the cold, 
 
 And meant verily to hold 
 
 Life's pure pleasures manifold. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 I am pale as crocus grows 
 
 Close beside a rose-tree's root: 
 Whoso'er would reach the rose 
 Treads the crocus under foot. 
 /, like May-bloom on thorn-tree, 
 Thou, like merry summer-bee, — 
 Fit that I be plucked for thee ! 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Yet who plucks me ? No one mourns, 
 
 I have lived my season out. 
 And now die of my own thorns 
 
 Which I could not live without. 
 Sweet, be merry ! How the light 
 Comes and goes ! If it be night, 
 Keep the candles in my siglit. 
 
306 
 
 LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Are there footsteps at the door ? 
 
 Look out quickly. Yea, or nay ? 
 Some one might be waiting for 
 
 Some last word that I might say. 
 Nay ? So best ! so angels would 
 Stand off clear from deathly road, 
 Not to cross the sight of God. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Colder grow my hands and feet. 
 
 When I wear the shroud I made, 
 Let the folds lie straight and neat, 
 
 And the rosemary be spread, 
 That, if any friend should come, 
 (To see thee, sweet), all the room 
 May be lifted out of gloom. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 And, dear Bertha, let me keep 
 
 On my hand this little ring, 
 Which at nights, when others sleep, 
 
 I can still see glittering. 
 Let me wear it out of sight. 
 In the grave, where it will light 
 All the dark up, day and night. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 On that grave drop not a tear ! 
 
 Else, though fathom-deep the place, 
 Through the woollen shroud I wear 
 
 I shall feel it on nij- face. 
 
 Rather smile there, blessed one, 
 Thinking of me in the sun. 
 Or forget me, — smiling on ! 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Art thou near me ? Nearer ! so — 
 
 Kiss me close upon the eyes, 
 That the earthly light maj^ go 
 
 Sweetly, as it used to rise 
 When I watched the morning-gray 
 Strike, betwixt the hills, the way 
 He was sure to come that day. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 So — no more vain words be said !' 
 
 The hosannas nearer roll. 
 Mother, smile now on thy dead, 
 I am death-strong in my soul. 
 Mystic Dove alit on cross. 
 Guide the poor bird of the snows 
 Through the snow-wind above loss ' 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Jesus, Victim, comprehending 
 Love's divine self-abnegation. 
 
 Cleanse my love in its self-spending. 
 And absorb the jioor libation ! 
 
 Wind my thread of life up higher. 
 
 Up, through angels' hands of fire ! 
 
 I aspire while I expire. 
 
 LADI GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 A ROMANCE OF THE AGE. 
 
 A poet voriten to his friend. Place. — A 
 room in Wycombe Hall, Time. — Late 
 in tlie evening. 
 
 I. 
 Deab my friend and fellow-student, I 
 
 would lean my spirit o'er you ! 
 Down the purple of this chamber 
 
 tears should scarcely run at 
 
 will. 
 
 I am humbled who was humble. 
 
 Friend, I bow my head before 
 
 you: 
 You should lead me to my peasants; 
 
 but their faces are too still. 
 
 II. 
 
 There's a lady, an earl's daughter, — 
 
 she is proud and she is noble, 
 And she treads the crimson carpet, 
 
LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 307 
 
 and she breathes the perfumed 
 
 air, 
 And a kingly blood sends glances up, 
 
 her princely eye to trouble, 
 And the shadow of a monarch's 
 
 crown is softened in her hair. 
 
 in. 
 
 She 
 
 She 
 
 has halls amonc; the woodlands, 
 she has castles by the breakers, 
 has farms and she has manors, 
 she can threaten and command, 
 And the jialpitating engines snort in 
 
 steam across her acres, 
 As they mark upon the blasted heaven 
 the measure of the land. 
 
 IV. 
 
 There are none of England's daugh- 
 ters who can show a jn'ouder 
 presence ; 
 
 Upon princely suitors praying, she 
 has looked in her disdain. 
 
 She was sprung of English nobles, I 
 was born of English peasants: 
 
 "What was I that I shoulil love her, 
 save for competence to pain ! 
 
 I was only a poor ]ioet, made for 
 
 singing at her casement. 
 As the finches or the thrushes, while 
 
 she thought of other things. 
 Oh, she walked so high above me, she 
 
 appeared to my abasement. 
 In her lovely silken murmur, like an 
 
 angel clad in wings ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 bow before her 
 sweeps their 
 
 as her 
 door- 
 
 Many vassals 
 
 carriage 
 
 ways; 
 She has blest their little children, as a 
 
 priest or queen were she: 
 Far too tender, or too cruel far, her 
 
 smile upon the i^oor was. 
 For I thought it was the same smile 
 
 which she used to smile on me. 
 
 VII. 
 
 She has voters in the commons, she 
 has lovers in the palace, 
 
 And of all the fair court-ladies, few 
 have jewels half as fine ; 
 
 Oft the prince has named her beauty 
 'twixt the red wine and the 
 chalice: 
 
 Oh, and what was /to love her? my 
 beloved, my Geraldine ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Yet I could not choose but love her: 
 
 I was born to poet-uses, — 
 To love all things set above me, all of 
 
 good and all of fair. 
 Nymphs of mountain, not of valley, 
 
 we are wont to call the Muses"; 
 And, in nympholeptic climbing, poets 
 
 pass from mount to star. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And because I was a poet, and lie- 
 cause the public praised me. 
 
 With a critical deduction for the mod- 
 ern writer's fault, 
 
 I could sit at rich men's tables, 
 though the courtesies that raised 
 me 
 
 Still suggested clear between us the 
 pale spectrum of the salt. 
 
 And they praised me in her presence: 
 
 " Will your book appear this 
 
 summer '? " 
 Then, returning to each other — " Yes, 
 
 our plans are for the moors; " 
 Then, with whisper dropped behind 
 
 me — ' ' There he is ! the latest 
 
 comer. 
 Oh, she only likes his verses ! what is 
 
 over, she endures. 
 
 XI. 
 
 " Quite low-born, self-educated! some- 
 what gifted, though, by nature. 
 
 And we make a point of asking him, 
 — of being very kind. 
 
 You may speak , he does not hear you ; 
 and, besides, he writes no satire: 
 
 All these serjients kept by charmers 
 leave the natural sting behind." 
 
 XII. 
 
 I grew scornfuller, grew colder, as T 
 stood up there among them. 
 
 Till, as frost intense will burn you, the 
 cold scorning scorched mj-brow ; 
 
 When a sudden silver speaking" grave- 
 ly cadenced, over-rung them. 
 
 And a sudden silken stirring touched 
 my inner nature through. 
 
 I 
 
308 
 
 LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHir. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 I looked upward and beheld lier: 
 
 with a calm and regnant spirit, 
 Slowly round she swept her eyelids, 
 
 and said clear before them all, 
 " Have you such superfluous honor, 
 
 sir, that, able to confer it, 
 You will come down, Mister Bertram, 
 
 as my guest to Wycombe Hall? " 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Here she paused: she had been paler 
 at the first word of her speak- 
 ing. 
 
 But, because a silence followed it, 
 blushed somewhat, as for shame, 
 
 Then, as scorning her own feeling, re- 
 sumed calmly, " I am seeking 
 
 More distinction than these gentle- 
 men think worthy of ray claim. 
 
 XV. 
 
 not 
 
 " Ne'ertheless, you see, I seek it 
 
 because I am a woman," 
 (Here her smile sprang like a fountain, 
 
 and so, overflowed her mouth), 
 " But because my woods in Sussex 
 
 have some purjile shades at 
 
 gloaming 
 Which are worthy of a king in state, 
 
 or poet in his youth. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " I invite you. Mister Bertram, to no 
 
 scene for worldly speeches, — 
 Sir, I scarce should dare, — but only 
 
 where God asked the thrushes 
 
 first; 
 And if yoM will sing beside them, in 
 
 the covert of my beeches, 
 I will thank you for the woodlands, 
 
 for the human world at worst." 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Then she smiled around right childly, 
 
 then she gazed around right 
 
 queenly, 
 And I bowed — I could not answer; 
 
 alternated liglit and gloom, 
 While, as one who quells the lions, 
 
 with a steady eye, serenely. 
 She, with level, fronting eyelids, 
 
 passed out stately from the 
 
 room. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Oh the blessed woods of Sussex ! I 
 
 can hear them still around me, 
 With their leafy tide of greenery still 
 
 rippling up the wind. 
 Oh the cursed woods of Sussex! where 
 
 the hunter's arrow found me 
 When a fair face and a tender voice 
 
 had made me mad and ])lind! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 In that ancient hall of Wycombe 
 
 thronged the numerous guests 
 
 invited, 
 And the lovely London ladies trod 
 
 the floors with gliding feet; 
 And their voices, low with fashion, not 
 
 with feeling, softly freighted 
 All the air about the windows witli 
 
 elastic laughters sweet. 
 
 XX. 
 
 For 
 
 at eve the open wintlows flung 
 
 their light out on the terrace, 
 Which the floating orbs of curtains did 
 
 with gradual shadow sweep, 
 While the swans upon the river, fed 
 
 at morning by the heiress, 
 Trembled downward through their 
 
 snowy wings at music in their 
 
 sleep. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 And there evermore was music, both 
 
 of instrument and singing, 
 Till the flnclies of the shrubberies 
 
 grew restless in the dark; 
 Bnt the cedars stood up motionless, 
 
 each in a moonlight-ringing, 
 And the deer, half in the glimmer, 
 
 strewed the hollows of the park. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 And though sometimes she would 
 
 bind me with her silver-corded 
 
 speeches 
 To commix my words and laughter 
 
 with the converse and the jest. 
 Oft I sat apart, and, gazing on the 
 
 river through the i)eeclies. 
 Heard, as pure the swans swam down 
 
 it, her pure Aoice o'erfloat the 
 
 rest. 
 
LADY G/:RALDINE\S COURTS/IIP. 
 
 ]()[) 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Ill the morning, liorii of hiuitsinan, 
 
 lioof of steed, and langh of rider, 
 Spread out clieery from the courtyard 
 
 till we lost them in the hills; 
 While herself and otlicr ladies, and 
 
 her suitors left besiile her, 
 Went a-\vaiidering up the gardens, 
 
 tjirough the laurels and abeles. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Thus, her loot upon the new-mown 
 grass, bareheaded, with tlie 
 flowing 
 
 Of the virginal white vesture gath- 
 ered closely to her throat. 
 
 And the golden ringlets in her neck 
 just quickened by her going, 
 
 And appearing to breathe sun for air, 
 and doubting if to float, — 
 
 XXV. 
 
 "With a bunch of dewy maple which 
 
 her right hand held above her, 
 And which trembled, a green shadow, 
 
 in betwixt her and the skies, 
 As she turned her face in going, thus, 
 
 she drew me on to love her. 
 And to worship the diviueness of the 
 
 smile hid in her eyes. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 For her eyes alone smile constantly; 
 her lips have serious sweetness. 
 
 And her front is calm; the dimple 
 rarely ripples on the cheek; 
 
 But lier deep blue eyes smile constant- 
 ly, as if they in discreetness 
 
 Kept tiie secret of a happy dream she 
 did not care to speak. 
 
 xxvii. 
 
 Thus she drew ine, the first morning, 
 out across into the garden, 
 
 Ami I walked among her noble 
 friends, and could not keep be- 
 hind. 
 
 Spake she unto all and unto me, " Be- 
 hold, I am the warden 
 
 Of the song-birds in these lindens, 
 which are cages to their mind. 
 
 xxvni. 
 
 " But within this swarded circle into 
 Avhich the lime-walk brings us, 
 
 Whence the beeches, rounded greenly, 
 stand away in reverent fear, 
 
 I will let no music enter, saving what 
 
 the fountain sings us, 
 Which the lilies round the basin may 
 
 seem pure enough to hear. 
 
 xxix. 
 
 " The live air that waves the lilies 
 waves the slender jet of water. 
 
 Like a holy thought sent feebly up 
 from soul of fasting saint: 
 
 Whereby lies a marble Silence sleep- 
 ing (Lough the sculptor wrought 
 her,) 
 
 So asleep she is forgetting to say 
 ' Hush! ' — a fancy quaint. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 "Mark how heavy white her eyelids! 
 not a dream between them lin- 
 gers; 
 
 And the left hand's index droppeth 
 from the lips upon the cheek; 
 
 While the right hand, with the sym- 
 bol-rose held slack within the 
 fingers, 
 
 Has fallen backward in the basin, — 
 yet this Silence will not speak! 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 " That the essential meaning growing 
 may exceed the special symbol, 
 
 Ls the thought as I conceive it: it ap- 
 plies more high and low. 
 
 Our true noblemen will often through 
 right nobleness grow humble. 
 
 And assert an inward honor by deny- 
 ing outward show." 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 " Nay, your Silence," said I, " truly, 
 
 holds her symbol-rose but 
 
 slackly ; 
 Yet she holds it, or would scarcely be 
 
 a Silence to our ken: 
 And your nobles wear their ermine 
 
 on the outside, or walk blackly 
 In the presence of the social law as 
 
 mere ignoble men. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 " Let the poets dream such dreaming! 
 
 madam, in these British islands 
 'Tis the substance that wanes ever, 
 
 'tis the symbol that exceeds. 
 
i 
 
 LADY GERALDLNE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 Soon we shall have nought but sj'in- 
 hol; and, for statues like this 
 Silence, 
 
 Shall accept the rose's image — in an- 
 other case, the weed's.'" 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 "Not so quickly," she retorted: "I 
 
 confess, where'er you go, you 
 Find for things, names — shows for 
 
 actions, and pure gold for honor 
 
 clear: 
 But, when all is run to symbol in the 
 
 social, I will throw you 
 The world's book which now reads 
 
 dryly, and sit down with Silence 
 
 here." 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Half in playfulness she spoke, I 
 thought, and half in indigna- 
 tion : 
 
 Friends who li.stened, laughed her 
 words of¥, while her lovers 
 deemed her fair, — 
 
 A fair woman, tinshed with feeling, in 
 her nolile-lighted station 
 
 Near the statue's white reposing and 
 both bathed in sunny air ! 
 
 X.XXVI. 
 
 "With the trees round, not so distant 
 but you beard their vernal mur- 
 mur, 
 
 And beheld in light and shadow the 
 leaves in and outward move. 
 
 And the little fountain leaping toward 
 the sun-heart to be warmer. 
 
 Then recoiling in a tremble from the 
 too much light above. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 'Tis a picture for remembrance. And 
 
 thus, morning after morning. 
 Did I follow as she drew me by the 
 
 spirit to her feet. 
 Why, her greyhound followed also ! 
 
 dogs — we both were dogs for 
 
 scorning — 
 To be sent back when she pleased it 
 
 and her path lay through the 
 
 wheat. 
 
 XXX VI II. 
 
 And thus, morning after morning, 
 spite of vows, and si)ite of sor- 
 row. 
 
 Did I follow at her drawing, while the 
 week-days passed along, 
 
 Just to feed the swans this noontide, 
 or to see the fawns to-morrow. 
 
 Or to teach the hillside echo some 
 sweet Tuscan in a song. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Ay; for sometimes on the hillside, 
 
 while we sate down in the 
 
 gowans. 
 With the forest green behind us, and 
 
 its shadow cast before. 
 And the rirer running under, and 
 
 across it, from the rowans, 
 A brown partridge whirring near us 
 
 till we felt the air it bore, — 
 
 XL. 
 
 There, obedient to her praying, did I 
 
 read aloud the poem's 
 Made to Tuscan flutes, or instruments 
 
 more various of our own; 
 Read the pastoral parts of Spenser, or 
 
 the subtle interflowings 
 Found in Petrarch's sonnets — here's 
 
 the book, the leaf is folded 
 
 down ! 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Or at times a modern volume, Words- 
 worth's solemn-thoughted idyl, 
 
 Howitt's ballad-verse, or Tennyson's 
 enchanted revery, 
 
 Or from Browning some " Pomegran- 
 ate,'' which, if cut deep down 
 the middle, 
 
 Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, 
 of a veined humanity. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Or 
 
 at times I read there hoarsely 
 
 some new poem of my making: 
 Poets ever fail in reading their own 
 
 verses to their worth; 
 For the echo in you breaks upon the 
 
 words which you are speaking. 
 And the chariot-wheels jar in the gate 
 
 through which you drive them 
 
 forth. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 After, when we were grown tired of 
 
 books, the silence round us 
 
 flinging 
 A slow arm of sweet compression, felt 
 
 with beatings at the breast, 
 She would break out on a sudden in 
 
 a gush of woodland singing, 
 Like a child's emotion in a god, — a 
 
 naiad tired of rest. 
 
LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSIITP. 
 
 311 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Oil to see or liear lier singling ! scarce 
 I know which is diviuest, 
 
 For her looks sing too — she modu- 
 lates her gestures on the tune, 
 
 And her mouth stirs with the song, 
 like song; and, when the notes 
 are finest, 
 
 'Tis the eyes that shoot out voeal 
 light, and seem to swell them 
 on. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Then we talked — oh, how we talked ! 
 
 her voice, so cadenced in the 
 
 talking, 
 Made another singing — of the soul ! 
 
 a music without bars: 
 While the leafy sounds of woodlands, 
 
 humming round where we were 
 
 walking. 
 Brought interposition worthy-sweet, 
 
 as skies about the stars. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 And 
 
 she spake such good thoughts 
 
 natural, as if she always thought 
 
 them; v 
 
 She had sympathies so rapid, open, 
 
 free as bird on branch, 
 Just as ready to fly east as west, 
 
 whichever way besought them. 
 In the birchen-wood a chirrup, or a 
 
 cock-crow in the grange. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 In lier utmost lightness there is truth, 
 
 and often she speaks lightly, 
 Has a grace in being gay which even 
 
 mournful souls approve; 
 For the root of some grave earnest 
 thought is understruck so right- 
 As to justify the foliage and the wav- 
 ing flowers above. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 And she talked on — we talked, rather! 
 iipon all things, — substance, 
 shadow. 
 
 Of the sheep that browsed the grasses, 
 of the reapers in the corn. 
 
 Of the little children from the schools, 
 seen winding through the mead- 
 ow. 
 
 Of the poor rich world beyond them, 
 still kept poorer by its scorn. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 So of men, and so, of letters — books 
 
 are men of higher stature. 
 And the only men that speak aloud 
 
 for future times to hear; 
 So, of mankind in the abstract, wliicli 
 
 grows slowly into nature, 
 Yet will lift tlie cry of " progress," as 
 
 it trod from sphere to sphere. 
 
 And her custom was to jiraise me 
 when I said, " The age culls sim- 
 ples. 
 
 With a broad clown's back turned 
 broadly to the glory of the stars. 
 
 AVe are gods by our own reck'ning, 
 and may well shut up the tem- 
 ples. 
 
 And wield on, amid the incense- 
 steam, the thunder of our cars. 
 
 LI. 
 
 "For we throw out acclamations of 
 
 self-thanking, self-admiring. 
 With, at every mile run faster, ' Oh 
 
 the wondrous, wondrous age ! ' 
 Little thinking if we work our souls 
 
 as nobly as our iron. 
 Or if angels will commend us at the 
 
 goal of pilgrimage. 
 
 LII. 
 
 " Why, what is this patient entrance 
 
 into Nature's deep resources 
 But the child's most gradual learning 
 
 to walk upright without bane ? 
 When we drive out from the cloud of 
 
 steam majestical white horses. 
 Are we greater than the first men 
 
 who led black ones by the mane? 
 
 LIU. 
 
 " If we trod the deeps of ocean, if we 
 
 struck the stars in rising. 
 If we wrapped the globe intensely 
 
 with one hot electric breath, 
 'Twere but power within our tether, 
 
 No new spirit-power comprising. 
 And in life we were not greater men, 
 
 nor bolder men in death." 
 
 LI v. 
 She was patient with my talking; and 
 
 I loved her, loved her certes 
 As I loved all heavenly objects, with 
 
 uplifted eyes and hands ; 
 
312 
 
 LADY GERALDLXE'S COUIiTSHIP. 
 
 As I loved pure inspirations, loved 
 the graces, loved tlie virtues, 
 
 In a Love content with writing his 
 own name on desert sands. 
 
 LV. 
 
 Or at least I thought so, purely; 
 thought no idiot hope was rais- 
 ing 
 
 Any crown to crown Love's silence, 
 silent Love that sate alone. 
 
 Out, alas ! the stag is like me, ^ he 
 that tries to go on grazing 
 
 "With the great deep gun-wound in 
 his neck, then reels with sud- 
 den moan. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 It was thus I reeled. I told you that 
 her hand had many suitors; 
 
 But she smiles them down imperially, 
 as Venus did the waves, 
 
 And with such a gracious coldness, 
 that they cannot press their fu- 
 tures 
 
 On the present of her courtesy, which 
 yieldingly enslaves. 
 
 Lvn. 
 
 And this morning, as I sat alone with- 
 in the inner chamber 
 
 With the great saloon beyond it, lost 
 in pleasant thought serene. 
 
 For I had been reading Camoens, 
 that poem, you remember, 
 
 Which his lady's eyes are praised in 
 as the sweetest ever seen. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 And the book lay opeii; and my 
 
 thought flew from it, taking 
 
 from it 
 A vibration and ini])ulsion to an end 
 
 beyond its own, 
 As the branch of a green osier, when 
 
 a child would overcome it. 
 Springs up freely from his claspings, 
 
 and goes swinging in the sun. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 As I nuised I heard a muniHir: it 
 
 grew deep as it grew longer, 
 Speakers using earnest language — 
 
 " Lady Geraldine, you icould ! " 
 And I heai'd a voice that pleaded 
 
 ever on in accents stronger. 
 As a sense of reason gave it power to 
 
 make its rhetoric good. 
 
 Well I knew that voice: it was an 
 
 earl's, of soul that matched his 
 
 station, — 
 Soul completed into lordship, might 
 
 and right read on his brow; 
 Very finely courteous: far too proud 
 
 to doubt his domination 
 Of the common people, he atones for 
 
 grandeur by a bow. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 High straight forehead, nose of eagle, 
 
 cold blue eyes of less expression 
 Than resistance, coldly casting off 
 
 the looks of other men, 
 As steel, arrows; unelastic lips, which 
 
 seem to taste possession. 
 And be cautious lest the common air 
 
 should injure or distrain. 
 
 i..xir. 
 
 For tlie rest, accomplished, upright, 
 
 ay, and standing by his order 
 With a bearing not ungraceful; fond 
 
 of art and letters too; 
 Just a good man made a prouil man. 
 
 — as the sandy rocks that border 
 A wild coast, by circumstance's, in a 
 
 regnant ebb and flow. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Thus, I knew that voice, I heard it. 
 and I could not helji the heark- 
 ening: 
 
 In the room I stooil up blindly, and 
 my bvirning heart within 
 
 Seemed to seethe and fuse my senses 
 till they ran on all sides dark- 
 ening. 
 
 And scorched, weighed like melted 
 metal round my feet that stood 
 therein. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 And that voice, I heard it pleading, 
 for love's sake, for wealth, posi- 
 tion. 
 
 For the sake of liberal uses, and great 
 actions to be done — 
 
 And she interrupted gently, " Nay, 
 my lord, the old tradition 
 
 Of your Normans, by some worthier 
 hand than mine is, should be 
 won." 
 
LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 313 
 
 LXV. 
 
 "Ah, tliat white hand!" he said 
 
 quickly; and in his he either 
 
 drew it 
 Or attempted, for with gravity and 
 
 instance she replied, 
 "Nay, indeed, my loi'd, this talk is 
 
 vain, and we had best eschew it, 
 And pass on, like friends, to other 
 
 points less easy to decide." 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 it is 
 
 What he said again, I know not: 
 
 likely that his trouble 
 "Worked his pride up to the surface, 
 
 for she answered in slow scorn, 
 "And your lordship judges rightly. 
 
 Whom I marry, shall be noble. 
 Ay, and wealthy. I shall never blush 
 
 to think how he was born." 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 There I maddened. Her words stung 
 me. Life swept through me in- 
 to fever, 
 
 And my soul sprang up astonished, — 
 sprang fuU-statured in an hour. 
 
 Know you what it is when anguish 
 with apocalyptic never 
 
 To a Pythian height dilates you, and 
 desiiair sublimes to power ? 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 From my brain the soul-wings 
 
 budded, waved a flame about 
 
 my body. 
 Whence conventions coiled to ashes. 
 
 I felt self-drawn out, as man. 
 From amalgamate false natures, and 
 
 I saw the skies grow ruddy 
 With the deepening feet of angels, 
 
 and I knew what spirits can. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 I was mad, inspired, say either! (an- 
 guish worketh insjiiration) 
 
 Was a man or beast. — perhaps so, for 
 the tiger roars when speared; 
 
 And I walked on step by step along 
 the level of my passion — 
 
 Oh ray soul ! and passed the doorway 
 to her face, and never feared. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 He had left her, ijeradventure, when 
 
 my footstep proved my coming," 
 But for her — she half arose, then sate, 
 
 grew scarlet, and grew pale. 
 Oh, she trembled ! 'tis so always with 
 
 a worldly man or woman 
 In the presence of true spirits : what 
 
 else fan they do but quail ? 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 Oh ! she fluttered like a tame bird in 
 
 among its forest brothers 
 Far too strong for it; then drooping, 
 
 bowed her face upon her hands; 
 And I spake out wildly, fiercely, 
 
 brutal truths of her and others: 
 /, she planted in the desert, swathed 
 
 her, windlike, with my sands. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 I plucked up her social fictions, 
 bloody-rooted, though leaf-ver- 
 dant, 
 
 Trod them down with words of sham- 
 ing, — all the purple and the 
 gold, 
 
 All the "landed stakes" and lord- 
 ships, — all that spirits pure and 
 ardent 
 
 Are cast out of love and honor because 
 chancing not to hold. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 " For myself I. do not argue," said I, 
 
 " though I love you, madam. 
 But for better souls that nearer to the 
 
 height of yours have trod: 
 And this age shows, to my thinking, 
 
 still more infidels to Adam, 
 Than, directly by profession, simple 
 
 infidels to God. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 ' I said, 
 
 O grave! " I 
 mother's heart and 
 
 " Yet, O God! ' 
 
 said, "O 
 
 bosom! 
 With whom first and last are equal, 
 
 saint and corpse and little child. 
 We are fools to your deductions in 
 
 these figments of heart closing; 
 We are traitors to your causes in 
 
 these sympatliies defiled. 
 
314 
 
 LADY GERALD INK'S COURTSlIir 
 
 tiXXV. 
 
 " Learn more reverence, madam, not 
 for rank or wealth, that needs no 
 learning, — 
 
 That comes quickly, quick as sin does, 
 ay, and culminates to sin, — 
 
 But for Adam's seed, max! Trust me, 
 'tis a clay above your scorning, 
 
 "With God's image stamped upon it, 
 and God's kindling breath with- 
 in. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 " "What right have you, madam, gaz- 
 ing in your palace mirror daily, 
 
 Getting so bj' heart your beauty which 
 all others must adore, 
 
 While j'ou draw the golden ringlets 
 down your fingers, tovowgayly 
 
 You will wed no man that's only good 
 to God, and nothing more ? 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 " "Why, what right have you. made 
 
 fair by that same God, the 
 
 sweetest woman 
 Of all women he has fashioned, with 
 
 your lovely spirit-face, 
 "Which would seem too near to vanish, 
 
 if its smile were not so human. 
 And your voice of holy sweetness, 
 
 turning common words to grace, 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 " What right can you have, God's 
 
 other works to scorn, despise, 
 
 revile them, 
 In the gross, as mere men, broadly, 
 
 not as noble men, forsooth ; 
 As mere pariahs of the outer world, 
 
 forbidden to assoil them 
 In the hope of living, dying, near that 
 
 sweetness of vour mouth '.' 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 " Have you any answer, madam ? If 
 my spirit were less earthly. 
 
 If its instrument were gifted with a 
 better silver string, 
 
 I would kneel down where I 
 
 and say, 'Behold me! 
 worthy 
 Of thy loving, for I love thee, 
 worth V as a kins;.' 
 
 stand, 
 I am 
 
 I am 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 ' As it is, your ermined pride I swear, 
 
 shall feel this stain upon her. 
 That /, poor, weak, tost with passion, 
 
 scorned by me and you again. 
 Love you, madain, dare to love you, 
 
 to my grief and your di.shonor. 
 To my endless desolation, and j'i.>ur 
 
 impotent disdain." 
 
 I.XXXI. 
 
 More mad words like these, — mere 
 
 madness ! friend, I need not 
 
 write them fuller. 
 For I hear my hot soul dropping on 
 
 the lines in showers of tears. 
 Oh, a woman! friend, a woman! why, 
 
 a beast had scarce been duller 
 Than roar bestial loud complaints 
 
 agaiust the shining of the 
 
 spheres. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 But at last there came a pause. I 
 stood all vibrating with thunder 
 
 Which my soul had used. The silence 
 drew her face up like a call. 
 
 Could you guess what word she ut- 
 tered ? She looked up, as if in 
 wonder, 
 
 With tears beaded on Iier lashes, and 
 said, " Bertram! " it was all. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 If she had cursed me, — and she might 
 have, — or if even, with queenly 
 bearing 
 
 Which at need is used by women, she 
 had risen uj) and said. 
 
 " Sir, you are my guest, and therefore 
 i have given you a full hearing: 
 
 Now, beseech you. choose a name ex- 
 acting somewhat less, instead," 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 I had borne it : but that " Bertram " — 
 why, it lies there on tlie paper, 
 
 A mere word, without her accent, and 
 you cannot judge tlie weight 
 
 Of the calm wliich crushed my pas- 
 sion. I seemed drowning in a 
 vapor, 
 
 And lier gentleness destroyed me, 
 whom her scorn made desolate. 
 
 <> 
 

 LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 O 1 " 
 
 I 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 So, struck backward and exhausted 
 by that inward flow of passion, 
 
 "Which had rushed on, sparing noth- 
 ing, into forms of abstract truth. 
 
 By a logic agonizing through unseemly 
 demonstration. 
 
 And by youth's own anguish turning 
 grimly gray the hairs of youth, 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 By the sense accursed and instant, 
 
 that, if even I spake Avisely, 
 I spake basely — using truth, if what I 
 
 spake indeed was true. 
 To avenge wrong on a woman — her, 
 
 who sate there weighing nicely 
 A poor manhood's worth, found guiltj^ 
 
 of such deeds as I could do ! — 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 By such wrong and woe exhausted — 
 
 what I suffered and occasioned, 
 As a wild horse through a city runs 
 
 with lightning in his eyes. 
 And then dashing at a church's cold 
 
 and passive wall, impassioned, 
 Strikes the death into his burning 
 
 brain, and blindly drops and 
 
 dies — 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 So I fell, struck down before her — 
 
 do you blame me, friend, for 
 
 weakness ? 
 'Twas my strength of passion slew 
 
 me — fell before her like a 
 
 stone; 
 Fast the dreadful world rolled from 
 
 me on its roaring wheels of 
 
 blackness: 
 When the light came, I was lying in 
 
 this chamber, and alone. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Oh, of course she charged her lackeys 
 
 to bear out the sickly burden, 
 And to cast it from her scornful sight, 
 
 but not beyond the gate; 
 She is too kind to be cruel, ami too 
 
 haughty not to pardon 
 Such a man as I: 'twere sumething to 
 
 be level to her hate. 
 
 xc. 
 
 But for me — you now are conscious 
 why, my friend, I write this let- 
 ter. 
 
 How my life is read all backward, and 
 the charm of life undone. 
 
 I shall leave her house at dawn, — I 
 would to-night, if I were bet- 
 ter, — 
 
 And I charge my soul to hold my body 
 strengthened for the sun. 
 
 xci. 
 
 When the sun has dyed the oriel, I 
 
 depart, with no last gazes, 
 No weak inoanings (one word only, 
 
 left in writing for lier hands). 
 Out of reach of all derision, and some 
 
 unavailing praises, 
 To make front against this anguish in 
 
 the far and foreign lands. 
 
 XCII. 
 
 Blame me not. I would not squander 
 life in grief — I am abstemious. 
 
 I but nurse iny spirit's falcon that its 
 wing may soar again. 
 
 There's no room for tears of weak- 
 ness in the blind eyes of a Plie- 
 mius : 
 
 Into work the poet kneads them, and 
 he does not die till tJtcn. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Bek 
 
 Still 
 
 I'RAM finished the last pages, 
 while along the silence ever, 
 in hot and heavy splashes, fell 
 the tears on every leaf. 
 Having ended, he leans backward in 
 
 his chair, with lips that quiver 
 From the deep unspoken, ay, and 
 deep unwritten, thoughts of 
 grief. 
 
 II. 
 
 Soli ! How still the lady standeth ! 
 'Tis a dream. — a dream of mer- 
 cies ! 
 
 'Twixt the ijurple lattice-curtains how 
 she .standeth still and pale ! 
 
 'Tis a vision, sure, of mercies sent to 
 soften his self curses, 
 
 Sent to sweep a patient quiet o'er the 
 tossing of his wail. 
 
L 
 
 316 
 
 LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 III. 
 
 "Eyes," lie said, "now throbbing 
 
 throiigh me, are ye eyes tliat 
 
 did undo me ? — 
 Shining eyes, like antique jewels set 
 
 in Parian statue-stone ! 
 Underneath that calm white forehead 
 
 are ye ever burning torrid 
 O'er the desolate sand-desert of my 
 
 heart and life undone ? " 
 
 IV. 
 
 "With a murmurous stir uncertain, in 
 
 the air the purple curtain 
 Swelleth in and swelleth out around 
 
 her motionless pale brows, 
 While the gliding of the river sends a 
 
 ripiiling noise forever 
 Through the open casement whitened 
 
 by the moonlight's slant repose. 
 
 Said he, "Vision of a lady, stand 
 
 there silent, stand there steady ! 
 Now I see it plainly, plainly, now I 
 
 cannot hope or doubt — 
 There, the brows of mild repression; 
 
 there, the lips of silent passion. 
 Curved like an archer's bow to send 
 
 the bitter arrows out." 
 
 VI. 
 
 slow 
 
 Ever, evermore the while, in a 
 
 silence she kept smiling, 
 And approached him slowly, slowlj-, 
 
 in a gliding, measured pace. 
 With her two white hands extended, 
 
 as if, praying one offended. 
 And a look of suiiplication gazing 
 
 earnest in his face. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Said he, " Wake me by no gesture, 
 sound of breath, or stir of ves- 
 ture ! 
 
 Let the blessed apparition melt not 
 yet to its divine ! 
 
 No approaching — hush, no breathing, 
 or my heart must swoon to 
 death in 
 
 The too utter life thou bringest, O 
 thou dream of Geraldiue ! " 
 
 vin. 
 
 Ever, evermore the while, in a slow 
 
 silence she kept smiling; 
 But the tears ran over lightly from 
 
 her eyes, and tenderly: — 
 " Dost thou, Bertram, truly love me ? 
 
 Is no woman far above me 
 Found more worthy of thy poet-heart 
 
 than such a one as I? " 
 
 IX. 
 
 Said he, "I would dream so ever, 
 like the flowing of that river, 
 
 Flowing ever in a shadow greenly 
 onward to the sea ! 
 
 So, thou vision of all sweetness, 
 princely to a full complete- 
 ness. 
 
 Would my heart and life flow on- 
 ward, deathward, through this 
 dream of thee ! " 
 
 X. 
 
 Ever, evermore the while, in a slow 
 
 silence she kept smiling. 
 While the silver tears ran faster down 
 
 the blushing of her cheeks ; 
 Then, with both her hands infolding 
 
 both of his, she softly told him, 
 "Bertram, if I say I love thee, . . . 
 
 'tis the Aision onlj' speaks." 
 
 XI. 
 
 Softened, quickened to adore her, on 
 
 his knee he fell before her; 
 And she whispered low in triumph, 
 
 " It shall be as I have sworn. 
 Very rich he is in virtues, very noble, 
 
 — noble, certes; 
 And I shall not blush in knowing 
 
 that men call him lowly born." 
 
" And appru;iLiu;d him slowly, slowly, in a gliding, measured 
 pace." — Page 516. 
 
THE RUNAAV AY SLAVE AT PILGPJMS 
 
 POINT. 
 
 I STAJTD on the mark beside the shore 
 Of the first white pilgrim's bended 
 knee, 
 "Where exile turned to ancestor, 
 
 And God was thanked for liberty. 
 I have run through the night, my skin 
 
 is as dark, 
 I bend my knee down on this mai'k: 
 I look on the skv and the sea. 
 
 II. 
 
 O pilgrim-sonls, I speak to you ! 
 
 I see you come proud and slow 
 From tiie land of the spirits pale as 
 dew, 
 And round nw, and round me, ye go. 
 O pilgrims ! I have gasjied and run 
 All night long from the whips of one, 
 Who, in your names, works sin and 
 woe. 
 
 III. 
 
 And thus I thought that I would come. 
 And kneel here where ye knelt be- 
 fore, 
 And feel your souls around me hum 
 
 In undertone to the ocean's roar, 
 And lift my black face, my black hand, 
 Here, in your names, to curse this 
 land 
 Ye blessed in freedom's, evermore. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I am black, I am black; 
 
 And yet God made me, they say: 
 But, if he did so, smiling back 
 
 He must have cast his work away 
 Under the feet of his white creatures. 
 With a look of scorn, that the dusky 
 features 
 
 Might be trodden again to clav. 
 
 And yet he has made dark things 
 
 To be glad and merry as light: 
 There's a little dark bird sits and 
 sings; 
 There's a dark '.stream ripples out 
 of sight; 
 And the dark frogs chant in the safe 
 
 morass; 
 And the sweetest stars are made to 
 pas^ 
 O'er the face of the darkest night. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But ice who are dark, we are dark ! 
 
 Ah God, we have no stars ! 
 About our souls in care and cark 
 
 Our blackness shuts like prison- 
 bars: 
 The poor souls crouch so far behind 
 That never a comfort can they find 
 
 By reaching through the pris'on-bars. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Indeed, we live beneath the sky. 
 That great smooth hand of God 
 stretched out 
 On all his children fatherly, 
 To save them from the dread and 
 doubt 
 Whicli would be, if, from this low 
 
 place, 
 All opened straight up to his face 
 Into the grand eternitv. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And still God's sunshine and his frost. 
 They make us hot, they make us 
 cold. 
 As if we were not black and lost; 
 And the beasts and birds in wood 
 and fold 
 
 317 
 
318 
 
 Tin: RUXAWAY SLAVE AT PILGRIM'S POINT. 
 
 Do fear, and take us for very men: 
 Could the weep-poor-will or the cat 
 of the glen 
 Look into iny eyes, and he hold ? 
 
 IX. 
 
 I am black, I am black ! 
 
 But once I laughed in girlish glee, 
 For one of my color stood in the track 
 Where the drivers drove, and 
 looked at me ; 
 And tender and full was the look he 
 
 gave: 
 Could a slave look so at another slave ? 
 I look at the skv and the sea. 
 
 X. 
 
 And from that hour our spirits grew 
 As free as if unsold, unbought: 
 
 Oh, strong enough, since we were two, 
 To conquer the world, we thought ! 
 
 The drivers drove us day by day : 
 
 "We did not mind, we went one way, 
 And no better a freedom sought. 
 
 XX. 
 
 In the sunny ground between the 
 canes, 
 He said, " I love you," as he passed; 
 "When the shingle-roof rang sharp with 
 the rains. 
 I heard how he vowed it fast; 
 "While others shook, he smiled in the 
 
 hut, 
 As he carved me a bowl of the cocoa- 
 nut, 
 Through the roar of the hurricanes. 
 
 xn. 
 
 I sang his name instead of a song, 
 Over and over I sang his name; 
 
 Upward and downward I drew it 
 along 
 My various notes, — the same, the 
 
 same ! 
 
 I sang it low, that the slave-girls near 
 Might never guess from aught they 
 could hear 
 It was only a name — a name. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 I look on the sky and the sea. 
 
 "We were two to love, and two 
 pray. 
 Yes, two, O God, who cried to thee 
 
 Though nothing didst thou say! 
 
 to 
 
 Coldly thou sat'st behind the sun; 
 And now I crj-, who am but one, 
 Thou wilt not speak to-day. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 "V\"e were black, we were black ! 
 
 AVe had no claim to love and bliss; 
 "What marvel if each went to wrack ? 
 They wrung my cold hands out of 
 his. 
 They dragged him — where? I 
 
 crawled to touch 
 His blood's mark in the dust . . . not 
 much, 
 Ye pilgrim-souls, though plain as 
 this! 
 
 XV. 
 
 "S\^rong, followed by a deeper wrong ! 
 
 Mere grief's too good for such as I: 
 So the white men brought the shame 
 ere long 
 
 To sti-angle the sol) of my agony. 
 They would not leave me for my dull 
 "Wet eyes! — it was too merciful 
 
 To let me weep pure tears, and die. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 I am black, I am black ! 
 
 I wore a child upon my breast. 
 An amulet that hung too slack, 
 
 And in my unrest could not rest: 
 Thus we went moaning, child and 
 
 mother. 
 One to another, one to another, 
 
 Until all ended for the best. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 For hark! I will tell you low, low, 
 
 I am black, j'ou see; 
 And the l)abe who lay on my bosom so 
 Was far too white, too white for 
 me, — 
 As white as the ladies who scorned to 
 
 pray 
 Beside me at church but yesterday, 
 Though my tears had washed a 
 jiiace for my knee. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 My own, own child ! I could not bear 
 To look in his face, it was so white: 
 
 I covered him up with a kerchief 
 there. 
 I covered his face in close and tight; 
 
i 
 
 THE RUXAWAY SLAVE AT PILGRIM'S POINT. 
 
 319 
 
 And he moaned and struggled, as well 
 might be, 
 
 For the white child wanted his liber- 
 ty - 
 Ha, ha ! he wanted the master-right. 
 
 XIX . 
 
 He moaned, and beat with his head 
 and feet, — 
 His little feet that never grew ; 
 He struck them out, as it was meet. 
 Against my heart to break it 
 through. 
 I might have sung and made him 
 
 mild ; 
 But I dared not sing to the white- 
 faced child 
 The only song I knew. 
 
 XX. 
 
 I pulled the kerchief very close: 
 
 He could not see the sun, I swear, 
 More then, alive, than now he does 
 From between the roots of the man- 
 go .. . where ? 
 I know where. Close ! A child and 
 
 mother 
 Do wrong to look at one another, 
 When one is black, and one is fair. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 "Why, in that single glance I had 
 Of mv child's face ... I tell vou 
 all, 
 I saw a look that made me mad ! — 
 
 The master's look, that used to fall 
 On my soul like his lash . . . or 
 
 worse ! 
 And so, to save it from my curse, 
 I twisted it round in my shawl. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 And he moaned, and trembled from 
 foot to head, 
 He shivered from head to foot; 
 Till, after a time, he lay instead 
 Too suddenly still and mute. 
 I felt, beside, a stiffening cold ; 
 I dared to lift up just a fold. 
 As in lifting a. leaf of the mango- 
 fruit. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 But »??/ fruit . . . ha, ha ! — there had 
 been 
 
 (I laugh to think on't at this hour !) 
 Your fine white angels (who have seen 
 
 Nearest the secret of God's power) 
 
 And plucked my fruit to make them 
 
 wine. 
 And sucked the soul of that child of 
 
 mine 
 As the humming-bird sucks the 
 
 soul of the flower. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Ha, ha, the trick of the angels white ! 
 They freed the white child's spirit 
 so. 
 I said not a word, but day and night 
 
 I carried the body to and fro. 
 And it lay on my heart like a stone, 
 
 as ciiill. 
 — The sun may shine out as much as 
 he will: 
 I am cold, though it happened a 
 month ago. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 From the white man's house, and the 
 blackmail's hut, 
 I carried the little botly on ; 
 The forest's arms did round us shut, 
 And silence through the trees did 
 run : 
 They asked no question as I went. 
 They stood too high for astonishment: 
 They could see God sit on his 
 throne. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 My little body, kerchiefed fast, 
 
 I Itore it on through the forest, on; 
 And when I felt it was tired at last, 
 
 I scooped a hole beneath the moon: 
 
 Through the forest-tops the angels far. 
 
 With a white sharp finger from every 
 
 star. 
 
 Did point and mock at what was 
 
 done. 
 
 .vxvii. 
 
 Yet when it was all done aright, — 
 Earth 'twixt me and my baby 
 strewed, — 
 All changed to black earth, — noth- 
 ing white, — 
 A dark child in the dark ! — ensued 
 Some comfort, and my heart grew 
 
 young: 
 I sate down smiling there, and sung 
 The song I learnt in my maiden- 
 hood. 
 
i 
 
 320 
 
 THE RUNAWAY SLAVE AT PILGRIM'S I'OINT. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Ami tlius we two were reconciled, — 
 The white chiUl and black mother, 
 thus ; 
 
 For, as I sang it soft and wild, 
 The same song, more melodious, 
 
 ^ose from the grave whereon I sate : 
 
 It was tlie dead child singing that, 
 To join the souls of both of us. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 vlook on tlie sea and the sky. 
 Where the pilgrims' ships first 
 anchored lay 
 The free sue rideth gloriously. 
 But the pilgrim-ghosts have slid 
 away 
 Through the earliest streaks of the 
 
 morn : 
 My face is black; l:ut it glares with a 
 scorn 
 Which they dare not meet by day. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 stead 
 
 their hunter 
 
 Ha! — in their 
 sons ! 
 Ha, ha ! they are on me — they hunt 
 in a ring !, 
 Keep off ! I brave you all at once, 
 I throw off your eyes like snakes 
 that sting ! 
 You have killed the black eagle at 
 
 nest, I think: 
 Did you ever stand still in your tri- 
 umph, and shrink 
 From the stroke of her wounded 
 wing? 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 (Man, drop that stone vou dared to 
 lift !) 
 I wish you who stand there five 
 abreast. 
 Each for his own wife's joy and gift, 
 
 A little corpse as safely at rest 
 As mine in the mangoes ! Yes, but 
 
 she 
 May keep live babies on her knee. 
 And sing the song she likes the 
 best. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 I am not mad: I am black ! 
 
 I see you staring in m.y face — 
 I know you staring, shrinking back, 
 
 Ye are born of the Washington- 
 race, 
 
 And this land is the free America, 
 And this mark on my wrist — (I prove 
 what I say) 
 Ropes tied me up here to the flog- 
 ging-place. 
 
 You 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 shrieked 
 
 then ■? Not a 
 
 think I 
 sounil ! 
 I hung, as a gourd hangs in the 
 sun ; 
 I only cursed them all around 
 
 As softly as I might have done 
 My very own child : from these sands 
 Up to the mountains, lift your hands, 
 O slaves, and end what I begun ! 
 
 xxxiv. 
 
 these 
 
 must answer 
 
 Whips, curses: 
 those ! 
 
 For in this Union you have set 
 Two kinds of men in adverse rows, 
 Each loathing each, and all forget 
 The seven wounds in Christ's body 
 
 fair. 
 While Hk sees gaping everywhere 
 Our countless wounds that pay no 
 debt. 
 
 Our 
 
 xxxv. 
 
 are different. 
 
 You 
 
 wounds 
 white men 
 Are, after all, not gods indeed, 
 Nor able to make Christs again 
 Do good with bleeding. We who 
 bleed 
 (Stand off !) we help not in our loss ! 
 We are too heavy for our cross. 
 And fall and crush you and your 
 seed. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 I fall, I swoon! I look at the sky. 
 "The clouds are breaking on my 
 brain. 
 I am floated along, as if I should die 
 
 Of liberty's exquisite pain. 
 In the name of the white child wait- 
 ing for me 
 In the death-dark, where we may kiss 
 
 and agree. 
 White men, I leave you all curse- free 
 In my broken heart's disdain. 
 
THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 
 
 " 4>ev, <l>ev, Tc npoaSepKeaOe fi' OfXfiacrif, TfKva' " — MRDEA. 
 
 Do ye hear the children weeping, O 
 my brothers, 
 Ere the sorrow comes with years? 
 They are leaning their young heads 
 against their mothers, 
 And that cannot stop tlieir tears. 
 The young lambs are bleating in the 
 meadows ; 
 The young birds are chirping in the 
 nest; 
 The young fawns are playing with the 
 shadows; 
 The young flowers are blowing 
 — toward the west : 
 But the young, young children, O my 
 brothers ! 
 They are weeping bitterly. 
 They are weeping in the playtime of 
 the others, 
 In the country of the free. 
 
 II. 
 
 Do you question tlie young children 
 in the sorrow, 
 Whj' their tears are falling so ? 
 The old man may weep for his to- 
 morrow 
 Which is lost in long ago; 
 The old tree is leatiess in the forest; 
 
 The old year is ending in the frost; 
 The old wound, if stricken, is the 
 sorest; 
 The old hope is hardest to be lost: 
 But the young, young children, O my 
 brothers ! 
 Do you ask them why they stand 
 Weeping sore before the bosoms of 
 their mothers. 
 In our hai>py fatherland ? 
 
 III. 
 
 They look up with their pale and 
 sunken faces; 
 And their looks are sad to see. 
 For the man's hoary anguish draws 
 and presses 
 Down the cheeks of infancy. 
 
 <> 
 
 " Your old earth," tliey say, " is very 
 dreary; 
 Our young feet," they say, " are 
 very weak ; 
 Few paces have we taken ,y et ar(i weary ; 
 
 Our grave-rest is very far to seek. 
 Ask the aged why they weep, an<l not 
 tlie children; 
 For the outside earth is cold. 
 And we young ones stand without in 
 our bewildering. 
 And tlie graves are for the oltl." 
 
 IV. 
 
 "True," say the children, "it may 
 happen 
 That we die before our time: 
 Little Alice died last year; her grave 
 is shapen 
 Like a snowball in the rime. 
 We looked into the pit prepared to 
 take her: 
 Was no room for any work in the 
 close clay: 
 From the sleep wherein she lieth, 
 none will wake her, 
 Crying,'Getup,little Alice! it is day.' 
 If you listen by that grave, in sun and 
 shower. 
 With your ear down, little Alice 
 never cries. 
 Could we see her face, be sure we 
 should not know her, 
 For the smile has time for growing 
 in her eyes; 
 And merry go lier moments, lulled 
 and stilled in 
 The shroud by the kirk-chime. 
 It is good when it happens," say the 
 children, 
 " That we die before our time." 
 
 Alas, alas, the children ! They are 
 seeking 
 Death in life, as best to have. 
 They are binding up their hearts away 
 from breaking, 
 With a cerement from the grave. 
 321 
 
 I 
 
322 
 
 THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 
 
 Go out, children, from the mine and 
 from the city; 
 Sing out, children, as the little 
 thrushes do; 
 Pluck your handfuls of the meadow- 
 cowslips pretty; 
 Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let 
 them through. 
 But they answer, " Are your cowslips 
 of the meadows 
 Like our weeds anear the mine ? 
 Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal- 
 shadows, 
 From your pleasures fair and fine. 
 
 rr. 
 " For oh ! " say the children, " we are 
 weary, 
 And we cannot run or leap: 
 If we cared for any meadows, it were 
 merely 
 To drop down in them, and sleep. 
 Our knees tremble sorely in the stoop- 
 ing; 
 We fall upon our faces, trying to go; 
 And, underneath our heavy eyelids 
 drooping, 
 The reddest flower would look as 
 pale as snow; 
 For all day we drag our burden tiring. 
 Through the coal-dark, under- 
 ground ; 
 Or all day we drive the wheels of iron 
 In the factories, round and round. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " For all day the wheels are droning, 
 turning ; 
 Their wind comes in our faces. 
 Till our hearts turn, our heads with 
 pulses burning. 
 And the walls turn in their places. 
 Turns the sky in the high window 
 blank and reeling, 
 Turns the long light that drops 
 adown the wall, 
 Turn the black flies that crawl along 
 the ceiling, — 
 All are turning, all the day, and we 
 with all. 
 And a;ll day the iron wheels are dron- 
 
 And sometimes we could pray, 
 ' O ye wheels ' (breaking out in a mad 
 nioauing), 
 ' Stop ! be silent for to-day ! ' " 
 
 vm. 
 
 Ay, be silent ! Let them hear each 
 other breathing 
 For a moment, mouth to mouth ; 
 Let them touch each other's hands, in 
 a fresh wreathing 
 Of their tender luuuan youth ; 
 Let them feel that this cold metallic 
 motion 
 Is not all the life God fashions or 
 reveals ; 
 Let them prove their living souls 
 against the notion 
 That they live in you, or under you, 
 O wheels ! 
 Still, all day, the iron wheelsgo onward. 
 Grinding life down from its mark; 
 And the children's souls, which God 
 is calling sunward. 
 Spin on blindly in the dark. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Now tell the poor young children, O 
 my brothers, 
 To look up to Him, and pray; 
 So the blessed One wlio blesseth all 
 the others 
 "SVill bless them another day. 
 They answer, "Who is God, that he 
 should hear us 
 While the rushing of the iron wheels 
 is stirred ? 
 When we sob aloud, the human crea- 
 tures near us 
 Pass by, hearing not, or answer not 
 a word; 
 And loe hear not (for the wheels in 
 their resounding) 
 Strangers sjieaking at the door. 
 Is it likely God, with angels singing 
 round him. 
 Hears our weeping any more ? 
 
 " Two words, indeed, of jirayiug we 
 remember; 
 And at midnight's hour of harm, 
 ' Our Father,' looking upward in the 
 chamber. 
 We say softly for a charm. i 
 
 ' A fact rendered pathetically historical 
 by Mr. Home's report of his commission. 
 The name of the poet, of "Orion" and 
 " Cosmo de' Medici " has, however, a change 
 of associations, and comes in time to re- 
 mind me that we have some noble poetic 
 heat of literature still, however open to the 
 reproach of being somewhat gelid in our 
 humanity. — 1844. 
 
A CHILD ASLEEP. 
 
 523 
 
 We know no other words except ' Our 
 Father;' 
 And we think, that, in some pause 
 of angels' song, 
 God may phick them witli the silence 
 sweet to gather. 
 And hokl both within his right 
 hand, which is strong. 
 ' Our Father ! ' If he heard us, he 
 would surely 
 (For they call him good and mild) 
 Answer, smiling down the_ steep 
 world very i:)urely, 
 ' Come and rest with me, my child.' 
 
 XI. 
 
 " But, no ! " say the children, weep- 
 ing faster, 
 " He is speechless as a stone; 
 And they tell us, of his image is the 
 master 
 "Who commands us to work on. 
 Go to ! " say the children, — " up in 
 heaven, 
 Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds 
 are all we find. 
 Do not mock us: grief has made us 
 
 unbelieving: 
 We look up for God; but tears have 
 
 made us blind." 
 Do you hear the children weeping and 
 disproving, 
 O my brothers, what ye preach ? 
 For God's possible is taught by his 
 world's loving — 
 And the children doubt of each. 
 
 XII. 
 
 And well may the children weep be- 
 fore you ! 
 They are weary ere they run ; 
 They have never seen the sunshine, 
 nor the glory 
 Which is Ijrigiiter than the sun. 
 They know the grief of man, without 
 its wisdom ; 
 They sink in man's despair, without 
 its calm; 
 Are slaves, without the liberty in 
 Christdom; 
 Are martyrs, by the pang without 
 the palm: 
 Are worn as if with age, yet unre- 
 trievingly 
 The harvest of its memories can- 
 not reap; 
 Are orphans of the earthly love and 
 heavenly — 
 Let them weep ! let them weep ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 They look up with their pale and 
 sunken faces, 
 And their look is dread to see. 
 For they mind you of their angels in 
 high places. 
 With eyes turned on Deity. 
 "How long," they say, "how long, 
 O cruel nation. 
 Will you stand, to move the world 
 on a child's heart, — 
 Stifle down with a mailed heel its pal- 
 pitation, 
 And tread onward to your throne 
 amid the mart ? 
 Our blood splashes upward, O gold- 
 heaper. 
 And your purple shows your path ! 
 But the child's sob in the silence 
 curses (lcc}iiT 
 Than the strong man in his 
 wrath." 
 
 A CHILD ASLEEP. 
 
 How he sleepeth, having drunken 
 Weary childhood's mandragore ! 
 From its pretty eyes have sunken 
 Pleasures to make room for more ; 
 Sleeping near the withered nosegay 
 which he pulled the day before. 
 
 II. 
 
 Nosegays ! leave them for the wak- 
 ing; 
 Throw them earthward where 
 they grew : 
 Dim are such beside the breaking 
 Amaranths he looks unto: 
 Folded eyes see brighter colors than 
 the ojien ever do. 
 
 in. 
 
 Heaven-flowers rayed by shadows 
 golden 
 From the palms they sprang be- 
 neath, 
 Now, perhaps, divinely holden. 
 Swing against him in a wreath: 
 We may think so from the quicken- 
 ing of his bloom and of his 
 breath. 
 
I 
 
 324 
 
 THE FOURFOLD ASPECT. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Vision unto vision calletli 
 Wliile the yonng child dreameth 
 on: 
 Fair, O dreamer, thee befalleth 
 With the glory thou hast won ! 
 Darker wast thou in the garden yes- 
 terniorn bv summer-sun. 
 
 V. 
 
 "We should see the spirits ringing 
 Round thee, were the clouds 
 away : 
 'Tis the child-heart draws them, 
 singing 
 In the silent-seeming clay — 
 Singing ! stars that seem the mutest 
 WQ i7i music all the way. 
 
 VI. 
 
 As the moths around a taj^er, 
 As the bees around a rose, 
 As the gnats around a vapor, 
 So the spirits group and close 
 Round about a holj^ childhood as \i 
 drinking its repose. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Shapes of brightness overlean thee, 
 
 Flash their diadems of youtli 
 On the ringlets which half screen 
 thee. 
 While thou smilest . . . not in 
 sooth 
 T]nj smile, but the overfair one, dropt 
 from some ethereal mouth. 
 
 viir. 
 
 Haply it is angels' duty. 
 
 During slumber, shade by shade 
 To fine down this childish beauty 
 To the thing it must be made 
 ?>r<' the world shall bring it praises, 
 or the tomb shall see it fade. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Softly, softly ! make no noises ! 
 Now he lieth dead and dumb; 
 Now he hears the angels' voices 
 Folding silence iu the room; 
 Now he muses deep the meaning of 
 the hoavon-^vords as they come. 
 
 Speak not ! he is consecrated; 
 
 Breathe no breath across his ej'es: 
 Lifted up and separated 
 On the liand of God he lies 
 In a sweetness beyond touching held 
 in cloistral sanctities. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Could ye bless him, fatlier, mother — 
 
 Bless the dimple in his cheek ? 
 Dare ye look at one another, 
 And the benediction speak ? 
 Would ye not break out in weeping, 
 and confess yourselves too 
 weak ? 
 
 XII. 
 
 He is harmless, ye are sinful; 
 Ye are troubled, he at ease: 
 From his slumber, virtue winful 
 Floweth outward with increase. 
 Dare not bless him ! but be blessed by 
 his iieace, and go in peace. 
 
 THE FOURFOLD ASPFXTC. 
 
 Whkn ye stood up in the house 
 
 With your little childish feet, 
 And, in touching life's first shows, 
 
 First the touch of love did meet, — 
 Love and nearness seeming one. 
 
 By tlie heartlight cast before, 
 And of all beloveds, none 
 
 Standing farther than the door; 
 Not a name being dear to thought, 
 
 With its owner l>eyoud call ; 
 Not a face, unless it brought 
 
 Its own shadow to the wall; 
 AVhen tlie worst recorded change 
 
 Was of apple dropt from bough. 
 When love's sorrow seemed more 
 strange 
 
 Than love's treason can seem 
 now: 
 Then, tlie Loving took you up 
 
 Soft, upon their elder knees, 
 Telling why the statues droop 
 
 rndcrneath the clnirchyard trees, 
 
 i 
 
HI-»H 
 
 TIIF. FOURFOLD ASPFCT. 
 
 325 
 
 And how ye must lie beneath tlieni 
 Through the winters long and 
 deep, 
 Till the last trump overbrcatho 
 them, 
 And ye smile out of your sleep. 
 Oh, ye lifted up your head, and it 
 seemed as if they said 
 A tale of faiiy ships 
 
 With a swan-wing for a sail; 
 
 Oh, ye kissed their loving lips 
 
 For the merry, merry tale — 
 
 So carelessly ye thought upon the 
 
 dead. 
 
 II. 
 
 Soon ye read in solemn stories 
 
 Of the men of long ago, 
 Of the pale bewildering glories 
 
 Shining farther than we know; 
 Of the heroes with the laurel, 
 
 Of the poets with the bay. 
 Of the two world's earnest quar- 
 rel 
 For that lieauteous Helena; 
 How Achilles at the poi'tal 
 
 Of the tent heard footsteps nigh. 
 And his strong heart, half-immor- 
 tal, 
 Met the ktitai with a cry; 
 How Ulysses left the sunlight 
 
 For the pale eidola race. 
 Blank and passive through the dun 
 light. 
 Staring blindly in his face; 
 How that true wife said to Ptetus, 
 With calm smile and wounded 
 heart, 
 '■ Sweet, it hurts not ! " How Ad- 
 metus 
 Saw his blessed one depart: 
 How King Arthur proved his mis- 
 sion. 
 And Sir Roland wound his horn. 
 And at Sangreal's moony vision 
 Swords (lid bristle round like 
 corn. 
 Oh, ye lifted up your head, and it 
 seemed, the while ye read, 
 That this death then must be 
 
 found 
 A Valhalla for the crowned, 
 The heroic who prevail: 
 None be sure can enter in 
 Far below a i>alad"n 
 Of a noble, uol)le te''H — 
 5o awfully ve thought Upoii the 
 dead ! 
 
 III. 
 Ay, but soon ye woke nj) shrieking, 
 
 As a child that wakes at night 
 From a dream of sisters s]>eaking 
 
 In a garden's summer-light. — 
 That wakes starting up and bound- 
 ing. 
 In a lonely, lonely bed. 
 With a wall of darkness round him, 
 
 Stifling black about his head ! 
 And the full sense of your mortal 
 
 Rushed ujion you deep and loud, 
 And ye heard the thunder hurtle 
 From the silence of the cloud. 
 Funeral-toi'ches at your gateway 
 Threw a dreadful light within. 
 All things changed: you rose up 
 straightway. 
 And saluted Death and Sin. 
 Since, vour outward man has ral- 
 lied. 
 And your eye and voice grown 
 boUi; 
 Yet the Sphinx of Life stands pallid. 
 
 With her saddest secret told. 
 Happy places have grown holy: 
 
 If ye went where once ye went, 
 Only tears would fall down slowly. 
 
 As at solemn sacrament. 
 Merry books, once read for pastime, 
 
 If ye dared to read again. 
 Only memories of the last time 
 
 NN'ould swim darkly up the brain. 
 Household names, which used to 
 flutter 
 Through your laughter unawares, 
 God's divinest ye could utter 
 With less trembling in your 
 prayers. 
 Ye have dropt adown your head, and 
 it seems as if ye tread 
 On your own hearts in the 
 
 path 
 Ye are called to in His wrath. 
 And your prayers go uj) in 
 
 wail 
 — "Dost Thou see, then, all 
 
 our loss, 
 O Thou agonized on cross ? 
 Art thou reading all its tale ? " 
 So mournfully ye think upon the 
 dead ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Pray, pray, thou who al.so weei)est, 
 And the drops will slacken so. 
 
 Weep, weep, aiul the watch thou 
 keepest 
 With a quicker count will go. 
 
 [-♦-•-♦H 
 
326 
 
 NIGHT AND THE MERRY MAN. 
 
 Think: the shadow on the dial 
 
 For the nature most undone 
 
 Marks the passing of the trial, 
 
 Proves the presence of the sun. 
 Look, look up, in starry passion. 
 
 To the throne above the spheres: 
 Learn: the spirit's gravitation 
 
 Still must differ from the tear's. 
 Hope: M'ith all the strength thou 
 usest 
 In embracing thy despair. 
 Love : the earthly love thoii losest 
 
 Shall retnrn to thee more fair. 
 "Work: make clear the forest-tangles 
 
 Of the wildest stranger-land. 
 Trust: the blessed deathly angels 
 "Whisper, " Sabbath hours at 
 hand ! " 
 By the heart's wound when most 
 gory. 
 By the longest agony. 
 Smile ! — Behold in sudden glory 
 The Transfigured smiles on tliee .' 
 And ye lifted up your head, and it 
 seemed as if He said, 
 " My beloved, is it so ? 
 Have ye tasted of my woe ? 
 Of my heaven ye shall not 
 
 fail ! " 
 He stands brightly where the 
 
 shade is, 
 "With the keys of Death and 
 
 Hades, 
 And there, ends the mournful 
 tale — 
 So hopefully ye think upon the dead ! 
 
 NIGHT AND THE MERRY 
 MAN. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 'Neath my moon, what doest thou, 
 "With a somewhat paler brow 
 Than she giveth to the ocean ? 
 He, without a pulse or motion. 
 Muttering low before her stands, 
 Lifting his invoking hands 
 Like a seer before a sprite, 
 To catch her oracles of light: 
 But thy soul out-trembles now 
 Many pulses on thy brow. 
 
 Where be all thy laughters clear, 
 Others laughed alone to hear ? 
 Where thy quaint jests, said for 
 
 fame? 
 Where thy dances, mixed with game? 
 Where thy festive companies, 
 Mooned o'er with ladies' eyes 
 All more bright for thee, I trow ? 
 'Neath my moon, what doest thou ? 
 
 THE MERRY MAN. 
 
 I AM digging my warm heart 
 Till I find its coldest part; 
 I am digging wide and low. 
 Farther than a spade will go, 
 Till that, when the pit is deep 
 And large enough, I there may heap 
 All my present pain and past 
 Joy, dead things that look aghast 
 By the daylight: now 'tis done. 
 Throw them in, by one and one '. 
 I must laugh, at rising sun. 
 
 Memories, — of fancy's golden 
 Treasures which my hands have 
 
 holden 
 Till the chillness made them ache; 
 Of childhood's hopes, that used to 
 
 wake 
 If birds were in a singing strain, 
 And, for less cause, sleep again; 
 Of the moss seat in the wood 
 Where I trysted solitude; 
 Of the hilltop where the wind 
 Used to follow me behind, 
 Then in sudden rush to blind 
 Both my glad eyes with my hair, 
 Taken gladly in the snare; 
 Of the climbing up the rocks. 
 Of the playing 'neath the oaks 
 Which retain beneath them now 
 Only shadow of tlie bough; 
 Of the lying on the grass 
 While the clouds did overpass. 
 Only they, so lightly driven, 
 Seeming betwixt me and heaven; 
 Of the little prayers serene. 
 Murmuring of earth and sin; 
 Of large-leaved philosophy 
 Leaning fi'om my childish knee; 
 Of poetic book sublime. 
 Soul-kissed for the first dear time, 
 Greek or English, ere I knew 
 Life was not a poem too: 
 Throw them in, by one and one ! 
 I must laiigli, at rising sun. 
 
EARTH AND TIER PRAISERS. 
 
 327 
 
 — Of the glorious ambitions 
 
 Yet unquenehed l)y their fruitions; 
 
 Of the reading out the nights ; 
 
 Of the straining at mad lieights; 
 
 Of achievements, less descried 
 
 By a dear few than magnified; 
 
 Of praises from the many earned 
 
 When praise from love was undis- 
 
 cerned; 
 Of the sweet reflecting gladness 
 Softened by itself to sadness: 
 Throw theni in, by one and one ! 
 I must laugh, at rising sun. 
 
 What are these ? more, more than 
 
 these ! 
 Throw in dearer memories ! — 
 Of voices whereof but to speak 
 Makes mine own all sunk and weak; 
 Of smiles the thought of which is 
 
 sweeping 
 All my soul to floods of weeping; 
 Of looks whose absence fain would 
 
 weigh 
 My looks to the ground for aye; 
 Of clasping hands — ah me, I wring 
 ISIine, and in a tremble fling 
 Downward, downward, all this i^ain- 
 
 ing ! 
 Partings with the sting remaining, 
 Meetings with a deejier throe 
 Since the joy is ruined so. 
 Changes with a fiery burning, 
 (Shadows upon all the turning). 
 Thoughts of . . . with a storm they 
 
 came. 
 Them I have not breath to name : 
 Downward, downward, be they cast 
 In the pit ! and now at last 
 My work beneath the moon is done, 
 And I shall laugh, at rising sun. 
 
 But let me pause or ere I cover 
 All my treasures darkly over: 
 I will speak not in thine ears, 
 Only tell my beaded tears 
 Silently, most silently. 
 When the last is calmly told. 
 Let that same moist rosary 
 With the rest sepidchred be. 
 Finished now ! The darksome mould 
 Sealeth up the darksome pit. 
 I will lay no stone on it: 
 Grasses I will sow instead. 
 Fit for Queen Titania's tread; 
 Flowers, encolored with the sun, 
 And at at written upon none; 
 Thus, whenever saileth by 
 The Lady World of dainty eye, 
 
 Not a grief shall here remain, 
 
 Silken shoou to damp or stain ; 
 
 And while she lisps, "I have not 
 
 seen 
 Any place more smooth and clean," 
 Here she cometh ! Ha, ha ! who 
 Laughs as loud as I can do ? 
 
 EARTH AND HER 
 PRAISERS. 
 
 The Earth is old ; 
 Six thousand winters make her heart 
 
 a-cold : 
 The sceptre slanteth from her palsied 
 
 hold. 
 She saith, " 'las me ! God's word 
 
 that I was ' good ' 
 
 Is taken back to heaven. 
 From whence, when any sound comes, 
 
 I am riven 
 By some sharji bolt; and now no angel 
 
 would 
 Descend with sweet dew-silence on 
 
 my mountains. 
 To glorify the lovely river fountains 
 
 That gush along their side: 
 I see, O weary change ! I see instead 
 This human wrath and pride, 
 These thrones and tombs, judicial 
 
 wrong and l)lood. 
 And bitter words are poured upon 
 
 mine head — 
 ' O Earth ! thou art a stage for tricks 
 
 unholy, 
 A church for most remorseful melan- 
 choly; 
 Thou art so siDoilt we should forget 
 
 we had 
 An Eden in thee, wert thou not so 
 
 sad ! ' 
 Sweet children, I am old ! ye, every 
 
 one, 
 Do keep me from a portion of my 
 
 sun: 
 Give praise in change for 
 brightness ! 
 That I may shake my hills in infinite- 
 
 ness 
 
328 
 
 EARTH AND TIER P RAISERS. 
 
 Of breezy laughter, as in youthful 
 
 mirth, 
 To hear Earth's sons and daughters 
 
 praising Earth.'' 
 
 II. 
 
 Whereupon a child began, 
 With spirit running up to man 
 As by angel's shining ladder, 
 (May he find no cloud above !) 
 Seeming he had ne'er been sadder 
 
 All hfs days than now. 
 Sitting in the chestnut-grove, 
 With that joyous overflow 
 Of smiling from his month o'er brow 
 And cheek and chin, as if the breeze, 
 Leaning tricksy from the trees 
 To part his golden hairs, had blown 
 Into an hundred smiles that one. 
 
 III. 
 
 " O rare, rare Earth ! " he saith, 
 
 " I will praise thee presently; 
 Not to-day, I have no breath: 
 
 I have hunted squirrels three — 
 Two ran down in the furzy hollow; 
 Where I could not see nor follow; 
 One sits at the top of the filbert-tree, 
 With a yellow nut and a mock at me: 
 
 Presently it shall be done 1 
 When I see which way these two have 
 
 run. 
 When the mocking one at the filbert- 
 top 
 Shall leap adown, and beside me stop. 
 
 Then, rare Earth, rare Earth, 
 Will I pause, having known thy worth, 
 
 To say all good of thee ! " 
 
 IV. 
 
 Next a lover, — with a dream 
 'Neath his waking eyelids hidden, 
 And a frequent sigh unbidden, 
 And an idlesse all the day 
 Beside a wani^ering stream. 
 And a silence that is made 
 Of a word he dares not say, — 
 Shakes slow his pensive head: 
 
 " Earth, Earth ! " saith he, 
 " If spirits, like thy roses, grew 
 On one stalk, and winds austere 
 Could but only blow tliem near, 
 
 To share each other's dew; 
 If, when summer rains agree 
 To beautify thy hills, I knew 
 Looking off them I might see 
 
 Some one very beauteous too, — 
 
 Then Earth," saith he, 
 "I would praise . . . nay, nay — not 
 
 thee ! " 
 
 V. 
 
 Will the pedant name her next ? 
 
 Crabbed with a crabbed text 
 
 Sits he in his study nook. 
 
 With his elbow on a book, 
 
 And with stately crossed knees, 
 
 And a wrinkle deeply thrid 
 
 Through his lowering brow, 
 
 Caused by making proofs enow 
 
 That Plato in " Parmenides " 
 
 Meant the same Spinoza did ; 
 
 Or that an hundred of the groping 
 
 Like himself had made one Homer, 
 
 Hoineros being a misnomer. 
 
 What hath he to do with praise 
 
 Of Earth or aught ? Whene'er the 
 
 sloping 
 Sunbeams through his windows daze 
 His eyes off from the learned phrase, 
 Straightway he draws close the cur- 
 tain. 
 May abstraction keep him dumb ! 
 Were his lips to ope, 'tis certain 
 " Derivatum est " would come. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Then a mourner moveth pale 
 In a silence full of wail. 
 Raising not his sunken head 
 Because he wandered last that way 
 With that one beneath the clay: 
 Weeping not, because that one. 
 The only one who would have said, 
 " Cease to weep, beloved ! " has gone 
 AVhence returneth comfort none. 
 The silence breaketh suddenly, — 
 " Earth, I praise thee ! " crieth he, 
 " Thou hast a grave for also me." 
 
 VII. 
 
 Ha, a poet ! know him by 
 The ecstasy-dilated eye. 
 Not uncharged with tears that ran 
 Upward from his heart of man; 
 By the cheek, from hour to hour, 
 Kindled bright, or sunken wan 
 With a sense of lonely power; 
 By the brow uplifted higher 
 Than others, for more low declining; 
 By the lip which words of fire 
 Overboiling have burned white, 
 While they gave the nations light: 
 Ay, in every time and place, 
 Ye may know the poet's face 
 By the shade or shining. 
 
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 Of a sunshine-haunted stream. "- 
 
 Page 329. 
 
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EARTH AND HER PRAISERS. 
 
 329 
 
 VIII. 
 
 'Neath a golden clovid he stands, 
 
 Spreading his impassioned hands. 
 
 •■ O God's Earth ! " he saith, " the sign 
 
 From the Father-soul to mine 
 
 Of all beauteous luystcries, 
 
 Of all perfect iniai^es 
 
 Which, divine in his divine, 
 
 In my luiman only are 
 
 Very'excellent and fair! 
 
 Think not, Earth, that I wonld raise 
 
 AVeary forehead in thy praise, 
 
 (Weary, that I cannot go 
 
 Farther from thy region low,) 
 
 If were struck no richer meanings 
 
 From thee than thyself. The leanings 
 
 Of the close trees o'er the brim 
 
 Of a sunshine-haunted stream 
 
 Have a sound beneath their leaves, 
 
 Not of wind, not of wind. 
 Which the poet's voice achieves: 
 The faint mountains, heaped behind, 
 Have a falling on their tops. 
 
 Not of dew, not of dew. 
 Which the poet's fancy drops: 
 Viewless things his eyes can view, 
 Driftings of his dream do light 
 All the skies by day and night. 
 And the seas that deepest roll 
 Carry murmurs of his soul. 
 Earth, I praise thee! praise thou iiit ! 
 God perfectetli his creation 
 AYith this recipient poet-passion, 
 And makes the beautiful to be. 
 I praise thee, O beloved sign, 
 From the God-soul unto mine ! 
 Praise me, that I cast on thee 
 The cunning sweet interpretation, 
 Tlie help and glory and dilation 
 
 Of mine immortalitv ! " 
 
 IX. 
 
 There was silence. None did dare 
 To nse again the spoken air 
 Of that far-charming voice, until 
 A Christian resting on the hill. 
 With a thoughtful smile subdued 
 (Seeming learnt in solitude) 
 Which a weeper might have viewed 
 Without new teai's, did softly say. 
 And looked up unto heaven alway 
 While he i^raised the Earth, — 
 
 "O Earth, 
 I count the praises thou art worth, 
 By thy waves that move aloud, 
 By thy hills against the cloud. 
 By thy valleys warm and green. 
 By the copses' elms between, 
 
 us 
 
 By their birds, which, like a sprite 
 Scattered by a strong delight 
 Into fragments musical, 
 Stir and sing in every bush ; 
 By thy silver founts that fall. 
 As if to entice the stars at night 
 To thine heart; by grass and rush. 
 And little weeds the children pull, 
 Mistook for flowers ! 
 
 — Oh, beautiful 
 Art thou. Earth, albeit worse 
 Than in heaven is called good ! 
 Good to us, that we may know 
 Meeklj- from thy good to go; 
 Mliile the holy, crying blood 
 Puts its music kind and low 
 'Twixt snch ears as are not dull, 
 And thine ancient curse ! 
 
 " Praised be the mosses soft 
 
 In thy forest pathways oft. 
 
 And the thorns, which make 
 
 think • 
 Of the thornless river-brink 
 
 Where the ransomed tread; 
 Praised be thy sunny gleams, 
 And the storm, that worketh dreams 
 
 Of calm unfinished; 
 Praised be thine active days. 
 And thy night-time's solemn need, 
 When in God's dear book we read 
 
 No nhjht shall he therein ; 
 Praised be thy dwellings warm 
 By household fagot's cheerful blaze, 
 AVhere, to hear of pardoned sin, 
 Pauseth oft the merry din, 
 Save the babe"s upon the arm 
 Who croweth to the crackling wood: 
 Yea, and, better understood, 
 Praised be thy dwellings cold, 
 Hid beneath the churchyard mould, 
 Where the bodies of the saints, 
 Separate from earthly taints, 
 Lie asleep, in blessing lionnd, 
 Waiting for the trumpet's sound 
 To free them into blessing — none 
 Weeping more beneath the sun. 
 Though dangerous words of human 
 
 love 
 Be graven very near, above. 
 
 XI. 
 
 "Earth, we Christians praise thee 
 
 thus, 
 Even for the change that comes 
 With a grief from thee to us; 
 For thy cradles and thy tombs. 
 
330 
 
 THE VIRGIN MARY TO THE CHILD JESUS. 
 
 For the pleasant corn and wine 
 And summer-heat, and also for 
 The frost upon the sycamore 
 And hail upon the vine ! " 
 
 THE VIRGIN MARY TO 
 THE CHILD JESUS. 
 
 But see the Virgin blest 
 Hath laid her babe to rest." 
 
 Milton's Hymn on the Nativity. 
 
 Sleep, sleep, mine Holy One ! 
 My flesh, my Lord ! — what name ? I 
 
 do not know 
 A name that seemeth npt too high or 
 low. 
 Too far from me or heaven : 
 My Jesus, tliat is best ! that word be- 
 ing given 
 By the majestic angel whose com- 
 mand 
 Was softly as a man's beseeching, 
 
 said. 
 When I and all the earth appeared to 
 stand 
 In the great overflow 
 Of light celestial from his wings and 
 head. 
 Sleep, sleep, my saving One ! 
 
 II. 
 
 And art thou come for saving, baby- 
 browed 
 
 And speechless Being — art thou 
 come for saving ? 
 
 The palm that grows beside our door 
 is bowed 
 
 By treadings of the low wind from 
 the south, 
 
 A restless shadow through the cham- 
 ber waving: 
 
 Upon its bough a bird sings in the 
 sun; 
 
 But thou, with that close slumber on 
 thy mouth. 
 
 Dost seem of wind and sun already 
 weary. 
 
 Art come for saving, O my weary 
 One ? 
 
 III. 
 
 Perchance this sleep, that shutteth out 
 
 the dreary 
 Earth sounds and motions, opens on 
 thy soul 
 High dreams on fire with God; 
 High songs that make the pathways 
 
 where they roll 
 More bright than stars do theirs; and 
 
 visions new 
 Of thine eternal Nature's old abode. 
 Suffer this mother's kiss. 
 Best thing that earthly is, 
 To glide the music and the glory 
 
 through. 
 Nor narrow in thy dream the broad 
 upliftings 
 Of any seraph wing. 
 Thus noiseless, thus. Sleep, sleep, 
 my dreaming One ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 The slumber of his lips meseems to 
 run 
 
 Through my lips to mine heart, to all 
 its shiftings 
 
 Of sensual life, bringing contrarious- 
 ness ' 
 
 In a great calm. I feel I could lie 
 down 
 
 As Moses did, and die,' — and then 
 live most. 
 
 I am 'ware of you, heavenly Pres- 
 ences, 
 
 That stand with your peculiar light 
 unlost. 
 
 Each forehead with a high thought 
 for a crown. 
 
 Unsunned i' the sunshine ! I am 
 'ware. Ye throw 
 
 No shade against the wall ! How 
 motionless 
 
 Ye round me with your living statu- 
 ary, 
 
 While through your whiteness, in 
 and outwardly, 
 
 Continual thoughts of God apjiear to 
 go. 
 
 Like light's soul in itself. I bear, I 
 bear 
 
 To look upon the dropt lids of your 
 eyes, 
 
 Though their external shining testi- 
 fies 
 
 To that beatitude within which were 
 
 Enough to blast an eagle at his sun: 
 
 1 It is a Jewish tradition that Moses died 
 of the liisses of God's lips. 
 
THE VIRGIN MARY TO THE CHILD JESUS. 
 
 331 
 
 I full uot on my sad clay face before 
 
 ye, — 
 
 I look on His. I know 
 ]My spirit which dilateth with the woe 
 
 Of His mortality, 
 
 May well contain yonr glory. 
 
 Yea, drop your lids more low. 
 Ye are but fellow-woi"shippers with 
 me ! 
 
 Sleep, sleep, my worshipped One ! 
 
 V. 
 
 "We sate among the stalls at Bettile- 
 
 hem; 
 The dumb kine, from their fodder 
 turning them, 
 Softened their horned faces 
 To almost human gazes 
 Toward the newly Born: 
 The simple shepherds from the star- 
 lit brooks 
 Brought visionary looks. 
 As yet in their astonied hearing rung 
 
 The strange sweet angel-tongue: 
 The magi of the East, in sandals 
 worn. 
 Knelt reverent, sweeping round, 
 "With long pale beards, their gifts 
 upon the ground, 
 The incense, myrrh, and gold 
 These baliy hands were impotent to 
 
 hold: 
 So let all earthlies and celestials wait 
 Upon thy royal state. 
 Sleep, sleep, my kingly One ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 I am not proud — meek angels, ye in- 
 vest 
 
 New meeknesses to hear s;ich utter- 
 ance rest 
 
 On mortal lips, — "I am not proud " 
 — not proud .' 
 
 Albeit in my tlesh God sent his Son, 
 
 Albeit over him my head is bowed 
 
 As others bow before him, still mine 
 heart 
 
 Bows lower than their knees. O cen- 
 turies 
 
 That roll in vision your futurities 
 My future grave athwart, 
 
 AVhose murmurs seem to reach me 
 while I keep 
 Watch o'er this sleeji, 
 
 Say of me as the Heavenly said, 
 "Thou art 
 
 The blessedest of women ! " — bless- 
 
 edest, 
 Not holiest, not noblest, no high 
 
 name 
 Whose height misjilaced may pierce 
 
 me like a shame 
 When I sit meek in heaven ! 
 
 For me, for me. 
 God knows that I am feeble like the 
 
 rest ! 
 I often wandered forth more child 
 
 than maiden. 
 Among the midnight hills of Galilee 
 Whose summits looked heaven- 
 laden, 
 Listening to silence as it seemed to be 
 God's voice, so soft yet strong, so 
 
 fain to press 
 Upon my heart as heaven did on the 
 
 height. 
 And waken up its shadows bv a 
 
 light, 
 And show its vileuess by a holiness. 
 Then I knelt down most silent like 
 
 the night. 
 Too self-renounced for fears. 
 Raising my small face to the bound- 
 less blue 
 Whose stars did mix and tremble in 
 
 my tears : 
 God heard them falling after, with his 
 
 dew. 
 
 VII. 
 
 So, seeing my corruption, can I see 
 
 This Incorruptible now born of me. 
 
 This fair new Innocence no sun did 
 chance 
 
 To shine on (for even Adam was no 
 child), 
 
 Created from my nature all defiled, 
 
 This mystery, from out mine igno- 
 rance, — 
 
 Nor feel the blindness, stain, corrup- 
 tion, more 
 
 Than others do, or / did heretofore ? 
 
 Can hands wherein such burden j^ure 
 has been 
 
 Not open with the cry, " Unclean, 
 unclean," 
 
 More oft than any else beneath the 
 skies ? 
 Ah King, ah Christ, ah sou ! 
 
 The kine, the shepherds, the abased 
 wise 
 Must all less lowly wait 
 Than I, upon thy state. 
 Sleep, sleep, my kingly One. 
 
332 
 
 .4,V ISLAND. 
 
 Yin. 
 
 Art thou a King, then? Come, his 
 universe, 
 Come, crown me him a King. 
 Phick rays from all such stars as 
 never fiing 
 Their light where fell a curse, 
 And make a crowning for this kingly 
 
 Virow. 
 What is my word ? Each empyreal 
 star 
 Sits in a sphere afar 
 In shining ambuscade: 
 The child-l)row, crowned by none, 
 Keeps its unchildlike shade. 
 Sleep, sleep, my crownless One. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Unchildlike shade ! No other babe 
 doth wear 
 
 An aspect verj' sorrowful, as thou. 
 
 No small babe-smiles my watching 
 heart has seen 
 
 To float like speech the speechless 
 lips between. 
 
 No dovelike cooing in the golden air, 
 
 No quick, short joys of leaping baby- 
 hood : 
 Alas ! our earthly good 
 
 In lieaven thought evil, seems too 
 good for thee. 
 Yet sleep, luy weary One. 
 
 And then the drear, sharp tongue of 
 
 prophecy, 
 With the dread sense of things which 
 
 shall be done, 
 Doth smite me inly, like a sword : a 
 
 sword ? 
 r/ta«" smites the Shepherd." Then, 
 
 I think aloud 
 The words "despised," "rejected," 
 
 every word 
 Recoiling into darkness as I view 
 
 The Darling on my knee. 
 Bright angels, move not, lest ye stir 
 
 the cloud 
 Betwixt my soul and his futurity. 
 I must not die, with mother's work to 
 
 do, 
 And could not live — and see. 
 
 XI. 
 
 It is enough to bear 
 This image still and fair; 
 This holier in sleep 
 Than a saint at prayer; 
 
 Tliis aspect of a cliild 
 Who never sinned or smiled; 
 This presence in an infant's face: 
 This sadness most like love; 
 This love than love more deep; 
 This weakness like omnipotence 
 It is so strong to move. 
 Awful is this watching place, 
 Awful what I see from hence, — 
 A king without regalia, 
 A God without the thunder, 
 A child without the heart for play; 
 Ay, a Creator, rent asunder 
 From his lirst glory, and cast away 
 On his own world, for me alone 
 To hold in hands created, crying, 
 "Son! " 
 
 XII. 
 
 That tear fell not on thee, 
 Beloved, yet thou stirrest in thy 
 
 slumi)er! 
 Thou, stirring not for glad sounds out 
 
 of number, 
 Wliich through the vibratory palm- 
 trees run 
 From summer wind and bird, 
 So quickly hast thou heard 
 A tear fall silently ? 
 AVak'st thou, O loving one ? 
 
 AN ISLAND. 
 
 .VU goeth but Goddis will." — Old Pokt. 
 
 My dream is of an island place, 
 Which distant seas keep lonely, — 
 
 A little island on whose face 
 The stars are watchers only : 
 
 Those bright, still stars ! they need 
 not seem 
 
 Brighter or stiller in my dream. 
 
 II. 
 
 An island full of hills and dells. 
 
 All ruin]iled and uneven 
 With green recesses, sudden swells, 
 
 And odorous ^'allej's driven 
 So deep and straight, that always there 
 The wind is cradled to soft air. 
 
Hh#H 
 
 AN ISLAND. 
 
 333 
 
 T 
 
 III. 
 
 Hills running up to heaven for light 
 Through woods that hali'-way ran, 
 
 As if the wild earth mimicked right 
 The wilder heart of man : 
 
 Onlj^ it shall be greener far, 
 
 And gladder, than hearts ever are. 
 
 IV. 
 
 More like, jierhaps, that mountain 
 piece 
 Of Dante's paradise. 
 Disrupt to an hundred hills like these, 
 
 In falling from the skies; 
 Bringing within it all the roots 
 Of heavenly trees and flowers and 
 fruits : 
 
 For, saving where the graj' rocks strike 
 Their javelins up the azure, 
 
 Or -where deep fissures, miser-like. 
 Hoard up some fountain treasure, 
 
 (And e'en iu them, stooi) down and 
 hear 
 
 Leaf sounds with water iu your ear). 
 
 VI. 
 
 The place is all awave with trees, — 
 Limes, myrtles purple-ueaded, 
 
 Acacias having drunk the lees 
 Of the night-dew, faint-headed. 
 
 And wan gray olive-woods, which 
 seem 
 
 The fittest foliage for a dream. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Trees, trees, on all sides! Thej' com- 
 bine 
 Their plumy shades to throw. 
 Through whose clear fruit and blos- 
 som fine 
 "Whene'er the sun may go. 
 The ground beneath he deeplj' stains. 
 As passing through cathedral panes. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But little needs this earth of ours 
 That shining from above her, 
 
 When many pleiades of flowers 
 (Not one lost) star her over; 
 
 The rays of their unnumbered hues 
 
 Being all refracted by the dews. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Wide-petalled plants that boldly drink 
 
 The Aiiireeta of the sky. 
 Shut bells that dull with rapture sink. 
 
 And lolling buds, half shy: 
 I cannot count them, but between 
 Is room for grass and mosses green. 
 
 X. 
 
 And 
 
 brooks, that glass in different 
 strengths 
 All colors in disorder, 
 Or, gathering up their silver lengths 
 
 Beside their winding border, 
 Sleep, haunted through the slumber 
 
 hidden. 
 By lilies white as dreams in Eden. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Nor think each arched tree with each 
 
 Too closely interlaces 
 To admit of vistas out of reach, 
 
 And broad moon-lighted places, 
 LT^pon whose sward the antlered deer 
 May view their double image clear. 
 
 XII. 
 
 For all this island's creature-full 
 
 (Kept happy not by halves), 
 Mild cows, that at the vine-wreaths 
 pull. 
 Then low back at their calves 
 With tender lowings, to api^rove 
 The warm mouths milking them for 
 love. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Free, gamesome horses, antelopes. 
 
 And harmless leaping leopards, 
 And buffaloes upon the slopes, 
 
 And sheep unruled by shejiherds; 
 Hares, lizards, hedgehogs, badgers, 
 
 mice, 
 Snakes, squirrels, frogs, and butter- 
 flies. 
 
 siv. 
 
 And T)irds that live there in a crowd. 
 Horned owls, rajit nightingales, 
 
 Larks bold with heaven, and peacocks 
 proud, 
 Self-siiliered in those grand tails; 
 
 All creatures glad and safe, I deem: 
 
 No guns nor sjiringes in my dream ! 
 
I 
 
 334 
 
 AN ISLAND. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Tlie island's edges are a-wing 
 With trees that overbranch 
 
 The sea with song-birds welcoming 
 The curlews to green change; 
 
 And doves from half-closed lids espy 
 
 The red and purple fish go by. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 One dove is answering in trust 
 
 The water every minute, 
 Thinking so soft a murmur must 
 
 Have her mate's cooing in it: 
 So softly doth earth's beauty round 
 Infuse itself in ocean's sountl. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 My sanguine soul bounds forwarder 
 To meet the bounding waves; 
 
 Beside them straightway I repair, 
 To live within the caves: 
 
 And near me two or three may dwell. 
 
 Whom dreams fantastic jjlease as well. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Long winding caverns, glittering far 
 
 Into a crystal distance! 
 Through clefts of which, shall many a 
 star 
 
 Shine clear without resistance! 
 And carry down its rays the smell 
 Of flowers above invisible. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 I said that two or three might choose 
 Their dwelling near mine own, — 
 
 Those who would change man's voice 
 and use, 
 For Nature's way and tone; 
 
 Man's veering heart and careless eyes, 
 
 For Nature's steadfast sympathies. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Ourselves, to meet her faithfulness, 
 
 Shall play a faithful part: 
 Her beautiful shall ne'er address 
 
 The monstrous at oiu* heart: 
 Her musical shall ever touch 
 Something within us also such. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Yet shall she not our mistress live, 
 As doth the moon of ocean, 
 
 Though gently as the moon she give 
 Our thoughts a light and motion: 
 
 More like a harp of many lays. 
 
 Moving its master while' he plays. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 No sod in all that island doth 
 
 Yawn open for the dead ; 
 No wind hath borne a traitor's oath; 
 
 No earth, a mourner's tread: 
 We cannot say by stream or shade, 
 " I suffered here, was here betrayed." 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Our only " farewell " we shall laugh 
 
 To shifting cloud or hour. 
 And use our only epitaph 
 
 To some bud turned a flower: 
 Our only tears shall serve to i^rove 
 Excess iu jDleasure or in love. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Our fancies shall their plumage catch 
 
 From fairest island-birds, 
 AVhose eggs let young ones out at 
 hatch, 
 
 Born singing I then our words 
 Unconsciously shall take the dyes 
 Of those prodigious fantasies. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Yea, soon, no consonant unsmooth 
 Our smile-tuned li]5s shall reach; 
 
 Sounds sweet as Hellas spake iu 
 youth 
 Shall glide into our speech: 
 
 (What music, certes, can you find 
 
 As soft as voices which are kind ?) 
 
 XXVI, 
 
 And often, by the joy without 
 
 And in us overcome. 
 We, through our musing, shall let 
 float 
 
 Such poems — sitting dumb — 
 As Pindar might have writ if he 
 Had tended sheep in Arcady; 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Or ^^schylus^ the pleasant fields 
 He died in, longer knowing; 
 
 Or Homer, had men's sins and shields 
 Been lost iu Meles flowing; 
 
 Or i^oet Plato, had the undim 
 
 Unsetting Godlight broke on him. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Choose me the cave most wortliy 
 choice. 
 
 To make a place for prayer, 
 And I will choose a praying voice 
 
 To iwur our spirits there: 
 
THE SOUL'S TRAVELLING. 
 
 335 
 
 How silverly tlie echoes run ! 
 Thy Kill be done, — thy loill he done. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Gently yet strangely uttered words ! 
 
 They lift me from my dream; 
 The island fadeth with its swards 
 
 That did no more than seem: 
 The streams are dry, no sun could 
 
 find — 
 The fruits are fallen without wind. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 So oft the doing of God's will 
 Our foolish wills undoeth ! 
 And yet what idle dream breaks ill, 
 
 Which morning-light sulidueth ? 
 And who would murmur and mis- 
 doubt, 
 "When God's great sunrise finds him 
 out? 
 
 THE 
 
 SOUL'S TRAVEL- 
 LING. 
 
 H5tj t'oepou? 
 IIcTacrai Tapcrou?. 
 
 Synbsius. 
 
 I DWELL amid the city ever. 
 
 The great humanity which beats 
 
 Its life along the stony streets. 
 
 Like a strong and unsunned river 
 
 In a self-made course, 
 
 I sit and harken while it rolls. 
 
 Very sad and very hoarse 
 
 Certes is the flow of souls; 
 
 Infinitest tendencies: 
 
 By the finite prest and pent. 
 
 In the finite, turbulent: 
 
 How we tremble in surprise 
 
 When sometimes, with an awful 
 
 sound, 
 God's great plummet strikes the 
 
 ground ! 
 
 II. 
 The champ of the steeds on the silver 
 
 bit 
 As they whirl the rich man's carriage 
 
 by; 
 
 The beggar's whine as he looks at 
 it — 
 
 But it goes too fast for charity; 
 
 The trail on the street of the poor 
 man's broom, 
 
 That the lady who walks to her pal- 
 ace-home, 
 
 On her silken skirt may catch no 
 dust ; 
 
 The tread of the liusiness-men who 
 must 
 
 Count their per-cents by the paces 
 they take; 
 
 The cry of the babe unheard of its 
 mother 
 
 Though it lie on her breast, while she 
 thinks of the other 
 
 Laid yesterday where it will not 
 wake ; 
 
 The fiower-girl's prayer to buy roses 
 and pinks, 
 
 Held out in the smoke, like stars by 
 day; 
 
 The gin-door's oath that hollowly 
 chinks 
 
 Guilt upon grief, and wrong upon 
 hate ; 
 
 The cabman's cry to get out (jf the 
 way; 
 
 The dustman's call down the area- 
 grate; 
 
 The young maid's jest, and the old 
 wife's scold. 
 
 The haggling talk of the boys at a 
 stall, 
 
 The fight in the street which is backed 
 for gold, 
 
 The plea of the lawyers in Westmin- 
 ster Hall; 
 
 The drop on the stones of the blind 
 man's staff 
 
 As he trades in his own grief's sacred- 
 ness; 
 
 The brothel shriek, and the Newgate 
 laugh; 
 
 The hum upon 'Change, and the or- 
 gan's grinding; 
 
 (The grinder's face being neverthe- 
 less 
 
 Dry and vacant of even woe 
 
 While the children's hearts are leap- 
 ing so 
 
 At the merry music's winding); 
 
 The black-plumed funeral's creeping 
 train 
 
 Long and slow (and yet they will 
 
 go 
 As fast as life, though it hurry and 
 strain !) 
 
f 
 
 336 
 
 THE SOUL'S TRAVELLING. 
 
 Creeping the populous bouses through, 
 
 And nodding their plumes at either 
 side, — 
 
 At many a house where an infant, 
 new 
 
 To the sunshiny world, has just strug- 
 gled and cried, — 
 
 At many a house where sitteth a 
 In-ide 
 
 Trying to-morrow's coronals 
 
 With a scarlet blush to-day: 
 Slowly creep the funerals. 
 
 As none should lu^ar the noise, and 
 say, 
 
 " The living, the living, must go away 
 To multiply tlie dead." 
 Hark ! an upward shout is sent: 
 
 In grave, strong joy from tower to 
 steeple 
 The bells ring out. 
 
 The trumpets sound, the jjeople sliout. 
 
 The young queen goes to her parlia- 
 ment; 
 
 She turneth rouud her large blue 
 eyes. 
 
 More bright with childish memories 
 
 Than royal hope, upon the people; 
 
 On either side she bows her head 
 Lowlj', with a queenly grace. 
 
 And smile most trusting-innocent, 
 
 As if she smiled upon her mother; 
 
 The thousands i)ress before each other 
 To bless her to her face; 
 
 And booms the deep majestic voice 
 
 Through trump and drum, "May 
 the queen rejoice 
 In the peoi)le's liberties ; " 
 
 III. 
 I dwell amid the city, 
 And hear the flow of souls in a^t 
 and speech. 
 For pomp or trade, for merrymake or 
 
 folly: 
 I hear the confluence and sum of 
 each, 
 And that is melancholj- ! 
 Thy voice is a complaint, O crowned 
 
 city, 
 The blue sky covering thee like God's 
 great pity. 
 
 IV. 
 
 O Tjlue sky ! it mindeth me 
 Of places wliere I usetl to see 
 Its vast unbroken circle thrown 
 From the far pale-peaked hill 
 Out to the last verge of ocean, 
 
 As by God's arm it were done 
 Then for the tirst time, with the 
 
 emotion 
 Of that first impulse on it still. 
 Oh we spirits fly at will 
 Faster than the winged steed 
 Whereof in old book we read. 
 With the sunlight foaming back 
 From his flanks to a misty wrack, 
 And his nostril reddening jiroud 
 As he breasteth the steep thunder- 
 cloud, — 
 Smoother than Sabrina's chair, 
 Gliding up from wave to air, 
 While she smileth debonair 
 Yet holy, coldly and yet brightly. 
 Like her own mooned waters 
 nightly, 
 Through her dripi^iug hair. 
 
 V. 
 
 Very fast and smooth we fly. 
 Spirits, though the flesh be by: 
 All looks feed not from the eye, 
 Nor all hearings from the ear: 
 We can hearken and espy 
 Without either, we can journey . 
 Bold and gay as knight to tourney; 
 And, though we wear no visor 
 
 down 
 To dark our countenance, the foe 
 Shall never chafe us as we go. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I ana gone from peopled town ! 
 It pcisseth its street-thunder round 
 My body which yet hears no sound ; 
 For now another sound, another ' 
 Vision, my soul's senses have — 
 O'er a hundred valleys deep 
 Where th<i hills' green shadows 
 
 sleep, 
 Scarce kno\\u because the valley- 
 trees 
 Cioss those uiili\nd images. 
 O'er a hundred hills each other. 
 Watching to the ^ western wave, 
 I have tiavelled, — t bave found 
 The sile.^t, lone, remembered 
 ground. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I have found a giassy niche 
 Hollowed in a seaside-hill, 
 As if the ocean-grandeur, which 
 Is aspectable from the place. 
 Had struck the hill as with mace, 
 Sudden and cleaving. You might 
 fill 
 
THE SOUL'S TRAVELLING. 
 
 337 
 
 That little nook ^vith tlie little cloud 
 Which sometimes lietli ]\y the mot)n 
 To beautify a night of June, — 
 A cavelike nook, which, opening all 
 To the wide sea, is disallowed 
 From its own earth's sweet pas- 
 toral ; 
 Cavelike, hut roofless overhead, 
 And made of verdant banks instead 
 Of any rocks, with flowerets spread 
 Instead of spar and stalactite. 
 Cowslips and daisies gold and 
 
 white: 
 Such pretty flowers on such green 
 
 sward. 
 You think the sea they look towai'd 
 Doth serve them for another sky, 
 As "warm and blue as that ou high. 
 
 vin. 
 
 And in this hollow is a seat. 
 
 And when you shall have crept to 
 
 it, 
 Slipping down the banks too steep 
 To be o'erbrowsed by the sheep. 
 Do not think — though at your feet 
 The cliff's disrupt — vou shall be- 
 hold 
 The line where earth and ocean 
 
 meet: 
 You sit too much above to view 
 The solemn confluence of the two: 
 You can hear then: as they greet, 
 You can hear that evermore 
 Distance-softened noise more old 
 Than Nereid's singing, the tide 
 
 spent 
 Joining soft issues with the shore 
 In harmony of discontent; 
 And when you hearken to the grave 
 Lamenting of the underwave, 
 You must believe in earth's com- 
 munion, 
 Albeit you witness not the union. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Except that soixnd, the place is full 
 Of silences, w'hicli, when you cull 
 By any word, it thrills you so, 
 That presently you let them grow- 
 To meditation's fullest length 
 Across your soul, with a soul's 
 
 strength : 
 And, as they touch your soul, they 
 
 borrow 
 Both of its grandeur and its sorrow, 
 That deathly odor which the clay 
 Leaves ou its deathlessuess alway. 
 
 Alway ! alway ? must this be ? 
 
 Rapid Soul from city gone, 
 
 Dost thou carry inwardly 
 
 What doth make the city's moan ? 
 
 Must this deep sigh of thine own 
 
 Haunt thee with humanity ? 
 
 Green visioned banks that are too 
 
 steep 
 To be o'erbrowsed by the sheep, 
 May all sad thoughts adown you 
 
 creep 
 Without a shepherd ? Mighty sea. 
 Can we dwarf thy magnitude 
 And fit it to our straitcst mood ? 
 O fair, fair Nature, are we thus 
 Impotent and querulous 
 Among thy workings glorious. 
 Wealth and sanctities, that still 
 Leave us vacant and defiled, 
 And wailing like a soft-kissed child. 
 Kissed soft against his will ? 
 
 XI. 
 
 God, God ! 
 
 With a child's voice I cry, 
 
 Weak, sad, confidingly — 
 God, God ! 
 Thou knowest, eyelids raised not 
 
 always up 
 Unto thy love (as none of ours are) 
 
 droop 
 As ours o'er many a tear; 
 Thou knowest, though thy universe is 
 
 broad. 
 Two little tears suffice to cover all: 
 Tliou knowest, thou who art so j^rodi- 
 
 gal 
 Of beauty, we are oft but stricken 
 
 deer 
 Expiriug in the woods, that care for 
 
 none 
 Of those delightsome flowers thej^ die 
 
 upon. 
 
 XII. 
 
 O blissful Mouth which breathed the 
 mournful breath 
 
 We name our souls, self-spoilt ! by 
 that strong passion 
 
 Which paled thee once with sighs, 
 by that strong death 
 
 Which made thee once unbreathing, 
 from the wrack 
 
 Themselves have called around them, 
 call them back, — 
 
 Back to thee in continuous aspira- 
 tion ! 
 For here, O Lord, 
 

 338 
 
 TO BETTINE. 
 
 For here they travel vainly, vainly 
 
 pass 
 From city-pavement to untrodden 
 
 sward 
 Where the lark finds her deep nest in 
 
 the grass 
 Cold with the earth's last dew. Yea, 
 
 very vain 
 The greatest speed of all these souls 
 
 of men 
 Unless they travel upward to the 
 
 throne 
 "Where sittest Thou the satisfying 
 
 One, 
 With help for sins and holy jierfect- 
 
 ings 
 For all requirements; while the arch- 
 angel, raising 
 Unto thy face his full ecstatic gazing. 
 Forgets the rush and rapture of his 
 
 wings. 
 
 TO BETTINE. 
 
 THE CHILD-FRIEND OF GOETHE. 
 
 "I have the second-sight, i'ioeih.e'." — Letters 
 of a Child. 
 
 I. 
 
 Bettine, friend of Goethe, 
 Hadst thou the second-sight — 
 Upturning worship and delight 
 
 With such a loving dutj' 
 To his grand face, as women will, 
 The childhood 'neath thine eyelids 
 still ? 
 
 II. 
 
 — Before his shrine to doom thee. 
 Using the same child's smile 
 
 That heaven and earth, beheld ere- 
 
 while 
 For the first time, won from thee 
 Ere star and flower grew dim and 
 
 dead 
 Save at his feet, and o'er his head ? 
 
 HI. 
 
 — Digging thine heart, and throw- 
 
 ing 
 Away its childhood's gold, 
 That so its woman-depth might hold 
 His spirit's overflowing ? 
 
 (For surging souls no worlds can 
 
 hound. 
 Their channel in the heart have 
 
 found.) 
 
 IV. 
 
 O child, to change appointed. 
 Thou hadst not second-sight ! 
 What eyes the future view aright 
 
 Unless by tears anointed ? 
 Yea, only tears themselves can show 
 The burning ones that have to flow. 
 
 O woman, deeply loving. 
 Thou hadst not second-sight ! 
 The star is very high and l)right. 
 
 And none can see it moving. 
 Love looks around, below, above, 
 Yet all his prophecy is — love. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The bird thj' childhood's playing 
 Sent onward o'er the sea, 
 Thy dove of hope, came back to thee 
 
 Without a leaf: art laying 
 Its Avet, cold wing no sun can dry, 
 
 Still in thy bosom secretly ? 
 
 Our Goethe's friend, Bettine, 
 I have the second-sight! 
 The stone upon his grave is white. 
 
 The funeral stone between ye; 
 And in thy mirror thou hast viewed 
 Some change as hardly understood. 
 
 Where's childhood ? where is 
 Goethe ? 
 The tears are in thine eyes. 
 Nay, thou slialt yet re-organize 
 
 Thy maidenhood of beauty 
 In his own glory, which is smooth 
 Of wrinkles, and sul)lime in youth. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The poet's arms have wound thee. 
 He breathes upon thy brow. 
 He lifts thee upward in the glow 
 
 Of his great genius round thee. 
 The childlike i^oet undefiled 
 Preserving evermore The Child. 
 
 ! 
 
i 
 
 A SEAS/BE WALK. 
 
 330 
 
 MAN AND NATURE. 
 
 A SAD man on a summer day 
 
 Did look upon the earth, and say, — 
 
 " Purple cloud the hilltop binding; 
 
 Folded hills, the valleys wind in; 
 
 Valleys, with fresh streams among 
 you; 
 
 Streams, with bosky trees along you; 
 
 Trees, with many birds and blossoms; 
 
 Birds, with musie-trembling bosoms; 
 
 Blossoms, dropping dews that wreathe 
 you 
 
 To your fellow-flowers beneath you; 
 
 Flowers, that constellate on earth; 
 
 Earth, that shakest to the mirth 
 
 Of the merry Titan ocean, 
 
 All his shining hair in motion! — 
 
 Why am I thus the only one 
 
 "Who can be dark beneath the sun ? " 
 
 But, when the summer day was past, 
 
 He looked to heaven, and smiled at 
 last, 
 
 Self-answered so. — 
 
 " Because, O cloud, 
 
 Pressing with thy crumpled shroud 
 
 Heavily on mountain-top; 
 
 Hills, that almost seem to drop, 
 
 Stricken with a misty death, 
 
 To the valleys underneath; 
 
 Valleys, sighing with the torrent; 
 
 Waters, streaked with branches hor- 
 rent; 
 
 Branchless trees, that shake your head 
 
 Wildly o'er your blossoms spread 
 
 Where the common flowers are 
 found ; 
 
 Flowers, with foreheads to the 
 ground ; 
 
 Ground, that shriekest wdiile the sea 
 
 With his iron sniiteth thee, — 
 
 I am, besides, the only one 
 
 Who can be bright vnthout the sun." 
 
 •A SEASIDE WALK. 
 
 We walked beside the sea, 
 After a day which perished silently 
 Of its own glory, like the princess 
 
 weird. 
 Who, combating the Geniixs, scorched 
 
 and seared. 
 
 Uttered with burning breath, "Ho! 
 
 victory ! " 
 And sank adown, a heap of ashes pale : 
 So runs the Arab tale. 
 
 II. 
 
 The sky aljove us showed 
 A univei'sal and unmoving cloud 
 On which tlie cliffs permitted us to 
 
 see 
 Only the outline of their majestj'. 
 As master-minds when gazed at by 
 
 the crowd; 
 And, shining with a gloom, the water 
 
 gray 
 Swang in its moon-taught wav. 
 
 Nor moon nor stars were out; 
 They did not dare to tread so soon 
 
 about, 
 Though trembling, in the footsteps of 
 
 the sun ; 
 The light was neither night's nor 
 
 day's, but one 
 Which, life-like, had a beauty in its 
 
 doubt ; 
 And silence's impassioned breathings 
 
 round 
 Seemed wandering into sound. 
 
 IV. 
 
 O solemn-l)eating heart 
 Of nature! I have knowledge that 
 
 thou art 
 Bound unto man's by cords he cannot 
 
 sever : 
 And, what time they are slackened 
 
 by him ever. 
 So to attest his own supernal part. 
 Still runneth thy vibration fast and 
 
 strong 
 The slackened cord along; 
 
 V. 
 
 For though we never spoke 
 Of the gray water and the shaded 
 
 rock. 
 Dark wave and stone unconsciously 
 
 were fused 
 Into the plaintive speaking that we 
 
 used 
 Of absent friends, and memories uu- 
 
 forsook; 
 And, had we seen each other's face, 
 ' we had 
 Seen haply each M-as sad. 
 
i 
 
 340 
 
 THE SEA-MEW. 
 
 THE SEA-MEW. 
 
 AFFECTIONATELY ESTSCRIBED TO 
 M. E. H. 
 
 How joyously the young sea-mew 
 Lay drefiiiiing on the waters hhie 
 Whereon our little bark had thrown 
 A little shade, the only one; 
 But shadows ever man pursue. 
 
 n. 
 Familiar with the waves, and free 
 As if their own white ioam were he, 
 His heart, upon the heart of ocean, 
 Lay, learning all its mystic motion. 
 And throbbing to the throbbing sea. 
 
 III. 
 
 And such a brightness in his eye, 
 As if the ocean and the sky 
 Within him had lit u]i, and nurst 
 A soul God gave him not at tirst, 
 To comprehend their majesty. 
 
 We were not cruel, yet did sunder 
 His white wing from the blue waves 
 
 under, 
 And bound it, while his fearless eyes 
 Shone up to ours in calm surprise. 
 As deeming us some ocean wonder. 
 
 We bore our ocean bird unto 
 A grassy place where he might view 
 The flowers that courtesy to the bees, 
 The waving of the tall green trees, 
 The falling of the silver dew. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But flowers of earth were pale to him 
 Who had seen the rainbow flshes 
 
 swim ; 
 And when earth's dewaround him lay. 
 He thought of ocean's winged spray, 
 And his eye waxed sad and dim. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The green trees round him only made 
 A prison with their darksome shade; 
 And drooped hiswing,and mournedhe 
 For his own boundless glittering sea. 
 Albeit he knew not they could fade. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Then one her gladsome face did bring, 
 Her gentle voice's murmuring. 
 In ocean's stead his heart to move, 
 And teach him what was human love: 
 He thougjit it a strange, mournful 
 thing. 
 
 IX. 
 
 He lay down in his grief to die 
 (First looking to the sea-like sky 
 That hath no waves), because, alas! 
 Our human touch did on him pass, 
 And, with our touch, our agony. 
 
 FELICIA HEMANS. 
 
 TO L. E. L., REFERRING TO HER 
 MONODY ON THE POETESS. 
 
 Thou baj-crowned living one that 
 o'er the bay-crowMied dead art 
 bowing, 
 
 And o'er the shadeless, moveless brow 
 the vital shadow throwing, 
 
 And o'er the sighless, songless lips the 
 wail and music wedding. 
 
 And dropping o'er the tranquil eye?. 
 the tears not of their shed- 
 ding ! — 
 
 II. 
 
 Take music from the silent dead, 
 whose meaning is completer, 
 
 Reserve thy tears tor living brows, 
 where all such tears are raeeter, 
 
 And leave the violets in the grass to 
 brighten where thou treadest: 
 
 No flowers for her ! no need of flow- 
 ers, albeit "bring flowers," 
 thou saidest. 
 
 III. 
 
 Yes, flowers to crown the "cup and 
 
 lute," since both may come to 
 
 breaking; 
 Or flowers to greet the " bride " — the 
 
 heart's own beating works its 
 
 aching; 
 
<> 
 [-•HI-»H 
 
 L. E. l:s last question. 
 
 341 
 
 Or flowers; to soothe the "captive's" 
 sight, from earth's free bosom 
 gathered, 
 
 Reminding of his eartlily hope, then 
 withering as it withered; 
 
 IV. 
 
 But bring not near the solemn corse 
 
 a type of human seeming; 
 Lay only dust's stern verity upon the 
 
 dust undreaming: 
 And, while the calm perpetual stars 
 
 shall look upon it solely, 
 Her sphered soul shall look on them 
 
 with eyes more bright and holy. 
 
 V. 
 
 Nor mourn, O living one, because her 
 
 part in life was mourning: 
 Would she have lost the poet's fire 
 
 for anguish of the burning ? 
 The minstrel harp, for the strained 
 
 string? the tripod, for the af- 
 
 flated y 
 
 Woe ? or the vision, fon those tears in 
 
 which it shone dilated ? 
 
 VI. 
 
 Perhaps she shuddered while the 
 
 world's cold hand her brow was 
 
 wreathing. 
 But never wronged that mystic breath 
 
 which breathed in all her 
 
 breathing, 
 Which drew from rockj- earth and 
 
 man abstractions high and 
 
 moving, — 
 Beauty, if not the beautiful, and love, 
 
 if not the lovinsr. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Such visionings have paled in sight: 
 
 the Saviour she descrieth, 
 And little recks irho wreathed the 
 
 brow which on his bosom lieth: 
 The whiteness of his innocence o'er 
 
 all her garments flowing. 
 There learneth she the sweet " new 
 
 song" she will not mourn in 
 
 knowing. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Be hamy, crowned and living one ! 
 
 ai'ld, as thy dust decayeth. 
 May thine own England say for thee 
 
 what now for her it sayeth, — 
 
 "Albeit softly in our ears her silver 
 
 song was ringing, 
 The footfall of her parting soul is 
 
 softer than her singing." 
 
 L. E. L.'S LAST QUES- 
 TION. 
 
 " Do you think of me as I think of j-oii ? " 
 
 Written during the voyage to'the Cape. 
 
 " Do yon think of me as I think of 
 you, 
 
 My friends, my friends ? " *She said it 
 from the sea. 
 
 The English minstrel in her min- 
 strelsy. 
 
 While, under brighter skies than erst 
 she knew. 
 
 Her heart grew dark, and gi-ojied 
 there as the blind 
 
 To reach across the waves friends 
 left behind — 
 
 "Do you think of me as I think of 
 
 you?" 
 
 II. 
 
 It seemed not much to ask — " as / of 
 yon ? " 
 
 We ail do ask the same: no eyelids 
 cover 
 
 Within the meekest eyes that ques- 
 tion over: 
 
 And little in the world the loving 
 do 
 
 But sit (among the rocks ?) and listen 
 for 
 
 The echo of their own love ever- 
 more — 
 
 " Do you think of me as I think of 
 
 you 
 
 9 " 
 
 III. 
 
 Love-learned she had sung of love 
 
 and love, — 
 And like a child, that, sleeping with 
 
 dropt head 
 Upon the fairy-book he lately read. 
 Whatever household noises round 
 
 him move, 
 
<> 
 l-»HI-»H 
 
 342 
 
 CROWNED AND WEDDED 
 
 Hears in his dream some elfin turbu- 
 lence, — 
 Even so, suggestive to lier inward 
 
 sense. 
 All sounds of life assumed one tune 
 of love. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And when the glory of her dream 
 
 withdrew. 
 When knightly gestes and courtly 
 
 pageantries 
 Were broken in her visionary eyes 
 By tears the solemn seas attested 
 
 true, 
 Forgetting that sweet lute beside her 
 
 hand. 
 She asked not, "Do voii jiraise me, 
 
 O my land?" 
 But, "Think ye of me, friends, as I 
 
 of you ? ' ' 
 
 v. 
 
 Hers was the hand that played for 
 
 many a year 
 Love's silver phrase for England, 
 
 smooth and well. 
 Would Gpd, her heart's more inward 
 
 oracle 
 In that lone moment might confirm 
 
 her dear ! 
 For when her questioned friends in 
 
 agony 
 Made passionate resjionse, " W^e 
 
 think of thee," 
 Her place was in the tlust, too deep 
 
 to hear. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Could she not wait to catch their an- 
 swering breath ? 
 
 Was she content, content, with ocean's 
 sound, 
 
 Which dashed its mocking infinite 
 around 
 
 One thirsty for a little love? — be- 
 neath 
 
 Those stars content, where last her 
 song had gone, — 
 
 They mute and cold in radiant life, 
 as soon 
 
 Their singer was to be in darksome 
 death ? ^ 
 
 VII. 
 
 Bring vour vain answers; crv, "We 
 
 tiunk of thee!" 
 How think ye of her ? — wai-m in long 
 
 ago 
 
 ' Her lyric on tlie pol.ar star came home 
 with her latest papers. 
 
 Delights ? or crowned with budding 
 bays ? Not so. 
 
 None smile, and none are crowned, 
 where lieth she, 
 
 With all her visions unfulfilled save 
 one, 
 
 Her childhood's, of the palm-trees 
 in the sun — 
 
 And lo ! their shadow on her sepul- 
 chre ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 "Do ye think of me as I think of 
 you?" — 
 
 O friends, O kindred, O dear brother- 
 hood 
 
 Of all the world ! what are we that 
 we should 
 
 For covenants of long affection sue ? 
 
 Why press so near each other when 
 the touch 
 
 Is barred by graves ? Not much, and 
 yet too much, 
 
 Is this, "Think of me as I think of 
 you." 
 
 IX. 
 
 But while on mortal lips I shape 
 
 anew 
 A sigh to mortal issues, Aerily 
 Above the unshaken stars that see us 
 
 die 
 A vocal pathos rolls; and He who 
 
 drew 
 All life from dust, and for all tasted 
 
 death. 
 By death and life and love, appealing 
 
 saith, 
 "Do you think of me as I think of you ? " 
 
 CROWNED AND 
 WEDDED. 
 
 When last before her people's face her 
 
 own fair face she bent. 
 Within the meek projection of that 
 
 shade she was content 
 To erase the child-smile from her lips, 
 
 which seemed as if it might 
 Be still kept holy from the world to 
 
 childhood still in sight — 
 
CROWNED AND WEDDED. 
 
 343 
 
 To erase it with a solemn vow, a 
 
 l^rincely vow — to rule, 
 A priestly vow — to rule by graeo of 
 
 God the pitiful, 
 A very godlike vow — to rule in right 
 
 and righteousness. 
 And with the law and for the land — 
 
 so God the vower bless ! 
 
 n. 
 
 The minster was alight that day, but 
 
 not with tire, I ween; 
 And long-drawn glitterings swept 
 
 adown that mightly aisled scene ; 
 The 2)riests stood stoled in their pomp, 
 
 the sworded chiefs in theirs. 
 And so the collared knights, and so 
 
 the civii niinisters, 
 And so the waiting lords and dames, 
 
 and littlt: pages best 
 At holding trains, and legates so, from 
 
 countries cast and west; 
 So alien princes, native peers, and 
 
 high-born ladies bright. 
 Along whose brows the Queen's, now 
 
 crownetl, flashed coronets to 
 
 light; 
 And so the j^eojile at the gates with 
 
 priestly hands on high, 
 Which bring the first anointing to all 
 
 legal majesty; 
 And so the Dead, who lie in rows be- 
 neath the minster floor. 
 There verily an awful state maintain- 
 ing evermore ; 
 The statesman whose clean palm will 
 
 kiss no bribe, whate'er it be. 
 The courtier who for no fair queen 
 
 will rise up to his knee. 
 The court-dame who for no court-tire 
 
 will leave her shroud behind. 
 The laureate, who no courtlier rhyme 
 
 than " dust to dust " can find, 
 The kings and queens who haAing 
 
 made that a'ow and worn thai; 
 
 crown, 
 Descended unto lower thrones, and 
 
 darker, deep adown: 
 Dieu ct moil droit — ■ what is't to them ? 
 
 what meaning can it have ? — 
 The King of kings, the right of death 
 
 — God's judgment and the 
 
 grave. 
 And when betwixt the quick and dead 
 
 the young fair queen had 
 
 vowed, 
 The living shouted, " May she live ! 
 
 Victoria, live ! " aloud: 
 
 And, as the loyal shouts went up, true 
 spirits prayed between, 
 
 " The blessings hapjjy monarchs have 
 be thine, O crowned queen ! " 
 
 m. 
 
 But now before her 2">eople's face she 
 
 bendeth hers anew. 
 And calls them, while she vows, to be 
 
 her witness thereunto. 
 She vowed to rule, and in that 'oath 
 
 her childhood put away: 
 She doth maintain her womanhood, 
 
 in vowing love to-day. 
 O lovely lady ! let her vow ! such lips 
 
 become such vows, 
 And fairer goeth bridal wreath than 
 
 crown with vernal brows. 
 O lovely lady ! let her vow ! yea, let 
 
 her vow to love ! 
 And though she be no less a queen, 
 
 with purples hung above, 
 The pageant of a court behind, the 
 
 royal kin around, 
 And woven gold to catch her looks 
 
 turned maidenly to ground, 
 Yet may the bride-veil hide from her 
 
 a little of that state. 
 While loving hoi^es for retinues about 
 
 her sweetness wait. 
 She vows to love who vowed to rule 
 
 — (the chosen at her side) 
 Let none say, God preserve the queen ! 
 
 but rather. Bless tlie bride ! 
 None blow the trump, none bend the 
 
 knee, none violate the dream 
 Wherein no monarch l)ut a wife she 
 
 to herself may seem. 
 Or if ye say, Preserve the queen ! O, 
 
 breathe it inward low — 
 She is a ?co?n((H, and beloved! and 'tis 
 
 enough but so. 
 Count it enough, thou noble prince 
 
 who tak'st her by the hand, 
 And claimest for thj^ lady-love our 
 
 lady of the land I 
 And since. Prince Albert, men have 
 
 called thy sjiirit high and rare, 
 And true to truth'and brave for truth 
 
 as some at Augsburg were. 
 We charge thee by thy lofty thoughts 
 
 and by thy poet-mind. 
 Which not by glory and degree takes 
 
 measure of mankind. 
 Esteem that wedded hand less dear 
 
 for sceptre than for ring, 
 And hold her uncrowned womanhood 
 
 to be the roval thing. 
 
I ^m » f ' I 
 
 344 
 
 CROWNED AND BURIED. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And'uow, upon our queen's last vow 
 
 what blessings shall we pray ? 
 None straitened to a shallow crown 
 
 will suit our lips to-day: 
 Behold, they must be free as love, they 
 
 must be broad as free, 
 Even to the borders of heaven's light 
 
 and earth's humanity, 
 Long live she ! — send up loyal shouts, 
 
 and true hearts pray between, 
 " The blessings happy peasants have, 
 
 be thine, O crowned queen ! " 
 
 CROWNED AND BURIED. 
 
 Napoleon! — years ago, and that 
 
 great word. 
 Compact of human breath in hate and 
 
 dread 
 And exultation, skied us overhead, — 
 An atmosphere whose lightning was 
 
 the sword 
 Scathing the cedars of the world, — 
 
 drawn down 
 In burnings by the metal of a crown. 
 
 11. 
 
 Napoleon ! — nations, while they 
 cursed that name. 
 
 Shook at their own curse; and while 
 others bore 
 
 Its sound, as of a trumpet, on before, 
 
 Brass-fronted legions justified its 
 fame ; 
 
 And dying men on trampled battle- 
 sods 
 
 Near their last silence uttered it for 
 God's. 
 
 III. 
 
 Napoleon! — sages, with high fore- 
 heads drooped, 
 
 Did use it for a problem; children 
 small 
 
 Leapt up to greet it, as at manhood's 
 call; 
 
 Priests blessed it from their altars 
 overstooped 
 
 By meek-eyed Christs; and widows 
 
 with a moan 
 Spake it, when questioned why they 
 
 sate alone. 
 
 IV. 
 
 That name consumed the silence of 
 the snows 
 
 In Alpine keeping, holv and cloud- 
 hid; 
 
 The mimic eagles dared what Natrire's 
 did, 
 
 And over-rushed her mountainous re- 
 pose 
 
 In search of eyries; and the Egyptian 
 river 
 
 Mingled the same word with its grand 
 " Forever." 
 
 That name was shouted near the py- 
 • ramidal 
 
 Nilotic tombs, whose mummied habit- 
 ants, 
 
 Packed to humanity's significance, 
 
 Motioned it back with stillness, — 
 shouts as idle 
 
 As hireling artists' work of myrrh and 
 spice 
 
 Which swathed last glories round the 
 Ptolemies. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The world's face changed to hear it: 
 kingly men 
 
 Came down in chidden babes' bewil- 
 derment 
 
 From autocratic places, each content 
 
 With sprinkled ashes for anointing; 
 then 
 
 The people laughed, or wondered for 
 the nonce, 
 
 To see one throne a composite of 
 thrones. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Napoleon ! — even the torrid vasti- 
 tude 
 
 Of India felt in throbbings of the air 
 
 That name which scattered by disas- 
 trous blare 
 
 All Europe's bound-lines, — drawn 
 afresh in blood. 
 
 Napoleon ! — from the Russias west to 
 Spain, 
 
 And Austria trembled till ye heard 
 her chain; 
 
I ^ I ■ I ^m 
 
 CROWNED AND BURIED. 
 
 345 
 
 vin. 
 
 And Germany was 'ware; and Italy, 
 
 Oblivious of old lames, — her laurel- 
 locked. 
 
 High-ghosted Cresars passing uniu- 
 voked, — 
 
 Did crumble her own ruins with her 
 knee, 
 
 To serve a newer: ay ! but French- 
 men cast 
 
 A future from them nobler than her 
 past : 
 
 IX. 
 
 For verily, though France augustly 
 rose 
 
 With that raised Name, and did as- 
 sume by such 
 
 The jiurple of the world, none gave so 
 much 
 
 As she in purchase — to speak plain, 
 iu loss — 
 
 Whose hands, toward freedom 
 stretched, dropped paralyzed 
 
 To wield a sword, or tit an under- 
 sized 
 
 King's crown to a great man's head. 
 And though along 
 
 Her Paris streets did float, on fre- 
 quent streams 
 
 Of triumph, pictured or emmarbled 
 dreams 
 
 Dreamt right by genius in a world 
 gone wrong. 
 
 No dream of all so won was fair to 
 see 
 
 As the lost vision of her liberty. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Napoleon ! — 'twas a high name lifted 
 
 high : 
 It met at last God's thunder sent to 
 
 clear 
 Our compassing and covering atmos- 
 
 jihere. 
 And open a clear sight beyond the 
 
 sky 
 Of supreme empire; this of earths 
 
 was done — 
 And kings crept out again to feel the 
 
 sun. 
 
 XII. 
 
 The kings crept out: the peoples sate 
 
 at home, 
 And, finding the long-invocated peace 
 
 (A pall embroidered with worn im- 
 ages 
 
 Of rights divine) too scant to cover 
 doom 
 
 Such as they suffered, cursed the corn 
 that grew 
 
 Rankly to bitter bread on Waterloo. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 A deep gloom centred in the deep 
 repose ; 
 
 The nations stood up mute to count 
 their dead : 
 
 And he who owned the Name which 
 vibrated 
 
 Through silence, trusting to his no- 
 blest foes 
 
 When earth was all too gray for chiv- 
 alry. 
 
 Died of their mercies 'mid the desert 
 sea. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 O wild St. Helen ! verj- still she kejit 
 him. 
 
 With a green willow for all pyramid. 
 
 Which stirred a little if the low wind 
 did, 
 
 A little more, if pilgrims overwept 
 him. 
 
 Disparting the lithe boughs to see the 
 clay 
 
 Which seemed to cover his for judg- 
 ment-day. 
 
 Nay, not so long ! France kept her 
 
 old affection 
 As deeply as the sepulchre the corse; 
 Until, dilated by such love's remorse 
 To a new angel of the resurrection, 
 She cried, " Behold, thou England ! I 
 
 would have 
 The dead whereof thou wottcst, from 
 
 that grave." 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And England answered in tiie cour- 
 tesy 
 
 Which, ancient foes turned lovers, 
 may befit, — 
 
 " Take back thy dead ! and, when 
 thou buriest it, 
 
 Throw in all former strifes "twixtthee 
 and me." 
 
 Amen, mine England ! 'tis a courte- 
 ous claim: 
 
 But ask a little room too — for thy 
 shame ! 
 
34G 
 
 CROWNED AND BURIED. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Because it was not well, it was not 
 well, 
 
 Nor tuneful with thy lofty-chanted 
 part 
 
 Among the Oceanides, — that heart 
 
 To bind and bare and vex with vul- 
 ture fell. 
 
 I would, my noble England, men 
 might seek 
 
 All crimson stains upon thy breast — 
 not cheek ! 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 I would that hostile fleets had scarred 
 Torbay, 
 
 Instead of the lone ship which waited 
 moored 
 
 Until thj' princely purpose was as- 
 sured. 
 
 Then left a shadow, not to jiass 
 away — 
 
 Not for to-night's moon, nor to-mor- 
 row's sun: 
 
 Green watching hills, ya witnessed 
 what was done ! i 
 
 XIX. 
 
 But since it toas done, — in sepulchral 
 dust 
 
 We fain would pay back something of 
 our debt 
 
 To France, if not to honor, and for- 
 get 
 
 How through much fear we falsified 
 Ihe trust 
 
 Of a fallen foe and exile. "We return 
 
 Orestes Electra — in his urn. 
 
 XX. 
 
 A little urn^ — -a little dust inside, 
 Which once outbalanced the large 
 
 earth, albeit 
 To-day a four-years' child might carry 
 
 it 
 Sleek-browed and snnling, " Let the 
 
 burden 'bide ! " 
 Orestes to Electra ! — O fair town 
 Of Paris, how the wild tears will run 
 
 down 
 
 XXI, 
 
 And run l>ack in the chariot-marks of 
 
 time. 
 When all the people shall come forth 
 
 to meet 
 
 1 Writtuii at Torquay. 
 
 The passive victor, death-still in the 
 
 street 
 He rode througli 'mid the shouting 
 
 and bell-chime, 
 And martial music, under eagles 
 
 which 
 Dyed their rapacious beaks at Aus- 
 
 terlitz ! 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Napoleon! — he hath come again, 
 
 / borne home 
 
 J/Upon the jwijular ebbing lieart, — a 
 'i sea 
 
 Which gathers its own wrecks per- 
 petually, 
 
 ^lajestically moaning. Give him 
 room ! 
 
 Room for the dead in Paris ! welcome 
 solemn 
 
 And grave-deep 'neath the cannon- 
 moulded column ! i 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 There, weapon-spent and warrior- 
 spent, may rest 
 
 From roar of fields, — jirovided Jupi- 
 ter 
 
 Dare trust Saturnus to lie down so 
 near 
 
 His bolts 1 — and this he may ; for, 
 dispossessed 
 
 Of any godship lies the godlike arm — 
 
 The goat Jove sucked as likely to do 
 harm. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 And yet . . . Napoleon ! — the re- 
 covered name 
 
 Shakes the old casements of the 
 world; and we 
 
 Look out upon the passing pageantry. 
 
 Attesting that the Dead makes good 
 his claim 
 
 To a French grave, — another king- 
 dom won. 
 
 The last, of few spans — by Napole- 
 on. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Blood fell like dew beneath his sun- 
 rise — sooth ! 
 
 But glittered dew-like in the cove- 
 nanted 
 
 Meridian light. He was a desjiot — 
 granted ! 
 
 1 It was the first intention to bury liini 
 inidur tlie column. 
 
TO FLUSH MY DOG. 
 
 347 
 
 But the auTos of his autocratic moutli 
 Said yea i' the people's Frencli: he 
 
 magnified 
 The image of the freedom he denied. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 And if they asked for rights, he made 
 
 reply, 
 "Ye have my glory!" — and so, 
 
 drawing round them 
 His ample jiurple, glorifietl and bound 
 
 them 
 In an embrace that seemed identity. 
 He ruled them like a tyrant — true ! 
 
 but none 
 ^Were ruled like slaves: each felt 
 
 Nai^oleon. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 I do not praise this man: the man 
 
 ^vas flawed 
 For Adam — much more, Christ! — 
 
 his knee unbent. 
 His hand unclean, his aspiration i)ent 
 "VVithin a sword-sweep — pshaw! — 
 
 but, since he had 
 The genius to be loved, why, let him 
 ' have 
 
 V^he justice to be honored in his 
 
 grave. 
 
 XXVUI. 
 
 I think this nation's tears thus poured 
 together 
 
 Better than shouts. I think this fu- 
 neral 
 
 Grander than crownings, though a 
 pope bless all. 
 
 I think this grave stronger than 
 thrones. But, whether 
 
 The crowned Napoleon or the buried 
 clay 
 
 Be worthier, I discern not: angels 
 mav. 
 
 TO FLUSH MY DOG. 
 
 Loving friend, the gift of one 
 "Who her own true faith has run 
 Through thy lower nature, i 
 
 1 This doi? was the sjift of my dear and 
 admired friend. Miss Mitford, and belongs 
 to the beautiful race she has rendered cele- 
 brated among EngUsh and American read- 
 
 Be my benediction said 
 With my hand upon thy head, 
 Gentle fellow-creatiu-e ! 
 
 n. 
 
 Like a lady's ringlets brown, 
 Flow thy silken ears adown 
 
 Either side demurely 
 Of tliy silver-suited breast, 
 Shining out from all the rest 
 
 Of thy body purely. 
 
 ni. 
 
 Darkly brown thy body is. 
 Till the sunshine striking this 
 
 Alchemize its duluess, 
 When the sleek curls manifold 
 Flash all over into gold 
 
 With a burnished fulness. 
 
 IV. 
 
 LTnderneath my stroking hand. 
 Startled eyes of hazel bland \ 
 
 Kindling, growing larger. 
 Up thou leajiest with a spring, 
 Full of prank and curvetting, 
 
 Leaping like a cliarger. 
 
 Leap ! thy broad tail waves a light, 
 Leap ! thy slender feet are bright. 
 
 Canopied in fringes; 
 Leap ! those tasselled ears of thine 
 Flicker strangely, fair and fine 
 
 Down their golden inches. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yet, my pretty sportive friend. 
 Little is't to such an end 
 
 Tliat I praise thy rareness: 
 Other dogs may be thy jieers 
 Haply in these drooping ears 
 
 And this glossy fairness. 
 
 VII. . 
 
 But of thee it shall be said, \ 
 
 This dog v.-atched beside a bed \ 
 
 Day and night unweary, — * 
 
 Watched within a curtained room 
 Where no sunbeam brake the gloom, 
 
 Round the sick and dreary. 
 
 ers. The Flushes have their laurels as well 
 as the Csesars, the chief diti'ercnec (at least 
 the very head and front of it) consisting, 
 perhaps, in the bald head of the hitter luider 
 the crown. 1344. 
 
348 
 
 TO FLUSH MY DOG. 
 
 \ 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Roses, gathered for a vase, 
 In that chamber died apace. 
 
 Beam and breeze resigning: 
 This dog only waited on, 
 Knowing, that, wlien light is gone, 
 
 Love remains for shining. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Other dogs in thymy dew 
 Tracked the hares, and followed 
 through 
 
 Sunny moor or meadow : 
 This dog only crept and crept 
 Next a languid cheek that slept, 
 
 Sharing in the shadow. 
 
 Other dogs of loyal cheer 
 Bounded at the whistle clear, 
 
 Up the woodside hieing: 
 This dog only watched in reach 
 Of a faintly uttered speech. 
 
 Or a louder sighing. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And if one or two quick tears 
 DropiJed upon his glossy ears, 
 
 Or a sigh came double, 
 Up he sprang in eager haste. 
 Fawning, fondling, breathing fast, 
 
 In a tender trouble. 
 
 XII. 
 
 And this dog was satisfied 
 
 If a pale, thin hand would glide 
 
 Down his dewlaps sloping, — 
 Which he pushed his nose within, 
 After, — platforming his chin 
 
 On the i^alm left open. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 This dog, if a friendly voice 
 Call him now to blither choice 
 
 Than such chamber-keeping, 
 " Come out ! " praying from the door, 
 Presseth backward as before, 
 
 Up against me leaping. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Therefore to this dog will I, 
 Tenderly not scornfully, 
 Render praise and favor: 
 
 With my hand upon his head. 
 Is my benediction said 
 Therefore and forever. 
 
 XV. 
 
 And because he loves me so, 
 Better than his kind will do 
 
 Often man or woman. 
 Give I back more love again 
 Than dogs often take of men, 
 
 Leaning from my human. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Blessings on thee, dog of mine, 
 Pretty collai's make thee line. 
 
 Sugared milk make fat thee ! 
 Pleasures wag on in thy tail. 
 Hands of gentle motion fail 
 
 Nevermore to pat thee ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Downy pillow take thy head. 
 Silken coverlet bestead. 
 
 Sunshine help thy sleei^ing ! 
 No fly's buzzing wake thee up, 
 No man break thy purple cup 
 
 Set for drinking deep in ! 
 
 xvni. 
 Whiskered cats aroynted flee, 
 Sturdy stoppers keep from thee 
 
 Cologne distillations; 
 Nuts lie in thy path for stones, 
 And thy feast-day macaroons 
 
 Turn "to daily rations ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Mock I thee, in wishing weal ? 
 Tears are in my eyes to feel 
 
 Thou art made so straitly: 
 Blessings need must straiten too, 
 Little canst thou joy or do, 
 
 Thou who lovest greatly. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Yet he blessed to the height 
 Of all good and all delight 
 
 Pervious to thy nature ; 
 Only loved beyond that line, 
 With a love that answers thine, 
 
 Loving fellow-creature I 
 
a > 
 
 S 2. 
 
 V n 
 
 1 = 
 
 >3 3 
 
 n 3 
 
 3 
 
 
^ 
 
 Or r ",- >?ifc 
 
 
THE DESERTED GARDEN. 
 
 349 
 
 THE DESERTED GAIIDEN. 
 
 I Mixi> me, in the days departed, 
 How often underneath the sun 
 With chiklish bounds I used to run 
 To a garden long deserted. 
 
 The beds and wallvs were A'anished 
 
 quite; 
 And whereso'er had struck the spade, 
 The greenest grasses Nature laid 
 To sanctify her right. 
 
 I called the place my wilderness. 
 For no one entered there but I: 
 The sheep looked in the grass to espy, 
 And passed it ne'ertheless. 
 
 The trees were interwoven wild, 
 And spread their boughs enough 
 
 about 
 To keep both sheep and shepherd out, 
 But not a happy child. 
 
 Adventurous joy it was for me ! 
 I crept beneath the l)Oughs, and found 
 A circle smooth of mossy ground 
 Beneath a X)oplar-tree. 
 
 Old garden rose-trees hedged it in, 
 Bedropt with roses waxen-white 
 "Well satisfied with dew and light, 
 - And careless to be seen. 
 
 Long years ago, it might befall, 
 "When all the garden-flowers were 
 
 trim. 
 The grave old gardener inided him 
 On these the most of all 
 
 Some lady, stately overmuch. 
 Here moving with a silken noise, 
 Has blushed Ijeside them at the voice 
 That likened lier to such. 
 
 And these, to make a diadem. 
 
 She often may have plucked and 
 
 twined. 
 Half-smiling as it came to mind 
 That few would look at them. 
 
 Oh, little thought that lady proud, 
 A child would watch her fair white 
 
 rose. 
 When buried lay her whiter brows. 
 And silk was changed for shroud ! 
 
 that gardener (full of 
 and simple 
 
 Nor thought 
 
 scorns 
 For men unlearned 
 
 jjhrase), 
 
 A child would bring it all its praise 
 By creeping through the thorns. 
 
 To me upon my low moss seat, 
 Though never a dream the roses sent 
 Of science or love's compliment, 
 I ween they smelt as sweet. 
 
 It did not move my grief to see 
 The trace of human step departed: 
 Because the garden was deserted. 
 The blither place for me. 
 
 Friends, blame me not ! anari-ow ken 
 Has childhood 'twixt the sun and 
 
 sward: 
 We draw the moral afterward, 
 We feel the gladness then. 
 
 And gladdest hours for me did glide 
 In silence at the rose-tree wall: 
 A thrush made gladness musical 
 Upon the other side. 
 
 Nor he nor I did e'er incline 
 To peck or pluck the blossoms white: 
 How should I know but roses might 
 Lead lives as glad as mine ? 
 
 To make my hermit-home complete, 
 I brought clear water from the spring 
 Praised in its own low murmuring, 
 
 And cresses glossy wet. 
 
 And so, I thought, my likeness grew 
 (Without the mehmcholy tale) 
 To " gentle hermit of the dale," 
 And Angelina too. 
 
 For oft I read within my nook 
 Such minstrel stories, till the breeze 
 Made sounds poetic in the trees, 
 And then I shut the book. 
 
 If I shut this wherein I write, 
 I hear no more the wind athwart 
 Those trees, nor feel that childish 
 heart 
 Delighting in delight. 
 
 My childhood from my life is parted. 
 My footstep from the moss which 
 
 drew 
 Its fairy circle round: anew 
 The garden is deserted. 
 
350 
 
 MY DOVES. 
 
 Another tlirnsh may there reliearse 
 The madrigals which sweetest are: 
 No more for me ! myself afar 
 Do sing a sadder verse. 
 
 Ah me, ah me ! when erst I lay 
 
 In that child's-nest so greenly 
 
 wrought, 
 I laughed unto myself, and thought 
 " The time will pass away." 
 
 And still I laugl'ed, and did not fear 
 But that, whene'er was passed away 
 The childish time, some hapjiier play 
 My womanhood would cheer. 
 
 I knew the time would pass away. 
 And yet, beside the rose-tree wall. 
 Dear God, how seldom, if at all. 
 Did I look lip to pray ! 
 
 The time is past; and now that grows 
 The cypress high among the trees. 
 And I behold white sepulchres, 
 As well as the white rose, — 
 
 When graver, meeker thoughts are 
 
 given. 
 And I have learnt to lift my face, 
 Reminded how earth's greenest place 
 The color draws from heaven, — 
 
 It something saith for earthly pain. 
 But more for heavenly promise free. 
 That I who was, would shrink to be 
 That happy child again. 
 
 MY DOVES. 
 
 ■ O Weisheit ! l)u red'st wie eiuc Taulie! " 
 
 Goethe. 
 
 ^Iy little doves have left a nest 
 
 Upon an Indian tree, 
 Whose leaves fantastic take theirrest 
 
 Or motion from the sea : 
 For ever there the sea-winds go 
 With sunlit paces to and fro. 
 
 The tropic flowers looked up to it. 
 The tropic stars looked down; 
 
 And there my little doves did sit,, 
 W^ith feathers softly brown. 
 
 And glittering eyes that showed 
 
 their right 
 To general nature's deep delight. 
 
 And CTod them taught at every close 
 Of murmuring waves beyond 
 
 And green leaves round, to interjioRe 
 Their choral voices fond. 
 
 Interpreting that love must be 
 
 The meaning of the earth and sea. 
 
 Fit ministers ! Of living loves 
 Theirs hath the calmest fashion. 
 
 Their living voice the likest moves 
 To lifeless intonation 
 
 The lovely monotone of springs 
 
 And winds and such insensate things. 
 
 My little doves were ta'en away 
 From that glad nest of theirs. 
 
 Across an ocean rolling gray, 
 And temiiest-clouded airs, — 
 
 My little doves, who lately knew 
 
 The sky and wave by warmth and 
 blue. 
 
 And now, within the citj- prison, 
 In mist and chillness pent. 
 
 With sudden upward look they listen 
 For sounds of past content, — 
 
 For lajjse of water, swell of breeze, 
 
 Or nut-fruit falling from the trees. 
 
 The stir without the glow of passion, 
 
 The triumph of the mart. 
 The gold and silver as they clash on 
 
 Man's cold metallic heart. 
 The roar of wheels, the cry for bread: 
 These only sounds are heard instead. 
 
 Yet still, as on my human hand 
 Their fearless heads they lean. 
 
 And almost seem to understand 
 What human musings mean, 
 
 (Their eyes with such a plaintive 
 shine 
 
 Are fastened upwardly to mine !) 
 
 Soft falls their chant as on the nest 
 
 Beneath the sunny zone; 
 For love that stirred it in their breast 
 
 Has not aweary grown. 
 And 'neath the city's shade can keep 
 The well of music clear and deep. 
 
 And love that keeps the music fills 
 
 With pastoral memories ; 
 All echoings from out the hills, 
 
 -I ^m I ■-« 
 
HECTOR IN THE GARDEN. 
 
 351 
 
 All droppings from the skies. 
 All flowings from the wave ami wind, 
 Remembered in their chant, 1 find. 
 
 So teach ye me the wisest part, 
 
 My little doves ! to move 
 Along the city-ways with heart 
 
 Assured by holy love, 
 And vocal with such songs as own 
 A fountain to the world unknown. 
 
 'Twas hard to sing by Babel's 
 stream — 
 
 More hard in Babel's street; 
 But if the soulless creatures deem 
 
 Their music not unmeet 
 For sunless walls, let us begin, 
 "Who wear immortal wings within ! 
 
 To me, fair memories belong 
 Of scenes that used to bless, 
 
 For no regret, but present song 
 And lasting thankfulness, 
 
 And very soon to break away. 
 
 Like types, in purer things thau they. 
 
 I will have hopes that cannot fade, 
 For flowers the valley yields; 
 
 I will have humble thoughts instead 
 Of silent, dewy fields: 
 
 My sjiirit and my God shall be 
 
 My seaward hill, my boundless sea. 
 
 HECTOR IN THE GAR- 
 DEN. 
 
 Nine years old! The first of any 
 Seem the happiest years that come; 
 Yet when J was nine, I said 
 No such word ! I thought instead 
 
 That the Greeks had used as many 
 In besieging Ilium. 
 
 II. 
 Nine green years had scarcely brought 
 me 
 To my childhood's haunted spring: 
 I had life, like dowers and bees. 
 In betwixt the country trees; 
 And the sun the pleasure taught me 
 Which he teacheth every thing. 
 
 iir. 
 
 If the rain fell, there was sorrow. 
 Little heail leant on the pane, 
 Little finger drawing down it 
 The long trailing drops upon it, 
 
 And the " Eain, rain, come to-mor- 
 row," 
 Said for charm against the rain. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Such a charm was right Canidian. 
 
 Though you meet it with a jeer: 
 
 If I said it long enough. 
 
 Then the rain hununed dimly off, 
 And the thrush with his pure Lydian 
 
 Was left only to the ear; 
 
 And the sun and I together 
 Went a-rushing out of doors: 
 We our tender s])irits drew 
 Over hill and dale in view, 
 
 Glimmering hither, glimmering thith- 
 er. 
 In the footsteps of the showers. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Underneath the chestnuts dripping. 
 Through the grasses wet and fair. 
 Straight I sought my garden-ground, 
 With the laurel on the mound, 
 
 And the pear-tree oversweeping 
 A side-shadow of green air. 
 
 VII. 
 
 In the garden lay supinely 
 
 A huge giant wrought of spade; 
 
 Arms and legs were stretched at 
 length 
 
 In a passive giant strength,— 
 The fine meadow-turf, cut finely. 
 
 Round them laid and interlaid. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Call him Hector, son of Priam ! 
 
 Such his title and degree. 
 
 With my rake I smoothed his brow, 
 
 Both his cheeks I weeded through ; 
 But a rhymer such as I am, 
 
 Scarce can sing his dignity. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Eyes of gentianellas azure. 
 
 Staling, winking at the skies; 
 
 Nose of gilh'tlowers and box; 
 
 Scented grasses put for locks, 
 Which a little breeze at pleasure 
 
 Set a-waving round his eyes: 
 
352 
 
 SLEEPING AND WATCHING. 
 
 X. 
 
 Brazen lielin of daffodillies, 
 Wi^h a glitter toward the light; 
 Purple violets for the mouth, 
 Breathing jierfumes west and south ; 
 
 And a sword of Hashing lilies, 
 Holden ready for the rtght: 
 
 XI. 
 
 And a breastplate made of daisies, 
 Closely fitting, leaf on leaf; 
 Periwinkles interlaced 
 Drawn for belt about the waist; 
 
 While the brown bees, hninming 
 praises, 
 Shot their arrows round the eliief. 
 
 xir. 
 
 And who knows (I sometimes won- 
 dered,) 
 If the disembodied soul 
 Of old Hector once of Troy 
 Might not take a dreary joy 
 
 Here to enter — if it thundered, 
 Rolling up the thunder-roll ? 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Rolling this way from Troy-ruin, 
 In tins body rude and rife 
 Just to enter, and take rest 
 'Neath the daisies of the breast — 
 
 They, with tender roots, Renewing 
 His heroic heart to life ? 
 
 XIV. 
 
 know 
 
 I sometimes 
 
 "Who could 
 started 
 
 At a motion or a sound ! 
 
 Did his mouth speak, naming Troy 
 
 "With an ototototoi ? 
 Did the pulse of the Strong-bearted 
 
 ISIake the daisies tremble round ? 
 
 XV. 
 
 It was bard to answer, often; 
 But the birds sang in the tree, 
 But the little birds sang liold 
 In the pear-tree green and old, 
 
 And my terror seemed to soften 
 Through the courage of their glee. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Oh tb(! birds, the ti-ee, the rnddy 
 And white blossoms sleek with 
 
 rain ! 
 Oh, my garden rich with jiansies ! 
 
 Oh, my childhood's brigbt ro- 
 mances ! 
 All revive, like Hector's body, 
 And I see them stir again. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 And despite life's changes, chances, 
 And despite the deatTibell's toll, 
 They press on me in full seeming: 
 Help, some angel ! stay this dream- 
 ing ! 
 As the birds sang in the branches. 
 Sing God's patience through my 
 soul ! 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 That no dreamer, no neglecter 
 Of the present's work unsped, 
 I may wake np and be doing, 
 Life's heroic ends pursuing. 
 
 Though my past is dead as Hector, 
 And though Hector is twice dead 
 
 SLEEPING AND AYATCIl- 
 ING. 
 
 Sleep on, baby, on the floor, 
 
 Tired of all the playing; 
 Sleep with smile the sweeter for 
 
 That you dropped away in. 
 On your curls' full roundness stand 
 
 Golden lights serenely; 
 One cheek pushed out by the hand 
 
 Folds the dimjile inly: 
 Little head and little foot. 
 
 Heavy laid for pleasure, 
 Underneath the lids lialf-shnt. 
 
 Slants the shining azure. 
 Open-soul in noonday sun, 
 
 So you lie and slumber: 
 Nothing evil having done, 
 
 Nothing can encnmber. 
 
 II. 
 
 I who cannot sleep as well, 
 Shall I sigh to view you ? 
 
 Or sigh further to foretell 
 All that maj' nndo you ? 
 
SOUNDS. 
 
 353 
 
 Xay, keep smiling, little child, 
 
 Ere the sorrow neareth: 
 I will smile too: patience mild 
 
 Pleasure's token weareth. 
 Nay, keep sleeping before loss: 
 
 Ishall sleep though losing — 
 As by cradle, so by cross. 
 
 Sure is the reposing. 
 
 III. 
 
 And God knows who sees us twain, 
 
 Child at childish leisure, 
 I am near as tired of pain 
 
 As you seem of pleasvire. 
 Very soon too, by his grace 
 
 Gently wrapt around me. 
 Shall I show as calm a face. 
 
 Shall I sleep as soundly, — 
 Differing in this, that you 
 
 Clasp your playthings, sleeping, 
 "While my hand shall drop the few 
 
 Given to my keeping; 
 Differing in this, that I 
 
 Sleeping shall be colder. 
 And in waking presently, 
 
 Brighter to beholder; 
 Differing in this beside 
 
 (Sleeper, have you heard me ? 
 Do you move, and open wide 
 
 Eyes of wonder toward me ?) — 
 That while you I thus recall 
 
 From your sleep, I solely, 
 Me from mine an angel shall, 
 
 "With reveille holv. 
 
 SOUNDS. 
 
 HKOvtra? r) ovk rjKovfra^ ; 
 
 ^T-SCHYI.l'S. 
 
 I. 
 
 Harken, barken ! 
 The rapid river carrieth 
 ]Many noises underneath 
 The hoary ocean : 
 \ Teaching his solemnity 
 
 Sounds of inland life and glee 
 Learnt beside the waving tree 
 When the winds in summer prank 
 Toss the shades from bank to bank, 
 And the quick rains, in emotion 
 Which rather gladdens earth than 
 grieves, 
 
 Count and visibly rehearse 
 The pulses of the \iniverse 
 Upon the summer leaves — 
 Learnt among the lilies straight. 
 When they bow them to tlie weight 
 Of many bees whose hidden hum 
 Seemeth from themselves to come — 
 Learnt among the grasses green 
 Where tlie rustling mice are seen 
 By the gleaming, as they run. 
 Of their quick eyes in the sun ; 
 And lazy sheep are browsing through 
 With iheir noses trailed in dew; 
 And the squirrel leaps adown. 
 Holding fast the filbert brown; 
 And the lark, with more of mirth 
 In his song than suits the earth, 
 Droppeth some in soaring high. 
 To pour the rest out in the sky; 
 While the woodland doves apart 
 In the cojise's leafy heart, 
 Solitary, not ascetic. 
 Hidden and yet vocal, seem 
 Joining in a lovely psalm, 
 Man's despondence, nature's calm. 
 Half mystical and half jiathetic. 
 Like a singing in a dream. i 
 All these sounds the river telleth. 
 Softened to an undertone 
 Which ever and auon he swelleth 
 By a burden of his own, 
 
 In the ocean's ear: 
 Ay, and ocean seems to hear 
 With an inward gentle scorn, 
 Smiling to his caverns worn. 
 
 n. 
 
 Harken, barken ! 
 The child is shouting at his j^lay 
 Just in the tramping funeral's way; 
 The widow moans as she turns aside 
 To shun the face of the blushing 
 bride, 
 
 I " While fJoatin;: up bright fonns ideal, 
 
 Slistress or iViemi, ;iroiind me stream ; 
 Half sense-supplied, and half unreal. 
 Like music mingling with a dream." 
 
 John Kekton. 
 
 I do not doubt that the " music " of the 
 two concluding lines mingled, though very 
 unconsciously, with my own "dream," and 
 gave their form and pressure to the above 
 distich. The ideas however being sufficient- 
 ly distinct, I am satisfied with sending this 
 note to the press after my verses, and with 
 acknowledging another obligation to the 
 valued friend to whom I already owe so 
 many. 1S44. 
 
T 
 
 354 
 
 ,S0 UNDS. 
 
 While, sliaking the tower of the an- 
 cient church, 
 The marriage-bells do swing; 
 And in the shadow of the porch 
 An idiot sits with his lean hands full 
 Of hedgerow flowers and a poet's 
 
 skull, 
 Laughing loud and gil)hering 
 Because it is so brown a thing, 
 "While he sticketh the gaudy poppies 
 
 red 
 In and out the senseless head 
 Where all sweet fancies grew instead. 
 And you may hear at the self-same 
 
 time 
 Another poet who reads his rhyme, 
 Low as a brook in summer air, 
 Save when he droppeth his voice 
 
 adown 
 To dream of the amaranthine crown 
 His mortal brows shall wear; 
 And a baby cries with a feeble sound 
 'Neath the weary weight of the life 
 
 new-found; 
 And an old man groans — with his 
 
 testament 
 Only half-signed — for the life that's 
 
 spent; 
 And lovers twain do softly say. 
 As they sit on a grave, " For aye, for 
 
 aye;" 
 And foemen twain, while Earth their 
 
 mother 
 Looks greenly upward, curse each 
 
 otlier; 
 A schoolboy drones his task, with 
 
 looks 
 Cast over the page to the elm-tree 
 
 rooks; 
 A lonely student cries aloud 
 Eureka! clasping at his shroud; 
 A beldame's age-cracked voice doth 
 
 sing 
 To a little infant slumbering; 
 A maid forgotten weeps alone. 
 Muffling her sobs on the trysting- 
 
 stone; 
 A sick man wakes at his own mouth's 
 
 wail; 
 A gossip coughs in her thrice-told 
 
 tale ; 
 A muttering gamester shakes the 
 
 dice ; 
 A reaper foretells good luck from the 
 
 skies; 
 A monarch vows as he lifts his hand 
 
 to them ; 
 A patriot, leaving his native laud to 
 
 them 
 
 Cries to the world against perjured 
 state ; 
 
 A priest disserts 
 
 Upon linen skirts; 
 
 A sinner screams for one hope more; 
 
 A dancer's feet do palpitate 
 
 A ])iper's music out on the floor; 
 
 And righ to the awful Dead, the liv- 
 ing 
 
 Low speech and stealthy steps are 
 giving. 
 
 Because he cannot hear; 
 
 And he who on that narrow bier 
 
 Has room enough is closely wound 
 
 In a silence piercing more than sound. 
 
 III. 
 
 Harken, hark en ! 
 God siaeaketh to thy soul, 
 Using the supreme voice which doth 
 
 confound 
 All life with consciousness of Deity, 
 
 All senses into one, — 
 As the seer-saint of Patmos, loving 
 John 
 (For whom did backward roll 
 The cloud-gate of the future) turned 
 
 to see 
 The Voice which spake. It speaketh 
 
 now. 
 Through the regular breath of the 
 
 calm creation. 
 Through the moan of the creature's 
 
 desolation 
 Striking, and in its stroke resembling 
 The memory of a solemn vow 
 Which jiierceth the din of a festival 
 To one in the midst, — and he letteth 
 fall 
 The cup with a sudden trembling. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Harken, harken ! 
 God speaketh in thy soul. 
 Saying, "O thou that movest 
 With feeble steps across this earth of 
 
 mine. 
 To break beside the fount thy golden 
 bowl 
 And spill its purple wine, — 
 Look up to heaven and see how like 
 
 a scroll 
 My right hand hath thine immortality 
 
 In 
 
 an eternal 
 lovest 
 
 grasping ! thou that 
 
sonn/:ts. 
 
 355 
 
 The songful birds and grasses under- 
 foot, 
 
 And also what change mars and tombs 
 polhite — 
 
 J am the end of love ! give love to 
 Me! 
 
 And 
 
 count the droppings of my vic- 
 tim-blood, 
 And seek none other sound! " 
 
 V. 
 
 thou that sinnest, grace doth more 
 
 abound 
 Than all thy sin ! sit still beneatli my 
 
 rood, 
 
 
 Harken, barken ! 
 Shall we hear the lapsing river 
 And our brother's sighing ever, 
 
 And not the voice of God ? 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 THE SOUL'S EXPRESSION. 
 
 With stammering lips and insufficient 
 
 sound 
 1 strive and struggle to deliver right 
 That music of my nature, da.^ and 
 
 night 
 With dream and thought and feeling 
 
 interwound, 
 And inly answering all tlie senses 
 
 round 
 With octaves of a mystic depth and 
 
 height 
 Which step out grandly to the infinite 
 From the dark edges of the sensual 
 
 ground. 
 This song of soul 1 struggle tooutbear 
 Through portals of the sense, sublimf^ 
 
 and whole, 
 And utter all myself into the air: 
 But if I did it, as the thunder-roll 
 Breaks its own cloud, my flesh would 
 
 l^erisb there, 
 Before that dread apocalypse of soul, 
 
 THE SERAPH AND POE^I'. 
 
 The seraph sings before the manifest 
 God-One, and in the burning of the 
 
 Seven, 
 And with the full life of consummate 
 
 Heaven 
 Heaving beneath him like a mother's 
 
 breast 
 Warm with her first-born's slumber 
 
 in that nest. 
 
 The poet sings upon the earth grave- 
 riven, 
 
 Before the naughty world, soon self- 
 forgiven 
 
 For wronging him; and in the dark- 
 ness prest 
 
 From his own soul by worldly weights. 
 Even so 
 
 Sing, seraph with the glory ! heaven 
 is high ; 
 
 Sing, poet with the sorrow ! earth is 
 low ; 
 
 The universe's inward voices cry 
 
 "Amen" to. either .song of joy and 
 woe; 
 
 Sing, seraph, poet, sing on equally ! 
 
 BEREAVEMENT. 
 
 When some beloveds, 'neath whose 
 
 eyelids lay 
 The sweet lights of my childhood, one 
 
 by one, 
 Did leave me dai-k before the natural 
 
 sun, 
 And I astonied fell, and could not 
 
 pray, 
 A thought within me to myself did 
 
 say, 
 " Is God less God, that thou art left 
 
 undone ? 
 Rise, worship, bless him in this sack- 
 cloth spun, 
 As in that purple ! " But I answered, 
 
 "Nay! 
 
i5fi 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 What child his filial heart in words 
 
 can loose 
 If he behold his tender father raise 
 The hand that chastens sorely ? can 
 
 he choose 
 But sob in silence with an upward 
 
 gaze ? — 
 And my great Father, thinking fit to 
 
 bruise, 
 Discerns in speechless tears both 
 
 prayer and praise." 
 
 CONSOLATION. 
 
 All are not taken : there are left be- 
 hind 
 
 Living beloveds, tender looks to bring 
 
 And make the daylight still a happy 
 thing, 
 
 And tender voices to make soft the 
 wind : 
 
 But if it were not so, if I could find 
 
 No love in all the world for comfort- 
 ing, 
 
 Nor any path but hollowly did ring 
 
 Where " dust to dust" the love from 
 life disjoined, 
 
 And if, before those sepulchres uu- 
 moving 
 
 I stood alone (as some forsaken lamb 
 
 Goes bleating up the moors in weary 
 dearth), 
 
 Crying, "Where are ye,"0 my loved 
 "and loving? " 
 
 I know a Voice would sound, 
 " Daughter, I am. 
 
 Can I suffice for heaven and not for 
 earth?" 
 
 TO MARY RUSSELL MIT- 
 FORD. 
 
 IN HER GARDEN. 
 
 What lime I lay these rhymes auear 
 
 thy feet, 
 Benignant friend, I will not proudly 
 
 say 
 As better poets use, " These flowers 1 
 
 lay," 
 Because I would not wrong thy roses 
 
 sweet. 
 Blaspheming so their name. And 
 
 yet repeat 
 
 Thou, overleaning them this spring- 
 time day, 
 
 With heart as ouen to love as theirs to 
 May, 
 
 — " Low-rooted verse may reach some 
 heavenly heat, 
 
 Even like my blossoms, if as nature- 
 true. 
 
 Though not as precious." Thou ai-t 
 unperplext. 
 
 Dear friend, in whose dear writings 
 drops the dew, 
 
 And blow the natural airs, — thou, 
 who art next 
 
 To nature's self in cheering the world's 
 view, 
 
 To preach a sermon on so known a 
 text ! 
 
 ON A PORTRAIT OF WORDS- 
 WORTH BY B. R. HAYDON. 
 
 Wordsworth upon Helvellyn ! Let 
 the cloud 
 
 Ebbaudibly along the mountain-wind. 
 
 Then break against the rock, and show 
 behind 
 
 The lowland valleys floating up to 
 crowd 
 
 The sense with beauty. He with 
 forehead bowed 
 
 And humble-lidded eyes, as one in- 
 clined 
 
 Before the sovran thought of his own 
 mind, 
 
 And very meek with inspirations 
 proud. 
 
 Takes here his rightful place as poet- 
 priest 
 
 By the high altar, singing prayer and 
 prayer 
 
 To the higher Heavens. A noble vis- 
 ion free 
 
 Our Haydon'.s hand has fiung out from 
 the mist: 
 
 No portrait tliis, with academic air ! 
 
 This is the poet and his poetry. 
 
 PAST AND FUTURE. 
 
 My future will not copy fair my past 
 On any leaf but heaven's. Be fully 
 
 done, 
 Supernal Will ! I would not fain be 
 
 one, 
 
 [-•-•-♦H 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 357 
 
 Who, satisfying thirst and breaking 
 
 fast, 
 Upon the fulness of the heart at last 
 Says no grace after meat. My wine 
 
 has run 
 Indeed out of nay cup, and there is 
 
 none 
 To gather up the bread of my repast 
 Scattered and trampled; yet I find 
 
 some good 
 In earth's green herbs, and streams 
 
 that buttble up 
 Clear from the darkling ground, — 
 
 content until 
 I sit with angels before better food. 
 Dear Christ ! when thy new vintage 
 
 fills my cup, 
 This hand shall shake no more, nor 
 
 that wine spill. 
 
 IRREPARABLENESS. 
 
 I HAVE'been in the meadows all the 
 day. 
 
 And gathered there the nosegay that 
 you see, 
 
 Singing within myself as bird or bee. 
 
 When such do field-work on a morn 
 of May. 
 
 But, now I look upon my flowers, de- 
 cay 
 
 Has met them in my hands more fa- 
 tally 
 
 Because more warmly clasped; and 
 sobs are free 
 
 To come instead of songs. What do 
 you say. 
 
 Sweet counsellors, dear friends ? that 
 I should go 
 
 Back straightway to the fields and 
 gather more ? 
 
 Another, sooth, may do it; but not I ! 
 
 My heart is verj^ tired, my strength is 
 low, 
 
 My hands are full of blossoms plucked 
 before. 
 
 Held dead within them till myself 
 shall die. 
 
 TEARS. 
 
 Thank God, bless God, all ye who 
 
 suffer not 
 More grief than ve can weep for. 
 
 That is well;" 
 
 That is light grieving ! lighter, none 
 befell 
 
 Since Adam forfeited the primal lot. 
 
 Tears !— what are tears? The babe 
 weeps in its cot, 
 
 The mother singing; at her marriage- 
 bell 
 
 The bride weeps; and before the ora- 
 cle 
 
 Of high-faned hills the poet has forgot 
 
 Such moisture on his cheeks. Thank 
 God for grace. 
 
 Ye who weep only ! If, as some have 
 done, 
 
 Ye grope tear-blinded in a desert 
 place, 
 
 And touch but tombs, look up ! 
 those tears will run 
 
 Soon in long rivers down the lifted 
 face. 
 
 And leave the A-ision clear for stars 
 and sun. 
 
 GRIEF. 
 
 I TELL you hoi>eless grief is passion- 
 less ; 
 
 That only men incredulous of despair. 
 
 Half-taught in anguish, through the 
 midnight air 
 
 Beat upward to God's throne in loud 
 access 
 
 Of shrieking and reproach. Full des- 
 ertness. 
 
 In souls as countries, lieth silent-bare 
 
 Under the blanching, vertical ej^e- 
 glare 
 
 Of the absolute heavens. Deep- 
 hearted man, express 
 
 Grief for thy dead in silence like to 
 death — 
 
 Most like a monumental statue set 
 
 In everlasting watch and moveless 
 woe 
 
 Till itself crumble to the dust beneath. 
 
 Touch it; the marble eyelids are not 
 wet : 
 
 If it could weep, it could arise and go. 
 
 SUBSTITUTIOX. 
 
 When some beloved voice that was 
 
 to you 
 Both sound and sweetness faileth 
 
 suddenly. 
 
i 
 
 358 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 And silence against which jou dare 
 not cry 
 
 Aches round you like a strong dis- 
 ease and new, 
 
 What hope ? what lielii ? what music 
 will undo 
 
 That silence to your sense ? Not 
 friendshii:)'s sigh; 
 
 Not reason's subtle count; not mel- 
 ody 
 
 Of viols, nor of pipes that Fauims 
 blew; 
 
 Not songs of poets, nor of nightin- 
 gales 
 
 Whose hearts leap upward through 
 the cypress-trees 
 
 To the clear moon ; nor yet the spheric 
 laws 
 
 Self-chanted, nor the angels' sweet 
 All-hails, 
 
 Met in the smile of God: nay, none 
 of these. 
 
 Speak THOU, availing Christ ! and fill 
 this pause. 
 
 COMFORT. 
 
 Speak low to me, my Saviour, low 
 and sweet 
 
 From out the hallelujahs sweet and 
 low, 
 
 Lest I should fear and fall, and miss 
 thee so. 
 
 Who art not missed by any that en- 
 treat. 
 
 Speak to me as to Mary at thj' 
 feet! 
 
 And if no precious gums my hands 
 bestow, 
 
 Let my tears drop like amber while I 
 go 
 
 In reach of thy divinest voice com- 
 plete 
 
 In humanest affection, — thus, in 
 sooth. 
 
 To lose the sense of losing; as a 
 child, 
 
 Whose song-bird seeks the wood for- 
 evermore, 
 
 Is sung to in its stead bj^ mother's 
 mouth 
 
 Till, sinking on her breast, love-recon- 
 ciled. 
 
 He sleeps the faster that he wept be- 
 fore. 
 
 pp:rplexei) music. 
 
 AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO 
 E.J. 
 
 Experience, like a pale musician, 
 holds 
 
 A dulcimer of i>atience in his hand. 
 
 Whence harmonies we cannot under- 
 stand. 
 
 Of God's will in his worlds, the strain 
 unfolds 
 
 In sad, peri^lexed minors: deathly 
 colds 
 
 Fall on us while we hear, and coun- 
 termand 
 
 Our sanguine heart back from the 
 fancy-lantl, 
 
 With nightingales in visionary wolds. 
 
 We murmur, " Where is an j" certain 
 tune 
 
 Or measured music in such notes as 
 these ? 
 
 But angels, leaning from the golden 
 seat. 
 
 Are not so minded : their fine ear hath 
 won 
 
 The issue of completed cadences. 
 
 And, smiling down the stars, they 
 whisper — Sweet. 
 
 WOflK. 
 
 What are we set on earth for ? Say, 
 to toil ; 
 
 Nor seek to leave thy tending of the 
 vines 
 
 For all the heat o' the day, till it 
 declines, 
 
 And death's mild curfew shall from 
 work assoil. 
 
 God did anoint thee with his odor- 
 ous oil. 
 
 To wrestle, not to reign; and he as- 
 signs 
 
 All thy tears over, like pure crystal- 
 lines, 
 
 For younger fellow-workers of the 
 soil 
 
 To wear for amulets. So others 
 shall 
 
 Take patience, labor, to their heart 
 and hand, 
 
 From thy hand and thy heart and thy 
 brave cheer. 
 
 And God's grace fructify through 
 thee to all. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 359 
 
 The least flower, with a brimming 
 
 CU13 may stand 
 And share its dewdrop with another 
 
 near. 
 
 FUTURITY. 
 
 AxD O beloved voices, upon which 
 
 Ours passionately call, because ere- 
 long 
 
 Ye brake off in the middle of that 
 song 
 
 We sang together softly, to enrich 
 
 The poor world with the sense of love, 
 and witcli 
 
 The heart out of things evil, — 1 am 
 strong. 
 
 Knowing ye are not lost for aye 
 among 
 
 The hills with last year's thrush. 
 God keeps a niche 
 
 In heaven to hold our idols; and al- 
 beit 
 
 He brake them to our faces, and de- 
 nied 
 
 That our close kisses should impair 
 their white, 
 
 I know we shall behold them raised, 
 complete, 
 
 The dust swept from their beauty, — 
 glorified 
 
 New Memnons singing in the great 
 God-light. 
 
 THE TWO SAYINGS. 
 
 Two sayings of the Holy Scriptures 
 
 beat 
 Like pulses in the church's brow and 
 
 breast ; 
 And by them we find rest in our un- 
 rest. 
 And, heart-deep in salt tears, do yet 
 
 entreat, 
 God's fellowship as if on heavenly 
 
 seat. 
 The first is, Jesus wept, whereon is 
 
 prest 
 Full many a sobbing face that drops 
 
 its best 
 And sweetest waters on the record 
 
 sweet: 
 And one is where the Christ, denied 
 
 and scorned, 
 Looked upojj Peteu. Oh, to render 
 
 plain. 
 
 By help of having loved a little, and 
 mourned. 
 
 That look of sovran love and sovran 
 pain 
 
 Which He, who could not sin yet suf- 
 fered, turned 
 
 On him who could reject, but not sus- 
 tain ! 
 
 THE LOOK. 
 
 The Saviour looked on Peter. Ay, 
 no word. 
 
 No gesture of reproach: the heavens 
 serene, 
 
 Tliough heavy with armed justice, did 
 not lean 
 
 Their thunders that way: the forsaken 
 Lord 
 
 Looked only on the traitor. None re- 
 cord 
 
 What that look was, none guess; for 
 those who liave seen 
 
 Wronged lovers loving through a 
 death-pang keen, 
 
 Or pale-cheeked martyrs smiling to a 
 sword. 
 
 Have missed Jehovah at the judg- 
 ment-call. 
 
 And Peter, from the height of blas- 
 phemy, — 
 
 " I never knew this man " — did quail 
 and fall 
 
 As knowing straight that God, and 
 turned free 
 
 And went out speechless from the 
 face of all. 
 
 And filled the silence, weeping bitter- 
 ly- 
 
 THE MEANING OF THE 
 LOOK. 
 
 I THINK that look of Christ might 
 seem to say, 
 
 "Thou Peter ! art thou, then, a com- 
 mon stone 
 
 Which I at last must break my heart 
 upon. 
 
 For all God's charge to his high an- 
 gels may 
 
 Guard mj^ foot better ? Did I yester- 
 day 
 
 Wash thy feet, my beloved, that they 
 should run 
 
 Quick to deny me 'neath the morning 
 sun ? 
 
 I 
 
360 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 And do thy kisses, like the rest, be- 
 tray ? 
 
 Tlie cock crows coldly. — Go, and 
 manifest 
 
 A late contrition, but no bootless 
 fear; 
 
 For, when thy final need is dreariest, 
 
 Thou shalt not be denied, as I am 
 here: 
 
 My voice to God and angels shall at- 
 test, 
 
 Because I know this man, let him be 
 clear." 
 
 A THOUGHT FOR A LONE- 
 LY DEATH-BED. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO MY FRIEND E. C. 
 
 If God compel thee to this destiny. 
 
 To die alone, with none beside thy 
 bed 
 
 To rufHe round with sobs thy last 
 word said. 
 
 And mark with tears the pulses ebb 
 from thee. 
 
 Pray then alone, " O Christ, come ten- 
 derly ! 
 
 By thy forsaken Sonship in the red 
 
 Drear wine-press, by the wilderness 
 outspread. 
 
 And the lone garden where thine 
 agony 
 
 Fell bloody from thy brow, — by all 
 of those 
 
 Permitted desolations, comfort mine ! 
 
 No earthly friend being near me, in- 
 terpose 
 
 No deathly angel 'twixt my face and 
 thine, 
 
 But stoop thyself to gather my life's 
 rose. 
 
 And smile away my mortal to di- 
 vine ! " 
 
 WORK AND CONTEMPLA- 
 TION. 
 
 The woman singeth at her siMnning- 
 
 wheel 
 A pleasant chant, ballad, or barcarole; 
 She thinketh of her song, upon the 
 
 whole, 
 Far more than of her flax; and yet 
 
 the reel 
 Is fiill, and artfully her fingers feel 
 
 With quick adjustment, jirovident 
 control. 
 
 The lines, too subtly twisted to un- 
 roll. 
 
 Out to a perfect thread. I hence ap- 
 peal 
 
 To the dear Christian Church, that 
 we may do 
 
 Our Father's business in these tem- 
 ples mirk, 
 
 Thus swift and steadfast, thus intent 
 and strong; 
 
 While thus, apart from toil, our souls 
 pursue 
 
 Some high, calm, spheric tune, and 
 prove our work 
 
 The better for the sweetness of our 
 song. 
 
 PAIN IN PLEASURE. 
 
 A THOUGHT lay like a flower upon 
 
 mine heart, 
 And drew around it other thoughts 
 
 like bees. 
 For multitude and thirst of sweet- 
 nesses: 
 Whereat rejoicing, I desired the art 
 Of the Greek whistler, who to wharf 
 
 and mart 
 Could lure those insect swarms from 
 
 orange-trees, 
 That I might hive with me such 
 
 thoughts, and please 
 My soul so always. Foolish counter- 
 part 
 Of a weak man's vain wishes ! While 
 
 I spoke, 
 Ths thought I called a flower grew 
 
 nettle-rough, 
 The thoughts called bees stung me 
 
 to festering: 
 Oh, entertain (cried Reason as she 
 
 woke,) 
 Your best and gladdest thoughts but 
 
 long enough. 
 And they will all prove sad enough to 
 
 sting ! 
 
 FLUSH OR FAUNUS. 
 
 You see this dog: it was but yester- 
 day 
 I mused, forgetful of his presence here, 
 Till thought on thought drew down- 
 ward tear on tear: 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 Wheii from the pillow wliere wet- 
 cheeked I lay, 
 
 A head as haiiy as Fauniis thrust its 
 way 
 
 Right sudden against my face, two 
 golden-clear 
 
 Great eyes astonished mine, a droop- 
 ing ear 
 
 Did flap me on either cheek to dry the 
 spray ! 
 
 1 started first as some Arcadian 
 
 Amazed by goatly god in twilight 
 grove; 
 
 But, as the bearded vision closelier 
 ran 
 
 My tears off, I knew Flush, and rose 
 above 
 
 Surprise and sadness, thanking the 
 true Pan 
 
 Who by low creatures leads to heights 
 of love. 
 
 FINITE AND INFINITE. 
 
 The wind sounds only in opposing 
 straits. 
 
 The sea beside the shore; man's 
 spirit rends 
 
 Its quiet only up against the ends 
 
 Of wants and oppositions, loves and 
 hates, 
 
 Where, worked and worn by passion- 
 ate debates. 
 
 And losing by the loss it apprehends, 
 
 The flesh rocks round, and .every 
 breath it sends 
 
 Is ravelled to a sigh. All tortured 
 states 
 
 Suppose a straitened place. Jehovah, 
 Lord, 
 
 Make room for rest, around me ! out 
 of sight 
 
 Now float me, of the vexing land ab- 
 horred, 
 
 Till, in deep calms of space, my soul 
 may right 
 
 Her nature, shoot large sail on length- 
 ening cord. 
 
 And rush exultant on the infinite. 
 
 AN APPREHENSION. 
 
 If all the gentlest-hearted friends I 
 know 
 
 Concentred in one heart their gentle- 
 ness, 
 
 That still grew gentler till its pulse 
 was less 
 
 For life than pity, I should yet be 
 slow 
 
 To bring mj' own heart nakedly be- 
 low 
 
 The palm of such a friend, that he 
 should press 
 
 Motive, condition, means, appli- 
 ances. 
 
 My false ideal joy and fickle 
 woe, 
 
 Out full to light and knowledge: I 
 should fear 
 
 Some plait between the brows, some 
 rougher chime 
 
 In the free voice. O angels, let your 
 flood 
 
 Of bitter scorn dash on me ! do ye 
 hear 
 
 What / say who bear calmly all the 
 time 
 
 This everlasting face to face with 
 God? 
 
 DISCONTENT. 
 
 Light human nature is too lightly 
 
 tost 
 And ruffled without cause, complain- 
 ing on, 
 Kestless with rest, until, being over- 
 thrown. 
 It learneth to lie quiet. Let a 
 
 frost 
 Or a small wasp have crept to the 
 
 innermost 
 Of our ripe peach, or let the wilful 
 
 sun 
 Shine westward of our window, 
 
 straight we run 
 A furlong's sigh, as if the world were 
 
 lost. 
 But what time through the heart and 
 
 through the brain 
 God hath transfixed us, we, so moved 
 
 before, 
 Attain to a calm. Ay, shouldering 
 
 weights of pain. 
 We anchor in deep waters, safe from 
 
 shore. 
 And hear, submissive o'er the stormy 
 
 main 
 God's chartered judgments walk for- 
 
 evermore. 
 
I 
 
 362 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 PATIENCE TAUGHT BY 
 NATURE. 
 
 ' O DREARY life! " we cry, " O dreary, 
 
 life!" 
 And still the generations of the birds 
 Sing through our sighing, and the 
 
 flocks and herds 
 Serenely live while we are keeping 
 
 strife 
 With Heaven's true pur^jose in us, as 
 
 a knife 
 Against which we may struggle! 
 
 Ocean girds 
 Unslackened the dry land, savannah- 
 swards 
 Unweary sweep, hills watch unworn, 
 
 and rife 
 Meek leaves drop yearly from the 
 
 forest-trees 
 To show above the unwasted stars 
 
 that i)ass 
 In their old glory. O thou God of old, 
 Grant me some smaller grace than 
 
 comes to these ! 
 But so much patience as a blade of 
 
 grass 
 Grows by, contented througli the 
 
 heat and cold. 
 
 To meet the flints ? At least it may 
 
 be said, 
 " Because the way is short, I thank 
 
 thee, God." ' 
 
 CHEERFULNESS TAUGHT 
 BY REASON. 
 
 I THINK we are too ready with com- 
 plaint 
 
 In this fair world of God's. Had we 
 no hope, 
 
 Indeed, beyond the zenith, and the 
 slope 
 
 Of yon gray blank of sky, we might 
 grow faint 
 
 To muse upon eternity's constraint 
 
 Round our aspirant souls; but, since 
 the scope 
 
 Must widen early, is it well to droop, 
 
 FoT a few days consumed in loss and 
 taint ? 
 
 O pusillanimous heart, be comforted, 
 
 And like a cheerful traveller take the 
 road, 
 
 Singing beside the hedge. What if 
 the bread 
 
 Be bitter in thine inn, and tliou un- 
 shod 
 
 EXAGGERATION. 
 
 We overstate the ills of life, and take 
 
 Imagination (given us to bring down 
 
 The choirs of singing angels over- 
 shone 
 
 By God's clear glory) down our earth 
 to rake 
 
 The dismal snows instead, flake fol- 
 lowing flake, 
 
 To cover all the corn; we walk upon 
 
 The shadow of hills across a level 
 thrown. 
 
 And pant like climbers: near the al- 
 derbrake 
 
 We sigh so loud, the nightingale with- 
 in 
 
 Refuses to sing loud, as else she would. 
 
 O brothers! let us leave the shame 
 and sin 
 
 Of taking vainly, in a plaintive mood, 
 
 The holy name of Grief! — holj' 
 herein. 
 
 That by the grief of One came all our 
 good. 
 
 ADEQUACY. 
 
 Now, by the verdure on thy thousand 
 hills, 
 
 Beloved England, doth the earth ap- 
 pear 
 
 Quite good enough for men to over- 
 bear 
 
 The will of God in, with rebellious 
 wills ! 
 
 We cannot say the morning-sun ful- 
 fils 
 
 Ingloriously its course, nor that the 
 clear, 
 
 Strong stars without significance in- 
 sphere 
 
 Our habitation: we, meantime, our 
 Ills 
 
 Heap up against this good, aud lift a 
 cry 
 
 Against this work-day world, this ill- 
 spread feast, 
 
 As if ourselves were better certainly 
 
 Than what we come to. Maker and 
 High Priest, 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 863 
 
 I 
 
 I ask thee not my joys to multiply', 
 Only to make me worthier of the 
 least. 
 
 TO GEORGE SAND. 
 
 A DESIRE. 
 
 I Thou large-brained woman and large- 
 
 I hearted man, 
 
 i Self-called George Sand, whose son], 
 
 amid the lions 
 ; Of thy tumultuous senses, moans de- 
 rt fiance, 
 
 And answers roar for roar, as spirits 
 can, 
 
 I would some mild miraculous thun- 
 der ran 
 
 Above the ajiplauded circus, in appli- 
 ance 
 
 Of thine own uoliler nature's strength 
 and science, 
 
 Drawing two jiinions, white as wings 
 of swan. 
 
 From thy strong shoulders, to amaze 
 the place 
 
 With holier light ! that thou, to wo- 
 man's claim 
 
 And man's, mightst join beside the 
 angel's grace 
 
 Of a jnire genius sanctified from 
 blame. 
 
 Till child and maiden pressed to thine 
 emlirace 
 
 To kiss upon thy lips a stainless fame. 
 
 ( 
 
 TO GEORGE SAND. 
 
 A RECOGNITION. 
 
 Tkue genius, but true woman, dost 
 deny 
 
 The woman's uature with a manly 
 scorn. 
 
 And break away the gauds and arm- 
 lets worn 
 
 By weaker women in captivity ? 
 
 Ah, vain denial! that revolted cry 
 
 Is sobbed in by a woman's voice for- 
 lorn. 
 
 Thy woman's hair, my sister, all un- 
 shorn, 
 
 Floats back dishevelled strength in 
 agony, 
 
 Disproving thy man's name; and 
 while before 
 
 The world thou burnest in a poet-fire, 
 
 We see thy woman-heart beat ever- 
 more 
 
 Through the large flame. Beat jiurer, 
 heart, and higher. 
 
 Till God unsex thee on the heavenly 
 shore 
 
 Where unincarnate spirits ]iurely as- 
 pire ! 
 
 THE PRISONER. 
 
 I COUNT the dismal time by months 
 
 and years 
 Since last I felt the greensward under 
 
 foot, 
 And the great breath of all things 
 
 summer-mute 
 Met mine upon my lips. Now earth 
 
 appears 
 As strange to me as dreams of distant 
 
 spheres, 
 Or thoughts of heaven we weep at. 
 
 Nature's lute 
 Sounds on, behind this door so closely 
 
 shut, 
 A strange, wild uuisic to the prison- 
 er's ears 
 Dilated by the distance, till the brain 
 Grows dim with fancies which it feels 
 
 too fine, 
 While ever, with a visionary pain. 
 Past the precluded senses, sweep and 
 
 shine 
 Streams, forests, glades, and many a 
 
 golden train 
 Of sunlit hills transfigured to divine. 
 
 INSUFFICIENCY. 
 
 When I attain to utter forth in verse 
 
 Some inward thought, my soul throbs 
 audibly 
 
 Along my pulses, yearning to be free, 
 
 And something farther, fuller, higher, 
 rehearse, 
 
 To the individual, true, and the uni- 
 verse. 
 
 In consummation of right harmony; 
 
 But like a wind-exposed, distorted 
 tree. 
 
 We are blown against forever by the 
 curse 
 
364 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Which breathes through nature. Oh, 
 the workl is weak. 
 
 The effluence of each is false to all, 
 
 And what we best conceive we fail to 
 speak. 
 
 Wait, soul, until thine ashen gar- 
 ments fall, 
 
 And then resume thy broken strains, 
 and seek 
 
 Fit peroration without let or thrall. 
 
 TWO SKETCHES. 
 
 H. B. 
 
 The shadow of her face upon the wall 
 May take your memory to the perfect 
 
 Greek; 
 But when you front her, you would 
 
 call tiie cheek 
 Too full, sir, for your models, if, with- 
 al, 
 That bloom it wears could leave you 
 
 critical. 
 And that smile reaching toward the 
 
 rosy streak ; 
 For one who smiles so has no need to 
 
 speak 
 To lead your thoughts along, as steed 
 
 to stall. 
 A smile that turns the sunny side o" 
 
 the heart 
 On all the world, as if herself did win 
 By what she lavished ou an open 
 
 mart ! 
 Lei no man call the liberal sweetness 
 
 sin; 
 For friends may whisper as they stand 
 
 apart, 
 " Metliinks there's still some warmer 
 
 place within."' 
 
 A. B. 
 
 II. 
 
 Hek azure eyes dark lashes hold in 
 
 fee; 
 Her fair superliuous ringlets without 
 
 check 
 Drop after one another down her 
 
 neck. 
 As many to each cheek as you might 
 
 see 
 
 Green leaves to a wild rose: this sign 
 
 outwardly. 
 And a like woman-covering seems to 
 
 deck 
 Her inner nature, for she will not 
 
 rteck 
 World's sunshine with a finger. Sym- 
 pathy 
 Must call her in love's name ! and 
 
 then, I know, 
 She rises up, and brightens as she 
 
 should. 
 And lights her smile for comfort, and 
 
 is slow 
 In nothing of high-hearted fortitude. 
 To smell this flower, come near it: 
 
 such can grow 
 In that sole garden where Christ's 
 
 brow dropped blood. 
 
 MOUNTAINEER AND POET. 
 
 The simple goatherd between Alp 
 and sky, 
 
 Seeing his shadow in that awful tryst 
 
 Dilated to a giant's on the mist. 
 
 Esteems not liis own stature larger by 
 
 The apparent image, but more pa- 
 tiently 
 
 Strikes his staff down beneath his 
 clenching tist, 
 
 While the snow-mountains lift their 
 amethyst 
 
 And sapphire crowns of splendor, far 
 and nigh. 
 
 Into the air around him. Learn from 
 hence 
 
 Meek morals, all ye poets tliat pursue 
 
 Your way still onward up to emi- 
 nence: 
 
 Ye are not great because creation 
 drew 
 
 Large revelations round your earliest 
 sense, 
 
 Nor bright because God's glory shines 
 for you. 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 The poet hath the child's sight in his 
 
 breast, 
 And sees all neiv. What oftenest he 
 
 has viewed. 
 He views with the first glorj'. Fair 
 
 and good 
 Pall never on him at the fairest, best, 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 365 
 
 But stand before him holy, and un- 
 dressed 
 
 In week-day false conventions, such 
 as would 
 
 Drag other men <lown from the alti- 
 tude 
 
 Of primal types, too early dispos- 
 sessed. 
 
 M'liy, God would tire of all his heav- 
 ens as soon 
 
 As thou. O godlike, childlike poet, 
 didst 
 
 Of daily and nightly sights of sun and 
 moon; 
 
 And therefore hath he set tliee iu the 
 midst, 
 
 Where men may hear thy wonder's 
 ceaseless tune, 
 
 And praise his world forever as thou 
 bidst. 
 
 HIRAM POWERS' GREEK 
 SLAVE. 
 
 They say ideal beauty cannot en- 
 ter 
 
 The house of anguish. On the thresh- 
 old stands 
 
 An alien Image with enshackled 
 hands, 
 
 Called the Greek Slave ! as if the 
 artist meant her 
 
 (That passionless perfection which he 
 lent her. 
 
 Shadowed, not darkened, where the 
 sill expands) 
 
 To so confront man's crimes in differ- 
 ent lauds 
 
 "With man's ideal sense. Pierce to 
 the centre. 
 
 Art's fiery finger ! and break up ere 
 long 
 
 The serfdom of this world ! appeal, 
 fair stone. 
 
 From God's pure heights of beauty 
 against man's wrong ! 
 
 Catch up in thy divine face, not 
 alone 
 
 East griefs, but west, and strike and 
 shame the strong, 
 
 By thunders of white silence over- 
 thrown. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 Each creature holds an insular point 
 
 in space; 
 Yet what man stirs a tinger, breathes 
 
 a sound. 
 But all the multitudinous beings 
 
 round 
 In all the countless worlds, witli time 
 
 and place 
 For their conditions, down to the 
 
 central base. 
 Thrill, haply, in vibration and re- 
 bound . 
 Life answering life across the vast 
 
 profound. 
 In full antiphony, by a common 
 
 grace ? 
 I think this sudden joyaunce which 
 
 illumes 
 A child's mouth sleeping, unaware 
 
 may run 
 From some soul newly loosened from 
 
 earth's tombs: 
 I think this passionate sigh, which, 
 
 half-begun, 
 I stifle back, may reach and stir the 
 
 plumes 
 Of God's calm angel standing iu the 
 
 sun. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 We cannot live, except thus mutu- 
 ally 
 
 We alternate, aware or unaware. 
 
 The reflex act of life; and when we 
 bear 
 
 Our virtue outward most impulsively, 
 
 Most full of invocation, and to be 
 
 Most instantly compellant, certes 
 there 
 
 We live most life, whoever breathes 
 most air. 
 
 And counts his dying years by sun 
 and sea: 
 
 But when a soul by choice and con- 
 science doth 
 
 Throw out her full force on another 
 soul, 
 
 The conscience and the concentration 
 both 
 
 Make mere life, love. For Life in 
 perfect whole 
 
 And aim consummated is Love lu 
 sooth. 
 
 As nature's magnet-heat rounds pole 
 with pole. 
 
1_ 
 
 il 
 
 366 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 "And there was silence in lieaven for the 
 space of half an hour." — Revelation. 
 
 God, who with thunders and great 
 
 voices kept 
 Beneath tliy throne, and stars most 
 
 silver-paced 
 Along the inferior gyres, and open- 
 faced 
 Melodious angels round, canst inter- 
 cept 
 Music with music, yet at will hast 
 
 swept 
 All back, all back (said he in Patmos 
 
 placed), 
 To fill the heavens with silence of the 
 
 waste 
 Which lasted half an hour ! — lo, I 
 
 who have wept 
 All day and night beseech thee by 
 
 my tears. 
 And by that dread response of curse 
 
 and groan 
 Men alternate across these hemi- 
 
 sjiheres. 
 Vouchsafe us such a half-hour's hush 
 
 alone, 
 In ■ compensation for our stormy 
 
 years : 
 As heaven has paused from song, let 
 
 earth from moan. 
 
 THE PROSPECT. 
 
 Methinks we do as fretful children 
 
 do. 
 Leaning their faces on the window- 
 pane 
 To sigh the glass dim with their own 
 
 breath's stain, 
 And shut the sky and landscape from 
 
 their view; 
 And thus, alas ! since God the maker 
 
 drew 
 A mj^stic separation 'twixt those 
 
 twain, — 
 The life beyond us and our souls in 
 
 pain, — 
 We miss the prospect which we are 
 
 called unto 
 By grief we are fools to use. Be still 
 
 and strong, 
 O man, my brother ! hold thy sobbing 
 
 breath, 
 
 And keep thy soul's large window 
 
 pure from wrong. 
 That so, as life's appointment issueth. 
 Thy vision may be clear to watch 
 
 along 
 The sunset consummation-lights of 
 
 death. 
 
 HUGH STUART BOYD.i 
 
 HIS BLINDNESS. 
 
 God would not let the spheric lights 
 
 accost 
 This God-loved man, ami bade the 
 
 earth stand off 
 With all her beckoning hills whose 
 
 golden stuff 
 Under the feet of the royal sun is 
 
 crosst. 
 Yet such things were to him not 
 
 wholly lost, — 
 Permitted, with his wandering eyes 
 
 light-proof, 
 To catch fair visions rendered full 
 
 enough 
 By many a ministrant accomplished 
 
 ghost, — 
 Still seeing, to sounds of softly-turned 
 
 book-leaves, 
 Sappho's crown-rose, and Meleager's 
 
 spring. 
 And Gregory's starlight on Greek- 
 burnished eves. 
 Till sensuous and unsensuous seemed 
 
 one thing. 
 Viewed from one level, — earth's 
 
 reapers at the sheaves 
 Scarce plainer than heaven's angels 
 
 on the wing. 
 
 1 To whom was inscribed, in grateful 
 aftection, my poem of "Cyprus Wine." 
 There comes a moment in life when even 
 gratitude and affection turn to pain, as they 
 do now with me. This excellent and learned 
 man, enthusiastic for the good and the 
 beautiful, and one of the most simple and 
 upright of human beings, passed out of his 
 long darkness through death, In the summer 
 of 1848; Dr. Adam Clarke's daughter and 
 biographer, Mrs. Smith (happier in this 
 than the absent) fulfilling a doubly filial 
 duty as she sate by the death-bed of her 
 father's friend and hers. 
 
THE LOST BOWER. 
 
 367 
 
 HUGH STUART BOYD. 
 
 HIS DEATH, 184S. 
 
 Beloved friend, who, living many 
 years 
 
 With sightless eyes raised vainly to 
 the sun. 
 
 Didst learn to keep thy patient soul 
 in tune 
 
 To visible Nature's elemental cheers, 
 
 God has not caught thee to new hemi- 
 spheres 
 
 Because thou wast aweary of this 
 one: 
 
 I think thine angel's patience first 
 was done, 
 
 And that he spake out with celestial 
 tears, 
 
 " Is it enough, dear God ? then light- 
 en so 
 
 This soul that smiles in darkness ! " 
 Steadfast friend, 
 
 Who never didst my heart or life 
 misknow, 
 
 Nor cither's faults too keenlj' appre- 
 hend. 
 
 How can I wonder when I see thee 
 go 
 
 To join the dead found faithful to the 
 end ? 
 
 HUGH STUART BOYD. 
 
 LEGACIES. 
 
 Three gifts the dying left me, — JEs- 
 chylus, 
 
 And Gregory Nazianzen, and a clock 
 
 Chiming the gradual hours out like a 
 flock 
 
 Of stars whose motion is melodi- 
 ous. 
 
 The books were those I used to read 
 from, thus 
 
 Assisting my dear teacher's soul to 
 unlocls: 
 
 The darkness of his eyes: now, mine 
 they mock, 
 
 Blinded in turn by tears; now mur- 
 murous 
 
 Sad echoes of my young voice, yeai'S 
 agoue 
 
 Entoning from these leaves the Gre- 
 cian phrase, 
 
 Return and choke my utterance. 
 Books, lie down 
 
 In silence on the shelf there, within 
 gaze; 
 
 And thou, clock, striking the hour's 
 pulses on, 
 
 Chime in the (lay which ends these 
 parting-days ! 
 
 THE LOST BOWER. 
 
 In the pleasant orchard-closes, 
 "God bless all our gains!" say 
 
 we; 
 But " May God bless all our losses ! " 
 Better siiits with our degree. 
 Listen, gentle, ay, and simple ! listen, 
 
 children on the knee ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Green the land is where my daily 
 Steps in jocund childhood played, 
 Dimpled close with hill and val- 
 ley, 
 Dappled very close with shade ; 
 Summer-snow of apple-blossoms run- 
 ning up from glade to glade. 
 
 in. 
 
 There is one hill I see nearer 
 In my vision of the rest; 
 And a little wood seems clearer 
 As it climbeth from the west, 
 Sideway from the tree-locked valley, 
 to the airy upland crest. 
 
 IV 
 
 wood 
 
 is, green with 
 
 Small the 
 hazels, 
 
 And, completing the ascent, 
 
 Where the wind blows, and sun daz- 
 zles. 
 
 Thrills in leafy tremblement, 
 Like a heart, that, after climbing, beat- 
 eth quickly through content. 
 
tO. 
 
 368 
 
 THE LOST BOWER. 
 
 Not a step the wood artvancos 
 O'er the open hilltop's bound; 
 There, in green arrest, the branches 
 See their image on the ground : 
 You may walk beneath them smiling, 
 glad with sight, and glad with 
 sound. 
 
 VI. 
 
 For yoxi harkou on your right hand 
 How the birds do leap and call 
 In the greenwood, out of sight, and 
 Out of reach and fear of all; 
 And the squirrels crack the filberts 
 through their cheerful madrigal. 
 
 VII. 
 
 On your left, the sheep are cropping 
 The slant grass and daisies pale. 
 And live api)le-trees stand dropping 
 Separate shadows toward the vale 
 Over which, in choral silence, the 
 hills look you their " All hail ! " 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Far out, kindled by each other. 
 Shining hills on hills arise. 
 Close as brother leans to brotlier 
 "When they press beneath the eyes 
 Of some father praying blessings from 
 the gifts of paradise. 
 
 IX. 
 
 "While beyond, above them mount- 
 ed. 
 
 And above their woods also, 
 
 Malvern hills, for mountains count- 
 ed 
 
 Not unduly, loom a-row — 
 Keepers of Piers Plowman's visions 
 through the sunshine and the 
 suow.i 
 
 X. 
 
 "\'et in childhood little ])rized I 
 That fair walk and far survey: 
 'Twas a straight walk unadvised by 
 The least mischief worth a nay; 
 Up and down — as dull as grammar 
 on the eve of holiday. 
 
 • The Malvern Hills of Worcestershire are 
 the scone of Lauglandc's visions, and ihus 
 jiresent the earliest classic ground of Eng- 
 lish poetry. 
 
 XI. 
 
 But the wood, all close and clench- 
 ing 
 Bough in boTigli and root in root, — 
 No more sky (for over-branching) 
 At your head than at your foot, — 
 Oh, the wood drew me within it by a 
 glamour past dispute ! 
 
 XII. 
 
 Few and broken paths showed 
 
 through it, 
 Where the sheep had tried to 
 
 run, 
 Forced with snowy wool to strew it 
 Round the thickets, when anon 
 They, with silly thorn-pricked noses, 
 
 bleated back into the sun. 
 
 xin 
 
 But ray childish heart beat stronger 
 Than those thickets dared to grow : 
 I could pierce them ! / could longer 
 Travel on, methought, than so: 
 Sheep for sheep-paths ! braver chil- 
 dren climb and creep where 
 they would go. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And the poets wander, said I, 
 Over places all as rude: 
 Bold Rinaldo's lovely lady 
 Sate to meet him ir^ a wood: 
 Rosalinda, like a fountain, laughed out 
 inire with solitude. 
 
 XV. 
 
 And, if Chaucer had not travelled 
 Through a forest bj^ a well. 
 He had never dreamt nor marvelled 
 At those ladies fair and fell 
 Who lived smiling without loving in 
 their island-citad«l. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Thus 1 thought of the old singers. 
 And took courage from their song, 
 Till my little struggling lingers 
 Tore asunder gyve and thong 
 Of the brambles which entrapped me, 
 and the barrier branches strong 
 
 i 
 
" And five apple-trees stand dropping 
 
 Separate shadows towards the vale." — Page 36S. 
 " Shaping thence that bower of beauty whicli 
 
 1 sing of thus to you." — Page 369. 
 
\- 1 ^ 
 
 
 iro 
 
THE LOST BOWER. 
 
 369 
 
 XVII. 
 
 On a day, such pastime keeping. 
 With a fawn's heart debonair, 
 Under-crawling, overleaping 
 Thorns that prick, and boughs that 
 
 bear, 
 I stood suddenly astouied : I was 
 
 gladdened unaware. 
 
 xvni. 
 
 From the place I stood in, floated 
 Back the covert dim and close, 
 And the open ground was coated 
 Carpet-smooth with grass and moss. 
 And the bluebell's purple presence 
 signed it worthily across. 
 
 bright- 
 
 light- 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Here a linden-tree stood, 
 
 ening 
 All adown its silver rind ; 
 For as some trees draw the 
 
 ening, 
 
 So this tree, unto my mind. 
 Drew to earth the blessed sunshine 
 
 from the sky where it was 
 
 shrined. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Tall the linden-tree, and near it 
 An old hawthorn also grew ; 
 And wood-ivy like a spirit 
 Hovered dimly round the two, 
 Shaping thence that bower of beauty 
 which I sing of thus to you. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 'Twas a bower for garden fitter 
 Than for any woodland wide: 
 Though a fresh and dewy glitter 
 Struck it through from side to side. 
 Shaped and shaven was the freshness, 
 as by garden-cunning plied. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Oh I a lady might have come there. 
 Hooded fairly like her hawk, 
 With a book "or lute in summer, 
 And a hope of sweeter talk, — 
 Listening less to her own music than 
 for footsteps on the walk. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 But that bower appeared a marvel 
 In the wildness of the place; 
 With such seeming art and travail, 
 
 Finely fixed and fitted was 
 Leaf to leaf, the dark-green ivy, 
 the summit from the base. 
 
 to 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 And the ivy, veined and glossy, 
 Was inwrought with eglantine; 
 And the wild hop fibred closely; 
 And the large-leaved columbine, 
 Arch of door and window-mullion, 
 did right sylvanly intwiue. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Rose-trees either side the door were 
 Growing lithe and growing tall, 
 Each one set a summer warder 
 For the keeping of the hall, — 
 With a red rose and a white rose, 
 leaning, nodding at the wall. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 As I>entered, mosses hushing 
 Stole all noises from my foot; 
 And a green elastic cushion. 
 Clasped within the linden's root, 
 Took me in a chair of silence very 
 rare and absolute. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 All the floor was paved with glory, 
 
 Greenly, silently inlaid 
 
 (Through quick motions made be- 
 fore me) 
 
 With fair counterparts in shade 
 Of the fair serrated ivy-leaves which 
 slanted overhead. 
 
 xxvin. 
 
 " Is such pavement in a palace ? " 
 So I questioned in my thought: 
 The sun, shining through the chal- 
 ice 
 Of the red rose hung without. 
 Threw within a red libation, like an 
 answer to my doubt. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 At the same time, on the linen 
 
 Of my childish lap there fell 
 
 "Two white may-leaves, downward 
 
 winning 
 Through the ceiling's miracle. 
 From a blossom, like an angel, out of 
 
 sight, yet blessing well. 
 
370 
 
 THE LOST BOWER. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Down to floor, and np to ceiling 
 Quick I turned my childish face. 
 With an innocent appealing 
 For the secret of the place 
 To the trees, which surely knew it in 
 partaking of the grace. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Where's no foot of human creature 
 How could reach a human hand ? 
 And, if this be work of Nature, 
 Why has Nature turned so bland. 
 Breaking off from other wild-work ? 
 It was hard to understand. 
 
 xxxn. 
 Was she weary of rough-doing. 
 Of the bramble and the thorn ? 
 Did she pause in tender rueing 
 Here of all her sylvan scorn ? 
 Or in mock of art's deceiving was the 
 sudden mildness worn ? • 
 
 xxxin. 
 
 Or could this same bower (I fancied) 
 Be the work of dryad strong, 
 Who, surviving all that chanced 
 In the world's old Pagan wrong, 
 Lay hid, feeding in the woodland on 
 the last true poet's song ? 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Or was this the house of fairies, 
 Left, because of the rough ways, 
 Unassoiled by Ave Marys 
 Which the passing pilgrim prays. 
 And beyond St. Catherine's chiming 
 on the blessed sabbath daj's ? 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 So, young muser, I sate listening 
 To my fancy's wildest word: 
 On a sudden, through the glistening 
 Leaves around, a little stirred, 
 C'ame a sound, a sense of music, which 
 was rather felt than heard. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Softly, finely, it inwound me; 
 From the world it shut me in. 
 Like a fountain falling i-ound me. 
 Which with silver waters thin 
 Clips a little water-Naiad sitting smil- 
 ingly within. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Whence the music came, whoknow- 
 
 eth ? 
 /know nothing; but indeed 
 Pan or Faunus never bloweth 
 So much sweetness from a reed 
 Which has sucked the milk of waters 
 
 at the oldest riverhead. 
 
 XXXVIIl. 
 
 Never lark the sun can waken 
 With such sweetness, when the 
 
 lark, 
 The high planets overtaking 
 In the half-evanished dark. 
 Casts his singing to their singing, like 
 an arrow to the mark. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Never nightingale so singeth: 
 Oh, she leans on thorny tree, 
 And her poet-song she flingeth 
 Over pain to victory ! 
 Yet she never sings such music — or 
 she sings it not to me. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Never blackbirds, never thrushes, 
 Nor small finches, sing as sweet, 
 When the sun strikes through the 
 
 bushes 
 To their crimson clinging feet. 
 And their pretty eyes look sideways 
 to the summer heavens com- 
 plete. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 If it xoere a bird, it seemed 
 
 Most like Chaucer's, which, in 
 
 sooth. 
 He of green and azure dreamed, 
 AVhile it sate in spirit-ruth 
 On that bier of a crowned lady, sing- 
 ing nigh her silent mouth. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 If it v>ere a bird ? — ah, sceptic. 
 Give me "yea" or give me 
 
 "nay," 
 Though my soul were nymxiholep- 
 
 tic 
 As I heard that virelay, 
 You may stoop your pride to pardon, 
 
 for my sin is far away I 
 
THE LOST BOWER. 
 
 371 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 I rose up in exaltation 
 And an inward trembling heat, 
 And (it seemed) in geste of passion 
 Dropped the music to my feet 
 Like a garment rustling downwards — 
 such a silence followed it ! 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Heart and head beat through the 
 
 quiet 
 Full and heavily, though slower: 
 In the song, I think, and by it, 
 Mystic Presences of power 
 Had upsnatched me to the Timeless, 
 
 then returned me to the Hour. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 In a child-abstraction lifted. 
 Straightway from the bower I past, 
 Foot and soul being dimly drifted 
 Through the greenwood, till at last 
 In the hilltop's open sunshine I all 
 consciously was cast. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 with the 
 
 true mouu- 
 
 Face to face 
 
 tains 
 I stood silently and still. 
 Drawing strength from fancy's 
 
 dauntings. 
 From the air about the hill. 
 And from Nature's open mercies, and 
 
 most debonair good- will. 
 
 XL VII. 
 
 Oh the golden-hearted daisies 
 "Witnessed there, before my youth, 
 To the truth of things, with praises 
 Of the beauty of the truth ; 
 And I woke to Nature's real, laugh- 
 ing joyfully for both. 
 
 XLvni. 
 And I said within me, laughing, 
 I have found a bower to-day, 
 A green lusus, fashioned half in 
 Chance, and half in Nature's play, 
 And a little bird sings nigh it, I will 
 nevermore missay. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Henceforth /will be the fairy 
 Of this bower not built by one : 
 I will go there, sad or merry, 
 
 With each morning's benison, 
 And the bird shall be my harper in 
 the dream-hall I have won. 
 
 So I said. But the next morning, — 
 (Child, look up into my face, — 
 'Ware, O sceptic, of your scorning ! 
 This is truth in its pure grace !) 
 The next morning, all had vanished, 
 
 or my wandering missed the 
 
 place. 
 
 LI. 
 
 Bring an oath most sylvan-holy, 
 And upon it swear me true, 
 By the wind-bells swinging slowly 
 Their mute curfews in the dew. 
 By the advent of the snowdrop, by 
 the rosemary and rue, — 
 
 Lll. 
 
 I affirm by all or any. 
 Let the cause be charm or chance. 
 That my wandering searches many 
 Missed the bower of my romance. 
 That I nevermore upon it turned my 
 mortal countenance. 
 
 Lin. 
 
 I affirm, that, since I lost it, 
 Never bower has seemed so fair, 
 Never garden-creeper crossed it 
 With so deft and brave an air. 
 Never bird sung in the summer as 
 saw and heard them there. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 Day by day, with new desire. 
 Toward my wood I ran in faith, 
 tinder leaf and over brier, 
 Through the thickets, out of breath, 
 Like the prince who rescued Beauty 
 from the sleep as long as death. 
 
 LV. 
 
 But his sword of mettle clashed. 
 And his arm smote strong, I ween, 
 And her dreaming spirit flashed 
 Through her body's fair white 
 
 screen. 
 And the light thereof might guide 
 
 him up the cedar alleys green. 
 
372 
 
 THE LOST BOWER. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 But for me I saw uo splendor, — 
 All my sword was my child-lieart; 
 And the wood refused surrender 
 Of that bower it held ajiart, 
 Safe as CEdipus' grave-place 'mid 
 Colone's olives swart. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 As Aladdin sought the basements 
 His fair palace rose upon, 
 And the four and twenty casements 
 "Which gave answers to the sun, 
 So, in wilderraent of gazing, I looked 
 up, and I looked down. 
 
 Lvra. 
 vanished 
 
 since, as 
 
 Years have 
 
 wholly 
 As the little bower did then; 
 And you call it tender folly 
 That such thoughts should come 
 
 again ? 
 Ah, I cannot change this sighing for 
 
 your smiling, brother-men ! 
 
 LIX. 
 
 For this loss it did prefigure 
 Other loss of better good, 
 When my soul, in spirit-vigor 
 And in ripened womanhood, 
 Fell from visions of more beauty than 
 an arbor in a wood. 
 
 LX. 
 
 I have lost, oh, many a pleasure, 
 Many a hope, and many a j^ower, 
 Studious health and merry leisure, 
 The first dew on the first flower; 
 But the first of all my losses was the 
 losing of the bower. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 I have lost the dream of Doing, 
 And the other dream of Done; 
 The first spring in the Pursuing, 
 The first pride in the Begun, 
 First recoil from incompletion in the 
 face of Avhat is won ; 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Exaltations in the far light 
 Where some cottage only is; 
 Mild dejections in the starlight. 
 Which the saddei'-hearted miss; 
 And the child-cheek blushing scarlet 
 for the A'ery shame of bliss. 
 
 i.xnr. 
 
 I have lost the sound child-sleeping 
 Which the thunder could not break; 
 Something, too, of the strong leaping 
 Of the staglike heart awake, 
 Which the pale is low for keeping 
 in the road it ought to take. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 Some respect to social fictions 
 Has been also lost by me. 
 And some generous genuflexions. 
 Which my spirit offered free 
 To the pleasant old conventions of 
 our false humanity. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 All my losses did I tell you, 
 Ye perchance would look away, 
 Ye would answer me, " Farewell, 
 
 you 
 Make sad company to-day. 
 And your tears are falling faster than 
 the bitter words you say." 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 For God placed me like a dial 
 In the open ground with power, 
 And my heart had for its trial 
 All the sun and all the shower; 
 And I suffered many losses, — and 
 my first was of the bower. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 Laugh you ? If that loss of mine be 
 Of no heavy-seeming weight, — 
 When the cone falls from the pine- 
 tree, 
 The young children laugh thereat ; 
 Yet tlie wind that struck it riseth, 
 and the tempest shall be great. 
 
 Lxvm. 
 
 One who knew me in my childhood. 
 In the glamour and the game. 
 Looking on me long and mild, would 
 Jfever know me for the same. 
 Come, unchanging recollections, 
 where those changes overcame ! 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 By this couch I weakly lie on 
 While I count my memories. 
 Through the fingers, which, still 
 
 sighing, 
 I press closely on mine eyes, 
 Clear as once beneath the sunshine, 
 
 I behold the bower arise. 
 
A SONG AGAINST SINGING. 
 
 373 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Springs the linden-tree as greenly, 
 Stroked with light adovvn its rind, 
 And the ivy-leaves serenely 
 Each in either intertwined; 
 And the rose-trees at the doorway — 
 
 they have neither grown nor 
 
 pined. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 From those overblown faint roses 
 Not a leaf appeareth shed ; 
 And that little bud discloses 
 Not a thorn's breadth moi-e of red 
 For the winters and the summers 
 which have passed me overhead. 
 
 LXXU. 
 
 And that music overfloweth, 
 Sudden sweet, the sylvan eaves ; 
 Thrush, or nightingale, — who 
 
 knoweth ? 
 Fay, or Faunus, — who believes ? 
 But my heart still trembles in me to 
 
 the trembling of the leaves. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 Is the bower lost then ? who sayeth 
 That the bower indeed is lost ? 
 Hark I my spirit in it prayeth 
 Through the sunshine and the frost; 
 And the prayer preserves it greenly 
 to the last and uttermost, 
 
 LXXI v. 
 
 Till another open for me 
 In God's Eden-land unknown, 
 With an angel at the doorway, 
 White with gazing at his throne; 
 And a saint's voice in the palm-trees, 
 
 singing, " All is lost . . . and 
 
 won f " 
 
 SONG AGAINST SING- 
 ING. 
 
 TO E. J. H. 
 
 They bid me sing to thee, 
 Thou golden-haired and silver-voiced 
 
 child. 
 With lips by no worse sigh than sleep's 
 
 defiled, 
 
 With eyes unknowing how tears dim 
 the sight. 
 
 And feet all trembling at the new de- 
 light 
 Treaders of earth to be. 
 
 It. 
 
 Ah, no ! the lark may bring 
 A song to thee from out the morning 
 
 cloud. 
 The merry river from its lilies bowed, 
 The brisk rain from the trees, the 
 
 lucky wind 
 That half doth make its music, half 
 doth find; 
 But I — I may not sing, 
 
 IIL 
 
 How could I think it right, 
 New-comer on our earth as. Sweet, 
 
 thou art, 
 To bring a verse from out an human 
 
 heart 
 Made heavy with accumulated tears. 
 And cross with such amount of weary 
 years 
 Thy day-sum of delight? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Even if the verse were said, 
 
 Thou, who wouldst clasp thy tiny 
 hands to hear 
 
 The wind or rain, gay bird or river 
 clear, 
 
 Wouldst, at that sound of sad humani- 
 ties. 
 
 Upturn thy bright, uncomprehending 
 eyes. 
 And bid me play instead. 
 
 Therefore no song of mine. 
 
 But prayer in place of singing, — 
 prayer that would 
 
 Commend thee to the new-creating 
 God, 
 
 Whose gift is childhood's heart with- 
 out its stain 
 
 Of weakness, ignorance, and chan- 
 ging vain : 
 That gift of God be thine! 
 
 VI. 
 
 So wilt thou aye be young. 
 In lovelier childhood than thy shining 
 
 brow 
 And pretty winning accents make 
 
 thee now ; 
 
374 
 
 WINE OF CYPRUS. 
 
 Yea, sweeter than this scarce articu- 
 late sound 
 
 (How sweet !) of " father," " mother," 
 shall be found 
 The Abba on thy tong^ue. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And so, as years shall chase 
 
 Each other's shadows, thou wilt less 
 resemble 
 
 Thy fellows oi the earth who toil and 
 tremble, 
 
 Tlian him thou seest not, — thine 
 angel, bold 
 
 Yet meek, whose ev«r-lifted eyes be- 
 hold 
 The Ever-loving's face. 
 
 WINE OF CYPRUS. 
 
 GIVEN TO ME BY H. 8. BOTD, AUTHOR OF 
 " SELECT PASSAGES FROM THE OREEK 
 FATHERS," ETC., TO WHOM THESE STAN- 
 ZAS ARE ADDRESSED. 
 
 1. 
 
 If old Bacchus were the speaker, 
 
 He would tell you, with a sigh, 
 Of the Cyprus in this beaker 
 
 I am sipping like a fly, — 
 Like a tiy or gnat on Ida 
 
 At the hour of goblet-pledge, 
 By queen Juno brushed aside, a 
 
 Full white arm-sweep, from 
 edge. 
 
 the 
 
 u. 
 
 Sooth, the drinking should be ampler 
 
 When the drink is so divine, 
 And some deep-mouthed Greek ex- 
 emplar 
 
 Would become your Cyprus wine: 
 Cyclops' mouth might plunge aright 
 in. 
 
 While his one eye over-leered; 
 Nor too large were mouth of Titan, 
 
 Drinking rivers down his beard. 
 
 III. 
 Pan might dip his head so deep in, 
 
 That his ears alone pricked out; 
 Fauns around him pressing, leaping, 
 
 Each one pointing to his throat; 
 
 While the Naiads, like Bacchantes, 
 Wild, with urns thrown out to 
 waste, 
 Cry, " O earth, that thou wouldst 
 grant us 
 Springs to keep, of such a taste ! " 
 
 But for me, I am not worthy 
 
 After gods and Greeks to drink. 
 And my lips are pale and earthy 
 
 To go bathing from this brink: 
 Since you heard them speak the last 
 time, 
 
 They have faded from their blooms, 
 And the laughter of my pastime 
 
 Has learnt silence at the tombs. 
 
 Ah, my friend ! the antique drinkers 
 
 Crowned the cup, and crowned the 
 brow. 
 Can I answer the old thinkers 
 
 In the forms they thought of, now ? 
 Who will fetch from garden-closes 
 
 Some new garlands while I speak, 
 That the forehead, crowned with 
 roses, 
 
 May strike scarlet down the cheek ? 
 
 VI. 
 
 Do not mock me ! with my mortal, 
 
 Suits no wreath again, indeed: 
 I am sad-voiced as the turtle 
 
 Which Anacreon used to feed ; 
 Yet, as that same bird demurely 
 
 Wet her beak in cup of his. 
 So, without a garland, surely 
 
 I may touch the brim of this. 
 
 Go ! let others praise the Chian ; 
 
 This is soft as Muse's string; 
 This is tawny as Rhea's lion ; 
 This is rapid as his spring; 
 Bright as Paphia's eyes e'er met us, 
 
 Light as ever trod her feet; 
 And the brown bees of Hymettus 
 
 Make their honey not so sweet. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Very copious are my praises, 
 Though I sip it like a fly. 
 
 Ah 1 but, sipping, times and place 
 Change before me suddenly. 
 
WINE OF CYPRUS. 
 
 375 
 
 As Ulysses' old libation 
 
 Drew the ghosts from every part, 
 So your Cyprus wine, dear Grecian, 
 
 Stirs the Hades of mv heart. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And I think of those long mornings 
 
 Which my thought goes far to seek, 
 "When, betwixt the folio's turnings, 
 
 Solemn flowed the rhythmic Greek: 
 Past the pane the mountain spread- 
 ing. 
 
 Swept the sheep-bell's tinkling 
 noise. 
 While a girlish voice was reading 
 
 Somewhat low for ais and ois. 
 
 X. 
 
 Then what golden hours were for ns ! 
 
 While we sate together there; 
 How the white vests of the chorus 
 
 Seemed to wave up a live air ! 
 How the cothurns trod majestic 
 
 Down the deep iambic lines. 
 And the rolling auapestic 
 
 Curled like vapor over shrines ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 Oh, our ^schylns, the thunderous ! 
 
 How he drove the bolted breath 
 Tlirough the cloud, to wedge it pon- 
 derous 
 
 In tlie gnarled oak beneath ! 
 Oh, our Sophocles, the royal ! 
 
 Who was born to monarch's place. 
 And who made the whole world loyal, 
 
 Less by kingly power than grace. 
 
 xn. 
 
 Our Euripides, the human. 
 
 With his droppings of warm tears, 
 And his touches of things common 
 
 Till they rose to touch the spheres ! 
 Our Theocritus, our Bion, 
 
 And our Pindar's shining goals ! — 
 These were cup-bearers undying. 
 
 Of the wine that's meant for souls. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And my Plato, the divine one. 
 If men know the gods aright 
 
 By their motions as they shine on 
 With a glorioius trail of light ! 
 
 And your noble Christian bishops, 
 Who mouthed grandly the last 
 Greek, 
 
 Though the sponges on their hyssops 
 Were distent with wine — too weak. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Yet your Chrysostom, you praised him 
 
 As a liberal mouth of gold; 
 And your Basil, you upraised him 
 
 To the height of speakers old : 
 And we both praised Heliodorns 
 
 For his secret of pure lies, — 
 Who forged first his linked stories 
 
 In the heat of lady's eyes. 
 
 XV. 
 
 And we botli praised your Synesius 
 
 For the fire shot up his odes, 
 Though the Church was scarce propi- 
 tious 
 
 As he whistled dogs and gods. 
 And wt both praised Nazianzen 
 
 For the fervid heart and speech; 
 Only I eschewed his glancing 
 
 At the lyre hung out of reach. 
 
 xvi. 
 
 Do you mind that deed of Ate 
 
 Which you bound me to so fast, 
 Reading " De Virginitate," 
 
 From the first line to the last ? 
 How I said at ending, solemn. 
 
 As I turned and looked at you, 
 That St. Simeon on the column 
 
 Had had somewhat less to do ? 
 
 xvn. 
 
 For we sometimes gently wrangled, 
 
 Very gently, be it said. 
 Since our thoughts were disentangled 
 
 By no breaking of the thread ; 
 And I charged you with extortions 
 
 On the nobler fames of old ; 
 Ay, and sometimes thought your Per- 
 sons 
 
 Stained the purple they would fold. 
 
 xvui. 
 
 For the rest — a my.stic moaning 
 
 Kept Cassandra at the gate, 
 With wild eyes the vision shone in, 
 
 And wide nostrils scenting fate. 
 And Prometheus, bound in passion 
 
 By brute force to the blind stone, 
 Showed us looks of invocation 
 
 Turned to ocean and the sun. 
 
376 
 
 A RHAPSODY OF LIFE'S PROGRESS. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 And Medrea we saw burning 
 
 At her nature's planted stake; 
 And proud CEdipus late-scorning 
 
 While the cloud came on to break — 
 "While the cloud came on slow, slower, 
 
 Till he stood discrowned, resigned ! 
 But the reader's voice dropped lower 
 
 When the poet called him blind. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Ah, my gossip! you were older, 
 
 And more learned, and a man ; 
 Yet that shadow, the infolder 
 
 Of your quiet eyelids, ran 
 Both our spirits to one level ; 
 
 And I turned from hill and lea 
 And the summer-sun's green revel, 
 
 To your eyes that could not see. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Now Christ bless you with the one 
 light 
 
 Which goes shining night and day ! 
 May the flowers which grow in sun- 
 light 
 
 Shed their fragrance in your way ! 
 Is it not right to remember 
 
 All your kindness, friend of mine. 
 When we two sate in the chamber. 
 
 And the poets poured us wine ? 
 
 XXII. 
 
 So, to come back to the drinking 
 
 Of this Cyprus, — it is well; 
 But those memories, to my thinking 
 
 Make a better oenomel; 
 And, whoever be the speaker, 
 
 None can murmur with a sigh 
 That, in drinking from that beaker, 
 
 I am sipping like a fly. 
 
 A 
 
 RHAPSODY OF LIFE'S 
 PROGRESS. 
 
 ' Fill all the stops of life with tuneful breath." 
 Poems on Man, by Cornelius Mathews. ^ 
 
 We are borne into life: it is sweet, it 
 
 is strange. 
 We lie still on the knee of a mild 
 
 mystery 
 
 ' A small volume, by an American poet, — 
 as remarkable in thought and manner for a 
 
 Which smiles with a change; 
 But we doubt not of changes, we 
 
 know not of spaces; 
 The heavens seem as near as our own 
 
 mother's face is. 
 And we think we could touch all the 
 
 stars that we see ; 
 And the milk of our mother is white 
 
 on our mouth; 
 And with small childish hands we are 
 
 turning around 
 The apple of life which another has 
 
 found : 
 It is warm with our touch, not with 
 
 sun of the south. 
 And we count, as we turn it, the red 
 
 side for four. 
 O Life, O Beyond, 
 Thou art sweet, thou art strange 
 
 evermore ! 
 
 11. 
 
 Then all things look strange in the 
 
 pure golden ether; 
 We walk through the gardens with 
 hands linked together. 
 And the lilies look large as the 
 trees; 
 And as loud as the birds sing the 
 
 bloom-loving bees; 
 And the birds sing like angels, so 
 
 mystical-fine. 
 And the cedars are brushing the 
 
 archangels' feet. 
 And time is eternity, love is divine, 
 
 And the world is complete. 
 Now, God bless the child — father, 
 mother, respond ! 
 O Life, O Beyond, 
 Thou art strange, thou art sweet ! 
 
 m. 
 
 Then we leap on the earth with the 
 
 armor of youth. 
 And the earth rings again; 
 And we breathe out, " O beauty ! " 
 
 we cry out, " O truth ! " 
 And the bloom of our lips drops with 
 
 wine. 
 And our blood runs amazed 'neath 
 
 the calm hyaline: 
 The earth cleaves to the foot, the sun 
 
 burns to the brain, — 
 What is this exultation ? and what 
 
 this despair ? 
 The strong pleasure is smiting the 
 
 nerves into pain, 
 
 vital sinewy vigor, as the right arm of Path- 
 finder. 1844. 
 
A RHAPSODY OF LIFE'S PROGRESS. 
 
 377 
 
 And we drop from the fair as we 
 climb to the fair, 
 And we lie in a trance at its feet; 
 And the breath of an angel cold- 
 piercing the air 
 Breathes fresh on our faces in 
 swoon, 
 And we think him so near, he is this 
 
 side the sun. 
 And we wake to a whisper self-mur- 
 mured and fond, 
 O Life, O Beyond, 
 Thou art strange, thou art sweet ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 And the winds and the waters in pas- 
 toral measures 
 
 Go winding around us, with roll up- 
 on roll, 
 
 Till the soul lies within in a circle of 
 pleasures 
 Which hideth the soul ; 
 
 And we run with the stag, and we 
 leap with the horse, 
 
 And we swim with the fish through 
 the broad water-course, 
 
 And we strike with the falcon, and 
 hunt with the hound. 
 
 And the joy which is in us flies out 
 by a wound. 
 
 And we shout so aloud, "We exult, 
 we rejoice," 
 
 That we lose the low moan of our 
 brothers around ; 
 
 And we shout so adeep down crea- 
 tion's profound. 
 We are deaf to God's voice. 
 
 And we bind the rose-garland on 
 forehead and ears. 
 Yet we are not ashamed ; 
 
 And the dew of the roses that run- 
 neth unblamed 
 
 • Down our cheeks is not taken for 
 tears. 
 
 Help us, God ! trust us, man! love us, 
 woman ! "I hold 
 
 Thy small head in my hands, — with 
 its grapelets of gold 
 
 Growing bright through my fingers, 
 — like altar for oath, 
 
 'Neath the vast golden spaces like 
 witnessing faces 
 
 That watch the eternity strong in the 
 troth — 
 I love thee, I leave thee, 
 Live for thee, die for thee ! 
 I prove thee, deceive thee, 
 Undo evermore thee ! 
 
 Help me, God ! slay me, man ! — one 
 
 is mourning for both." 
 And we stand up, though young, near 
 
 the funeral-sheet 
 Which covers old Cresar and old 
 
 Pharamond ; 
 And death is so nigh us, life cools 
 
 from its heat. 
 O Life, O Beyond, 
 Art thou fair, art thou sweet ? 
 
 Then we act to a purpose, we spring 
 
 up erect; 
 We will tame the wild mouths of the 
 
 wilderness-steeds ; 
 We will plough up the deep in the 
 
 ships double-decked; 
 We will build the great cities, and do 
 
 the great deeds, 
 Strike the steel upon steel, strike the 
 
 soul upon soul. 
 Strike the dole on the weal, overcom- 
 
 Let 
 
 ing the dole. 
 
 the cloud meet the cloud in a 
 grand thunder-roll ! 
 " While the eagle of thought rides the 
 
 tempest in scorn. 
 Who cares if the lightning is burning 
 the corn ? 
 Let us sit on the thrones 
 In a purple sublimity, 
 And grind down men's bones 
 To pale unanimity. 
 Speed me, God ! serve me, man ! I am 
 
 god over men ; 
 When I speak in my cloud, none 
 shall answer again: 
 'Neath the stripe and the bond, 
 Lie and mourn at my feet ! " 
 O Life, O Beyond, 
 Thou art strange, thou art 
 sweet ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Then we grow into thought, and with 
 inward ascensions 
 Touch the bounds of our being. 
 We lie in the dark here, swathed 
 
 doubly around 
 With our sensual relations and social 
 
 conventions, 
 Yet are 'ware of a sight, yet are 'ware 
 of a sound 
 Beyond hearing and seeing; 
 Are aware that a Hades rolls deep on 
 all sides 
 With its infinite tides 
 
 T 
 
378 
 
 A RHAPSODY OF LIFE'S PROGRESS. 
 
 About and above us, until the strong 
 
 arch 
 Of our life creaks and bends as if 
 
 ready for falling, 
 And through the dim rolling we hear 
 
 the sweet calling 
 Of si)irits that speak in a soft under- 
 tongue 
 The sense of the mystical march. 
 And we cry to them softly, " Come 
 
 nearer, come nearer, 
 And lift up the lap of this dark, and 
 speak clearer. 
 And teach us the song that ye 
 sung ! ' ' 
 And we smile in our thought as they 
 
 answer or no; 
 For to dream of a sweetness is sweet 
 as to know. 
 Wonders breathe in our face, 
 And we ask not their name ; 
 Love takes all the blame 
 Of the world's prison-place ; 
 And we sing back the songs as we 
 
 guess them, aloud; 
 And we send up the lark of our mu- 
 sic that cuts 
 Untired through the cloud. 
 To beat with its wings at the lattice 
 
 heaven shuts: 
 Yet the angels look down, and the 
 mortals look up, 
 As the little wings beat; 
 And the iioet is blessed with their 
 
 pity or hope. 
 'Twixt tiie heavens and the earth can 
 a poet despond ? 
 O Life, O Beyond, 
 Thou art strange, thou art sweet ! 
 
 vn. 
 
 Then we wring from our souls their 
 
 applicative strength. 
 And bend to the cord the strong bow 
 
 of our ken. 
 And, bringing our lives to the level of 
 
 others, 
 Hold the cup we have filled to their 
 
 uses at length. 
 " Help me, God ! love me, man ! I am 
 
 man among men. 
 And my life is a pledge 
 Of the ease of another's ! " 
 
 the fire and the water we drive 
 
 out the steam 
 With a rush and a roar and the speed 
 
 of a dream ; 
 
 And the car without horses, the car 
 without wings. 
 Roars onward, and flies 
 On its gray iron edge 
 'Neath the heat of a thought sitting 
 
 still in our eyes: 
 And our hand knots in air, with the 
 
 bridge that it flings, 
 Two peaks far disrupted by ocean 
 
 and skies, 
 And, lifting a fold of the smooth-flow- 
 ing Thames, 
 Draws under the world with its tur- 
 moils and pothers. 
 While the swans float on softly, un- 
 touched in their calms 
 By humanity's hum at the root of the 
 
 springs. 
 And with reachlngs of thought we 
 reach down to the deeps 
 Of the souls of our brothers. 
 We teach them full words with our 
 
 slow-moving lips, 
 "God," "Liberty," "Truth," — 
 
 which they hearken and think. 
 And work into harmony, link upon link, 
 Till the silver meets round the earth 
 
 gelid and dense. 
 Shedding sparks of electric respond- 
 ing intense 
 On the dark of eclipse. 
 Then we hear through the silence and 
 glory afar. 
 As from shores of a star 
 In aphelion, the new generations that 
 
 cry 
 Disinthralled by our voice to harmo- 
 nious reply, 
 " God," " Liberty," " Truth ! " 
 We are glorious forsooth, 
 And our name has a seat. 
 Though the shroud should be 
 donned. 
 O Life, O Beyond, 
 Thou art strange, thou art sweet ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Help me, God ! help me, man ! I am 
 
 low, I am weak; 
 Death loosens my sinews, and creeps 
 
 in my veins; 
 My body is cleft by these wedges of 
 pains 
 From my spirit's serene. 
 And I feel the externe and insensate 
 creep in 
 On my organized clay ; 
 I sob not, nor shriek. 
 Yet I faint fast away: 
 
\ 
 
 A LAY OF THE EARLY ROSE. 
 
 379 
 
 I am strong in the spirit, deep- 
 
 thoughted, clear-eyed; 
 1 could walk, step for step, with an 
 angel beside, 
 On the heaven-heights of truth. 
 Oh, the soul keeps its youth; 
 But the body faints sore, it is tried 
 
 in the race, 
 It sinks from the chariot ere reach- 
 ing the goal, 
 It is weak, it is cold, 
 The rein drops from its hold, 
 It sinks back with the death in its 
 face. 
 On, chariot ! on, soul ! 
 Ye are all the more fleet: 
 Be alone at the goal 
 Of the strange and the sweet ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Love us, God ! love us man ! we be- 
 lieve, we achieve ! 
 Let us love, let us live; 
 For the acts correspond ; 
 "We are glorious, and die; 
 And again on the knee of a mild mys- 
 tery 
 That smiles with a change, 
 Here we lie. 
 O Death, O Beyond, 
 Thou art sweet, thou art strange ! 
 
 A LAY OF THE EARLY 
 ROSE. 
 
 ' Discordance that can accord." 
 
 ROMAUNT OF THE KOSE. 
 
 A ROSE once grew within 
 
 A garden April-green, 
 In her loneness, in her loneness, 
 And the fairer for that oneness. 
 
 A white rose delicate 
 On a tall bough and straight: 
 Early-comer, early-comer. 
 Never waiting for the summer. 
 
 Her pretty gestes did win 
 South winds to let her in, 
 In her loneness, in her loneness, 
 All the fairer for that oneness. 
 
 " For if I wait," said she, 
 
 " Till time for roses be. 
 For the moss-rose and the musk-rose. 
 Maiden-blush and royal-dusk rose, 
 
 ■' What glory, then, for me 
 
 In such a company ? 
 Roses plenty, roses plenty. 
 And one nightingale for twenty ! 
 
 " Nay, let me in," said she, 
 
 " Before the rest are free. 
 In my loneness, in my loneness, 
 All the fairer for that oneness. 
 
 " For I would lonelj' stand, 
 
 Uplifting my white hand, 
 On a mission, on a mission, 
 To declare the coming vision. 
 
 " Upon which lifted sign 
 What worship will be mine ! 
 What addressing, what caressing, 
 And what thanks and praise and 
 blessing ! 
 
 " A windlike joy will rush 
 Through every tree and bush. 
 Bonding softly in affection 
 And spontaneous benediction. 
 
 " Insects, that only may 
 
 Live in a sunbright ray. 
 To my whiteness, to my whiteness. 
 Shall be drawn as to a brightness, 
 
 " And evei"y moth and bee 
 
 Approach me reverently, 
 "Wheeling o'er me, wheeling o'er me, 
 Coronals of motioned glory. 
 
 " Three larks shall leave a cloud. 
 To my whiter beauty vowed. 
 Singing gladly all the moontide, 
 Never waiting for the suntide. 
 
 " Ten nightingales shall flee 
 Their woods for love of me. 
 Singing sadly all the suntide, 
 Never waiting for the moontide. 
 
 " I ween the very skies 
 Will look down with surprise, 
 When below on earth they see me 
 With my starry aspect dreamy. 
 
 " And earth will call her flowers 
 To hasten out of doors, 
 
380 
 
 A LAY OF THE EARLY ROSE. 
 
 By their courtesies and sweet-smell- 
 ing, 
 To give grace to my foretelling." 
 
 So praying, did she win 
 
 South winds to let her in, 
 In her loneness, in her loneness, 
 And the fairer for that oneness. 
 
 But ah, alas for her ! 
 
 No thing did minister 
 To her praises, to her praises, 
 More than might unto a daisy's. 
 
 No tree nor bush was seen 
 
 To boast a perfect green, 
 Scarcely having, scarcely having, 
 One leaf broad enough for waving. 
 
 The little flies did crawl 
 
 Along the southern wall. 
 Faintly shifting, faintly shifting. 
 Wings scarce long enough for lifting. 
 
 The lark, too high or low, 
 
 I ween, did miss her so. 
 With his nest down in the gorses. 
 And his song in the star-courses. 
 
 The nightingale did please 
 
 To loiter beyond seas; 
 Guess him in ifche Happy islands, 
 Learning music from the silence. 
 
 Only the bee, forsooth. 
 Came in the place of both, 
 Doing honor, doing honor, 
 To the honey-dews upon her. 
 
 The skies looked coldly down 
 
 As on a royal crown; 
 Then, with drop for drop, at leisure, 
 They began to rain for pleasure. 
 
 Whereat the earth did seem 
 
 To waken from a dream. 
 Winter-frozen, winter-frozen. 
 Her unquiet eyes unclosing, — 
 
 Said to the Rose, " Ha, snow ! 
 
 And art thou fallen so ? — 
 Thou, who wast enthroned stately 
 All along my mountains lately ? 
 
 " Holla, thou world-wide snow ! 
 
 And art thou wasted so, 
 With a little bough to catch thee, 
 And a little bee to watch thee ? " 
 
 — Poor Rose, to be misknown ! 
 Would she had ne'er been blown, 
 
 In her loneness, in her loneness, 
 All the sadder for that oneness. 
 
 Some word she tried to say, 
 Some no ... ah, well-away ! 
 But the passion did o'ercome her, 
 And the fair, frail leaves dropped from 
 her, 
 
 — Dropped from her, fair and mute, 
 Close to a poet's foot, 
 
 Who beheld them, smiling slowly. 
 As at something sad, yet holy, — 
 
 Said, " Verily, and thus 
 
 It chances too with us 
 Poets, singing sweetest snatches, 
 While that deaf men keep the 
 watches ; 
 
 " Vaunting to come before 
 
 Our own age evermore. 
 In a loneness, in a loneness, 
 And the nobler for that oneness. 
 
 " Holy in voice and heart, 
 
 To high ends set apart: 
 All unmated, all unmated, 
 Just because so consecrated. 
 
 " But if alone we be. 
 
 Where is our empery ? 
 And, if none can reach our stature. 
 Who can mete our lofty nature ? 
 
 " What bell will yield a tone, 
 
 Swung in the air alone ? 
 If no brazen clapper bringing. 
 Who can hear the chimed ringing ? 
 
 " What angel but would seem 
 To sensual eyes ghost-dim ? 
 
 And, without assimilation, 
 
 Vain is iuterpenetratiou. 
 
 " And thus, what can we do, 
 
 Poor rose and poet too. 
 Who both antedate our mission 
 In an unprepared season ? 
 
 " Drop, leaf ! be silent, song ! 
 
 Cold things we come among: 
 We must warm them, we must warm 
 
 them, 
 Ere we ever lioije to charm them." 
 
 I ^ I ■ I ^ 
 
THE POET AND THE BIRD. 
 
 381 
 
 " Howbeit " (here his face 
 Lightened around the place, 
 So to mark the outward turning 
 Of its spirit's inward burning) 
 
 " Something it is, to hold 
 
 In God's worlds manifold, 
 First revealed to creature-duty, 
 Some new form of his mild beauty 
 
 " Whether that form respect 
 
 The sense or intellect, 
 Holy be, in mood or meadow, 
 Tlie chief beauty's sign and shadow ! 
 
 " Holy in me and thee, 
 
 Rose fallen from the tree, 
 Though the world stand dumb around 
 
 us, 
 All unable to expound us 
 
 " Though none us deign to bless. 
 
 Blessed are we, nathless; 
 Blessed still and consecrated 
 In that, rose, we were created. 
 
 " Oh, shame to poet's lays 
 Sung for the dole of praise, — 
 
 Hoarsely sung upon the highway, 
 
 "With that obolum da mihi . 
 
 " Shame, shame, to poet's soul, 
 
 Pining for such a dole, 
 When heaven-chosen to inherit 
 The high throne of a chief spirit ! 
 
 " Sit still upon your thrones, 
 
 O ye poetic ones ! 
 And if, sooth, the world decry you, 
 Let it pass unchallenged by you. 
 
 " Ye to yourselves suffice, 
 
 Without its flatteries. 
 Self-contentedly approve you 
 Unto Him who sits above you, — 
 
 ' ' In prayers that upward mount 
 Like to a fair-sunned fount, 
 Which, in gushing back upon you. 
 Hath an upper music won you, — 
 
 " In faith, that still perceives 
 No rose can shed her leaves, 
 Far less, poet fall from mission. 
 With an uufullilled fruition, — 
 
 " In hope, that apprehends 
 An end beyond these ends, 
 
 And great uses rendered diily 
 
 By the meanest song sung truly, — 
 
 " In thanks, for all the good 
 
 By poets understood, 
 For the sound of seraphs moving 
 Down the hidden depths of loving, — 
 
 " For sights of things away 
 Through fissures of the clay. 
 Promised things which shall be given 
 And sung over up in heaven, — 
 
 " For life so lovely vain, 
 
 For death, which breaks the chain, 
 For this sense of present sweetness. 
 And this yearning to completeness ! " 
 
 THE POET AND THE 
 BIRD. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Said a people to a poet, "Go out 
 from among us straightway ! 
 While we are thinking earthly 
 things, thou singest of divine: 
 There's a little fair brown nightin- 
 gale who, sitting in the gateway, 
 Makes fitter music to our ear than 
 any song of thine I " 
 
 u. 
 
 The 
 
 poet went out weeping ; the 
 nightingale ceased chanting: 
 
 " Now wherefore, O thou nightin- 
 gale, is all thy sweetness 
 done?" 
 — "I cannot sing my earthly things, 
 the heavenly poet wanting, 
 
 Whose highest harmony includes 
 the lowest under sun." 
 
 III. 
 
 The poet went out weeping, and died 
 abroad, bereft there; 
 The bird flew to his grave, and died 
 amid a thousand wails: 
 And when I last came by the place, I 
 swear the music left there 
 Was only of the poet's song, and 
 not the nightingale's. 
 
i 
 
 382 
 
 THE CRY OF THE HUMAN. 
 
 THE CRY OF THE 
 HUMAN. 
 
 " There is no God," the foolish saith, 
 
 But none, " There is no sorrow; " 
 And Nature oft the cry of faith 
 
 In bitter need will borrow. 
 Eyes which the preacher could not 
 school 
 
 By wayside graves are raised ; 
 And lips say, " God be pitiful," 
 
 Who ne'er said, " God be praised." 
 Be pitiful, O God ' 
 
 n. 
 
 The tempest stretches from the steep 
 
 The shadow of its coming; 
 The beasts grow tame, and near us 
 creep, 
 As help were in the human: 
 Yet, while the cloud-wheels roll and 
 grind. 
 We spirits tremble under — 
 The hills have echoes; but we find 
 No answer for the thunder. 
 
 Be pitiful, O God ! 
 
 III. 
 
 The battle hurtles on the plains, 
 
 Earth feels new scythes upon her; 
 We reap our brothers for the wains. 
 
 And call the harvest — honor: 
 Draw face to face, from line to line, 
 
 One image all inherit, 
 Then kill, curse on, by that same sign. 
 
 Clay — clay, and spirit — spirit. 
 
 Be pitiful, O God ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 The plague runs festering through the 
 town. 
 
 And never a bell is tolling. 
 And corpses, jostled 'neath the moon. 
 
 Nod to the dead-cart's rolling; 
 The young child calleth for the cup, 
 
 The strong man brings it weeping. 
 The mother from her babe looks up, 
 
 And shrieks away its sleeping. 
 
 Be pitiful, O God 1 
 
 V 
 
 The plague of gold strikes far and 
 near, 
 And deep and strong it enters; 
 This purple chimar which we wear, 
 Makes madder than the centaur's: 
 Our thoughts grow blank, our words 
 grow strange. 
 We cheer the pale gold-diggers, 
 Each soul is worth so much on 
 'Change, 
 And marked, like sheep, with fig- 
 ures. 
 
 Be pitiful, O God 1 
 
 VI. 
 
 The curse of gold upon the land 
 
 The lack of bread enforces; 
 The rail-cars snort from strand to 
 strand. 
 Like more of death's white horses; 
 The rich preach " rights " and " future 
 days," 
 And hear no angel scofling; 
 The i)oor die mute, with starving gaze 
 On corn-ships in the offing. 
 
 Be pitiful, OGod ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 We meet together at the feast, 
 
 To private mirth betake us ; 
 We stare down in the winecup, lest 
 
 Some vacant chair should shake us; 
 We name delight, and pledge it 
 round — 
 
 " It shall be ours to-morrow ! " 
 God's seraphs, do your voices sound 
 
 As sad in naming sorrow ? 
 
 Be pitiful, O God I 
 
 viri. 
 
 We sit together, with the skies. 
 
 The steadfast skies, above us. 
 We look into each other's eyes, 
 
 '■ And how long will you love us ? " 
 The eyes grow dim with prophecy, 
 
 The voices, low and breathless, — 
 " Till death us part ! " O words, to be 
 
 Our best, for love the deathless ! 
 Be pitiful. O God ! 
 
 IX. 
 We tremble by the harmless bed 
 
 Of one loved and departed; 
 Our tears drop on the lips that said 
 
 Last night, " Be stronger-hearted 1 " 
 
A PORTRAIT. 
 
 383 
 
 O God, to clasp those fiugers close, 
 And yet to feel so lonely ! 
 
 To see a light upon such brows, 
 Which is the daylight only ! 
 
 Be pitiful, O God ! 
 
 X. 
 
 The happy children come to us, 
 
 And look up in our faces; 
 They ask us, " Was it thus, and thus, 
 
 When we were in their places ? " 
 We cannot speak ; we see anew 
 
 The hills we used to live in. 
 And feel our mother's smile press 
 through 
 
 The kisses she is giving. 
 
 Be pitiful, OGodl 
 
 XI. 
 
 We pray together at the kirk 
 
 For mercy, mercy solely: 
 Hands wearv with the evil work. 
 
 We lift them to the Holy. 
 The corpse is calm below our knee. 
 
 Its spirit bright before Thee : 
 Between them, worse than either, we. 
 
 Without the rest or glory. 
 
 Be pitiful, O God ! 
 
 XII. 
 
 We leave the communing of men. 
 
 The murmur of the passions. 
 And live alone, to live again 
 
 With endless generations: 
 Are we so brave ? The sea and sky 
 
 In silence lift their mirrors, 
 And, glassed therein, our spirits high 
 
 Recoil from their own terrors. 
 
 Be pitiful, O God ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 We sit on hills our childhood wist. 
 Woods, hamlets, streams, behold- 
 ing: 
 The sun strikes through the farthest 
 mist 
 The city's spire to golden: 
 The city's golden spire it was 
 When hope and health were strong- 
 est; 
 But now it is the churchyard grass 
 We look upon the longest. 
 
 Be pitiful, O God ! 
 
 xiv. 
 
 And soon all vision waxeth dull; 
 
 Men whisper, " He is dying: " 
 We cry no more, " Be pitiful I " 
 
 We have no strength for crying — 
 No strength, no need. Then, soul of 
 mine, 
 
 Look up, and triumph rather: 
 Lo, in the depth of God's divine 
 
 "The Son adjures the Father, 
 
 Be pitiful, O God ! 
 
 A PORTRAIT. 
 
 ' One name is Elizabeth." — Bkn Jokson. 
 
 I WILL paint her as I see her. 
 Ten times have the lilies blown 
 Since she looked upon the sun. 
 
 And her face is lily-clear, 
 Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty 
 To the law of its own beauty. 
 
 Oval cheeks encolored faintly. 
 Which a trail of golden hair 
 Keeps from fading off to air; 
 
 And a forehead fair and saintly, 
 Which two blue eyes undershine, 
 Like meek prayers before a shrine. 
 
 Face and figure of a child, 
 Though too calm, you think, and 
 
 tender. 
 For the childhood you would lend 
 
 her. 
 
 Yet child-simple, undefiled, 
 Frank, obedient, waiting still 
 On the turnings of your will. 
 
 Moving light, as all young things, — 
 As young birds, or early wheat 
 When the wind blows over it. 
 
 Only, free from flutterings 
 Of loud mirth that scorneth mea.s- 
 
 ure, 
 Taking love for her chief pleasure. 
 
384 
 
 CONFESSIONS. 
 
 Choosing pleasures for the rest, 
 "Which come softly, just as she 
 "When she nestles at your knee. 
 
 Quiet talk she liketh best, 
 In a bower of gentle looks, 
 "Watering flowers, or reading books. 
 
 And her voice, it murmurs lowly. 
 As a silver stream may run, 
 "Which yet feels, you feel, the sun. 
 
 And her smile, it seems half holy, 
 As if drawn from thoughts more far 
 Than our common jestings are. 
 
 And, if any poet knew her. 
 He would sing of her with falls 
 Used in lovely madrigals. 
 
 And, if any painter drew her, 
 He would paint her unaware 
 "With a halo round the hair. 
 
 And, if reader read the poem. 
 He would whisper, " You 
 
 done a 
 Consecrated little Una." 
 
 have 
 
 And a dreamer (did you show him 
 That same picture) would exclaim, 
 " 'Tis my angel, with a name ! " 
 
 And a stranger, when he sees her 
 In the street even, smileth stilly, 
 Just as you would at a lily. 
 
 And all voices that address her 
 Soften, sleeken every word, 
 As if speaking to a bird. 
 
 And all fancies yearn to cover 
 The hard eartJti whereon she passes, 
 "With the thymy-scented grasses. 
 
 And all hearts do pray, "God love 
 her!" 
 Ay, and always, in good sooth, 
 We may all be sure He doth. 
 
 CONFESSIONS. 
 
 Face to face in my chamber, my 
 
 silent chamber, I saw her: 
 God and she and I only, there I sate 
 
 down to draw her 
 Soul through the clefts of confession, 
 " Speak, I am holding thee fast. 
 As the angel of resurrection shall do 
 it at the last ! " 
 " My cup is blood-red 
 "With my sin," she said, 
 " And I pour it out to the bitter lees, 
 As if the angels of judgment stood 
 over me strong at the last, 
 Or as thou wert as these." 
 
 II. 
 
 When God smote his hands together, 
 
 and struck out thysoul asaspark 
 
 Into the organized glory of things, 
 
 from deeps of the dark, 
 Say, didst thou shine, didst thou 
 burn, didst thou honor the 
 power in the form, 
 As the star does at night, or the fire- 
 fly, or even the little ground- 
 worm ? 
 " I have sinned," she said, 
 " For my seed-light shed 
 Has smouldered away from His first 
 decrees. 
 The cypress praiseth the firefiy, the 
 ground-leaf praiseth the worm : 
 I am viler than these." 
 
 III. 
 
 When God on that sin had pity, and 
 
 did not trample thee straight 
 With his wild rains beating and 
 drenching thy light found inad- 
 equate ; 
 When he only sent thee the north 
 wind, a little searching and 
 chill. 
 To quicken thy flame, — didst thou 
 kindle and flash to the heights 
 of his will ? 
 "I have sinned," she said, 
 " Unquickened, unspread. 
 My fire dropt down, and I wept on 
 my knees: 
 I only said of his winds of the north 
 as I shrank from their chill, 
 What delight is in these ? " 
 
-TT* — . - I ^"• m 
 
 
 :/ 
 
 
 ,v,..,&.^\m\\::^ 
 
 " And if any painter drew lier, 
 He would paint her unaware 
 With a halo round tlie hair." — Page 384- 
 
I 
 
 CONFESSIONS. 
 
 585 
 
 IV. 
 
 Wlieii God on that sin had pity, and 
 
 did not meet it as sucli. 
 But tempered tlie wind to tliy uses, 
 and softened the world to thy 
 touch, 
 At least tliou wast moved in thy soul, 
 though, unable to prove it afar. 
 Thou couldst carry thy light like a 
 jewel, not giving it out like a 
 star ? 
 " I have sinned," she said, 
 ' ' And not merited 
 The gift he gives, by the grace he 
 sees ! 
 The mine-cave praiseth the jewel, 
 the hillside praiseth the star: 
 I am viler than these." 
 
 V. 
 
 Then I cried aloud in my passion. 
 Unthankful and impotent crea- 
 ture. 
 To throw up thy scorn unto God 
 through the rents in thy beg- 
 garly nature ! 
 If he, the All-giving and Loving, is 
 
 served so unduly, what then 
 Hast thou done to the weak and the 
 false and the changing, — thy 
 fellows of men ? 
 "T have loved," she said, 
 (Words bowing her head 
 As the wind the wet acacia-trees) 
 "I saw God sitting above me, but I 
 ... I sate among men, 
 And I have loved these." 
 
 VI. 
 
 Again with a lifted voice, like a 
 
 choral trumpet, that takes 
 The lowest note of a viol that trem- 
 bles, and triumphing breaks 
 On the air with it solemn and clear, 
 " Behold ! I have sinned not in 
 this ! 
 "Where I loved, I have loved much 
 and well: I have verily loved 
 not amiss. 
 Let the living," she said, 
 " Inquire of the dead. 
 In the house of the i)ale-frouted 
 images: 
 My own true dead will answer for 
 me, that I have not lovsd amiss 
 In my love for all these. 
 
 VII. 
 
 "The least touch of their hands in 
 
 the morning, I keep it by day 
 
 and by night; 
 Their least step on the stair, at the 
 
 door, still throbs through me, 
 
 if ever so light; 
 Their least gift which they left to 
 
 my childhood, far off in the 
 
 long-ago years. 
 Is now turned from a toy to a relic, 
 
 and seen through the crystals 
 
 of tears. 
 Dig the snow," she said, 
 " For my churchyard bed ; 
 Yet I, as r sleep, shall not fear to 
 
 freeze, 
 If one only of these my beloveds 
 
 shall love me with heart-warm 
 
 tears. 
 As I have loved these ! " 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " If I angered any among them, from 
 thenceforth my own life was 
 sore ; 
 If I fell by chance from their pres- 
 ence, I clung to their memory 
 more: 
 Their tender I often felt holy, their 
 bitter I sometimes called sweet; 
 And, whenever their heart has refused 
 me, I fell down straight at their 
 feet. 
 I have loved," she said: 
 "Man is weak, God is dread; 
 Yet the weak man dies with his 
 S]nrit at ease, 
 Having poured such an unguent of 
 love but once on the Saviour's 
 feet, 
 As I lavished for these." 
 
 IX. 
 
 Go, I cried: thou hast chosen the hu- 
 man, and left the divine ! 
 
 Then, at least, have the human shared 
 with thee their wild berry-wine ? 
 
 Have they loved back thy loVe, and, 
 when strangers approached 
 thee with blame, 
 
 Have they covered thy fault with 
 their kisses, and loved thee the 
 same ? 
 But she shrunk and said, 
 " God over my head 
 
386 
 
 LOVED ONCE 
 
 Must sweep iu the wrath of his 
 judgment-seas, 
 [f He shall deal with me sinning but 
 only indeed the same, 
 And no gentler than these." 
 
 LOVED ONCE. 
 
 I CLASSED, appraising once, 
 Earth's lamentable sounds, — the 
 well-aday, 
 The jarring yea and nay. 
 The fall of kisses on unauswering 
 
 clay. 
 The sobbed farewell, the welcome 
 mournfuller; 
 But all did leaven the air 
 "With a less bitter leaven of sure de- 
 spair 
 Than these words, '• I loved once." 
 
 And who saith " I loved once " ? 
 Not angels, whose clear eyes, love, 
 love, foresee, 
 Love, through eternity. 
 And by To Love do apprehend To Be. 
 Not God, called Love, his noble 
 crown-name casting 
 A light too l)road for blasting: 
 The great God changing not from 
 everlasting, 
 Saith never, " I loved once." 
 
 IXI. 
 
 Oh, never is " Loved once " 
 Thy word, thou Victim-Christ, mis- 
 prized friend ! 
 Thy cross and curse may rend. 
 But, having loved, thou lovest to the 
 
 end. 
 This is man's saying, — man's; too 
 weak to move 
 One sphered star above, 
 Man desecrates the eternal God-word 
 Love 
 By his No More and Ouce. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " We loved once," 
 Is your earth not cold 
 
 How say ye, 
 Blasphemers ? 
 enow, 
 Mourners, without that snow? 
 Ah, friends, and would ye wrong 
 
 each other so ? 
 And could ye say of some whose 
 love is known, 
 Wliose prayers have met your own. 
 Whose tears have fallen for you, 
 whose smiles have shone 
 So long, " We loved them once "? 
 
 V. 
 
 Could ye, " We loved her once," 
 Say calm of me, sweet friends, when 
 out of sight ? 
 When hearts of better right 
 Stand in between me and your happy 
 
 light ? 
 Or when, as flowers kept too long in 
 the shade, 
 Ye find my colors fade. 
 And all that is not love in me de- 
 cayed ? 
 Such words, — Ye loved me once ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 We loved her once," 
 me when further put 
 
 Could ye, ' 
 Say cold' of 
 away 
 In earth's sepulchral clay. 
 When mute the lips which deprecate 
 
 to-day ? 
 Not so ! not then — least then ! When 
 life is shriven. 
 And death's full joy is given. 
 Of those who sit and love you tap in 
 heaven. 
 Say no* " We loved them once." 
 
 VII. 
 
 Say never, ye loved once : 
 God is too near above, the grave, be- 
 neath, 
 And all our moments breathe 
 Too quick in mysteries of life and 
 
 death 
 For such a word. The eternities 
 avenge 
 Affections light of range. 
 There comes no change to justify 
 that change, 
 Whatever comes, — Loved once ! 
 
THE HOUSE OF CLOUDS. 
 
 387 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And yet that same word once 
 Is hunianly acceptive. Kings have 
 said, 
 Shaking a discrowned head, 
 "We ruled once," — dotards, "We 
 
 once taught and led: " 
 Cripples once danced i' the vines; 
 and bards approved 
 Were once by scornings moved: 
 But love strikes one hour — love! 
 those never loved 
 Who dream that they loved once. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF CLOUDS. 
 
 I WOULD build a cloudy house 
 
 For my thoughts to live in 
 When for earth too fancy-loose, 
 
 And too low for heaven. 
 Hush ! I talk my dream aloud, 
 
 I liuild it bright to see; 
 I build it on the moonlit cloud 
 
 To which I looked with tliet. 
 
 II. 
 
 Cloud-walls of the morning's gray. 
 
 Faced with amber column. 
 Crowned with crimson cupola 
 
 From a sunset solemn: 
 May-mists for the casements fetch, 
 
 Pale and glimmering, 
 With a sunbeam hid in each, 
 
 And a smell of spring. 
 
 III. 
 Build the entrance high and prond, 
 
 Darkening, and then brightening, 
 Of a riven thunder-cloud. 
 
 Veined by the lightning: 
 Use one with an iris-stain 
 
 For the door so thin, 
 Turning to a sound like rain 
 
 As I enter in. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Build a spacious hall thereby 
 
 Boldly, never fearing; 
 Use the blue place of the sky 
 
 Which the wind is clearing : 
 
 Branched with corridors sublime 
 Flecked witli winding stairs, 
 
 Such as children wish to climb 
 Following their own prayers. 
 
 In the mutest of the house 
 
 I will have inj' chamber; 
 Silence at the door shall use 
 
 Evening's light of amber, 
 Solemnizing every mood. 
 
 Softening in degree. 
 Turning sadness into good 
 
 Ap I turn the kev. 
 
 VI 
 
 Be my chamber tapestried 
 
 With the showers of summer, 
 piose, but soundless, glorified 
 > When the sunbeams come here 
 Wandering harpers, harping on 
 
 Waters stringed for such, 
 Drawing color for a tune, 
 With a vibrant touch. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Bring a shadow green and still 
 
 From the chestnut- forest: 
 Bring a purple from the hill 
 
 When the heat is .sorest; 
 Spread them out from wall to wall, 
 
 Carpet-wove around. 
 Whereupon the foot shall fall 
 
 Id light instead of souiid. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Bring fantastic cloudlets home 
 
 From the noontide zenith. 
 Ranged for sculptures round the room; 
 
 Named as Fancy weeneth ; 
 Some be Junos without eyes, 
 
 Naiads without sources; 
 Sojne be birds of paradise; 
 
 Some, Olympian horses. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Bring the dews the birds shake off 
 
 Waking in the hedges; 
 Those too, perfumed for a proof. 
 
 From the lilies' edges: 
 From our England's field and moor 
 
 Bring them calm and white in. 
 Whence to form a mirror jiure 
 
 For love's self-delighting. 
 
i 
 
 388 
 
 A SABBATH MORNING AT SEA. 
 
 Bring a gray cloud from tlie east. 
 
 Where the hirk is singing, 
 (Something of the song at least 
 
 Unlost in the bringing;) 
 That shall be a morning-chair 
 
 Poet-dream may sit in 
 "When it leans out on the air, 
 
 Unrhjniied and unwritten. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Bring the red cloud from the sun. 
 
 While he sinketh, catch it; 
 That shall be a couch, with one 
 
 Sidelong star to watch it, — 
 Fit for poet's finest thought 
 
 At the curfew sounding; 
 Things unseen being nearer brought 
 
 Than the seen around hira. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Poet's thought, not poet's sigh — 
 
 'Las, they come together ! 
 Cloudy walls divide and fly, 
 
 As in April weather. 
 Cupola and column proud, 
 
 Structure bright to see, 
 *Tone ! except that moonlit cloud 
 
 To whicli I looked with thee. 
 
 xni. 
 
 Let them ! Wipe such visionings 
 
 Fi'om the fancy's cartel; 
 Love secures some fairer things 
 
 Dowered with his immortal. 
 The sun may darken, heaven 
 
 bowed; 
 But still unchanged shall be, 
 
 Here, in my soul, that moonlit 
 cloud 
 
 To which I looked with thee ! 
 
 be 
 
 SABBATH MORNING 
 AT SEA. 
 
 The ship went on with solemn face; 
 To meet the darkness on the deep 
 The solemn ship went onward: 
 I bowed down weary in the place; 
 
 For parting tears and present sleep 
 Had weighed mine eyelids down- 
 ward. 
 
 II. 
 
 Thick sleep which shut all dreams 
 from me, 
 And kept my inner self apart, 
 And quiet from emotion. 
 Then brake away, and left me free, 
 Made conscious of a human heart 
 Betwixt the heaven and ocean. 
 
 Th 
 
 III. 
 the 
 
 new wondrous 
 
 new sight, 
 sight ! 
 The waters round me, turbulent. 
 The skies impassive o'er me, 
 Calm in a moonless, sunless light, 
 Half-glorified by that intent 
 Of holding the day-glory ! 
 
 Two pale thin clouds did stand upon 
 The meeting line of sea and -sky, 
 With aspect still and mystic: 
 I think they did foresee the sun, 
 And rested on their prophecy 
 In quietude majestic. 
 
 Then flushed to radiance where they 
 stood. 
 Like statues by the open tomb 
 Of shining saints half risen. 
 The sun ! he came up to be viewed. 
 And sky and sea made mighty room 
 To inaugurate the vision. 
 
 VI. 
 
 1 oft had seen the dawnlight run 
 As red wine through the hills, and 
 Itreak 
 Through many a mist's inurning; 
 But here no earth profaned the sun: 
 Heaven, ocean, did alone partake 
 Tlie sacrament of morning. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Away with thoughts fantastical ! 
 
 I would be humble to my worth, 
 
 Self-guarded as self-doubted: 
 
 Though here no earthly shadows fall, 
 
 I, joying, grieving without earth, 
 
 May desecrate without it. 
 
A FLOWER IN A LETTER. 
 
 389 
 
 VIII. 
 
 morning 
 
 sweeps the 
 
 &od's sabbath 
 waves ; 
 I would not praise the pageant high, 
 Yet miss tlie dedicature : 
 I, carried toward the sunless graves 
 Bv force of natural things — should 
 I 
 Exult in only nature ? 
 
 IX 
 
 And could I bear to sit alone 
 'Mid Nature's fixed benignities. 
 While my warm jiulse was mov- 
 ing ? 
 Too dark thou art, O glittering sun, 
 Too strait ye are, capacious seas, 
 To satisfy the loving ! 
 
 It seems a better lot than so 
 To sit with friends beneath the 
 beech, 
 And feel them dear and dearer; 
 Or follow children as they go 
 In pretty pairs, with softened 
 speech . 
 As the church-bells ring nearer. 
 
 XI, 
 
 Love me, sweet friends, this sabbath 
 day ! 
 The sea sings round me while ye 
 roll 
 Afar the hymn unaltered. 
 And kneel where once I knelt to pray. 
 And bless me deeper in the soul. 
 Because the voice has faltered. 
 
 XII 
 
 And though this sabbath comes to me 
 Without the stoled minister. 
 Or chanting congregation, 
 God's Spirit brings communion, He 
 Who brooded soft on waters drear. 
 Creator on creation, 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Himself, I think, shall draw me 
 higher, 
 Where keep the saints with harp 
 and song 
 An endless sabbath morning; 
 And on that sea commixed with fire 
 Oft drop their eyelids, raised too 
 long 
 To the full Godhead's burning. 
 
 A 
 
 FLOWER IN 
 TER. 
 
 A EET- 
 
 My lonely chamber next the sea 
 Is full of many flowers set free 
 
 By summer's earliest duty: 
 Dear friends upon the garden-walk 
 Might stop amid their fondest talk 
 
 "To pull the least in beauty. 
 
 II. 
 
 A thousand flowers, each seeming one, 
 That learnt by gazing on the sun 
 
 To counterfeit his shining; 
 Within whose leaves the holy dew 
 That falls from heaven has won anew 
 
 A glory in declining. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Red roses, used to praises long, 
 Contented with the poet's song, 
 
 The nightingale's being over; 
 And lilies white, prepared to touch 
 The whitest thought, nor soil it much. 
 
 Of dreamer turned to lover. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Deep violets, you liken to 
 
 The kindest eyes that look on you. 
 
 Without a thought disloyal; 
 And cactuses a queen might don. 
 If weary of a golden crown, 
 
 And stil! ai^pear as royal. 
 
 Pansies for ladies all, — I wis 
 That none who wear such brooches 
 miss 
 
 A jewel in the mirror; 
 And tulips, children love to stretch 
 Their fingers down, to feel in each 
 
 Its beauty's secret nearer. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Love's language may be talked with 
 
 these: 
 To work out choicest sentences, 
 
 No blossoms can be meeter; 
 And, such being used in Eastern bow- 
 ers, 
 Young maids may wonder if the flow- 
 ers 
 Or meanings be the sweeter. 
 
!♦■ ♦! 
 
 390 
 
 A FLOWER IK A LETTER. 
 
 vir. 
 And, such being strewn l)efore a bride, 
 Her little foot maj^ turn aside, 
 
 Their longer bloom decreeing, 
 Unless some voice's whispered sound 
 Should make her gaze upon the 
 ground 
 Too earnestly for seeing. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And, such being scattered on a grave, 
 "Whoever mourneth there may have 
 
 A type which seemeth worthy 
 Of that fair body hid below. 
 Which bloomed on earth a time ago, 
 
 Then perished as the earthy. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And such being wreathed for worldly 
 
 feast. 
 Across the brimming cup some guest, 
 
 Their rainljow colors viewing, 
 May feel them with a silent start, 
 The covenant his childish heart 
 
 With Nature made, renewing. 
 
 No 
 
 our 
 
 X. 
 
 gardened 
 
 England 
 
 To 
 
 flowers 
 
 hath 
 match with these in bloom and 
 breath. 
 Which from the world are hiding 
 In sunny Devon moist with rills, — 
 A nunnery of cloistered hills, 
 The elements presiding. 
 
 By 
 
 XI. 
 
 stream 
 
 the flowers are 
 
 Loddon's 
 fair 
 That meet one gifted lady's care 
 
 With prodigal rewarding, 
 (For beauty is too used to run 
 To Mitford's bower, to want the sun 
 To light her through the garden). 
 
 XII 
 
 But here, all summers are comprised ; 
 The nightly frosts shrink exorcised 
 
 Before the priestly moonshine; 
 And ev(>ry wind with stoled feet, 
 In wandering down the alleys sweet, 
 
 Steps lightly on the sunshine, 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And (having promised HarpoiU-ate 
 Among tiie nodding roses that 
 No harm shall touch his daughters) 
 
 Gives quite away the rushing sound 
 He dares not use upon such gi'ound, 
 To ever-trickling waters. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Yet sun and wind ! what can ye do 
 But make the leaves more brightly 
 show 
 
 In posies newly gathered ? 
 I look away from all your best, 
 To one poor flower unlike the rest, — 
 
 A little flower half withered. 
 
 XV. 
 
 I do not think it ever was 
 
 A pretty flower, — to make the grass 
 
 Look greener where it reddened ; 
 And now it seems ashamed to be 
 Alone in all this company. 
 
 Of asuect shrunk and saddened. 
 
 XVI 
 
 A chamber-window was the spot 
 It grew in from a garden-pot. 
 
 Among the city shadows: 
 If any, tending it, might seem 
 To smile, 'twas only in a dream 
 
 Of nature iu the meadows. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 How coldly on its head did fall 
 The sunshine from the city-wall 
 
 In pale refraction driven ! 
 How sadly plashed upon its leaves 
 The raindrops, losing in the eaves 
 
 The first sweet news of heaven ! 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 And those who planted gathered it 
 In gamesome or in loving fit, 
 
 And sent it. as a token 
 Of what their city pleasiu-es be. 
 For one, in Devon by the sea 
 
 And garden-blooms, to look on, 
 
 XIX. • 
 
 But SHE for whom the jest was meant, 
 With a grave passion innocent 
 
 Receiving what was given, — 
 Oh if her face she turned then, 
 Let none say 'twas to gaze again 
 
 Upon the flowers of Devon ! 
 
 r 
 

 CALLS ON THE HEART. 
 
 391 
 
 XX. 
 
 Because, whatever virtue dwells 
 lu genial skies, warm oracles 
 
 For gardens brightly springing, — 
 The flower which grew beneath your 
 
 eyes, 
 Beloved friends, to mine supplies 
 
 A beautv worthier singing. 
 
 THE MASK. 
 
 I HAVE a smiling face, she said ; 
 
 I have a jest for all I meet; 
 I have a garland for my head, 
 
 And all its flowers are sweet: 
 And so you call me gay, she said. 
 
 II. 
 
 Grief taught to me this smile, she 
 said ; 
 And Wrong did teach this jesting 
 bold; 
 These flowers were plucked from gar- 
 den-bed 
 While a death-chime was tolled: 
 And what now will you say? she 
 said. 
 
 III. 
 
 Behind no prison-grate, she said. 
 Which slurs the sunshine half a 
 mile, 
 
 Live captives so uncomforted 
 As souls behind a smile. 
 
 God's pity let us pray, she said. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I know my face is bright, she said; 
 
 Such brightness dying suns diffuse : 
 I bear upon my forehead shed 
 
 The sign of what I lose. 
 The ending of my day, she said. 
 
 \. 
 
 If I dared leave this smile, she said, 
 And take a moan upon my mouth, 
 
 And tie a cypress round my head. 
 And let my tears run smooth, 
 
 It were the happier way, she said. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And since that must not be, she said, 
 I fain your bitter world would 
 leave. 
 
 How calmly, calmly, smile the dead, 
 Who do not, therefore, grieve I 
 
 The yea of heaven is yea, she said. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Bujtin your bitter world, she said. 
 Face-joy's a costly mask to wear; 
 'Tis bought with pangs long nourislv 
 ed. 
 And rounded to despair: 
 Grief's earnest makes life's play, she 
 said. 
 
 Ye 
 
 VIII. 
 
 those 
 
 who weep? she 
 
 weep for 
 said — 
 
 Ah, fools ! I bid you pass them by. 
 Go weep for those whose hearts have 
 bled 
 What time their eyes were dry. 
 Whom sadder can I say ? she said. 
 
 CALLS ON THE HEART. 
 
 Free Heart, that singest to-day 
 Like a bird on the first green spray, 
 Wilt thou go forth to the world. 
 Where the hawk hath his wing un- 
 furled, 
 To follow, perhaps, thy way ? 
 Where the tamer thine own will 
 
 bind, 
 And, to make thee sing, will blind, 
 While the little hip grows for the free 
 behind ? 
 Heart, wilt thou go ? 
 — ' No, no ! 
 Free hearts are better so." 
 
 II. 
 The world, thou hast heard it told. 
 Has counted its robber-gold. 
 And the pieces stick to the hand : 
 The world goes riding it fair and 
 grand. 
 While the truth is bought and 
 sold: 
 
 '-■ I ^m I 
 
i 
 
 392 
 
 
 CALLS OX THE HEART. 
 
 World- voices east, world-voices 
 
 west, 
 They call thee. Heart, from thine 
 early rest, 
 " Come hither, come hither, and be 
 our guest." 
 Heart, wilt thou go ? 
 — ' No, no ! 
 Good hearts are calmer so." 
 
 III. 
 Who calleth thee, Heart ? World's 
 
 Strife, 
 With a golden heft to his knife; 
 World's JSIirth, with a finger fine 
 That draws on a lioard in wine 
 
 Her blood-red plans of life; 
 World's Gain, with a brow knit 
 
 down : 
 World's Fame with a laurel crown 
 Which rustles most as the leaves turn 
 brown : 
 Heart, wilt thou go ? 
 — " No, no ! 
 Calm hearts are wiser so." 
 
 IV. 
 
 Hast heard that Proserpina 
 (Once fooling) was snatched away 
 To partake the dark king's seat, 
 And the tears ran fast on her feet 
 To think how the sun shone yes- 
 terday ? 
 With her ankles sunken in asphodel 
 She wept for the roses of earth 
 which fell 
 From her lap when the wild car drave 
 to hell. 
 Heart, wilt thou go? 
 — " No, no ! 
 Wise heai-ts are warmer so." 
 
 V. 
 
 And what is this place not seen, 
 Where hearts may hide serene ? 
 " 'Tis a fair still house well kept. 
 Which humble thoughts have swept, 
 
 And holy prayers made clean. 
 There I sit with Love in the sun, 
 And we two never have done 
 Singing sweeter songs than are guessed 
 by one." 
 Heart, wilt thou go ? 
 — "No, no! 
 Warm hearts are fuller so." 
 
 VI. 
 
 O Heart, O Love, I fear 
 That love may be kept too near. 
 Hast heard, 6 heart, that tale, 
 How Love may be false and frail 
 
 To a heart once holden dear ? 
 — " But this true love of mine 
 Clings fast as the clinging vine, 
 And mingles pure as the grapes in 
 wine," 
 Heart, wilt thou go ? 
 
 — "No, no! 
 
 Full hearts beat higher so." 
 
 VII. 
 
 O Heart, O Love, beware ! 
 Look \\i>, and boast not there; 
 For who has twirled at the pin ? 
 'Tis the World between Death and 
 Sin,— 
 The World and the world's De- 
 spair ! 
 And Death has quickened his pace 
 To the hearth with a mocking face, 
 Familiar as Love in Love's own place. 
 Heart, wilt thou go ? 
 
 — "Still, no! 
 
 High hearts must grieve even so." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The house is waste to-day, — 
 The leaf has dropt from the spray. 
 The thorn prickt through to the 
 
 song: 
 If summer doeth no wrong 
 The winter will, thej' say, 
 Sing, Heart ! what heart rejDlies ? 
 In vain we were calm and wise, 
 If the tears unkissed stand on in our 
 eyes. 
 Heart, wilt thou go ? 
 
 — "Ah, no! 
 
 Grieved hearts must break even 
 so." 
 
 IX. 
 
 Howbeit all is not lost. 
 The warm noon ends in frost, 
 And worldly tongues of promise, 
 Like sheep-bells die off from us 
 
 On the desert hills cloud-crosst; 
 Yet through the silence shall 
 Pierce the death-angel's call, 
 And " Come up hither," recover all. 
 Heart, wilt thou go ? 
 
 — "Igo! 
 
 Broken hearts triumph so." 
 
 JL 
 
WISDOM UNAPPLIED. 
 
 WISDOM UNAPPLIED. 
 
 If I were thou, O butterfly ! 
 
 And poised my purple wing to spy 
 
 The sweetest flowers that live and die, 
 
 n. 
 waste 
 
 mv strength on 
 
 I would not 
 
 those, 
 As thou; for summer has a close, 
 And pansies bloom not in the snows. 
 
 III. 
 
 If I were thou, O working bee ! 
 And all that honey-gold I see 
 Could delve from roses easily, 
 
 IV. 
 
 I would not hive it at man's door, 
 As thou, that heirdom of luy store 
 Should make him rich, and leave me 
 poor. 
 
 If I were the a, O eagle proud ! 
 
 And screamed the thunder back 
 
 aloud, 
 And faced the lightning from the 
 
 cloud, 
 
 VI. 
 
 I would not build my eyry-throne, 
 As thou, upon a crumbling stone 
 Which the next storm may trample 
 down. 
 
 VTI. 
 
 If I were thou, O gallant steed ! 
 With pawing hoof and dancing head, 
 And eye outrunning thine own speed, 
 
 VIII. 
 
 I would not meeken to the rein, 
 As thou, nor smooth my nostril plain 
 From the glad desert's snort and 
 strain. 
 
 rx. 
 
 If I were thou, red-breasted bird. 
 With song at shut-up window heard. 
 Like love's sweet yes too long de- 
 ferred, 
 
 X. 
 
 I would not overstay delight. 
 
 As thou, but take a swallow-flight 
 
 Till the new spring returned to sight. 
 
 XI. 
 
 While yet I spake, a touch was laiil 
 Upon my brow, whose pride did fade 
 As thus, methought, an angel said, — 
 
 XII. 
 
 " If I were ihon who sing'st this song. 
 Most wise for others, and most strong 
 In seeing right while doing wrong. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " I would not waste my cares, and 
 
 choose. 
 As thoTt, — to seek what thou must 
 
 lose, 
 Such gains as perish in the use. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " I would not work where none can 
 
 win, 
 As tliou, — halfway 'twixt grief and 
 
 sin, 
 But look above, and judge within. 
 
 XV. 
 
 " I would not let my pulse beat high. 
 As thou, — towards fame's regality. 
 Nor yet in love's great jeopardy. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " I would not champ the hard, cold bit. 
 As thou, — of what the world thinks 
 
 lit. 
 But take God's freedom, using it. 
 
 XVJI. 
 
 " I would not play earth's winter out. 
 As thou, — but gird my soul about. 
 And live for life past death and doubt. 
 
 xvin. 
 
 " Then sing, O singer! but allow. 
 Beast, fly, and bird, called foolish 
 
 now. 
 Are wise (for all thy scorn) as thou." 
 
 ,.i.» 
 
3!)4 
 
 MEMORY AMJ HOPE. 
 
 MEMORY AND HOPE. 
 
 Back-looking Memory 
 And prophet Hope both sprang from 
 
 out the ground, — 
 One, where the tiashing of r-herubic 
 sword 
 Fell sad in Eden's ward; 
 And one, from Eden earth within the 
 
 sound 
 Of the four rivers lapsing pleasantly. 
 What time the promise after curse was 
 said: 
 "Thy seed shall bruise his head." 
 
 II. 
 
 Poor Memory's brain is wild, 
 As moonstruck by that flaming atmos- 
 phere 
 When she was born ; her deep eyes 
 shine and shone 
 With light that conquereth sun 
 And stars to wanner paleness, year by 
 
 year: 
 With odorous gums she mixeth things 
 
 defiled; 
 She trampleth down earth's grasses 
 green and sweet 
 With her far-wandering feet. 
 
 III. 
 
 She plucketh many flowers, 
 Their beauty on her bosom's coldness 
 
 killing; 
 She teachetli every melancholy sound 
 
 To winds and waters round ; 
 She droppeth tears with seed, where 
 man is tilling 
 
 rugged soil in his exhausted 
 hours ; 
 
 ah me ! in her smile 
 
 The 
 
 She smileth 
 doth go 
 A mood of deeper woe. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Hope tripped on out of sight, 
 
 Crowned with an Eden wreath she 
 saw not wither, 
 
 And went a-nodding through the wil- 
 derness. 
 With brow that shone no less 
 
 Than a sea-gull's wing, brought nearer 
 by rough weather, 
 
 Searching the treeless rock for fruits 
 of light; 
 
 Her fair, quick feet being armed from 
 stones and cold 
 By slippers of pure gold. 
 
 V. 
 
 Memory did Hope much wrong, 
 And, while she dreamed, lier slippers 
 
 stole away; 
 But still she wended on with mirth 
 unheeding. 
 Although her feet were bleeding, 
 Till Memory tracked her on a certain 
 
 day. 
 And with most evil eyes did search 
 
 her long 
 And cruelly ; whereat she sank to 
 ground 
 In a stark deadly swound. 
 
 vr. 
 
 And so my Hope were slain, 
 Had it not been that Thou wast stand- 
 ing near, 
 O Thou who saidest, " Live," to crea- 
 tures Ij'ing 
 In their own blood, and dying ! 
 For Thou her forehead to Thine heart 
 
 didst rear. 
 And make its silent pulses sing again. 
 Pouring a new light o'er her darkened 
 eyne. 
 With tender tears from Thine. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Therefore my Hope arose 
 From out her swound, and gazed upon 
 
 Thy face; 
 And, meeting r,here that soft, subdu- 
 ing look 
 Which Peter's spirit shook, 
 Sauk downward in a raj^ture, to em- 
 brace 
 Thy pierced hands and feet with 
 
 kisses close. 
 And prayed Thee to assist her ever- 
 more 
 To " reach the things before." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Then gavest Thou the smile 
 Whence angel-wings thrill quick, like 
 
 summer lightning. 
 Vouchsafing rest beside Thee, where 
 she never 
 From Love and Faith may sever: 
 Whereat the Eden crown she saw not 
 wLdteuing 
 
HUMAN LIFE'S MYSTERY. 
 
 395 
 
 A time ago, though whitening all the 
 
 while, 
 Reddened with life to hear the Voice 
 
 which talked 
 To Adam as he walked. 
 
 HUMAN LIFE'S MYS- 
 TERY. 
 
 We sow the glebe, we reap the corn, 
 We build the bouse where we may 
 rest. 
 And then, at moments, suddenly 
 We look up to tlie great wide sky. 
 Inquiring therefore we were born, — 
 For earnest, or for jest? 
 
 The senses folding thick and dark 
 About the stifled soul within. 
 
 We guess diviner things bej^ond. 
 
 And yearn to them with yearning 
 fond : 
 
 We strike out blindly to a mark 
 Believed in, but not seen. 
 
 III. 
 
 "\^'e vibrate to the pant and thrill 
 Wherewith Eternity lias curled 
 
 In serpent-twine about God's seat; 
 
 While, freshening upward to his feet, 
 
 In gradual growth His full-leaved will 
 Ex])ands from world to world. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And, in the tumult and excess 
 
 Of act and i^assion under sun, 
 We sometimes hear — oh, soft and far, 
 As silver star did touch with star — 
 The kiss of pef ce and righteousness 
 Through all things that are done. 
 
 God keeps his holy mysteries 
 
 Just on the outside of man's dream; 
 In diapason slow, we think 
 
 To hear their pinions rise and sink, 
 While they Hoat pure beneath his eyes, 
 Like swans adown a stream. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Abstractions are they,'*from the forms 
 Of his great beauty ? exaltations 
 
 From his great glorj^? strong pre- 
 visions 
 
 Of what we shall be ? intuitions 
 
 Of what we are, in calms and storms 
 Beyond our peace and passions ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 Things nameless ! which in passing 
 so 
 Do stroke us with a subtle grace ; 
 We say, "Who passes?" they are 
 
 dumb ; 
 We cannot see them go or come, 
 Their touches fall soft, cold, as snow 
 Upon a blind man's face. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Yet, touching so, they draw above 
 Our common thoughts to heaven's 
 unknown. 
 
 Our daily joy and pain advance 
 
 To a divine significance, 
 
 Our human love — O mortal love, 
 That light is not its own ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 And 
 
 sometimes horror chills our 
 blood 
 To be so near such mystic things, 
 And we wrap round us for defence 
 Our purple manners, moods of sense, 
 As angels from the face of God 
 Stand hidden in their wings. 
 
 And sometimes through life's heavy 
 swound 
 We grope for them, with strangled 
 breath 
 We stretch our hands abroad, and try 
 To reach them in our agony, 
 And widen so the broad life-wound 
 Soon large enough for death. 
 
 I 
 
i 
 
 I 
 
 396 
 
 .1 CHILD'S THOUGHT OF GOD. 
 
 A CHILD'S THOUGHT 
 OF GOD. 
 
 They say that God lives very high; 
 But, it you look altove the pines, 
 You cannot see our God ; and why ? 
 
 II. 
 
 And, if you dig down in the mines. 
 
 You never see him in the gold; 
 Though from him all that's glor;, 
 shines. 
 
 III. 
 
 God is so good he wears a fold 
 
 Of heaven and earth across his face, 
 Like secrets kept for love, untold. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But still T feel that his embrace 
 
 Slides down by thrills through all 
 
 things made, — 
 Throno;h sight and sound of every 
 
 jilace. 
 
 v. 
 
 As if my tender mother laid 
 On my shut lips her kisses' pres- 
 sure, 
 Half waking me at night, and said 
 "Who kissed you through the dark, 
 dear guesser? " 
 
 THE CLAIM. 
 
 Gkief sate upon a rock and sighed 
 one day, 
 (Sighing is all her rest) 
 
 " Well-away, well-away, ah well- 
 away ! " 
 
 As ocean beat the stone, did she her 
 breast, 
 
 " Ah well-away ! ah me ! alas, ah 
 me!" 
 Such sighing uttered she. 
 
 II. 
 
 A clond spake out of heaven, as soft 
 
 as rain 
 That falls on water: " Lo, 
 The winds have wandered from me ! 
 
 I remain 
 Alone in the sky- waste, and cannot 
 
 go 
 To lean my whiteness on the moun- 
 tain blue 
 Till wanted for more dew. 
 
 III. 
 
 "The sun has struck my brain to 
 weary peace. 
 Whereby constrained and pale 
 I spin for him a larger golden fleece 
 Than Jason's, yearning for as full a 
 
 sail. 
 Sweet Grief, when thou hast sighed 
 to thy mind. 
 Give me a sigh for wind. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And let it carry me adown the west." 
 
 But Love, who i^rbstrated 
 Lay at Grief's foot, his lifted eyes 
 
 possessed 
 Of her full image, answered in her 
 
 stead; 
 " Now nay, now nay ! she shall not 
 
 give away 
 What is my wealth, for any Cloud 
 
 that flieth: 
 M'here Grief makes moan. 
 Love claims his own, 
 And therefore do I lie here night and 
 
 day, 
 And eke my life out with the breath 
 
 she sigheth." 
 
 SONG OF THE EOSE. 
 
 ATTRIBUTED TO SAPPHO. 
 
 {From Achilles Tatius.) 
 
 If Zeus chose us a king of the fiow. 
 ers in his mirth. 
 He would call to the rose, and would 
 royally crown it; 
 
THE EXILE'S RETURN. 
 
 39; 
 
 For the rose, ho, the rose ! is the 
 grace of the earth, 
 Is the light of the i^lants that are 
 growing upon it: 
 For the rose, ho, the rose ! is the eye 
 of the flowers, 
 Is the hhish of the meadows that 
 feel themselves fair, 
 Is the lightning of beauty that strikes 
 through the bowers 
 Ou pale lovers who sit in the glow 
 unaware. 
 Ho, the rose breathes of love ! ho, the 
 rose lifts the cujd 
 To the red lips of Cypris invoked 
 for a guest ! 
 Ho, the rose, having curled its sweet 
 leaves for the world. 
 Takes delight in the motion its 
 petals keep up, 
 As thej^ laugh to the wind as it laughs 
 from the west ! 
 
 A DEAD ROSE. 
 
 O ROSE, who dares to name thee ? 
 No longer roseate now, nor soft nor 
 
 sweet, 
 But pale and hard and dry as stubble 
 wheat. 
 Kept seven years in a drawer, thy 
 titles .shame thee. 
 
 II. 
 
 The breeze that used to blow thee 
 Between the hedgerow thorns, and 
 
 take away 
 An odor up the lane to last all day. 
 If breathing now, unsweetened 
 would forego thee. 
 
 III. 
 
 The sun that used to smite thee, 
 And mix his glory in thy gorgeous 
 
 urn. 
 Till beam appeared to bloom, and 
 flower to burn, 
 If shining now, with not a hue would 
 light thee. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The dew that used to wet thee. 
 And, white first, grow incarnadined 
 
 because 
 It lay upon thee where the crimson 
 was. 
 If dropping now, would darken 
 where it met thee 
 
 The fly that lit upon thee 
 To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet 
 Along thy leaf's pure edges "^ after 
 heat. 
 If lighting now, would coldly 
 overrun thee. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The bee that once did suck thee, 
 And build thy perfumed ambers up 
 
 his hive. 
 And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce 
 alive. 
 If passing now, would blindly over- 
 look thee. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The heart doth recognize thee, 
 Alone, alone ! the heart doth smell 
 
 thee sweet. 
 Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee 
 most complete. 
 Perceiving all those changes that 
 disguise thee. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Yes, and the heart doth owe thee 
 More love, dead rose, than to any 
 
 roses bold 
 Which Julia wears at dances, smiling 
 cold: 
 Lie still upon this heart which 
 breaks below thee. 
 
 THE EXILE'S RETURN. 
 
 When from thee, weeping, I removed, 
 And from my land for years, 
 
 I thought not to return, beloved, 
 With those same parting tears. 
 
 I come again to hill and lea 
 Weeping for thee. 
 
 I 
 
398 
 
 THE SLEEP. 
 
 II. 
 
 I clasiied thine hand when standing 
 last 
 Upon tlie shore in sight. 
 Tlie land is green, the ship is fast, 
 
 I shall be there to-night. 
 / shall be there — no longer vm — 
 No more with thee ! 
 
 III. 
 Had I beheld thee dead and still, 
 
 I might more clearly know 
 How heart of thine conld turn as chill 
 
 As hearts by nature so; 
 How change could touch the false- 
 hood-free 
 And changeless thee. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But now thy fervid looks last seen 
 
 Within my soul remain: 
 'Tis hard to think that they have been. 
 
 To be no more again; 
 That I shall vainly wait, ah me I 
 A wortl from thee. 
 
 I could not bear to look upon 
 That mound of funeral clay 
 Where one sweet voice is silence, 
 one 
 Ethereal brow, decay; 
 Where all thy mortal t may see, 
 But never thee. 
 
 VI. 
 
 For thou art where all friends are 
 gone 
 Whose parting pain is o'er; 
 And I, who love and weep alone, 
 AVhere thou \\\\\> weep no more, 
 W^eep bitterly and selfishlj' 
 For me, not tliee. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I know, beloved, thou canst not know 
 
 That I endure this pain; 
 For saints in heaven, the Scriptures 
 show. 
 Can never grieve again: 
 And grief known mine, even there, 
 would be 
 Still shared by thee. 
 
 THE SLEEP. 
 
 " He giveth His beloved sleep." — Ps. 
 cxxvil. 2. 
 
 I. 
 
 Of all the thoughts of God that are 
 Borne inward into souls afar 
 Along the Psalmist's music deep. 
 Now tell me if that anj' is. 
 For gift or grace, surpassing this, — 
 " He givetli His beloved sleep." 
 
 II. 
 
 What would we give to our beloved ? 
 The hero's heart to be unmoved, 
 The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep. 
 The patriot's voice to teach and rouse. 
 The monarch's crown to light the 
 
 brows? — 
 He giveth His beloved sleep. 
 
 III. 
 
 What do we give to our beloved ? 
 
 A little faith all undisproved, 
 
 A little dust to overweep, 
 
 And bitter memories to make 
 
 The whole earth blasted for our sake: 
 
 He giveth His beloved sleep. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Sleep soft, beloved ! " we sometimes 
 
 say. 
 Who have no tune to charm away 
 Sad dreams that through the eyelids 
 
 creep; 
 But never doleful dream again 
 Shall bi-eak the hajipj' slumber when 
 He giveth His beloved sleep. 
 
 O earth, so full of dreary noises ! 
 O men with wailing in your voices ! 
 O delved gold the wallers heap ! 
 O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall ! 
 God strikes a silence through you all, 
 And giveth His beloved sleep. 
 
 VI. 
 
 His dews drop mutely on the hill. 
 His cloud above it saileth still. 
 Though on its sloj^e men sow and 
 
 reap : 
 INIore softly than the dew is shed, 
 Or cloud is floated overhead. 
 He giveth His beloved sleeji. 
 
COWPER'S GRAVE. 
 
 399 
 
 
 VII. 
 
 Ay, men may wonder wliile they scan 
 A living, tliinking, feeling man 
 Confirmed in such a rest to keep; 
 But angels say, and through tlie word 
 I tliink their happy smile is he<ird, 
 " He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 viri. 
 
 For me, my heart that erst did go 
 Most like a tired child at a show, 
 That sees through tears the mum- 
 mers leap, 
 Would now its wearied vision close, 
 Would childlike on His love repose 
 Who giveth His beloved sleep. 
 
 IX. 
 
 dear friends, 
 
 wheu it 
 
 And friends, 
 shall be 
 
 That this low breath is gone from me, 
 And round my bier ye come to weef). 
 Let one most loving of you all, 
 Say, " Not a tear must o'er her fall ! 
 He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 THE MEASURE. 
 
 " He comprehended the dust of t?ic earth in a 
 measure (tySiy)-"— ^sa. xl. 
 " Thou givest them tears to drink in a measure 
 
 <"<OD the Creator, with a pulseless 
 
 hand 
 Of unoriginated power, hath weighed 
 The dust of earth and tears of man in 
 one 
 Measure, and by one weight: 
 So saith his holy book. 
 
 II. 
 Shall we, then, who have issued from 
 
 the dust. 
 And there return — shall we who toil 
 
 for dust 
 And wrap our winnings in this dusty 
 
 life, 
 
 1 I believe that the word occurs in no 
 other part of the Hebrew Scriptures. 
 
 Say, "No more tears, Lord God i 
 Tlie measure runneth o'er" ? 
 
 III. 
 
 O Holder of the balance, laughest 
 
 thou ? 
 Nay, Lord ! be gentler to our foolish- 
 ness. 
 For his sake who assumed our du.st, 
 and turns 
 On thee pathetic eyes 
 Still moistened with our tears. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And teach us, O our Father, while we 
 
 weep. 
 To look in patience upon earth, and 
 
 learn — ^ 
 Waiting, in that meek gesture, till at 
 last 
 These tearful eyes be filled 
 With the. dry dust of death. 
 
 COWPER'S GRAVE. 
 
 I. 
 
 It 
 
 is a place where poets crowned 
 
 may feel the heart's decaying; 
 It is a place where happy saints may 
 
 weep amid their praying: 
 Yet let the gi'ief and humbleness as 
 
 low as silence languish: 
 Earth surely now may give her calm 
 
 to whom she gave her anguish. 
 
 II. 
 
 O poets, from a maniac's tongue was 
 
 poured the deathless singing ! 
 O Christians, at your cross of hope a 
 
 hopeless hand was clinging ! 
 O men, this man in brotherhood your 
 
 weary paths beguiling, 
 Groaned inly while he taught yoti 
 
 peace, and died while ye were 
 
 smiling ! 
 
 III. 
 
 And now, what time ye all may read 
 through dimming tears his storj', 
 
 How discord on the music fell, and 
 darkness on the glory, 
 
 l-*-*-»H 
 
400 
 
 COWPER'S GRAVE. 
 
 And 
 
 sweet 
 lights 
 
 how when, one by one, 
 sounds and wandering 
 departed, 
 
 He wore no less a loving face because 
 so broken-hearted, 
 
 IV. 
 
 He 
 
 shall be strong to sanctify the 
 
 poet's high vocation, 
 And bow the meekest Christian down 
 
 in meeker adoration ; 
 Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by 
 
 wise or good forsaken, 
 Named softly as the household name 
 
 of one whom God hath taken. 
 
 "With quiet sadness and no gloom I 
 
 learn to think upon him, 
 "With meekness that is gratefulness to 
 
 God whose heaven hath won 
 
 him, 
 "Who suffered once the madness-cloud 
 
 to His own love to blind him ; 
 But gently led the blind along where 
 
 breath and bird could find him, 
 
 VI 
 
 And 
 
 wrought within his shattered 
 brain such quick poetic senses 
 
 As hills have language for, and stars, 
 harmonious influences: 
 
 The pulse of dew upon the grass kept 
 his within its number. 
 
 And silent shadows from the trees re- 
 freshed him like a slumber. 
 
 vir. 
 
 AYild, timid hares were drawn from 
 woods to share his home-ca- 
 resses, 
 
 Uplooking to his human eyes witli 
 sylvan tendernesses: 
 
 The very world, by God's constraint, 
 from falsehood's ways remov- 
 ing, 
 
 Its women and its men became, be- 
 side him, true and loving. 
 
 And 
 
 VIII. 
 
 in blindness, he re- 
 unconscious of that 
 
 though, 
 mained 
 guiding. 
 And things provided came without 
 the sweet sense of providing, 
 
 He testified this solemn truth, while 
 
 frenzy desolated, 
 — Nor man nor nature satisfies whom 
 
 onlj' God created. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Like a sick child that knoweth not 
 
 his mother while she blesses. 
 And drops upon his burning brow 
 
 the coolness of her kisses; 
 That turns his fevered eyes around — 
 
 " My mother ! where's my 
 
 mother ?" 
 As if such tender words and deeds 
 
 could come from any other ! — 
 
 The fever gone, with leajis of heart 
 
 he sees her bending o'er liim, 
 Her face all pale from watchful love, 
 
 — the nnweary love she bore 
 
 him ! — 
 Thus woke the poet from the dream 
 
 his life's long fever gave him. 
 Beneath those deep pathetic Eyes 
 
 which closed in death to sav« 
 
 him. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Thus ? oh, not thus! no type of earth 
 
 can image that awaking 
 Wherein he scarcely heard the chant 
 
 of seraj)hs round him breaking. 
 Or felt the new immortal throb of 
 
 soul from body parted, 
 But felt those eyes alone, and knew, 
 
 — " My Saviour ! not deserted! " 
 
 dreamt, tliat 
 in darkness 
 
 XII. 
 
 Deserted ! AVho hath 
 when the cross 
 rested. 
 
 Upon the Victim's hidden face no love 
 was manifested ? 
 
 What frantic hands outstretched have 
 e'er the atoning drops averted ? 
 
 What tears have washed them from 
 the soul, that one should be de- 
 serted ? 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Deseifted ! God could separate from 
 his own essence rather ; 
 
 And Adam's sins have swept between 
 the righteous Son and Father: 
 
THE PET NAME. 
 
 401 
 
 Yea, once Immaniiel's orphaned cry 
 his universe hath shaken — 
 
 It went up single, echoles.s, "My 
 God, I am forsaken ! " 
 
 XIV. 
 
 It went up from the Holy's lips amid 
 
 his lost creation, 
 That of the lost no son should use 
 
 those words of desolation; , 
 
 That earth's worst frenzies, marring 
 
 hope, should mar not hope's 
 
 fruition; 
 And I, on Cowper's grave, should see 
 
 his rapture in a Aision. 
 
 THE WEAKEST THING. 
 
 Which is the weakest thing of all 
 
 Mine heart can ponder ? 
 The sun a little cloud can pall 
 
 With darkness yonder ? 
 The cloud a little wind can move 
 
 Where'er it listeth ? 
 The wind a little leaf above, 
 
 Though sear, resisteth ? 
 
 II. 
 
 What time that yej-ow leaf was green 
 
 My days were gladder; 
 But now, whatever spring may mean, 
 
 I must grow sadder. 
 Ah me ! a leaf with sighs can wring 
 
 My lips asunder ? 
 Then is mine heart the weakest thing 
 
 are 
 
 Itself can 2:)onder. 
 
 III. 
 
 Yet, heart, when sun and cloud 
 pined 
 
 And drop together, 
 And, at a blast which is not wind, 
 
 The forests wither, 
 Thou, from the darkening deathly 
 curse. 
 
 To glory breakest, — 
 The strongest of the universe 
 
 Guarding the weakest ! 
 
 THE PET NAME. 
 
 " Tlie name 
 Which from their lips seemed a caress." 
 
 Miss .Mitforu's Brajiiatic Scenes. 
 
 I HAVE a name, a little name, 
 
 Uncadenced for the ear, 
 Unhonored by ancestral claim, 
 Unsauctified by prayer antl psalm 
 The solemn font anear. 
 
 II. 
 
 It ncA'er did to pagea wove 
 For gay romance belong; 
 It never dedicate did move 
 As " Sacharissa" unto love, 
 
 •'Orinda,' 
 
 III. 
 
 Though I write books, it will be read 
 
 Upon the leaves of none; 
 And afterward, when I am dead. 
 Will ne'er be graved, for sight or 
 tread. 
 
 Across my funeral-stone. 
 
 IV. 
 
 This name, AA'hoever chance to call. 
 
 Perhaps your smile may win: 
 Naj-, do not smile ! mine eyelids fall 
 Over mine eyes, and feel withal 
 The sudden tears within. 
 
 Is there a leaf that greenly grows 
 Where summer meadows bloom. 
 But gathereth the winter snows. 
 And changeth to the hue of those. 
 If lasting till they come ? 
 
 VI. 
 
 Is there a word, or jest, or game, 
 But time incrusteth round 
 
 With sad associate thought the same ? 
 
 And so to me my very name 
 Assumes a mournful sound. 
 
 VII. 
 
 My brother gave that name to me 
 When we were children twain. 
 When names acquired baptismally 
 Were hard to utter, as to see 
 That life had any pain. 
 
 h^-B-^H 
 
402 
 
 THE MOURNING MOTHER. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 No shade was on us then, save one 
 
 Of chestnuts from the hill ; 
 And through the word our laugh did 
 
 run 
 As part thereof: the mirth being 
 done, 
 He calls me by it still. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Nay, do not smile ! I hear in it 
 
 What none of you can hear, — 
 The talk upon the willow seat, 
 The bird and wind that did repeat 
 Around our human cheer. 
 
 X. 
 
 I hear the birthday's noisy bliss. 
 
 My sisters' woodland glee; 
 My ifather's praise I did not miss, 
 When, stooping down, he cared to kiss 
 
 The poet at his knee, — 
 
 XI. 
 
 And voices which, to name me, aye 
 Their tenderest tones were keep- 
 ing— 
 To some I never more can say 
 An answer till God wipes away 
 In heaven these droits of weei^ing. 
 
 XII. 
 
 My name to me a sadness wears ; 
 
 No murmurs cross my mind — 
 Now God be thanked for these thick 
 
 tears 
 Which show, of those departed years, 
 
 Sweet memories left behind. 
 
 xui. 
 Now God be thanked for years in- 
 wrought 
 With love which softens yet ; 
 Now God be thanked for every 
 
 thought 
 Which is so tender it has caught 
 Earth's guerdon of regret. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Earth saddens, never shall remove 
 
 Affections purely given ; 
 And e'en that mortal grief shall prove 
 The immortality of love, 
 
 And heighten it with heaven. 
 
 THE MOURNING MOTHEll. 
 
 (OF THE DEAD BLIND.) 
 
 Dost thou weep, mourning mother, 
 
 For thy blind boy in grave ? 
 That no more with each other. 
 
 Sweet counsel ye can have ? 
 That he, left dark by nature, 
 
 Can never more be led 
 By thee, maternal creature, 
 
 'Along smooth paths instead ? 
 That thou canst no more show him 
 
 The sunshine, b\- the heat; 
 The river's silver flowing, 
 
 By murmurs at his feet? 
 The foliage, by its coolness; 
 
 The roses, by their smell ; 
 And all creation's fulness. 
 
 By Love's invisible ? 
 Weepest thou to behold not 
 
 His meek blind eyes again, — 
 Closed doorways which were folded, 
 
 And prayed against in vain, 
 And under which sate smiling 
 
 The child-mouth evermore, 
 As one who vvatcheth, wiling 
 
 The time by, at a door ? 
 And weepest thou to feel not 
 
 His clinging hand on thine. 
 Which now, at dream-time, will not 
 
 Its cold touch disintwine ? 
 And weepest thou still ofter, 
 
 Oh, never more to mark 
 His low soft words, made softer 
 
 By speaking in the dark ? 
 Weep on, thou mourning mother ! 
 
 IT. 
 
 But since to him, when living, 
 
 Thou wast both sun and moon, 
 Look o'er his grave, surviving. 
 
 From a high sphere alone: 
 Sustain that exaltation, 
 
 Expand that tender light, 
 And hold in mother-passion 
 
 Thy blessed in thy sight. 
 See how he went out straightway 
 
 From the dark world he knew — 
 No twiliglit in the gateway 
 
 To mediate 'twixt the two — 
 Into the sudden glory. 
 
 Out of the dark he trod. 
 Departing from before thee 
 
 At once to light and God ! 
 
xv.e 
 
 ȣ 
 
 
 -r-JUr,* ;,L 
 
 ' Dost thou weep, mourning mother, 
 For thy blind boy in the grave?" — Page 402. 
 
(; 
 
 
 
A VALEDICTION. 
 
 403 
 
 For the first face, beholding 
 
 The Christ's in its divine, 
 For tlie first place, tlie golden 
 
 And tideless hyaline. 
 With trees at lasting summer 
 
 That rock to songful sound. 
 While angels the new-comer 
 
 W^raj) a still smile around. 
 Oh, in the blessed psalm now, 
 
 His happy voice he tries, 
 Spreading a thicker palm-bough 
 
 Than others o'er his eyes ! 
 Yet still, in all the singing, 
 
 Thinks haply of thy song. 
 Which, in his life's first springing, 
 
 Sang to him all night long; 
 And wishes it beside him. 
 
 With kissing lips that cool 
 And soft did overglide him, 
 
 To make the sweetness full. 
 Look up, O mourning mother I 
 
 Thy blind boy walks in light: 
 Ye wait for one another 
 
 Before God's infinite. 
 But thou art now the darkest, 
 
 Thou mother left below; 
 Thou, the sole blind,— thou mark- 
 est. 
 
 Content that it be so, — 
 Until ye two have meeting 
 
 Where heaven's pearl-gate is, 
 And he shall lead thy feet in, 
 
 As once thou leddest his. 
 Wait on, thou mourning mother ! 
 
 A VALEDICTION. 
 
 God be with thee, my beloved — God 
 be with thee ! 
 Else alone thou goest forth, 
 Tliy face unto the north. 
 
 Moor and pleasance all around thee 
 and beneath thee 
 Looking equal in one snow; 
 While I, who try to reach thee, 
 Vainly follow, vainly follow. 
 With the farewell and the hollo. 
 
 And cannot reach thee so. 
 Alas, I can but teach thee ! 
 God be with thee, my beloved — God 
 be with thee ! 
 
 II 
 
 Can 
 
 •can 
 
 I teach thee, my beloved 
 I teach thee ? 
 If I said, " Go left or right," 
 The counsel would be light. 
 The wisdom poor of all that could en- 
 rich thee; 
 My right would show like left; 
 Mj" raising would depress thee, 
 My clioice of light would blind thee, 
 Of way, would leave behind thee, 
 Of end, would leave bereft. 
 Alas, I can but bless thee ! 
 May God teach thee, my beloved — 
 may God teach thee ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Can I bless thee, my beloved— can I 
 bless thee ? 
 What blessing word can I 
 From mine own tears keep dry ? 
 What flowers grow in my field where- 
 with to dress thee ? 
 My good reverts to ill; 
 My calmnesses would move thee, 
 My softnesses would prick thee. 
 My bindings up would break thee, 
 My crownings, curse and kill. 
 Alas, I can but love thee ! 
 May God bless thee, my beloved — 
 may God bless thee ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Can 
 
 I love thee, my beloved — can I 
 love thee ? 
 And is this like love, to stand 
 With no help in my hand. 
 When strong as death I fain would 
 watch above thee ? 
 My love-kiss can deny 
 No tear that falls beneath it; 
 Mine oath of love can swear thee 
 From no ill that comes near thee. 
 And thou diest while I breathe it. 
 And I — I can but die ! 
 May God love thee, my beloved — 
 may God love thee ! 
 
T 
 
 404 
 
 LESSONS FROM THE GORSE. 
 
 LESSONS FRO:^I 
 GORSE. 
 
 THE 
 
 " To win the spcret of a weefl's plain heart." 
 
 LOWELr.. 
 
 J. 
 
 Mountain gorses, ever golden, 
 Cankered not the whole year long, 
 Do ye teach ns to be strong, 
 Howsoever pricked and holden, 
 Like your thorny lilooms, and so 
 Trodden on l)y rain and snow, 
 Up the hillside of this life, as bleak 
 as where ye grow ? 
 
 ir. 
 blossoms. 
 
 shining blos- 
 
 Mountain 
 soms. 
 Do ye teach us to be glad 
 When no summer can be had. 
 Blooming in our inward bosoms? — 
 Ye whom God preserveth still, 
 Set as lights upon a hill. 
 Tokens to the wintrv earth that beau- 
 ty liveth still." 
 
 lit. 
 
 Mountain gorses, do ye teach us 
 From that academic chair 
 Canoiiied with azure air. 
 That the wisest word man reaches 
 Is the humblest he can speak? — 
 Ye who li\'e on mountain peak. 
 Yet live low along the ground, be- 
 side the grasses meek. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Mountain gorses, .since Linnreus 
 Knelt T)eside you on the sod. 
 For your beauty thanking God, 
 For your teaching, ye should see us 
 Bowing in prostration new ! 
 AVhence arisen, if one or two 
 Drops be on our cheeks, O world, 
 they are not tears, bxit dew. 
 
 THE LADY'S YES. 
 
 " Yes," I answered you last night; 
 
 " No," this morning, sir, I say: 
 Colors seen by candle-light 
 
 Will not look the same bv dav. 
 
 II. 
 
 When the viols played their best. 
 Lamps above, and latighs below. 
 
 Love me sounded like a jest. 
 Fit for yes, or fit for no. 
 
 III. 
 
 Call me false, or call me free, 
 Vow, whatever light may shine, 
 
 No man on your face shall see 
 Any grief for change on mine. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yet the sin is on us both; 
 
 Time to dance is not to woo: 
 Wooing light makes fickle troth. 
 
 Scorn of me recoils on yov. 
 
 Learn to win a lady's faith 
 Nobly, as the thing is high. 
 
 Bravely, as for life and death. 
 With a loyal gravity. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Lead her from the festive boards, 
 Point her to the starry skies; 
 
 Guard her by your truthful words 
 Pure from courtship's flatteries. 
 
 vir. 
 
 By your truth she shall be true, 
 Ever true, as wives of yore; 
 
 And her yes once said to you 
 Shall be yes forevermore. 
 
 A WOMAN'S SHORTCOM- 
 INGS. 
 
 She has laughed as softly as if she 
 sighed. 
 She has counted six and over, 
 Of a liurse well filled, and a heart well 
 tried — 
 Oh each a worthy lover ! 
 They "give her time;" for her soul 
 must sliiJ 
 Where the world has set the groov- 
 ing: 
 She will lie to none with her fair red 
 lip- 
 But love seeks truer loving. 
 
.1 MAN'S REQUIREMENTS. 
 
 405 
 
 II. 
 
 3he trembles her fan in a sweetness 
 dumb, 
 As her thoughts were beyond re- 
 calliug, 
 "With a glance for one, and a glance 
 for some, 
 From her eyelids rising and falling; 
 Speaks common words with a blush- 
 ful air, 
 Hears bold words, unreproving; 
 But her silence says — what she never 
 will swear — 
 And love seeks better loving. 
 
 III. 
 
 Go, lady, lean to the night-guitar, 
 
 And drop a smile to the bringer, 
 Then smile as sweetly, when he is far. 
 
 At the voice of an indoor singer. 
 Bask tenderly beneath tender eyes; 
 
 Glance lightly on their removing; 
 And join new vows to old perjuries — 
 
 But tlare uot call it loving. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Unless you can think, when the song 
 is done. 
 No other is soft in the rhythm; 
 Unless you can feel, when left by one, 
 
 That all men else go with him; 
 Unless you can know, when unpraised 
 by his breath. 
 That your beauty itself wants prov- 
 ing: 
 Unless you can swear, '• For life, for 
 death !" — 
 Oh fear to call it loving '■ 
 
 V. 
 
 Unless you can muse in a crowd all 
 day. 
 On the absent face that fixed you; 
 Unless you can love, as the aujgels 
 may, 
 With tiie breadth of heaven betwixt 
 you; 
 Unless you can dream that his faith is 
 fast, 
 Through behoving and unbehoving; 
 Unless you can die when the dream is 
 past — 
 Oh never call it loving ! 
 
 A MAN'S REQUIRE- 
 MENTS. 
 
 Love me, sweet, with all thou art. 
 
 Feeling, thinking, seeing; 
 Love me in the lightest part, 
 
 Love me in full being. 
 
 II. 
 
 Love me with thine open youth 
 111 its frank surrender. 
 
 With the vowing of thy mouth, 
 With its silence tender. 
 
 III. 
 
 Love me with thine azure eyes, 
 Made for earnest granting; 
 
 Taking color from the skies, 
 Can heaven's truth be wanting ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Love me with their lids, that fall 
 Snow-like at first meeting; 
 
 Love me with thine heart, that all 
 Neighbors then see beating. 
 
 Love me with thine hand stretched 
 out 
 
 Freely, open minded; 
 Love me with thy loitering foot. 
 
 Hearing one behind it. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Love me with thy voice, that turns 
 
 Sudden faint above me; 
 Love me with thy blush, that burns 
 
 When I murmur. Love me .' 
 
 VII. 
 
 Love me with thy thinking soul. 
 
 Break it to love-sighing; 
 Love me with thy thoughts that roll 
 
 On through living — dying. 
 
 vui. 
 
 Love me in thy gorgeous airs. 
 When the world has crowned thee; 
 
 Love me, kneeling at thy prayers, 
 With the angels round thee. 
 
406 
 
 J YEAR'S SPINNING. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Love me pure, as mnsers cTo, 
 Up the woodlands shady; 
 
 Love me gayly, fast, and true, 
 As a winsome lady. 
 
 Through all hopes that keep us brave, 
 
 Farther oif or nigher; 
 Love me for the house and grave — 
 
 And for something higher. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Thus, if thou wilt prove me, dear, 
 
 Woman's love no fable, 
 /will love thee — half a year — 
 
 As a man is able. 
 
 A YEAR'S SPINNING. 
 
 Hk listened at the porch that day. 
 To hear the wheel go on and on; 
 
 Aud then it stopped, ran back a way, 
 While through the door he brought 
 
 the sun. 
 But now my spinning is all done. 
 
 II. 
 
 He sate beside me, with an oath 
 That love ne'er ended, once begun: 
 
 I smiled, believing for us both 
 What was the truth for only one. 
 And now my spinning is all done. 
 
 III. 
 
 My mother cursed me that I heard 
 A young man's wooing as I spun: 
 
 Thanks, cruel mother, for that word. 
 For I have since a harder known. 
 And now my spinning is all done. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I thought — O God ! — my first-born's 
 cry 
 Both voices to mine ear would 
 drown: 
 
 I listened in mine agony — 
 It was the silence made me groan. 
 And now my spinning is all done. 
 
 Bury me 'twixt my mother's grave, 
 (Who cursed me on her death-bed 
 lone,) 
 And my dead baby's (God it save !) 
 Who, not to bless me, would not 
 
 moan. 
 And now my spinning is all done. 
 
 VI. 
 
 A stone upon my heart and head. 
 But no name written on the stone: 
 
 Sweet neighbors, whisper low instead, 
 " This sinner was a loving one — 
 Aud now her spinning is all done." 
 
 vn. 
 
 And let the door ajar remain. 
 In case he should pass by anon ; 
 
 And leave the wheel out very plain, 
 That HE, when passing in the sun. 
 May see the spinning is all done. 
 
 CHANGE UPON CHANGE. 
 
 Five months ago the stream did How, 
 The lilies bloomed within the sedge. 
 And we were lingering to and fro 
 Where none will track thee in this 
 snow, 
 Along the stream, beside the hedge. 
 All, sweet, be free to love and go ! 
 For, if I do not hear thy foot. 
 The frozen river is as mute, 
 The flowers have dried down to the 
 
 root: 
 And why, since these be changed 
 since May, 
 Shouldst thou change less than 
 theij i' 
 
A REED. 
 
 40' 
 
 II. 
 
 And slow, slow as the winter snow, 
 The tears liave drifted to mine 
 eyes ; 
 And my poor cheeks, five months ago 
 Set blushing at thy praises so. 
 
 Put paleness on for a disguise. 
 Ah, sweet, be free to praise and go ! 
 For, if my face is turned too pale, 
 It was thine oath that first did 
 
 fail; 
 It was thy love proved false and 
 
 frail: 
 And why, since these be changed 
 enow, 
 Should / change less than thou ? 
 
 THAT DAY. 
 
 I STAND by the river where both of us 
 stood. 
 
 And there is but one shadow to dark- 
 en the flood; 
 
 And the path leading to it, where 
 both used to pass, 
 
 Has the step of but one to take dew 
 from the grass, — 
 
 One forlorn since that dav. 
 
 II. 
 
 The flowers of the margin are many 
 
 to see ; 
 None stoops at my bidding to pluck 
 
 them for me. 
 The bird in the alder sings loudly and 
 
 long: 
 My low sound of weeping disturbs 
 
 not his song. 
 
 As thy vow did that day. 
 
 III. 
 
 I stand by the river, I think of the 
 
 vow; 
 Oh, calm as the place is, voAv-breaker, 
 
 be thou ! 
 
 I leave the flower growing, the bird 
 
 un reproved: 
 Would I trouble thee rather than 
 
 them, my beloved, — 
 
 And my lover that day ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Go, be sure of my love, by that trea- 
 son forgiven ; 
 
 Of mj' prayers, by the blessings they 
 win thee from heaven ; 
 
 Of my grief (guess the length of the 
 sword by the sheath's) 
 
 By the silence of life, more pathetic 
 than death's ! 
 
 Go, — be clear of that day ! 
 
 A REED. 
 
 r AM no trumpet, but a reed; 
 No flattering breath shall from me 
 lead 
 A silver sound, a hollow sound : 
 I will not ring, for priest or king, 
 One blast that in re-echoing 
 Would leave a boudsman faster 
 bound. 
 
 II. 
 
 I am no trumpet, but a reed, — 
 A broken reed, the wind indeed 
 
 Left flat upon a dismal shoi'e ; 
 Yet if a little maid or child 
 Should sigh within it, earnest-mild 
 
 This reed will answer evermore. 
 
 III. 
 
 I am no trumpet, but a reed ; 
 Go, tell the fishers, as they spread 
 Their nets along the river's edge, 
 I will not tear their nets at all, 
 Nor pierce their hands if they should 
 fall: 
 Then let them leave me in the 
 sedge. 
 
408 
 
 THE DEAD PAN. 
 
 THE I)J]AD PAN. 
 
 Excited by Schiller's " Cotter Griechen- 
 lands," and partly founded on a well-kiiowii 
 tradition mentioned in a treatise of riutai'cli 
 ("De Oraculorum Defcctu "). according to 
 which, at the hour of tlie Saviour's a^ony, a 
 cry of "Great Pan is dead ! " swept across" tlie 
 waves in the hearing of certain mariners, — 
 and the oracles ceased. 
 
 It is in all veneration to the memory of the 
 deathless Schiller that I oppose a doctrine still 
 more dishonoring to poetry than to Christian- 
 ity. 
 
 As Mr. Kenyon's graceful and harmonious 
 paraphrase of the German poem was the first 
 occasion of the turning of my thoughts in this 
 direction, 1 take advantage of the pretence to 
 indulge my feelings (which overflow on other 
 grounds) liy inscribing my lyric to th.-it dear 
 friend and relative, with the earnestness of ap- 
 preciating esteem, as well as of affectionate 
 gratitude. 1844. 
 
 Gods of Hellas, gods of Hellas, 
 Can ye listen in your silence ? 
 Can your mystic voices tell us 
 "Where ye hide ? In floating islands, 
 With a wind that evermore 
 Keeps you out of sight of shore ? 
 
 Pan, Pan, is dead. 
 
 II. 
 
 In what revels are ye sunken, 
 
 In old Ethiopia? 
 
 Have the pygmies made you drunken. 
 
 Bathing in niandragora 
 
 Your divine pale lips, that shiver 
 
 Like the lotus in the river ? 
 
 Pan, Pan, is dead. 
 
 III. 
 
 Do ye sit there still in slumber. 
 In gigantic Alpine rows ? 
 The black poppies out of number. 
 Nodding, driiiping from your brows 
 To the red lees of your wine, 
 And so kei)t alive and fine ? 
 
 Pan, Pan, is dead. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Or lie crushed your stagnant corses 
 Where the silver spheres roll on, 
 Stung to life by centric forces 
 Thrown like rays out from the sun ? 
 While the smoke of your old altars 
 Is the shroud that round you welters? 
 Great Pan is dead. 
 
 " Gods of Hellas, gods of Hellas," 
 Said the old Hellenic tongue. 
 Said the hero-oaths, as well as 
 Poet's songs the sweetest sung, 
 Have ye grown deaf in a day ? 
 Can ye speak not yea or nay, 
 
 Since Pan is dead? 
 
 VI. 
 
 Do ye leave your rivers flowing 
 
 All alone, O Naiades, 
 
 While your drenched locks dry slow 
 
 in 
 This cold, feeble sun and breeze ? 
 Not a word the Naiads say. 
 Though the rivers run for aye; 
 
 For Pan is dead. 
 
 VII. 
 
 From the gloaming of the oak-wood, 
 O ye Drj-ads, could ye flee ? 
 At the rushing thunderstroke would 
 No sob tremble through the tree ? 
 Not a word the Dr\'ads say, 
 Though the forests wave for aye ; 
 For Pan is dead. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Have ye left the mountain-places, 
 Oreads wild, for other tryst ? 
 Shall we see no sudden faces 
 Strike a glory through the mist ? 
 Not a sound the silence thrills 
 Of the everlasting hills: 
 
 Pan, Pan, is dead. 
 
 IX. 
 
 O twelve gods of Plato's vision. 
 Crowned to starry wanderings, 
 With your chariots in procession, 
 And your silver clash of wings ! 
 Very pale ye seem to rise. 
 Ghosts of Grecian deities, 
 
 Now Pan is dead. 
 
 X. 
 
 Jove, that right hand is unloaded, 
 Whence the thunder did prevail, 
 M'hile in idiocy of godhead 
 Thou art staring the stars pale ! 
 And thine eagle, blind and old. 
 Houghs his feathers in the cold. 
 
 Pan, Pan, is dead. 
 
 i 
 
1 ' 
 
 II 
 
 THE DEAD PAN. 
 
 409 
 
 XI. 
 
 Where, O Jnno, is the glory 
 Of thy regal look and tread ? 
 Will they lay forevermore thee 
 Oil thy dim, straight golden hed? 
 Will thy queendom all lie hid 
 Meekly imder either lid ? 
 
 Pan, Pau, is dead. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Ha, Apollo ! floats his golden 
 Hair all mist-like where he stands, 
 While the Muses hang infolding 
 Knee and foot with faint, wild hands ? 
 'Neath the clanging of thy how, 
 Niobe looked lost as thou ! 
 
 Pan, Pan, is dead. 
 
 xni. 
 
 Shall the casque witli its bi'own iron, 
 Pallas' broad blue eyes eclijise. 
 And no hero take inspiring 
 From the god-Greek of her lips ? 
 'Neath her olive dost thou sit, 
 INIars the mighty, cursing it ? 
 
 Pan, Pan, is dead. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Bacchus, Bacchus ! on the panther 
 He swoons, bound witli his own vines; 
 And his Maenads slowly saimter, 
 Head aside, among the jJines, 
 While they murmur dreamingly, 
 " Evohe — ah — evohe — ! 
 
 Ah, Pan is dead ! " 
 
 XV. 
 
 Neptune lies beside the trident. 
 Dull and senseless as a stone; 
 And old Pluto, deaf and silent. 
 Is cast out into the sun ; 
 Ceres smileth stern thereat, 
 " We all now are desolate, 
 
 Now Pan is dead. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Aphrodite ! dead and driven 
 As thy native foam, thou art; 
 With the cestus long done heaving 
 On the white calm of thine heart. 
 Ai Adonis ! at that shriek 
 Not a tear runs down her cheek. 
 
 Pan, Pan, is dead. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 And the Loves, we used to know from 
 
 One another, huddled lie, 
 
 Frore as taken in a snow-storm. 
 
 Close beside her tenderly, 
 
 As if each had weakly tried • 
 
 Once to kiss her as he died. 
 
 Pan, Pan, is dead. 
 
 Time inthrall- 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 What, and Hermes ? 
 
 etli 
 All thy cunning, Hermes, thus. 
 And the ivy l)lindly crawleth 
 Round thy brave caduceus ? 
 Hast thou no new message for us, 
 Full of thunder and Jove-glories ? 
 Nay, Pan is dead. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Crowned Cybele's great turret 
 Rocks and crumbles on her head; 
 Roar the lions of her chariot 
 Toward the wilderness, unfed: 
 Scornful children are not mute, — 
 " Mother, mother, walk afoot, 
 
 Since Pan is dead ! " 
 
 XX. 
 
 In the fiery-hearted centre 
 Of the solemn universe. 
 Ancient Vesta, who could enter 
 To consume thee with this curse ? 
 Drop thy gray chin on thy knee, 
 O thou imlsied Mystery ! 
 
 For Pan is dead. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Gods, we vainlj' do adjure you. 
 Ye return nor A-oice nor sign ! 
 Not a votary could secure you 
 Even a grave for your Divine, — 
 Not a grave, to show thereby, 
 Here these <iraij old f/ods do lie. 
 
 Pan, Pan, is dead. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Even that Greece who took your 
 
 wages 
 Calls the obolus outworn; 
 And the hoarse deep-throated ages 
 Laugh your godships unto scorn; 
 And the poets do disclaim yon. 
 Or grow colder if tliey name you — 
 
 And Pan is dead. 
 
 
i 
 
 410 
 
 THE DEAD PAN. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Gods bereaved, gods belated, 
 With j'our purples rent asunder, 
 Gods discrowned and desecrated, 
 Disinherited of thunder. 
 Now the goats may climb and crop 
 The soft grass on Ida's top — 
 
 Now Pan is dead. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Calm, of old, the bark went onward, 
 "When a cry more loud than wind, 
 Rose up, deepened, and swept sun- 
 ward. 
 From the piled Dark behind; 
 And the sun shrank, and grew pale, 
 Breathed against by the great wail — 
 " Pan, Pan, is dead." 
 
 XXV. 
 
 And the rowers from the benches 
 Fell, each shuddering on his face, 
 While departing Influences 
 Struck a cold back through the place; 
 And the shadow of the ship 
 Reeled along the passive deep — 
 
 " Pan, Pan, is dead." 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 And that dismal cry rose slowly 
 And sank slowly through the air, 
 Full of spirit's melancholy 
 And eternity's desjjair ! 
 And they heard the words it said — 
 Pan is dead — Gkeat Pan is dead — 
 Pan, Pan, is dead. 
 
 xxvri. 
 
 'Twas the hour when One in Sion 
 Hung for love's sake on a cross; 
 When his brow was chill with dying, 
 And his soul was faint with loss; 
 When liis priestly blood droj^ped 
 
 downward. 
 And his kingly eyes looked throne- 
 ward — 
 
 Then Pan was dead. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 By the love he stood alone in, 
 His sole Godhead rose complete, 
 And the false gods fell down moan- 
 ing, 
 
 Each from off his golden seat; 
 All the false gods with a cry 
 Rendered up their deity — 
 
 Pan, Pan, was dead- 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Wailing wide across the islands. 
 They rent, vest-like, their Divine; 
 And a darkness and a silence 
 Quenched the light of every shrine; 
 And Dodona's oak swaug lonely, 
 Henceforth, to the tempest only. 
 
 Pan, Pan, was dead. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Pythia staggered, feeling o'er her 
 
 Her lost god's forsaking look; 
 
 Straight her eyeballs filmed with hor- 
 ror, 
 
 And her crispy fillets shook. 
 
 And her lips gasped through their 
 foam. 
 
 For a word that did not come. 
 
 Pan, Pan, was dead. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 O ye vain, false gods of Hellas, 
 Ye are silent evermore ; 
 And I dash down this old chalice 
 Whence libations ran of yore. 
 See, the wine crawls in the dust 
 Wormlike — as your glories must. 
 
 Since Pan is dead. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Get to dust as common mortals. 
 By a common doom and track ! 
 Let no Schiller from the portals 
 Of that Hades call you back, 
 Or instruct us to weep all 
 At your antique funeral. 
 
 Pan, Pan, is dead, 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 By your beauty, which confesses 
 Some chief beauty conquering you ; 
 Hy our grand heroic guesses 
 Through your falsehood at the true, — > 
 We will weeji not ! earth shall roll 
 Heir to each god's aureole — 
 
 And Pan is dead. 
 
A CHILD'S GRAVE AT FLORRNCE. 
 
 411 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Earth outgrows the mythic fancies 
 Sung beside her iii lier youth, 
 And those debonau- romances 
 Sound but dull beside the truth. 
 Phoebus' chariot-course is run: 
 Look up, poets, to the sun ! 
 
 Pan, Pan, is dead. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Christ hath sent us down the angels, 
 
 And the whole earth and the skies 
 
 Are illumed by altar-candles 
 
 Lit for lilessed mysteries; 
 
 And a priest's hand through creation 
 
 Waveth calm and consecration — 
 
 And Pan is dead. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Truth is fair: should we forego it? 
 Can we sigh right for a wrong ? 
 God himself is the best Poet, 
 And tlie real is his song. 
 Sing his truth out fair and full, 
 And secure his beautiful : 
 
 Let Pan be dead. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Truth is large: our aspiration 
 Scarce embraces half we be. 
 Shame, to stand in his creation 
 And doubt truth's sufficiency ! 
 To think God's song unexcelling 
 The poor tales of our own telling — 
 
 "When Pan is dead. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 "What is true and just and honest, 
 "What is lovely, what is iiure, 
 All of praise that hath admouisht, 
 All of virtue shall endure, — 
 These are themes for poets' uses, 
 Stirring nobler than the Muses, 
 
 Ere Pan was dead. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 O brave poets, keep back nothing. 
 Nor mix falsehood with the whole; 
 Look up Godward; speak the truth in 
 "Worthy song from earnest soul : 
 Hold in high jjoetic duty 
 Truest truth the fairest beauty ! 
 
 Pan, Pan, is dead. 
 
 A CHILD'S GRAVE AT 
 FLORENCE. 
 
 A. A. E. C. 
 Born Jui.t, 1S48. Died November, 1849. 
 
 Of English blood, of Tuscan birth. 
 What country should we give her? 
 
 Instead of any on tlie earth. 
 The civic heavens receive her. 
 
 II. 
 
 And here among the English tombs. 
 In Tuscan ground we lay her. 
 
 While the blue Tuscan sky endomes 
 Our English words of prayer. 
 
 III. 
 
 A little child ! how long she lived, 
 By months, not years, is reckoned: 
 
 Born in one July, she survived 
 Alone to see a second. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Bright-featured, as the July sun 
 Her little face still played in. 
 
 And splendors, with her birth begun, 
 Had had no time for fading. 
 
 V. 
 
 So, Lily, from those July hours. 
 No wonder we should call her: 
 
 She looked such kinship to the How- 
 ers, 
 Was but a little taller. 
 
 VI. 
 
 A Tuscan Lily, — only white, 
 
 As Dante, in abhorrence 
 Of red corruption, wished aright 
 
 The lilies of his Florence. 
 
 VII. 
 
 We could not wish her whiter, — her 
 Who perfumed with pure blossom 
 
 The house, — a lovely thing to wear 
 Upon a mother's bosom ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 This July creature thought, perhaps, 
 Our speech not worth assuming: 
 
 She sate upon her parents' laps 
 And mimicked the gnat's humming; 
 
i 
 
 412 
 
 .1 CHILD'S GRAVE AT FLORENCE. 
 
 IX. 
 
 ' mother, 
 
 then left 
 
 Said "father, 
 off, 
 
 For tongues celestial fitter: 
 Her hair had grown just long enough 
 
 To catch heaven's lasper-glitter. 
 
 Babes! Love could always hear and 
 see 
 
 Behind the cloud that hid them: 
 " Let little children come to me, 
 
 And do not thou forbid them." 
 
 XI. 
 
 So, unforbidding, have we met. 
 
 And gently here have laid her. 
 Though winter is no time to get 
 
 The dowers that should o'erspread 
 her. 
 
 xn. 
 
 "We should bring pansies quick with 
 spring, 
 
 Rose, violet, daffodilly, 
 And also, above every thing, 
 
 White lilies, for our Lily. 
 
 Nay, 
 
 xin. 
 more than flowers, this grave 
 exacts, — 
 Glad, grateful attestations 
 Of her sweet eyes and pretty acts, 
 With calm renunciations. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Her very mother with light feet 
 Should leave the place too earthy. 
 
 Saying, " The angels have thee, 
 sweet, 
 Because we are not worthy." 
 
 XV. 
 
 But winter kills the orange-buds. 
 The garelens in the frost are; 
 
 And all the heart dissolves in floods, 
 Remembering we have lost her. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Poor earth, poor heart, too weak, too 
 weak 
 To miss the July shining ! 
 Poor heart ! — what bitter words we 
 speak 
 When God speaks of resigning ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Sustain this heart in us that faints, 
 Thou God, the self-existent ! 
 
 We catch up wild at parting saints, 
 And feel thy heaven too distant. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 The wind that swept them out of sin 
 Has rutfled all our vesture: 
 
 On the shut door that let them iu 
 We beat with frantic gesture, — 
 
 XIX. 
 
 To us, us also, open straight ! 
 
 The outer life is chilly: 
 Are we, too, like the earth, to wait 
 
 Till next year for our Lily ? 
 
 XX. 
 
 — Oh, my own baby on my knees, 
 My leaping, dimpled treasure. 
 
 At every word I write like these, 
 Clasped close with stronger pres- 
 
 sure 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Too well my own heart understands, 
 At every word beats fuller — 
 
 My little feet, my little hands. 
 And hair of Lily's color ! 
 
 XXII. 
 
 But God gives patience; love learus 
 strength. 
 
 And faith remembers promise. 
 And hope itself can smile at length 
 
 On other hopes gone from us. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Love, strong as death, shall conquer 
 death, 
 Through struggle made more glori- 
 ous : 
 This mother stills her sobbing breath. 
 Renouncing, yet victorious. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Arms empty of her child she lifts 
 With spirit unbereaA'en, — 
 
 " God will not all take back his gifts: 
 My Lily's mine in heaven. 
 
 r 
 
C ATARI N A TO CAMOENS. 
 
 413 
 
 I 
 
 XXV. 
 
 " Still mine ! maternal rights serene 
 
 Not given to another ! 
 Tlie crystal hars sliine faint hetween 
 
 The souls of child and mother. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 "Meanwhile," the mother cries, 
 "content ! 
 Our love was well divided: 
 Its sweetness following where she 
 went, 
 Its anguish staid where I did. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " Well done of -God. to halve the lot. 
 And give her all the sweetness; 
 
 To us, the empty room and cot; 
 To her, the heaven's completeness. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 " To us, this grave; to her, the rows 
 The mystic palm-trees spring in; 
 
 To us, the silence in the house; 
 To her, the choral singing. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 " For her, to gladden in God's view; 
 
 For us, to hope and bear on. 
 Grow, Lily, in thj' gai-den new. 
 
 Beside the Rose of Sharon ! 
 
 XXX. 
 
 " Grow fast in heaven, sweet 
 clipped, 
 
 In love more calm than this is. 
 And may the angels dewy-lijiped 
 
 Remind thee of our kisses ! 
 
 Lily 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 shall tell thee 
 
 "While none 
 tears, — 
 
 These human tears now falling. 
 Till, after a few patient years. 
 
 One home shall take us all in. 
 
 of our 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 mother ■ 
 
 •who left 
 
 "Child, father, 
 out? 
 
 Not mother, and not father ! 
 And when, our dying couch about. 
 
 The natural mists shall gather, 
 
 xxxin. 
 
 " Some smiling angel close shall stand 
 In old Correggio's fashion. 
 
 And bear a Lily in his hand, 
 For death's anxuxciatiox." 
 
 CATARINA TO CA.MOENS ; 
 
 DTING IN HIS ABSENCE ABROAD, AND RE- 
 FERRING TO THE POEM IN WHICH HE 
 RECORDED THE SWEETNESS OF HER EYES. 
 
 On the door you will not enter 
 
 I have gazed too long: adieu ! 
 Hope withdraws her i^eradventure; 
 Death is near me, and not yoii. 
 Come, O lover, 
 Close and cover 
 These j^oor eyes you called, I ween, 
 " Sweetest eyes were ever seen ! " 
 
 n. 
 
 When I heard you sing that burden 
 
 In my vernal days and bowers. 
 Other praises disregarding, 
 I but hearkened that of yours. 
 Only saying 
 In heart-playing, 
 " Blessed eyes mine eyes have been, 
 If the sweetest his have seen ! " 
 
 III. 
 
 But all changes. At this vesper 
 
 Cold the sun shines down the door. 
 If you stood there, would you whis- 
 per, 
 " Love, I love you," as before, 
 Death pervading 
 Now, and shading 
 Eyes you sang of, that yestreen, 
 As the sweetest ever seen ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yes. I think, were you beside them. 
 
 Near the bed I die upon, 
 Though their beauty you denied them, 
 As you stood there, looking down, 
 You would truly 
 Call them duly. 
 For the love's sake found therein, 
 " Sweetest eyea were ever seen." 
 
 v. 
 
 And if yon looked down upon them. 
 
 And if they looked up to you. 
 All the light which has foregone them 
 AVoiild be gatliered back anew: 
 They would trulj' 
 Be as duly 
 Love-transformed to beauty's sheen, 
 " Sweetest eyes were ever seen." 
 
414 
 
 CATARINA TO CAMOENS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But, ah me ! you only see me, 
 In your thoughts of loving man. 
 Smiling soft, perhaps, and dreamy, 
 Through the wavings of my fan ; 
 And unweeting 
 Go repeating 
 In your revei-y serene, 
 " Sweetest ej-es were ever seen," 
 
 VII. 
 
 While my spirit leans and reaches 
 
 From my body still and pale. 
 Fain to hear what tender speech is 
 In your love to help my bale. 
 O my 25oet, 
 Come and show it ! 
 Come, of latest love, to glean, 
 " Sweetest eyes were ever seen." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 O my poet, O my prophet ! 
 AVheu you praised their sweetness 
 so. 
 Did you think, in singing of it, 
 That it might be near to go ? 
 Had you fancies 
 From tlieir glances. 
 That the grave would ciuicklj' screen 
 " Sweetest eyes were ever seen " ? 
 
 IX. 
 
 No reply. The fountain's warble 
 In the courtyard sounds alone. 
 As the water to the marble 
 So my heart falls with a moan 
 From love-sighing 
 To this dying. 
 Death forerunneth Love to win 
 " Sweetest eyes were ever seen." 
 
 X. 
 
 Will you come ? When I'm departed 
 
 AVhere all sweetnesses are hid, 
 Where thy voice, my tender-hearted. 
 Will not lift up either lid, 
 Cry, O lover. 
 Love is over ! 
 Ci-y, beneath the cy])ress green, 
 " Sweetest eyes were ever seen ! " 
 
 XI. 
 
 When the angel us is ringing, 
 Near the convent will you walk, 
 
 And recall the choral singing, 
 Which brought angels down our 
 talk? 
 
 Spirit-shriven 
 
 I viewed heaven, 
 Till you smiled — " Is earth unclean, 
 Sweetest eyes were ever seen ? " 
 
 XII. 
 
 When beneath the palace-lattice 
 
 You ride slow as you have done. 
 And you see a face there that is 
 Not the old familiar one. 
 Will you oftly 
 Murmur softlj', 
 " Here ye watched me morn and e'en, 
 Sweetest eyes were ever seen " ? 
 
 XIII. 
 
 When the palace-ladies, sitting 
 
 Round your gittern, shall have said, 
 " Poet, sing those verses written 
 ■ For the lady who is dead," 
 Will you tremble. 
 Yet dissemble. 
 Or sing hoarse, with tears between, 
 •' Sweetest ej'es were ever seen " ? 
 
 How sweet in 
 
 XIV. 
 
 "Sweetest eyes!" 
 fiowings 
 The repeated cadence is ! 
 Though you sang a hundred poems. 
 Still the best one would be this. 
 I can hear it 
 'Twixt my spirit 
 And the earth-noise intervene, — 
 " Sweetest eyes were ever seen ! " 
 
 XV. 
 
 But the priest waits for the praying. 
 And the choir are on their knees, 
 And the soul must pass away in 
 Strains more solemn-high than 
 these. 
 Misprere 
 For the weary ! 
 Oh, no longer for Catrine 
 " Sweetest eyes were ever seen ! " 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Keep my riband, take and keep it, 
 (I have loosed it from my hair) i 
 Feeling, while you overweep it, 
 Not alone in your despair. 
 
 Since with saintly 
 
 Watch unfaintly, 
 Out of heaven shall o'er you lean 
 " Sweetest eyes were ever seen." 
 
 1 She Itft hiiu the riband from her hair. 
 
 I»B»I 
 
 ■ « ■ I ^m 
 
A DENIAL. 
 
 415 
 
 XVII. 
 
 But — but novj — yet nnremovecl 
 Up to heaven they glisten fast; 
 You may cast away, beloved, 
 In your future all my past: 
 Such old phrases 
 May be j^raises 
 For some fairer bosom-queen — 
 " Sweetest eyes were ever seen! " 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Eyes of mine, what are ye doing ? 
 
 Faithless, faithless, jiraised amiss 
 If a tear be of your showing, 
 Dropt for any hope of his ! 
 Death has boldness 
 Besides coldness 
 If unworthy tears demean 
 " Sweetest eyes were ever seen." 
 
 XIX. 
 
 I will look out to his future; 
 I will bless it till it shine. 
 Should he ever be a suitor 
 Unto sweeter eyes than mine, 
 Sunshine gild them, 
 Angels shield them, 
 Whatsoever eyes terrene 
 Be the sweetest his have seen. 
 
 LIFE AND LOVE. 
 
 Fast this Life of mine was dying. 
 Blind already, and calm as death, 
 
 Snowtiakes on her bosom lying 
 Scarcely heaving with her breath. 
 
 II. 
 
 Love came by, and having known her 
 In a dream of fabled lands. 
 
 Gently stooped, and laid upon her 
 Mvstic chrism of holy hands; 
 
 III. 
 
 Drew his smile across her folded 
 Eyelids, as the swallow dips; 
 
 Breathed as finel.y as the cold did. 
 Through the locking of her lips. 
 
 IV. 
 
 So, when Life looked upward, being 
 Warmed and breathed on froiu 
 above, 
 
 What sight could she have for seeing, 
 Evermore . . . but only Love ? 
 
 A DENIAL. 
 
 We have met late — it is too late to 
 meet, 
 O friend, not more than friend ! 
 Death's forecome shroud is tangled 
 
 round mj' feet. 
 And if I step or stir, I touch the end. 
 
 In this last jeopardy 
 Can I approach thee, I, who cannot 
 
 move ? 
 How shall I answer thy request for 
 love ? 
 Look ill my face, and see. 
 
 II. 
 
 I love thee not, I dare not love thee ! 
 go 
 In silence; droj) my hand. 
 If thou seek roses, seek them where 
 
 they blow 
 In garden-alleys, not in desert sand. 
 
 "Can life and death agree. 
 That thou shouldst stoop thy song to 
 
 my complaint ? 
 I cannot love thee. If the word is 
 faint. 
 Look in my face, and see. 
 
 III. 
 I might have loved thee in some for- 
 mer days. 
 Oh, then my spirits had leapt 
 As now they sink, at hearing thy love- 
 praise ! 
 Before these faded cheeks were over- 
 wept. 
 Had this been asked of me, 
 To love thee with my whole strong 
 
 heart and head, 
 I should have said still . . . yes, but 
 smiled and said, 
 " Look in my face, aud see ! " 
 
41G 
 
 A DENIAL. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But now . . . God sees me, — God, 
 who took my heart. 
 And drowned it in life's surge. 
 In all your wide, warm earth 1 have 
 
 no part — 
 A light song overcomes me like a 
 dirge. 
 Could Love's great harmony 
 The saints keep step to when their 
 
 bonds are loose. 
 Not weigh me down ? am / a wife to 
 choose ? 
 Look in my face, and see — 
 
 V. 
 
 While I behold, as plain as one who 
 dreams, 
 Some woman of full worth, 
 Whose voice, as cadenced as a silver 
 
 stream's, 
 Shall prove the fountain-soul which 
 sends it forth ; 
 One younger, more thought-free 
 And fair and gay, than I, thou must 
 
 forget, 
 With brighter eyes than these . . . 
 which are not wet ... 
 Look in my face, and see. 
 
 VI. 
 
 So farewell, thou whom I have known 
 too late 
 To let thee come so near. 
 Be counted happy, while men call 
 
 thee great, 
 And one beloved woman feels thee 
 dear ! — 
 Not I ! — that cannot be. 
 I am lost, I am changed: I must go 
 
 farther, where 
 The change shall take me worse, and 
 no one dare 
 Look in my face, and see. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Meantime I bless thee. By these 
 thoughts of mine 
 I bless thee from all such ! 
 I bless thy lamp to oil, thy cup to 
 
 wine. 
 Thy hearth to joy, thy hand to an 
 equal touch 
 Of loyal troth. For me, 
 I love thee not, I love thee not ! — 
 
 away ! 
 Here's no more courage in my soul 
 to say, 
 "Look in my face, and see." 
 
 PROOF AND DISPROOF. 
 
 Dost thou love me, my beloved ? 
 
 Who shall answer yes or no ? 
 What is in-oved or disproved 
 
 AVhen my soul iuquireth so, 
 Dost thou love me, my beloved ? 
 
 II. 
 
 I have seen thy heart to-day, 
 Never open to the crowd. 
 
 While to love me aye and aye 
 Was the vow as it was vowed 
 
 By thine eyes of steadfast gray. 
 
 III. 
 
 Now I sit alone, alone — 
 
 And the hot tears break and burn 
 Now, beloved, thou art gone, 
 
 Doubt and terror have their turn. 
 Is it love that I have known. 
 
 r\^ 
 
 I have known some bitter things,^ 
 Anguish, anger, solitude. 
 
 Year by year an evil brings. 
 Year by year denies a good; 
 
 March winds violate my springs. 
 
 I have known how sickness bends, 
 I have known how sorrow breaks; 
 
 How quick hopes have sudden ends, 
 How the heart thinks till it aches 
 
 Of the smile of buried friends. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Last, I have known ihee, my brave 
 Noble thinker, lover, doer ! 
 
 The best knowledge last I have; 
 But thou comest as the thrower 
 
 Of fresh flowers upon a grave. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Count what feelings used to move rae] 
 Can this love assort with those ? 
 
 Thou, who art so far aliove me. 
 Wilt thou stooi> so for repose ? 
 
 Is it true that thou canst love me ? 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Do not blame me if I doubt thee. 
 
 I can call love 1)y its name 
 When thine arm is wrapt about me: 
 
 But even love seems not the same 
 When I sit alone without thee. 
 
INSUFFICIENCY. 
 
 417 
 
 IX. 
 
 In thy clear eyes I descried 
 Many a proof of love to-day; 
 
 But to-night, those unbelied 
 Speechful eyes being gone away 
 
 There's the jiroof to seek beside. 
 
 X. 
 
 Dost thou love me, my beloved ? 
 
 Only thou canst answer yes ! 
 And, thou gone, the jiroof's disproved, 
 
 And the cry rings answerless, — 
 Dost thou love me, my beloved ? 
 
 QUESTION AND ANSWER. 
 
 Love you seek for presupposes 
 Summer heat and sunny glow. 
 
 Tell me, do you find moss-roses 
 Budding, blooming, in the snow ? 
 
 Snow might kill the rose-tree's root: 
 
 Shake it quickly from your foot, 
 Lest it harm you as you go. 
 
 II. 
 From the ivy, where it dapples 
 
 A gray ruin, stone by stone, 
 Do you look for gi'apes or apples. 
 
 Or for sad green leaves alone ? 
 Pluck the leaves off, two or three; 
 Keep them lor morality 
 
 Wheu you shall be safe and gone. 
 
 INCLUSIONS. 
 
 Oh, wilt thou have my hand, dear, to 
 
 lie along in thine ? 
 As a little stone in a running stream, 
 
 it seems to lie and pine. 
 Now drop the poor, pale hand, dear, 
 
 unfit to plight with thine. 
 
 II. 
 
 Oh, wilt thou have my cheek, dear, 
 drawn closer to thine own ? 
 
 My cheek is white, my cheek is worn 
 by many a tear run down. 
 
 Now leave a little space, dear, lest it 
 should wet thine own. 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh, 
 
 must thou have my soul, dear, 
 commingled with thy soul ? 
 
 Red grows the cheek, and warm tlie 
 hand; the part is in the whole: 
 
 Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate, 
 when soul is joined to soul. 
 
 INSUFFICIENCY. 
 
 There is no one beside thee, and no 
 one above thee; 
 
 Thou standest alone, as the nightin- 
 gale sings ! 
 
 And my words that would praise 
 thee are impotent things. 
 For none can express thee, though all 
 should approve thee. 
 
 I love thee so, dear, that I only can 
 love thee. 
 
 II. 
 
 Say, what can 1 do for thee ? Weary 
 
 thee, grieve thee ? 
 Lean on thy shoulder, new burdens 
 
 to add ? 
 Weep my tears over thee, making 
 
 thee sad ? 
 Oh, hold me not, love me not ! let me 
 
 retrieve thee. 
 I love thee so, dear, that I only can 
 
 leave thee. 
 
 II 
 
HI-»H 
 
 41<S 
 
 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 
 
 SONNETS FROM THE 
 PORTUGUESE. 
 
 I THOUGHT once how Theocritus had 
 
 sung 
 Of the sweet years, the dear and 
 
 wished-for years, 
 Who each one in a gracious hand ap- 
 pears 
 To bear a gift for mortals, okl or 
 
 young; 
 And, as I mused it in his antique 
 
 tongue, 
 I saw in gradual vision, through my 
 
 tears. 
 The sweet, sad years, the melancholy 
 
 years, 
 Those of my own life, who hy turns 
 
 had tlung 
 A shadow across me. Straightway I 
 
 was 'ware. 
 So weeping, how a mystic shape did 
 
 move 
 Behind me, and drew me backward 
 
 by the hair ; 
 And a voice said in masterj^ while I 
 
 strove, 
 ' ' Guess now who holds thee ? " — 
 
 " Death," I said. But there 
 The silver answer rang, " Not 
 
 Death, but Love." 
 
 II. 
 
 But only three in all God's universe 
 Have heard this word thou hast said, 
 
 — Himself, beside 
 Thee speaking, and me listening ! and 
 
 replied 
 One of us . . . that was God . . . and 
 
 laid the curse 
 So darkly on my eyelids as to amerce 
 My sight from seeing thee, — that if I 
 
 had died, 
 The death-weights placed there would 
 
 have signified 
 Less absolute exclusion. " Naj'," is 
 
 worse 
 From God than from all others, O my 
 
 friend ! 
 ' Men could not part us with their 
 \ worldly jars, 
 
 ,' Nor the seas change us, nor the tem- 
 pests bend ; 
 , Our hands would touch for all the 
 
 mountain-bars: 
 
 S 
 
 And, heaven being rolled between us 
 
 at the end. 
 We should but vow the faster for the 
 
 stars. 
 
 III. 
 
 Unlike are we, unlike, O jirincelv 
 Heart ! 
 
 Unlike our uses and our destinies. 
 
 Our ministering two angels look sur- 
 prise 
 
 On one another as they strike athwart 
 
 Their wings in passing. Thou, be- 
 think thee, art 
 
 A guest for queens to social pagean- 
 tries. 
 
 With gages from a hundred brighter 
 eyes 
 
 Than tears even can make mine, to 
 play tby part 
 
 Of chief musician. What liast thou 
 to do 
 
 With looking from the lattice-lights at 
 me, 
 
 A poor, tired, wandering singer, sing- 
 ing through 
 
 The dark, and leaning up a cyi^ress- 
 tree ? 
 
 The chrism is on thine head; on 
 mine the dew: 
 
 And Death must dig the level where 
 these agree. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thou hast thy calling to some pal- 
 
 ace-tloor. 
 Most gracious singer of high poems, 
 
 where 
 The dancers will break footing, from 
 
 the care 
 Of watching up thy pregnant lips for 
 
 more. 
 And dost thou lift this house's latch 
 
 too poor 
 For hand of thine ? and canst thou 
 
 think, and bear 
 To let thy music drop here unaware 
 In folds of golden fulness at mj' door ? 
 Look up, and see the casement broken 
 
 in. 
 The bats and owlets builders in the 
 
 roof ! 
 My cricket chirps against thv mando- 
 lin. 
 Hush, call no echo up in further 
 
 proof 
 Of desolation ! there's a voice within 
 That weej)s ... as thou must sing 
 
 . .. . alone, aloof. 
 
SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 
 
 419 
 
 V. 
 
 I LIFT my heavy heart up solemnly, 
 
 As once Electra her seiiulchral nrn, 
 
 And, looking in thine eyes, I over- 
 turn 
 
 The ashes at thy feet. Behold and 
 see 
 
 "What a great heap of grief lay hid in 
 me, 
 
 And how the red wild sparkles dimly 
 burn 
 
 Through the ashen grayness If thy 
 foot in scorn 
 
 Could tread them out to darkness 
 utterly, 
 
 It might be well, perhaps But if, in- 
 stead, 
 
 Thou wait beside me for the wind to 
 blow 
 
 The graj' dust up . , , those laurels 
 on thine head, 
 
 O my beloved, will not shield thee so, 
 
 That none of all tlie fires shall scorch 
 and shred 
 
 The hair beneath Stand farther off, 
 then ! Go. 
 
 VI 
 
 Go from me Yet I feel that I shall 
 
 stand 
 Henceforward in thy shadow. Never- 
 more 
 Alone upon the threshold of my door 
 Of individual life, I shall command 
 The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand 
 Serenely in the sunshine as before. 
 Without the sense of that which I 
 
 forbore, — 
 Thj' touch upon the isalni The 
 
 widest laud 
 Doom takes to part us leaves thy 
 
 heart in mine 
 With pulses that beat double. What 
 
 I do 
 And what I dream include thee, as.- 
 
 the wine 
 Must taste of its own grapes And, 
 
 when I sue 
 I God for myself, he hears that name of 
 t thine, 
 
 ' And sees within my ej^es the tears of 
 
 two. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The face of all the world is changed, 
 ., I think, 
 
 (' Since first I heard the footsteps of thy 
 ^ sovil 
 
 V Move still, oh, still, beside me as they 
 stole 
 
 Betwixt me and the dreadful outer 
 
 brink 
 Of obvious death, where I, who 
 
 thought to sink, 
 Was caught up into love, and taught 
 
 the whole 
 Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of 
 
 dole 
 God gave for baptism, I am fain to 
 
 drink. 
 And iiraise its sweetness, sweet, with 
 
 thee anear. 
 The names of country, heaven, are 
 
 changed away 
 For where thou art or shaft be, there 
 
 or here ; 
 And this . . . this lute and song . . . 
 
 loved yesterday, 
 (Tlie singing angels know) are only 
 
 dear 
 Because thy name moves right in 
 
 what they say. 
 
 viii. 
 
 What can I give thee back, O liberal 
 
 And princely giver, who hast brought 
 the gold 
 
 And purple of thine heart, unstained, 
 untold, 
 
 And laid them on the outside of the 
 wall 
 
 For svich as I to take or leave withal, 
 
 In unexpected largesse ? Am I cold. 
 
 Ungrateful, that, for these most mani- 
 fold 
 
 High gifts, I render nothing back at 
 all? 
 
 Not so; not cold, but very poor in- 
 stead. 
 
 Ask God , who knows For f reciuent 
 tears have run 
 
 The colors from my life, and left so 
 dead 
 
 And pale a stuff, it were not fitly 
 done 
 
 To give the same as pillow to thy 
 head. 
 
 Go farther ! let it serve to trample on . 
 
 IX. 
 
 Can it be right tc give what I can 
 
 give ? 
 To let thee sit beneath the fall of 
 
 tears 
 As salt as mine, and hear the sighing 
 
 years 
 Re-sighing on my lips renunciative 
 Through those infrequent smiles 
 
 which fail to live 
 
 s 
 
 I 
 
 / 
 
I 
 
 420 
 
 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 
 
 For all thy adjuratlous ? Oli, my 
 
 fears, 
 That this can scarce be right ! We 
 
 are not peers, 
 So to be lovers, and I own and 
 
 grieve 
 That givers of such gifts as mine are 
 
 must 
 Be counted with the iingenerous. 
 
 Out, alas ! 
 I will not soil thy purple with my 
 
 dust. 
 Nor breathe my poison on thy Venice- 
 glass, 
 Nor give thee any love — which were 
 
 unjust. 
 Beloved, I only love thee ! let it pass. 
 
 Yet love, mere love, is beautiful in- 
 deed. 
 
 And worthy of acceptation. Fire is 
 bright, 
 
 Let temple burn, or flax: an equal 
 light 
 
 Leaps in the flame from cedar-plank 
 or weed: 
 
 And love is fire. And when I say at 
 need 
 
 / love thee . . . mark \ . . . I love thee 
 — in thy sight 
 
 I stand transfigured, glorified aright, 
 
 "With conscience of the new rays that 
 proceed 
 
 Out of jny face toward thine. There's 
 nothing low 
 
 In love, when love the lowest: mean- 
 est creatures 
 
 Who love God, God accepts while lov- 
 ing so. 
 
 And what IfeeL across the inferior 
 features 
 
 Of what I am, doth flash itself, and 
 show 
 
 How that great work of love enhances 
 Nature's. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And therefore, if to love can be de- 
 sert, 
 
 I am not all unworthy. Cheeks as 
 l^ale 
 
 As these you see, and trembling knees 
 that fail 
 
 To bear the burden of a heavy heart ; 
 
 This weary-mi.nstrel-life that once was 
 girt " " 
 
 To climb Aornus, and can scarce 
 avail 
 
 To pipe now 'gainst the valley night- 
 ingale 
 
 A melancholy music, — why advert 
 
 To these things? O beloved, it is 
 plain 
 
 I am not of thy worth, nor for thy 
 place ! 
 
 And yet, because I love thee, I ob- 
 tain 
 
 From that same love this vindicating 
 grace. 
 
 To live on still in love, and yet in 
 vain, — 
 
 To bless thee, yet renounce thee to 
 thy face. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Indeed, this very love which is my 
 
 boast, 
 And which, when rising up from 
 
 breast to brow, 
 Doth crown me with a ruby large 
 
 enow 
 To draw men's eyes, and prove the 
 
 inner cost, — 
 This love even, all my worth, to the 
 
 uttermost, 
 I should not love withal, unless that 
 
 thou 
 Hadst set me an example, shown me 
 
 how, 
 When first thine earnest eyes with 
 
 mine were crosst. 
 And love called love. And thus I 
 
 cannot speak 
 Of love even, as a good thing of my 
 
 own; 
 Thy soul hath snatched up mine all 
 
 faint and weak, 
 And i^laced it by thee on a golden 
 
 throne, — 
 And that I love (O soul ! we must be 
 
 meek) 
 Is by thee only, whom I love alone. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And wilt thou have me fashion into T 
 
 . speech \ 
 
 The love I bear thee, finding words -■ 
 
 enough, \^ 
 
 And hold the torch out, while the ' 
 
 winds are rough, 
 Between our faces, to cast light on \ 
 
 each ? 
 I drop it at thy feet. I cannot teach , 
 My hand to hold my si^irit so far off 
 From myself — me — that I should ' 
 
 bring thee proof 
 
SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 
 
 421 
 
 \ In words of love hid in me out of 
 
 reach. 
 ( Nay, let the silence of my woman- 
 ^ hood 
 
 V Commend my woman-love to thy be- 
 lief, 
 Seeing that I stand nnwon, however 
 
 wooed. 
 And rend the garment of my life, in 
 
 brief, 
 By a most dauntless, voiceless forti- 
 tude, 
 Lest one touch of this heart convey 
 its grief 
 
 XIV. 
 
 'If thou must love me, let it be for 
 
 nought 
 Except for love's sake only. Do not 
 
 say 
 ''I love her for her smile, her look, 
 
 her waj" 
 Of speaking gently, for a trick of 
 
 thought 
 That falls in well with mine, and 
 
 certes brought 
 A sense of pleasant ease on such a 
 
 day;" 
 For these things in themselves, be- 
 loved, may 
 Be changed, or change for thee: and 
 
 love so wrought 
 May be unwrought so. Neither love 
 
 me for 
 Thine own dear pity's wiping my 
 
 cheeks dry: 
 A creature might forget to weep, who 
 
 bore 
 Thy comfort long, and lose thy love 
 
 thereby. 
 But love me for love's sake, that ever- 
 more 
 Thou mayst love on through love's 
 
 eternity. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Accuse me not, beseech thee, that I 
 wear 
 
 Too calm and sad a face in front of 
 thine; 
 
 For we two look two ways, and can- 
 not shine 
 
 With the same sunlight on our brow 
 and hair. 
 
 On me thou lookest with no doubting 
 care. 
 
 As on a bee shut in a crystalline; 
 
 Since sorrow hath shut me safe in 
 love's divine. 
 
 And to spread wing, and fly in the 
 
 outer air, 
 "Were most impossible failure, if I 
 
 strove 
 To fail so. But I look on thee, on 
 
 thee. 
 Beholding, besides love, the end of 
 
 love. 
 Hearing oblivion beyond memory ; 
 As one who sits and gazes from above, 
 Over the rivers to the bitter sea. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And yet, because thou overcoraest so, ' 
 
 Because thou art more noble, aiid like 
 a king. 
 
 Thou canst prevail against my fears, 
 and fling 
 
 Thy purple round ine, till my heart 
 shall grow 
 
 Too close against thine heart hence- 
 forth to know 
 
 How it shook when alone. Why, con- 
 quering 
 
 May prove as lordly and complete a 
 thing 
 
 In lifting upward as in crushing low ! 
 
 And, as a vanquished soldier yields his 
 sword 
 
 To one who lifts him from the bloody 
 earth. 
 
 Even so, beloved, I at last record, 
 
 Here ends my strife. If thou invite 
 me forth, 
 
 I ifise above abasement at the word. 
 
 Make thy love larger to enlarge my 
 worth. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 My poet, thou canst touch on all the 
 
 notes 
 God set between his After and Before, 
 And strike up and strike off the gen- 
 eral roar 
 Of the rushing worlds a melody that 
 
 floats 
 In a serene air purely. Antidotes 
 Of medicated music, answering for 
 jMankind's forlornest uses, thou canst 
 
 pour 
 From thence into their ears. God's 
 
 will devotes 
 Thine to such ends, and mine to wait 
 
 on thine. 
 How, dearest, wilt thou have me for 
 
 most rise ? — 
 A hope to sing by gladly, or a fine 
 Sad memor}% with thy songs to inter- 
 fuse ? 
 
 w~w~9''W''W^^^^^^^ 
 
422 
 
 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 
 
 A shade, in which to sing, of palm 
 or pine ? 
 
 A grave, on which to rest from sing- 
 ing ? Choose 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 I NEVER gave a lock of hair away 
 
 To a man, clearest, except tliis to 
 thee. 
 
 Which now upon my fingers thought- 
 fully 
 
 I ring out to the full brown length, 
 and sav 
 
 "Take it." ' My day of youth went 
 yesterday. 
 
 My hair no longer bounds to my foot's 
 glee. 
 
 Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle- 
 tree. 
 
 As girls do, any more: it only may 
 
 Now shade on two pale cheeks the 
 mark of tears. 
 
 Taught drooping from the head that 
 hangs aside 
 
 Through sorrow's trick. I thought 
 the funeral-shears 
 
 Would take this first; but love is jus- 
 tified, — 
 
 Take it thou, finding pure, from all 
 those years. 
 
 The kiss my mother left here when 
 she died. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The soul's Eialto hath its merchan- 
 dise: 
 
 I barter curl for curl upon that mart. 
 
 And from my poet's forehead to my 
 heart 
 
 Receive this lock, which outweighs ar- 
 gosies, — 
 
 As 2^^irply black as erst to Pindar's 
 eyes 
 
 The dim purpureal tresses gloomed 
 athwart 
 
 The nine white Muse-brows. For this 
 counterpart, . . . 
 
 The bay-crown's shade, beloved, I 
 surmise. 
 
 Still lingers on thy curl, it is so 
 black. 
 
 Thus, with a fillet of smooth-kissing 
 breath, 
 
 I tie the shadows safe from gliding 
 back. 
 
 And lay the gift where nothing hin- 
 dereth ; 
 
 Here on my heart, as on thy brow, to 
 
 lack 
 No natural heat till mine grows cold 
 
 in death. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Beloved, my beloved, when I think ' ' 
 
 That tliou wast in the world a year 
 ago, 
 
 What time I sate alone here in the \ 
 snow, 
 
 And saw no footprint, heard the si- 
 lence sink 
 
 No moment at thy voice, but, link by 
 link, 
 
 Went counting all my chains as if that 
 so 
 
 They never could fall off at any blow 
 
 Struck by thy possible hand, — why, 
 thus I drink 
 
 Of life'^reat cup of wonder ! Won- 
 derful , 
 
 Never to feel thee thrill the day or 
 night 
 
 With personal act or speech, nor 
 ever cull 
 
 Some prescience of thee ^^■ith the 'j 
 blossoms white / 
 
 Thou sawest growing ! Atheists are {, 
 as dull, ^ 
 
 Who cannot guess God's presence out / 
 of sight. ^' 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Say over again, and yet once over 
 again, 
 
 That thou dost love me. Though the 
 word repeated 
 
 Should seem a "cuckoo-song," as 
 thou dost treat it. 
 
 Remember, never to the hill or plain. 
 
 Valley and wood, without he r cuckoo- 
 strain 
 
 Comes the fresh Spring in all her 
 green completed. 
 
 Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted 
 
 By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that 
 doubt's pain 
 
 Cry, " Sjieak once more — thou lov- 
 est ! " AVho can fear 
 
 Too many stars, though each in heav- 
 en shall roll, 
 
 Too many flowers, though each shall" 
 crown the year ? 
 
 Say thou dost love me, love me, love 
 me; toll 
 
 The silver iterance, only minding, 
 dear. 
 
 To love me also in silence with thy 
 soul. 
 
 i 
 
SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 
 
 423 
 
 \ 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Whex oixr two souls stand up erect 
 
 and strong, 
 Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and 
 
 nigher. 
 Until the lengthening wings break 
 
 into tire 
 At either curved point, what bitter 
 
 wrong 
 Can the earth do to us, that we should 
 
 not long 
 Be here contented ? Think. In 
 
 mounting higher. 
 The angels would press on us, and 
 
 aspire 
 To dro]) some golden orb of perfect 
 
 song 
 Into our deep, dear silence. Let us 
 
 stay 
 Rather on earth, beloved, where the 
 
 unfit 
 Contrarious moods of men recoil 
 
 away. 
 And Isolate pure .siMi'its, and permit 
 A place to stand and love in for a 
 
 day, 
 With darkness and the death-hour 
 
 rounding it. 
 
 <? 
 
 XXIIl. 
 
 Is it indeed so ? If I lay here dead, 
 Wouldst thou miss any life in losing 
 
 mine ? 
 And would the sun for thee more 
 
 coldly shine. 
 Because of grave-dam]is falling round 
 
 my head ? 
 I marvelled, my beloved, when I 
 
 read 
 Thy thought so in the letter. I am 
 
 thine — 
 But ... so much to thee ? Can I 
 
 pour thy wine 
 While my hands tremble ? Then my 
 
 soul, instead 
 Of dreams of death, resumes life's 
 
 lower range. 
 Then love me. Love ! look on me, 
 
 breathe on me ! 
 As brighter ladies do not count it 
 
 strange, 
 For love, to give up acres aud de- 
 gree, 
 I yield the grave for thy sake, and 
 
 exchange 
 My near sweet view of heaven, for 
 — earth with thee ! 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Let the world's sharpness, like a 
 
 clasping knife. 
 Shut in upon itself, and do no harm 
 In this close hand of love, now soft 
 
 and warm; 
 And let us hear no sound of luiman 
 
 strife 
 After the click of the shutting. Life 
 
 to life — 
 I lean upon thee, dear, without 
 
 alarm , ' 
 
 And feel as safe as guarded by a -. 
 
 charm ' ^ 
 
 Against the stab of worldlings, who, \ 
 
 if rife. 
 Are weak to injure. Very whitely ■■=■■ 
 
 still 
 Tlie lilies of our lives may re-assure 
 Their blossoms from their roots, ac- 
 cessible 
 Alone to heavenly dews that drop 
 
 not fewer; 
 Growing straight, out of man's reach, 
 
 on the hill. 
 God onj^y, who made us rich, can) "x 
 ma^e Vxs poor. ^•— - — ^-^^s./j 
 
 XXV. 
 
 A HEAVY heart, beloved, have I 
 
 borne 
 From year to j-ear, until I saw thy 
 
 face, 
 And sorrow after sorrow took the 
 
 place 
 Of all those natural joys as lightly 
 
 worn 
 As the stringed pearls, each lifted in 
 
 its turn 
 By a beating heart at dance-time. 
 
 Hopes apace 
 Were changed to long despairs, till 
 
 God's own grace 
 Could scarcely lift aljove the world 
 
 forlorn 
 My heavy heart. Then thott didst bid 
 
 me bring 
 And let it drop adown thy calmly 
 
 great 
 Deep being. Fast it sinketh, as a 
 
 thing 
 Which its own nature doth precijii- 
 
 tate. 
 While thine doth close above it, me- 
 diating 
 Betwixt the stars and the unaccom- 
 plished fate. 
 
 I 
 <> 
 
SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 I LIVED with visions for my company, 
 Instead of men and women, years 
 
 ago, 
 And found them gentle mates, nor 
 
 thought to know 
 A sweeter music than they played to 
 
 me. 
 But soon their trailing purple was 
 
 not free 
 Of this world's dust, their lutes did 
 
 silent grow, 
 And I myself grew faint and hlind 
 
 below 
 Their vanishing eyes. Then thou 
 
 didst come — to be. 
 Beloved, what they seemed. Their 
 
 shining fronts, 
 Their songs^ their splendors (better, 
 
 yet the same. 
 As river-water hallowed into fonts,) 
 Met in thee, and from out thee over- 
 came 
 My soul with satisfaction of all 
 
 wants, 
 Because God's gifts put man's best 
 
 dreams to shame." 
 
 XXVJI. 
 
 Mv own beloved, who hast lifted 
 me 
 
 From this drear flat of earth where I 
 was thrown. 
 
 And, in betwixt the languid ringlets, 
 blown 
 
 A life-breath, till the forehead hope- 
 fully 
 
 Shines out again, as all the angels 
 see. 
 
 Before thy saving kiss 1 My own, my 
 own, 
 
 "Who camest to me when the world 
 was gone. 
 
 And I, who looked for only God, 
 found thee ! 
 
 I find thee; I am safe and strong 
 and glad. 
 
 As one who stands in dewless aspho- 
 del 
 
 Looks backward on the tedious time 
 he had 
 
 In the upper-life, so I, with bosom- 
 swell. 
 
 Make witness here, between the good 
 and bad. 
 
 That love, as strong as death, re- 
 trieves as well. 
 
 \ 
 
 \ 
 
 XXVIII. y 
 
 My letters ! all dead paper, mute and^ 
 
 white ! rs 
 
 And yet they seem alive, and quiver- r/ 
 
 ing /( 
 
 Against my tremulous hands which ^^ 
 
 loose the string, ^ 
 
 And let them drop down on my knee , 
 
 to-night. 
 This said, he wished to have me in 
 
 his sight 
 Once, as a friend; this fixed a day in 
 
 spring 
 To come and touch my hand ... a 
 
 simple thing, 
 Yet I wept for it; this . . . the pa- 
 per's light ... 
 Said, Dear, I love thee; and I sank 
 
 and quailed ^ 
 
 As if God's future thundered on my ' 
 
 past. 
 This said, I am thine, and so its ink [ 
 
 has paled 
 With lying at my heart that beat too / 
 
 fast ; ' 
 
 And this . . . O love, thy words have I 
 
 ill availed i 
 
 If what this said I dared repeat at 
 
 last ! 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 I THINK of thee ! — my thoughts do 
 
 twine and bud 
 About thee, as wild vines about a 
 
 tree 
 Put out broad leaves, and soon there's 
 
 nought to see 
 Except the straggling green which 
 
 hides the wood. 
 Yet, O my palm-tree ! be it under- 
 stood 
 I will not have my thoughts instead 
 
 of thee 
 Who art dearer, better. Rather, in- 
 stantly 
 Renew thy presence: as a strong tree 
 
 should. 
 Rustle thy boughs and set thy trunk 
 
 all bare. 
 And let these bands of greenery which 
 
 ensphere thee 
 Drop heavily down, burst, shattered, 
 
 everywhere ! 
 Because, in this deep joy to see and 
 
 hear thee. 
 And breathe within thy shadow a 
 
 new air, 
 I do not think of thee — I am too 
 
 near thee. 
 
 
 
 ■ ♦■♦I 
 
SONyi:TS FROM THE rORTUGUESE. 
 
 425 
 
 XXX. 
 
 I SEE thine image througli my tears 
 
 to-night, 
 And vet to-day I saw thee smiling. 
 
 How 
 Refer the cause ? Beloved, is it thou 
 Or I who makes me sad ? The aco- 
 lyte, 
 Ami^ the chanted joy and thankfnl 
 
 rite, 
 May so fall flat, with jiale insensate 
 
 brow, 
 On the altai'-stair. I hear thy voice 
 
 and vow, 
 Perplexed, uncertain, since thou art 
 
 out of siglit, 
 As he, in his swooning ears, the 
 
 choir's amen. 
 Beloved, dost thou love ? or did I see 
 
 all 
 The glory as I dreamed, and fainted 
 
 when 
 Too vehement light dilated my ideal. 
 For my soul's eyes ? ^Vill that light 
 
 come again. 
 As now these tears come falling hot 
 
 and real ? 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Thou comest ! all is said without a 
 
 word. 
 I sit heneath thv looks, as children 
 
 do 
 [n the noon sun, with souls that 
 
 tremble through 
 Their happy eyelids from an un- 
 
 aA^erred 
 Yet i^rodigal inward joy. Behold, 
 
 I erred 
 In that last doubt ! and yet I cannot 
 
 rue 
 The sin most, but the occasion, — that 
 
 we two 
 Should for a moment stand unmin- 
 
 istered 
 By a mutual presence. Ah, keep 
 
 near and close, "■' — 
 
 Thou doA''e-like help ! and, when my 
 
 fears would rise, " 
 With thy broad heart serenely inter- 
 pose : 
 Brood down with thy divine suffi- 
 ciencies 
 These thoughts which tremble when 
 
 bereft of those, 
 Like callow birds left desert to the 
 
 skies. 
 
 / 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 The first time that the sun rose on f^ 
 
 thine oath V 
 
 To lOA'e me, I looked forward to the ; 
 
 moon 
 To slacken all those bonds which 
 
 seemed too soon 
 And quicklv tied to make a lasting 
 
 troth. 
 Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may 
 
 quickly loathe; 
 And, looking on myself, I seemed 
 
 not one 
 For such man's love ! — more like an 
 
 out-of-tune 
 Worn viol a good singer would be 
 
 wroth 
 To spoil his song with, and which, 
 
 snatched in haste, 
 Is laid down at the first ill-sounding " - 
 
 note. 
 I did not wrong myself so; but I 
 
 placed 
 A wrong on thee. For perfect strains ) 
 
 maj' float !/ 
 
 'Neath master-hands, from instru- ^ 
 
 ments defaced, i\. 
 
 And gi'eat souls at one stroke may do 
 
 and dote. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Yes, call me by my jiet name ! let me 
 
 hear 
 The name I used to run at, when a 
 
 child. 
 From innocent plaj*, and leave the 
 
 cowslips i)iled. 
 To glance up in some face that proved 
 
 me dear 
 With the look of its eyes. I miss the 
 
 clear 
 Fond A^oices, which, being drawn and 
 
 reconciled 
 Into the music of lieaA'cn's undefiled, 
 Call me no longer. Silence on the 
 
 bier. 
 While I call God — call God ! So let 
 
 thy mouth 
 Be heir to those Avho are now exani- 
 mate. 
 Gather the north fiowei's to complete 
 
 the south. 
 And catch the early loA'e up in the 
 
 late. 
 Yes, call me by that name, and I, in 
 
 truth. 
 With the same heart, will answer, 
 
 and not Avait. 
 
 i 
 
I ^m I ■ 1 1 
 
 426 
 
 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 
 
 \ 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 With the same heart, I said, I'll an- 
 swer thee 
 
 As those, when thou shalt call lue by 
 my name. 
 
 Lo, the vain jiromise ! is the same, 
 the same, 
 
 Perplexed and ruffled by life's strat- 
 egy ? 
 
 When called before, I told how hasti- 
 ly 
 
 I dropped my flowers, or brake off 
 from a game. 
 
 To run and answer with the smile 
 that came 
 
 At play last moment, and went on 
 with me 
 
 Through my obedience. When I an- 
 swer now, 
 
 I droji a grave thought, break from 
 solitude; 
 
 Yet still my heart goes to thee; pon- 
 der how, — 
 
 Not as to a single good, but all my 
 good ! 
 
 Lay thy hand on it, best one, and 
 allow 
 
 That no child's foot could run fast as 
 this blood. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 If I leave all for thee, wilt thou ex- 
 change. 
 
 And be all to me ? Shall I never 
 miss 
 
 Home-talk and blessing, and the com- 
 mon kiss 
 
 That comes to each in turn, nor count 
 it strange. 
 
 When I lock up, to drop on a new 
 range 
 
 Of walls and floors, — another home 
 than this ? 
 
 Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me 
 which is 
 
 Filled by dead eyes too tender to 
 know change ? 
 
 That's hardest. If to conquer love 
 has tried, 
 
 To conquer grief tries more, as all 
 things prove; 
 
 For grief, indeed, is love and grief be- 
 side. 
 
 Alas ! I have grieved so, I am hard to 
 love. 
 
 Yet love me, wilt thou ? Open thine 
 heart wide. 
 
 And fold within the wet wings of thy 
 dove. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 When we met first and loved , I did (" 
 not build ^ 
 
 Upon the event with marble. Could 
 it mean 
 
 To last, — a love set pendulous be- 
 tween 
 
 Sorrow and sorrow ? Nay, I rather 
 thrilled, 
 
 Distrusting everj' light that seemed 
 to gild 
 
 The onward path, and feared to over- 
 lean 
 
 A finger even. And, though I have \ 
 grown serene j 
 
 And strong since then, i think that f 
 God has willed 
 
 A still renewable fear . . . O love, > 
 O troth ... 
 
 Lest these enclasped hands should 
 never hold. 
 
 This mutual kiss drop down between / 
 us both ' 
 
 As an unowned thing, once the lips 
 being cold. 
 
 And Love, be false ! if he, to keep 
 one oath. 
 
 Must lose one joy, by his life's star 
 foretold. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul 
 should make. 
 
 Of all that strong divineness which 
 I know 
 
 For thine and thee, an image onlj 
 so 
 
 Formed of the sand, and tit to shift 
 and break. 
 
 It is that distant j-ears which did not 
 take 
 
 Thy sovranty, recoiling with a blow. 
 
 Have forced my swimming brain to 
 undergo 
 
 Their doubt and dread, and blindly 
 to forsake 
 
 Thy purity of likeness, and distort 
 
 Thy worthiest love to a worthless 
 counterfeit: 
 
 As if a shipwrecked Pagan, safe in 
 port, 
 
 His guardian sea-god to commemo- 
 rate. 
 
 Should set a sculptured porpoise, 
 gills a-snort 
 
 And vibrant tail, within the temple- 
 gate. 
 
 r 
 
SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 
 
 427 
 
 T 
 
 \ 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 First time he kissed me, lie but only 
 
 kissed 
 The fingers of this hand wherewith I 
 
 write ; 
 And ever since, it grew more clean 
 
 and white, 
 Slow to world-greetings, quick with 
 
 its "Oh list! " 
 "When the angels speak. A ring of 
 
 amethyst 
 I could not wear here plainer to my 
 
 sight 
 Than that first kiss. The second 
 
 passed in height 
 The first, and sought the forehead, 
 
 and half missed, 
 / Half falling on the hair. Oh beyond 
 ' meed ! 
 
 That was the chrism of love, which 
 
 love's own crown 
 \ "With sanctifying sweetness did iire- 
 
 cede. 
 The third upon my lii^s was folded 
 
 down 
 In perfect purple state; since when, 
 
 indeed, 
 I have been proud and said , ' ' My 
 / love, my own." 
 
 /■ 
 
 \ XXXIX. 
 
 Because thou hast the power, and 
 
 own'st the grace, 
 To look through and behind this mask 
 
 of me, 
 (Against which years have beat thus 
 
 blau(;hingly 
 \ "SVith their rains), and behold my 
 ) soul's true face, 
 
 f The dim and weary witness of life's 
 / race ; 
 
 Because thou hast the faith and love 
 
 to see. 
 Through that same soul's distracting 
 
 lethargy. 
 The patient angel waiting for a place 
 In the new heavens; because nor sin 
 
 nor woe. 
 Nor God's infliction, nor death's 
 
 neighborhood. 
 Nor all which others, viewing, turn to 
 
 go. 
 Nor all which makes me tired of all, 
 
 self-viewed, — 
 Nothing repels thee, . . . dearest, 
 
 teach me so 
 To pour out gratitude, as thou dost, 
 good ! 
 
 \ 
 
 XL. 
 
 Oh yes ! they love through all this 
 
 world of ours ! 
 I will not gainsay love, called love, 
 
 forsooth. 
 I have heard love talked in my early 
 
 youth, 
 And since, not so long back but that 
 
 the flowers 
 Then gathered smell still. 3Iussul- 
 
 mans and Giaours 
 Throw kerchiefs at a smile, and have 
 
 no ruth 
 For any weeping. Polvpheme's white 
 
 tooth 
 Slips on the mit, if, after frequent 
 
 showers. 
 The shell is over-smooth; and not so 
 
 much 
 Will turn the thing called love aside 
 
 to hate. 
 Or else to oblivion. But thou art not 
 
 such 
 A lover, my beloved ! thou canst 
 
 wait 
 Through sorrow and sickness, to bring 
 
 souls to touch. 
 And think it soon when others cry, 
 
 "Too late!" 
 
 XLI. 
 
 I THANK all who have loved me in 
 
 their hearts, 
 ^Yith thanks and love from mine. 
 
 Deep thanks to all 
 "Who paused a little near the prison- 
 
 \yall 
 To. hear my music in its louder 
 
 parts. 
 Ere they went onward, each one to 
 
 the mart's 
 Or temple's occupation, beyond call. 
 But thou, who, in my voice's sink and 
 
 fall 
 When the sob took it, thj^ divinest 
 
 art's 
 Own instrument didst drop down at 
 
 thy foot 
 To hearken what I said between my 
 
 tears, . . , 
 Instruct me how to thank thee ! Oh, 
 
 to shoot 
 My soul's full meaning into future 
 
 years. 
 That they should lend it utterance, 
 
 and salute 
 Love that endures, from Life that 
 
 disappears ! 
 
 l-*-«-»H 
 
428 
 
 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 . " Mij future w ill 7iot copy fair mi/ past : " 
 ' I wrote that once: and thinking at 
 my side 
 
 My ministering life-angel justified 
 
 The word by his appealing look up- 
 cast 
 
 To the white throne of God, I turned 
 at last, 
 
 And there, instead, saw thee, not un- 
 allied 
 
 To angels in thy soul. Then I, long 
 tried 
 
 By natural ills, received the comfort 
 fast ; 
 
 While budding, at thy sight, my pil- 
 grim's staff 
 
 Gave out gi'een leaves with morning 
 dews impearled. 
 
 I seek no copy now of life's first half: 
 
 Leave here the pages with long mus- 
 ing curled. 
 
 And write me new my future's epi- 
 graph, — 
 
 New angel mine, unhojied for in the 
 world ! 
 
 How do I love thee ? Let me count 
 the ways. 
 
 IJovetlieeto the depth and breadth 
 and height 
 S^ My soul can reach, when feeling out 
 i of sight 
 
 For the ends of being and ideal grace. 
 
 I love thee to the level of every day's 
 
 Most quiet need, bv sun and candle- 
 light. 
 
 I love thee freely, as men strive for 
 right. 
 
 i love thee purely, as they turn from 
 praise. 
 
 I love thee ^^■ith the passion put to 
 use 
 
 In my old griefs, and with my child- 
 hood's faith. 
 
 I love thee with a love I seemed to 
 lose 
 
 With my lost saints. I love thee with 
 the breath. 
 
 Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if 
 God choose, 
 
 I shall but love thee better after 
 death. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Beloved, thou hast brought me many 
 
 flowers 
 Plucked in the garden all the sum- 
 mer through 
 And winter; and it seemed as if they 
 
 grew 
 In this close room, uor missed the sun 
 
 and showers. 
 So, in the like name of that love of 
 
 ours. 
 Take back these thoughts which here 
 
 unfolded too, 
 And which on warm and cold days I 
 
 withdrew 
 From my heart's ground. Indeed, 
 
 those beds and bowers 
 Be overgrown with bitter weeds and 
 
 rue, 
 And wait thy weeding; yet here's 
 
 eglantine. 
 Here's ivy ! Take them, as I used to 
 
 do 
 Thy flowers, and keep them where 
 
 thej' shall not pine. 
 Instruct thine eyes to keep their col- 
 ors true. 
 And tell thy soul their roots are left 
 
 in mine. 
 
" 1 heard, last night, a little child go singing 
 'Neath Casa Guidi windows by the church." — Page 429. 
 
CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 
 
 '3 IPortn, 
 
 IN TWO PARTS. 
 
 This poem contains the impressions of the writer npon events in Tuscany 
 of which she was a witness. " From a window," the critic may demur. She 
 bows to the objection in tlie very title of her work. No continuous narrative 
 nor exposition of political jihilosophy is attempted by her. It is a simple 
 story of personal impressions, whose only value is in the intensity with 
 which they were received, as proving her warm affection for a beautiful and 
 unfortunate country, and the sincerity with which they are related, as indi- 
 cating her own good faith, and freedom from partisanship. 
 
 Of the two parts of this poem, the first was written nearly three years ago; 
 while the second resumes the actual situation of 1851. The discrepancy 
 between the two parts is a sufficient guaranty to the public of the truthful- 
 ness of the writer, who, though she certainly escaped the epidemic "falling 
 sickness " of enthusiasm for Pio Nono, takes shame upon herself that she be- 
 lieved, like a woman, some royal oaths, and lost sight of the probable con- 
 sequences of some obvious popular defects. If the discrepancy should be 
 painful to the reader, let him understand that to the writer it has been more 
 so. But such discrepancies wo are called upon to accept at every hour by 
 the conditions of our nature, implying the interval between aspiration and 
 performance, between faith and disillusion, between hope and fact. 
 
 " O trusted broken prophecy, 
 O richest fortune sourly crosst, 
 Born for the future, to the future lost! " 
 
 Nay, not lost to the future in this case, 
 disinherited. 
 Florence, 1851. 
 
 The future of Italy shall not be 
 
 
 PART I. 
 
 I HEARD last night a little child go 
 singing 
 'Neath Casa Guidi windows, by the 
 church, 
 " hella liberta, O belli i ! '' stringing 
 The same words still on notes, he 
 went in search 
 So high for, you concluded the up- 
 springing 
 Of such a nimble bird to sky from 
 perch 
 
 Must leave the whole bush in a trem- 
 ble green. 
 And that the heart of Italy must 
 beat, 
 "While such a voice had leave to rise 
 serene 
 'Twixt church and palace of a Flor- 
 ence street: 
 A little child, too, who not long had 
 been 
 By mother's finger steadied on his 
 feet. 
 And still " hella liberta " he sang. 
 
 429 
 
430 
 
 CAS A GUIDI WINDOWS. 
 
 Then I thought, musing, of the innu- 
 merous 
 Sweet songs which still for Italy 
 outrang 
 From older singers" lips, who sang not 
 thus 
 Exultingly and purely, yet, with 
 pang ' 
 Fast sheathed in music, touched the 
 heart of us 
 So finely, that the pity scarcely 
 pained. 
 I thought how Filicaja led on others, 
 Bewailers tor their Italy encliained. 
 And how they call her childless 
 among mothers, 
 Widow of empires, ay, and scarce 
 refrained 
 Cursing her beauty to her face, as 
 brothers 
 Might a shamed sister's, — "Had 
 she been less fair, 
 She were less wretched." — how, 
 evoking so 
 From congregated wrong and 
 heaped despair 
 Of men and women writhing under 
 blow. 
 Harrowed and hideous in a filthy 
 lair. 
 Some personating image wherein woe 
 AVas wrapt in beauty from offend- 
 ing much. 
 They called it Cybele, or Niobe, 
 Or laid it corpse-like on a bier for 
 such , 
 Where all the world might drop for 
 Italy 
 Those cadenced tears which burn 
 not where they touch, — 
 " Juliet of nations, canst thou die as 
 we? 
 And was the violet crown that 
 crowned thy head 
 So over-large, though new buds made 
 it rough. 
 It slipped down, and across thine 
 eyelids dead, 
 O sweet, fair Juliet ? " Of such songs 
 enough, 
 Too many of such complaints ! Be- 
 hold, instead, 
 Void at Verona, Juliet's marble 
 trough : i 
 As void as that is, are all images 
 Men set between themselves and 
 actual wrong 
 
 ' They i^liow at Verona, as the tomb of 
 Juliet, au euiply trough of stone. 
 
 To catch the weight of pity, meet 
 the stress 
 Of conscience; since 'tis easier to gaze 
 long 
 On mournful masks and sad effigies 
 Than on real, live, weak creatures 
 crushed by strong. 
 
 For me, who stand in Italy to-day 
 Where worthier jjoets stood and sang 
 before, 
 I kiss their footsteps, yet their 
 words gainsay. 
 I can but muse in hope vipon this 
 shore 
 Of golden Arno as it shoots away 
 Through Florence' heart beneath her 
 bridges four, — 
 Bent bridges seeming to strain off 
 like bows, 
 And tremble while the arrowy under- 
 tide 
 Shoots on, and cleaves the marble 
 as it goes. 
 And strikes up palace-walls on either 
 side, 
 And froths the cornice out in glit- 
 tering rows, 
 With doors and windows quaintly 
 multiplied, 
 And terrace-sweeps, and gazers up- 
 on all, 
 By whom if flower or kerchief were 
 thrown out 
 From any lattice there, the same 
 would fall 
 Into the river underneath, no doubt. 
 It runs so close and fast 'twixt wall 
 and wall. 
 How beautiful ! The mountains from 
 without 
 In silence listen for the word said 
 next. 
 What word will men say, — here 
 where Giotto planted 
 His campanile like au unperplext 
 Fine question heavenward, touching 
 the things granted 
 A noble people, who, being greatly 
 vext 
 In act, in aspiration keep undaunted ? 
 What word will God say ? Michel's 
 Night and Day 
 And Dawn and Twilight wait in mar- 
 ble scorn, 1 
 
 1 These famous statues rechne in the Sa- 
 garestia Nuova, on the tombs of Ghiliano de' 
 Medici, third son of Lorenzo the Magnifl- 
 cent, and Lorenzo of Urbino, his grandson. 
 
CAS A GUIDl WINDOWS. 
 
 431 
 
 Like dogs upon a dunghill, couched 
 on clay 
 From whence the Medicean stamp's 
 outworn, 
 The final putting-off of all such 
 sway 
 By all such hands, and freeing of the 
 unborn 
 In Florence and the great world 
 outside Florence. 
 Three hundred years his patient stat- 
 ues wait 
 In that small chapel of the dim St. 
 Lawrence : 
 Day's eyes are breaking bold and pas- 
 sionate 
 Over his shoulder, and will flash 
 abhorrence 
 On darkness, and with level looks 
 meet fate. 
 When once loose from that marble 
 film of theirs; 
 The Night has wild dreams in her 
 sleep, the Dawn 
 Is haggard as the sleepless, Twi- 
 light wears 
 A sort of horror; us the veil with- 
 drawn 
 'Twixt the artist's soul and works 
 had left them heirs 
 Of speechless thoughts which would 
 not quail nor fawn. 
 Of angers and contempts, of hope 
 and love: 
 For not without a meaning did he 
 place 
 The princely Urbino on the seat 
 above 
 With everlasting shadow on his face, 
 While the slow dawns and twilights 
 disapprove 
 The ashes of his long-extinguished 
 race 
 Which never more shall clog the 
 feet of men. 
 I do believe, divinest Angelo, 
 That winter-hour in Via Larga, 
 when 
 They bade thee build a statue up in 
 snoWji 
 And straight that marvel (.if thine 
 art again 
 Dissolved beneath the sun's Italian 
 glow, 
 
 Strozzi's epigram on the Night, with Mi- 
 chel Aiigelo's rejoinder, is well known. 
 
 1 This mocking task was set by Pietro, 
 the unworthy successor of Lorenzo theMag- 
 nilicent. 
 
 Thine eyes, dilated with the plastic 
 passion, 
 Thawing, too, in drops of wounded 
 manhood, since. 
 To mock alike thine art and indig- 
 nation. 
 Laughed at the palace-window the 
 new prince, — 
 (" Aha! this genius needs for ex- 
 altation. 
 When all's said, and howe'er the 
 proud may wince, 
 A little marble from our princely 
 
 mines 
 
 ') 
 
 I do believe that hour thou laughedst 
 too 
 For the whole sad world, and for 
 thy Florentines, 
 After those few tears, which were 
 onlj' few ! 
 That as, beneath the sun, the grand 
 white lines 
 Of thy snow-statue trembled and 
 withdrew, — 
 The head, erect as Jove's, being 
 l^alsied first. 
 The eyelids flattened, the full brow 
 turned blank. 
 The right hand, raised but now as 
 if it curst, 
 Dropt, a mere snowball (till the peo- 
 l^le sank 
 Their voices, though a louder laugh- 
 ter burst 
 From the royal window) — thou 
 couldst j)roudly thank 
 God and the prince for jiromise and 
 presage. 
 And laugh the laugh back, I think 
 verily. 
 Thine ej^es being purged by tears 
 of righteous rage 
 To read a wrong into a prophecy, 
 And measure a true great man's 
 heritage 
 Against a mere great-duke's posterity. 
 I think thy soul said then, "I do 
 not need 
 A princedom and its quarries, after 
 all; 
 For if I write, paint, carve a word, 
 indeed. 
 On book, or board, or dust, on floor, 
 or wall. 
 The same is kept of God, who taketh 
 heed 
 That not a letter of the meaning fall 
 Or ere it touch and teach his world's 
 deei) heart, 
 
432 
 
 CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 
 
 Outlasting, therefore, all your lord- 
 ships, sir ! 
 So keeji your stone, beseech you, 
 for your jiart, 
 To cover up your grave-place, and 
 refer 
 The pi-oper titles: I live hy my art. 
 The thought I tlirew into this snow 
 shall stir 
 This gazing people vrhen their gaze 
 is done; 
 And the tradition of your act and 
 mine. 
 When all the snow is melted in the 
 sun. 
 Shall gather up for unborn men a sign 
 Of what is the true j^rincedom; ay, 
 and none 
 Shall laugh that day, except the drunk 
 with wine.'" 
 
 ^ Amen, great Angelo.! the day's at 
 ^ hand. 
 
 If many laugh not on it, shall we 
 weep ? 
 Much more we must not, let us un- 
 derstand. 
 Through rhymers sonneteering in 
 their sleep, 
 And archaists mumbling dry bones 
 up the land. 
 And sketchers lauding ruined towns 
 a-heap, — 
 Through all that drowsy hum of 
 voices smooth, 
 The hojieful bird mounts carolling 
 from brake, 
 The hopefiil child, with leaps to 
 catch his growth. 
 Sings open-eyed for liberty's sweet 
 sake; 
 And I, a singer also from my youth. 
 Prefer to sing with these who are 
 awake, 
 "With birds, with babes, with men 
 who will not fear 
 The baptism of the holy morning dew, 
 (And many of such wakers now are 
 here, 
 Complete in their anointed manhood, 
 who 
 Will greatly dare, and greatlier per- 
 severe,) 
 Thau join those old thin voices with 
 my new, 
 And sigh for Italy with some safe 
 sigh 
 Cooped up in music 'twixt an oh and 
 ah: 
 
 Nay, hand in hand with that young 
 child will I 
 Go singing rather, " Bella liberta," 
 Than, with those poets, croon the 
 dead, or cry 
 
 " Se tu men bella fossi, Italia ! " 
 
 II— 
 
 " Le.ss wretched if less fair." Per- 
 haps a truth 
 Is so far plain in this, that Italy, 
 Long trammelled with the purple 
 of her youth 
 Against her age's ripe activity. 
 Sits still upon her tombs, without 
 death's ruth. 
 But also without life's brave energy. 
 " Now tell us what is Italy ? " men 
 ask; 
 And others answer, " Virgil, Cicero, 
 Catullus, Csesar.-' What beside, 
 to task 
 The memory closer ? — " Whj% Boc- 
 caccio, 
 Dante, Petrarca," — and if still the 
 liask 
 Appears to yield its wine by drops too 
 slow, — 
 " Angelo, Raffael, Pergolese," — all 
 Whose strong hearts beat through 
 stone, or charged again 
 The paints with lire of souls electri- 
 cal. 
 Or broke up heaven for music. What 
 more then ? 
 Why, then, no more. The chaplet's 
 last beads fall 
 In naming the last saintship within 
 ken. 
 And, after that, none prayeth in the 
 land. 
 Alas ! this Italy has too long swept 
 
 Heroic ashes up for hour-glass sand ; 
 Of her own past, impassioned nympho- 
 lept! 
 Consenting to be nailed here by the 
 hand 
 To the very bay-tree under which she 
 stept 
 A queen of old, and plucked a 
 leafy branch ; 
 And, licensing the world too long in- 
 deed 
 To use her broad lahylacteries to 
 stanch 
 And stop her bloody lips, she takes 
 no heed 
 How one clear word would draw an 
 avalanche 
 Of living sons around her to succeed 
 
CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 
 
 433 
 
 The vanished generations. Can 
 she count 
 These oil-eaters with larjie, live. 
 mobile mouths 
 Agape for macaroni, in the amount 
 Of consecrated hei'oes of her south's 
 Bright rosary ? The pitcher at the 
 fount. 
 The gift of gods, being broken, she 
 much loathes 
 To let the ground-leaves of the 
 place confer 
 A natural bowl. So henceforth she 
 would seem 
 No nation, but the poet's pensioner, 
 With alms from every land of song 
 and dream. 
 While aye her pipers sadly pipe of 
 her 
 Until their proper breaths, in that ex- 
 treme 
 Of sighing, split the reed on which 
 the J' played; 
 Of which, no more. But never say 
 " No more " 
 To Italy's life ! Her memories un- 
 dismayed 
 Still argue "evermore;" her graves 
 implore 
 Her future to be strong, and not 
 afraid ; 
 Her very statues send their looks be- 
 fore. 
 
 We do not serve the dead: the past 
 is past. 
 God lives, and lifts his glorious morn- 
 ings up 
 Before the eyes of men awake at 
 last, 
 Who put away the meats they used to 
 sup. 
 And down upon the dust of earth 
 outcast 
 The dregs remaining of the ancient 
 cup. 
 Then turned to wakeful i^rayer and 
 worthy act. 
 The dead, upon their awful 'vantage 
 ground, 
 The sun not in their faces, shall a1> 
 stract 
 No more our strength : we will not be 
 discrowned 
 As guardians of their crowns, nor 
 deign transact 
 A barter of the present, for a sound 
 Of good so counted in the foregone 
 days. 
 
 O dead ! ye shall no longer cling to 
 us 
 With rigid hands of desiccating 
 praise, 
 And ilrag us backward by the gar- 
 ment thus. 
 To stand and laud you in long- 
 drawn virelays. 
 We will not henceforth be oblivious 
 Of our own lives, because ye lived 
 before. 
 Nor of our acts, because ye acted 
 well. 
 We thank you that ye first un- 
 latched the door, 
 But will not make it inaccessible 
 By thankings on the threshold any 
 more. 
 We hurry onward to extinguish hell 
 With our fresh souls, our younger 
 hope, and God's 
 Maturity of purpose. Soon shall we 
 Die also, and, that then our periods 
 Of life may round themselves to mem- 
 ory 
 As smoothly as on our graves the 
 burial-sods. 
 We now must look to it to excel as 
 
 ye, 
 
 And bear our age as far, unlimited 
 By the last mind-mark; so, to be in- 
 
 A^oked 
 By future generations, as their 
 
 dead. 
 
 'Tis true, that, when the dust of death 
 has choked 
 A great man's voice, the common 
 words he said 
 Turn oracles, the common thoughts 
 he yoked 
 Like horses, draw like grifflns: this 
 is true >*^ 
 
 And acceptable. I, too, should de- 
 sire. 
 When men make record with the 
 flowers they strew, 
 " Savonarola's soul went out in fire 
 Ui-ion our Grand-duke's piazza, i and 
 burned through 
 A moment first, or ere he did expire, 
 The veil betwixt the right and 
 Avrong, and showed 
 
 ' Savonarola was burnt for his testimony 
 against papal corruptions as early as March, 
 1498: and, as l.ate as our own day, it has 
 been a custom in Florence to strew with vio- 
 lets the pavement where he suffered, in 
 grateful recognition of the anniversary. 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
434 
 
 CAS A GUIDI WINDOWS. 
 
 
 How near God sate and judged the 
 judges there," -V 
 Ufion the self-sanie pavement over- 
 strewed 
 To cast my A'iolets with as reverent 
 care. 
 And i>rove that all the winters 
 which have snowed 
 Cannot snow out the scent from 
 stones and air, 
 Of a sincere man's virtues. This 
 was he, 
 Savonarola, who, while Peter sank 
 With his whole boat-load, called 
 courageously, 
 " Wake Christ, wake Christ ! " who, 
 having tried thp tank 
 Of old church-waters used for bap- 
 tistry 
 Ere Luther came to spill them, swore 
 they stank; 
 Who also by a princely death-bed 
 cried, 
 " Loose Florence, or God will not 
 loose thy soul ! " 
 Then fell back the Magnificent, and 
 died 
 Beneath the star-look shooting from 
 the cowl. 
 Which turned to wormwood-bitter- 
 ness the wide 
 Deep sea of his ambitions. It were 
 foul 
 To grudge Savonarola and the rest 
 Their violets: rather pay them quick 
 and fresh. 
 The emphasis of death makes mani- 
 fest 
 The eloquence of action in our flesh; 
 And men who living were but dim- 
 ly guessed, 
 When once free from their life's en- 
 tangled mesh. 
 Show their full length in graves, or 
 oft indeed 
 Exaggerate their stature, in the flat, 
 To noble admirations which ex- 
 ceed 
 Most nobly, yet will calculate in that 
 But accurately. We who are the 
 seed 
 Of buried creatures, if we turned and 
 spat 
 Ulion our antecedents, Ave were 
 vile. 
 Bring violets rather. If these had 
 not walked 
 Their furlong, could we hope to 
 walk our mile ? 
 
 Therefore Ijring violets. Yet if we, 
 self-balked. 
 Stand still, a-strewing violets all 
 the while. 
 These moved in vain, of whom we 
 have vainly talked. 
 So rise up henceforth with a cheer- 
 ful smile, 
 And, having strewn the violets, reap 
 the corn. 
 And, having reaped and garnered, 
 bring the plough 
 And draw new furrows 'neath the 
 healtliA' morn. 
 And plant the great Hereafter in 
 this Now. 
 
 Of old 'twas so. How step by step 
 was worn, 
 As each man gained on each secure- 
 ly ! how 
 Each by his own strength sought his 
 own Ideal, — 
 The "ultimate Perfection leaning 
 bright 
 From out the sun and stars to bless 
 the leal 
 And earnest search of all for Fair 
 and Right 
 Through doubtful forms by earth ac- 
 counted real ! 
 Because old Jubal blew into de- 
 light 
 The souls of men with clear-piped 
 melodies. 
 If youthful Asaph were content at 
 most 
 To draw from Jubal's grave, with lis- 
 tening eyes, 
 Traditionary music's floating ghost 
 Into the grass-grown silence, were it 
 wise ? 
 And was't not wiser, Jubal's breath 
 being lost. 
 That Miriam clashed her cymbals to 
 surprise 
 The sun between her white arms 
 flung apart. 
 With new glad golden sounds ? that 
 David's strings 
 O'erflowed his hand with music 
 from his heart '.' 
 So harmony grows full from many 
 springs, 
 And happy accident turns holy art. 
 
 You enter, in your Florence wander- 
 ings, 
 
 -I — I ■ I ^ 
 
CAS A QUID I WINDOWS. 
 
 435 
 
 The Church of St. Maria Novella. 
 Pass 
 The left stair, where at plague-time 
 Maehiavel i 
 Saw one with set fair face as in a 
 glass, 
 Dresso<^l out against the fear of death 
 and hell, 
 Rustling her silks in pauses of the 
 mass 
 To keep the thought off how her hus- 
 liand fell, 
 When she left home, stark dead 
 across her feet, — 
 The stair leads up to what the Or- 
 gagnas save 
 Of Dante's demons; you in pass- 
 ing it 
 Ascend the right stair from the far- 
 ther nave 
 To muse in a small chapel scarcely 
 lit 
 By Cimabue's Virgin. Bright and 
 brave. 
 That picture was accounted, mark, 
 of old: 
 A king stood bare before its sovran 
 grace,'- 
 A reverent people shouted to be- 
 hold 
 The picture, not the king: and even 
 the place 
 Containing such a miracle grew 
 bold. 
 Named the Glad Boi-go from that 
 beauteous face 
 Which thrilled the artist after work 
 to think 
 His own ideal Mary-smile should 
 stand 
 So very near him, — he, within the 
 brink 
 Of all that glory, let in by his hand 
 With too diriue a rashness I Yet 
 none shrink 
 Who come to gaze here now: albeit 
 'twas planned 
 Sublimely in the thought's simpli- 
 city. " 
 
 ' See bis desci'iiition of the plague in 
 Florence. 
 
 - Charles of Anjou, in his passage tlirough 
 Florence, was penuiUed to see this picture 
 while yet in Cimabuo's " bottega." The 
 populace followed the royal visitor, aud, 
 from the luiiversal delight aud u,dniiration, 
 the quarter of the city in which the artist 
 Uvcd was called "Borgo Allegri." The 
 picture was carried in triumpli to the church, 
 and deposited there. 
 
 The Lady, throned in empyreal state, 
 blinds only the young Babe upon 
 her knee. 
 While sidelong angels bear the royal 
 weight, 
 Prostrated meekly, smiling ten- 
 derly 
 Oblivion of their wings; the child 
 thereat 
 Stretching its hand like (rod. If 
 any should. 
 Because of some stiff draperies and 
 loose joints. 
 Gaze scorn down from the heights 
 of Raffaelhood 
 On Cimabue's picture. Heaven anoints 
 The head of no such critic, and his 
 blood 
 The poet's curse strikes full on, and 
 appoints 
 To ague and cold spasms forever- 
 more. 
 A noble picture ! worthy of the shout 
 Wherewith along the streets the 
 people bore 
 Its cherub-faces which the stin threw 
 out 
 Until they stooped, and entered the 
 church-door. 
 Yet rightly was young Giotto talked 
 about, 
 Whom Cimabue found among the 
 sheep,i 
 And knew, as gods know gods, and 
 carried home 
 To paint the things he had painted, 
 with a deep 
 And fuller insight, aud so overcome 
 His Chapel-Lady with a heavenlier 
 sweep 
 Of light; for thus we mount into the 
 sum 
 Of great things known or acted. 
 I hold, too, 
 That Cimabue smiled upon the lad 
 At the first stroke which passed 
 what he could do, 
 Or else his Yirgin'.s smile had never 
 had 
 Such sweetness in't. All great men 
 who foreknew 
 Their heirs in art, for art's sake have 
 been glad, 
 
 ' How Cimabue found Giotto, the shep- 
 herd-boy, sketching a ram of his flock upon 
 a stone, is prettily told by A^asari, who also 
 relates that the elder artist Margberitone 
 died " infastidito " of the successes of the 
 new school. 
 
436 
 
 CAS A GUIDI WINDOWS. 
 
 If 
 And 
 
 And bent their old white heads as 
 if uncrowned, 
 Fanatics of their pure ideals still 
 Far more than of their triumphs, 
 which were found 
 With some less vehement struggle of 
 the will. 
 
 old Margheritone trembled, 
 swooned, 
 
 died despairing at the open 
 sill 
 
 Of other men's achievements (who 
 achieved 
 By loving art beyond the master) he 
 Was old Margheritone, and con- 
 ceived 
 Never, at first youth and most ecsta- 
 sy. 
 A Virgin like that dream of one, 
 which heaved 
 The death-sigh from his heart. If 
 wistfully 
 Margheritone sickened at the smell 
 Of Cimabue's laurel, let him go ! 
 
 For Cimabue stood up very well 
 In spite of Giotto's, and Angelico 
 The artist-saint kept smiling in his 
 cell 
 The smile with which he welcomed 
 the sweet slow 
 Inbreak of angels (whitening 
 through the dim 
 That he might paint them) while the 
 sudden sense 
 Of Raffael's future was revealed to 
 him 
 By force of his own fair works' com- 
 petence. 
 The same blue waters where the 
 dolphins swim 
 
 the tritons. Through the 
 blue immense 
 Strike out, all swimmers ! cling not 
 in the way 
 Of one another, so to sink, but learn 
 The strong man's impulse, catch 
 the freshening spray 
 He throws up in his motions, and dis- 
 cern 
 By his clear westering eye, the 
 time of day. 
 Thou, God, hast set us worthy gifts 
 to earn 
 Besides thy heaven and thee ! and 
 when I saj^ 
 There's room here for the weakest 
 man alive 
 To live and die, there's room, too, 
 I repeat, 
 
 Suggest 
 
 For all the strongest to live well, and 
 strive 
 Their own way by their individual 
 heat. 
 Like some new bee-swarm leaving 
 the old hive, 
 Desj^ite the wax which tempts so 
 violet-sweet. 
 Then let the living live, the dead re- 
 tain 
 Their grave-cold flowers ! though 
 honor's best supplied 
 By bringing actions to prove theirs 
 not vain. 
 
 Cold graves, we say ? it shall be 
 testified 
 That living men who burn in heart 
 and brain, 
 Without the dead were colder. If 
 we tried 
 To sink the past beneath our feet, be 
 sure 
 The future would not stand. Pre- 
 cipitate 
 This old roof from the shrine, and, in- 
 secure, 
 The nesting swallows fly off, mate 
 from mate. 
 How scant the gardens, if the graves 
 were fewer ! 
 The tall green poplars grew no 
 longer straight 
 Whose tops not looked to Troy. 
 Would any fight 
 For Athens, and not swear by Mara- 
 thon? 
 Who dared build temples, without 
 tombs in sight? 
 Or live, without some dead man's 
 benison ? 
 Or seek truth, hope for good, and 
 strive for right, 
 If, looking up, he saw not in the 
 sun 
 Some angel of the martyrs all day 
 long 
 Standing and waiting ? Your last 
 rhythm will need 
 Your earliest keynote. Could I sing 
 this song. 
 If my dead masters had not taken 
 heed 
 To help the heavens and earth to 
 make me strong, 
 As the wind ever will find out some 
 reed. 
 And touch it to such issues as be- 
 long 
 
 (-♦-■-•H 
 
CAS A GUIDI WINDOWS. 
 
 487 
 
 To such a frail thing? None may 
 grudge the dead 
 Libations from full cups. Unless we 
 choose 
 To look back to the hills behind us 
 spread, 
 The i^lains before us sadden and con- 
 fuse : 
 If orphaned, we are disinherited. 
 
 I would but turn these lachrymals to 
 use, 
 And pour fresh oil in from the olive- 
 grove. 
 To furnish them as new lamps. Shall 
 I say 
 What made my heart beat with ex- 
 ulting love 
 A few daj's back ? — 
 
 The day was such a day 
 As Florence owes the sun. The 
 sky above. 
 Its weight upon the mountains seemed 
 to lay. 
 And palpitate in glory, like a dove 
 Who has flown too fast, full-hearted — 
 take away 
 The image ! for the heart of man 
 beat higher 
 That day in Florence, flooding all her 
 streets 
 And piazzas with a tumult and de- 
 sire. 
 The people, with accumulated heats. 
 And faces turned one way, as if one 
 fire 
 Both drew and flushed them, left 
 their ancient beats, 
 And went up toward the palace- 
 Pitti wall 
 To thank their Graud-duke, who, not 
 quite of course, 
 Had graciously permitted, at their 
 call, 
 The citizens to use their civic force 
 To guard their civic homes. So, 
 one and all. 
 The Tuscan cities streamed up to the 
 source 
 Of this new good at Florence, tak- 
 ing it 
 As good so far, presageful of more 
 good,— 
 The first torch of Italian freedom, 
 lit 
 To toss in the next tiger's face who 
 should 
 Approach too near them in a greedy 
 fit,— 
 
 The first pulse of an even flow of 
 blood 
 To prove the level of Italian veins 
 Towards rights jierceived and grant- 
 ed. How we gazed 
 From Casa Guidi windows, while, 
 in trains 
 Of orderly procession — banners 
 raised, 
 And intermittent bursts of martial 
 strains 
 Which died upon the shout, as if 
 amazed 
 By gladness beyond music — they 
 passed on ! 
 The Magistracy,with insignia, passed, 
 And all the jieople shouted in the 
 sun. 
 And all the thousand windows which 
 had cast 
 A ripple of silks in blue and scarlet 
 down, 
 (As if the houses overflowed at last,) 
 Seemed growing larger with fair 
 heads and ej^es. 
 The Lawyers passed, and still arose 
 the shout, 
 And hands broke from the windows 
 to surprise 
 Those grave, calm brows with bay- 
 tree leaves thrown out. 
 The Priesthood passed, the friars 
 with worldly-wise 
 Keen, sidelong glances from their 
 beards about 
 The street to see who shouted ; many 
 a monk 
 Who takes a long rope in the waist 
 was there: 
 Whereat the popular exultation 
 drunk 
 With Indrawn "vivas" the whole 
 sunny air. 
 While through the murmuring win- 
 dows rose and sunk 
 A cloud of kerchiefed bauds, — " The 
 Church makes fair 
 Her welcome in the new Pope's 
 name." Ensued 
 The black sign of the " Martyrs " — 
 (name no name. 
 But count the graves in silence.) 
 Next were viewed 
 The Artists; next the Trades; and 
 after came 
 The People, — tlag and sign, and 
 rights as good, — 
 And very loud the shout was for that 
 same 
 
 I 
 
438 
 
 CAS A GUIDI WINDOWS. 
 
 Motto, " II popolo." Il Popolo, — 
 The word means dukedom, empire, 
 majesty. 
 And kings in such an hour might 
 read it so. 
 And next, with banners, each in his 
 degree, 
 Deputed representatives a-row 
 Of every separate state of Tuscany: 
 Siena's she-wolf, bristling on the 
 fold 
 Of the first flag, preceded Pisa's hare; 
 And Massa's lion floated calm in 
 gold, 
 Pienza's following with his silver 
 stare ; 
 Arezzo's steed pranced clear from 
 bridle-hold, — 
 And well might shout our Florence, 
 greeting there 
 These, and more brethren. Last, 
 the world had sent 
 The various children of her teeming 
 flanks — 
 Greeks, English, French — as if to 
 a parliament 
 Of lovers of her Italy in ranks. 
 
 Each bearing its land's symbol rev- 
 erent; 
 At which the stones seemed breaking 
 into thanks, 
 And rattling up the sky, such 
 sounds in proof 
 Arose, the very house- walls seemed to 
 bend ; 
 The very windows, up from door to 
 roof. 
 Flashed out a rapture of bright heads, 
 to njend 
 With passionate looks the gesture's 
 whirling off 
 A hurricane of leaves. Three hours 
 did end 
 While all these passed; and ever, in 
 the crowd, 
 Rude men, unconscious of the tears 
 that ke]it 
 Their beards moist, shouted; some 
 few laughed aloud, 
 And none asked any why they 
 laughed and wept: 
 Friends kissed each other's cheeks, 
 and foes long vowed 
 More warmly did it; two-months 
 babies Icajjt 
 Right upward in their mother's 
 arms, whose black, 
 Wide, glittering eyes looked else- 
 where; lovers pressed 
 
 Each before either, neither glancing 
 back ; 
 And peasant maidens smoothly 'tired 
 and tressed 
 Forgot to finger on their throats 
 the slack 
 Great pearl-strings; while old blind 
 men would not rest. 
 But pattered with their staves, and 
 slid their shoes 
 Along the stones, and smiled as if 
 they saw. 
 O Heaven, I think that day had no- 
 ble use 
 Among God's days ! So near stood 
 Right and Law, 
 Both mutually forborne ! Law 
 would not bruise, 
 Nor Right deny; and each in reverent 
 awe 
 Honored the other. And if, ne'er- 
 theless. 
 That good day's sun delivered to the 
 vines 
 No charta, and the liberal Duke's 
 excess 
 Did scarce exceed a Guelf's or Ghibel- 
 line's 
 In any sjiecial actual righteous- 
 ness 
 Of what that day he granted, still the 
 signs 
 Are good and full of promise, we 
 must say. 
 When nuiltitudes approach their kings 
 with prayers. 
 And kings concede their people's 
 right to pray. 
 Both in one sunshine. Griefs are not 
 despairs, 
 So uttered; nor can royal claims dis- 
 may 
 When men from humble homes and 
 ducal chairs, 
 Hate wrong together. It was well 
 to view 
 Those banners ruffled in a ruler's face 
 Inscribed, " Live, freedom, union, 
 and all true 
 Brave patriots who are aided by God's 
 grace ! " 
 Nor was it ill when Leopoldo drew 
 His little children to the window- 
 place 
 He stood in at the Pitti, to suggest 
 Tliey, too, should govern as the i^eople 
 willed. 
 What a cry rose then ! Some, who 
 saw the best, 
 
C^^.-i GUIDI WINDOWS. 
 
 439 
 
 i 
 
 Declared his eyes filled up and over- 
 filled 
 "With good, warm luiman tears, 
 which unrepressed 
 Ran down. I like his face: the fore- 
 head's build 
 Has no capacious genius, yet per- 
 haps 
 Sufficient comprehension; mild and 
 sad. 
 And careful nobly, not with care 
 that wrajis 
 Self-loving hearts, to stifle and make 
 mad. 
 But careful with the care that shuns 
 a lapse 
 Of faith and dutv; studious not to 
 add 
 A burden in the gathering of a 
 gain. 
 And so, God save the Duke, I say 
 with those 
 Who that day shouted it; and, while 
 dukes reign, 
 May all wear in the visible overflows 
 Of sjiirit such a look of careful 
 pain ! 
 For God must love it better than re- 
 pose. 
 
 And all the people who went uji to 
 let 
 Their hearts out to that Duke, as 
 has been told — 
 Where guess ye that the living people 
 met. 
 Kept tryst, formed ranks, chose 
 leaders, first unrolled 
 Their banners ? 
 
 In the Loggia ? where is set 
 Cellini's godlike Perseus, bronze or 
 gold, 
 (How name the metal, when the 
 sta'tue flings 
 Its soul so in your eyes ?) with brow 
 and sword 
 Superbly calm, as all ojiposiug things. 
 Slain with tlje Gorgon, were no 
 more abhorred 
 Since ended ? 
 
 No, the people sought no wings 
 From Perseus in the Loggia, nor 
 implored 
 An inspiration in the place beside 
 From that dim bust of Brutus, 
 jagged and grand. 
 Where Buonarroti passionately tried 
 From out the close-clenched marble 
 to demand 
 
 The head of Rome's siiblimest homi- 
 cide, 
 Then dropt the quivering mallet 
 from his hand. 
 Despairing he could find no model- 
 stufl: 
 Of Brutus in all Florence where he 
 found 
 The gods and gladiators thick enough. 
 Nor there ! the people chose still 
 holier ground: 
 The people, who are simple, blind, 
 and rough, 
 Know their own angels, after look- 
 ing round. 
 Whom chose they then ? where met 
 they? 
 
 On the stone 
 Called Dante's, — a plain flat stone 
 scarce discerned 
 From others in the pavement, — 
 whereupon 
 He used to bring his quiet chair out, 
 turned 
 To Brunelleschi's church, and pour 
 alone 
 The lava of his spirit when it 
 burned: 
 It is not cold to-day. O passion- 
 ate 
 Poor Dante, who, a banished Floren- 
 tine, 
 Didst sit austere at banquets of the 
 great. 
 And muse upon this far-off stone of 
 thine. 
 And think how oft some passer used 
 to wait 
 A moment, in the golden day's de- 
 cline, 
 With " Good-night, dearest Dante ! " 
 — well, good-night! 
 / muse now, Dante, ami think veri- 
 l.v. 
 Though chapelled in the by-way, out 
 of sight, 
 Ravenna's bones would thrill with 
 ecstasy, 
 Couldst know thy favorite stone's 
 elected right 
 As tryst-place for thy Tuscans to 
 foresee 
 Their earliest chartas from. Good- 
 night, good-morn. 
 Henceforward, Dante! now my soul 
 is sure 
 That thine is better comforted of 
 scorn, 
 
440 
 
 CAS A GUIDI WINDOWS. 
 
 And looks down earthward in com- 
 pleter cure 
 Than when, in Santa Croce Church 
 forlorn 
 Of any corpse, the architect and 
 hewer 
 Did pile the empty marbles as thy 
 tomb.i 
 For now thon art no longer exiled, 
 now 
 Best honored: we salute thee who art 
 come 
 Back to the old stone V\'ith a softer 
 brow 
 Than Giotto drew upon the wall, for 
 some 
 Good lovers of our age to track and 
 plough - 
 Their way to, through time's ordures 
 stratified, 
 And startle broad awake into the 
 dull 
 Bargello chamber: now thou'rt mild- 
 er-eyed, — 
 Now Beatrix may leap up glad to 
 cull 
 Thy first smile, even in heaven and at 
 her side, 
 Like that which, nine years old, 
 looked beautiful 
 At Maj'-game. What do I say ? I 
 only meant 
 That tender Dante loved his Flor- 
 ence well. 
 While Florence, now, to love him is 
 content; 
 And mark ye, that the pierciugest 
 sweet smell 
 Of love's dear incense by the living 
 sent 
 To find the dead is not accessi- 
 ble 
 To lazy livers, no narcotic, not 
 
 Swung in a censer to a sleepy tune. 
 But trod out in the morning air by 
 hot. 
 Quick spirits who tread firm to ends 
 foreshown. 
 And use the name of greatness un- 
 forgot, 
 To meditate what greatness may be 
 done. 
 
 ' The Florentines, to whom the Raven- 
 iiese refused the body of Dante (demanded 
 of them " in a late remorse of love "), have 
 given a cenotaph in this church to their di- 
 vine poet. Sometliing less than a grave ! 
 
 2 In allusion to Mr. Kirkup's discovery of 
 Giotto's fresco portrait of Dante. 
 
 For Dante sits in heaven, and ye stand 
 
 here, 
 And more remains for doing, all 
 
 must feel. 
 Than trj'sting on his stone from year 
 
 to year 
 To shift processions, civic toe to 
 
 heel, 
 The town's thanks to the Pitti. Are 
 
 ye freer 
 For what was felt that day ? A char- 
 iot-wheel 
 May spin fast, yet the chariot never 
 
 roll ; 
 But if that day suggested something 
 
 good. 
 And bettered, with one purpose, soul 
 
 by soul — 
 Better means freer. A land's 
 
 brotherhood 
 Is most puissant: men, upon the 
 
 whole. 
 Are what they can be; nations, what 
 
 they would. 
 
 to 
 
 be strong, thou 
 Austrian Metter- 
 
 unless the neck 
 
 the lion's when 
 
 it, and no man 
 
 Will, therefore 
 Italy ! 
 Will to be noble ? 
 nich 
 Can fix no yoke, 
 agree ; 
 And thine is like 
 the thick 
 Dews shudder from 
 would be 
 The stroker of his mane, much less 
 would prick 
 His nostril with a reed. When na- 
 tions roar 
 Like lions, who shall tame them, 
 and defraud 
 Of the due jiasture by the river-shore ? 
 Roar, therefore I shake your dew- 
 laps dry abroad: 
 The amphitheatre with open door 
 Leads back upon the benches who 
 applaud 
 The last spear-thruster. 
 
 Yet the heavens forbid 
 That we should call on passion to 
 confront 
 The brutal with the brutal, and, amid 
 Tliis ripening world, suggest a lion- 
 hunt 
 And lion's vengeance for the wrongs 
 men did 
 And do now, though the spears are 
 getting blunt. 
 
CAS A GUIDI WINDOWS. 
 
 441 
 
 We only call, because the sight and 
 proof 
 Of lion-strength hurts nothing; and 
 to show 
 A lion-heart, and measure paw with 
 hoof. 
 Helps something, even, and will in- 
 struct a foe, 
 As well as the onslaught, how to 
 stand aloof: 
 Or else the world gets past tlie mere 
 brute blow. 
 Or given or taken. Children use the 
 fist 
 Until they are of age to use the 
 brain; 
 And so we needed Cajsars to assist 
 Man's justice, and Napoleons to 
 exjilain 
 God's counsel, when a point was 
 nearly missed. 
 Until our generations should at- 
 tain 
 Christ's stature nearer. Not that we, 
 alas ! 
 Attain already; biit a single inch 
 "Will raise to look down on the swords- 
 man's pass, 
 As knightly Roland on the coward's 
 flinch : 
 And, after chloroform and ether- 
 gas, 
 "We find out slowly what the bee 
 and finch 
 Have read}^ found, through Nature's 
 lamp in each, — 
 How to our races we may justify 
 Our individual claims, and, as we 
 
 reach 
 Our own grapes, bend the tojj vines 
 
 to supply 
 The children's uses, — how to fill a 
 breach 
 "With olive-branches, — how to 
 quench a lie 
 With truth, and smite a foe upon the 
 cheek 
 With Christ's most conquering kiss. 
 Why, these are things 
 Worth a great nation's finding, to 
 jjrove weak 
 The "glorious arms" of military 
 kings. 
 And so, with wide embrace, my Eng- 
 land, seek 
 To stifle the bad heat and flicker- 
 ings 
 Of this world's false and nearly ex- 
 pended fire. 
 
 Draw palpitating arrows to the 
 wood. 
 And twang abroad thy high hopes 
 and thy higher 
 Resolves from that most virtuous 
 altitude. 
 Till nations shall unconsciously as- 
 pire 
 By looking up to thee, and learn 
 that good 
 And glory are not different. An- 
 nounce law 
 By freedom; exalt chivalry by 
 peace ; 
 Instruct how clear, calm eyes can 
 overawe, 
 And how pure hands, stretched 
 simply to release 
 A bond-slave, Avill not need a sword 
 to draw 
 To be held dreadful. O my Eng- 
 land, crease 
 Thy purple with no alien agonies. 
 No struggles toward encroachment, 
 no vile war ! 
 Disband thy captains, change thy 
 victories; 
 Be henceforth prosperous, as the 
 angels are. 
 Helping, not humbling. 
 
 Drums and battle-cries 
 Go out in music of the morning-star; 
 And soon we shall have thinkers in 
 the place 
 Of fighters, each found able as a 
 man 
 To strike electric influence through a 
 race. 
 Unstayed by city-wall and barbi- 
 can. 
 The jioet shall look grander in the 
 face 
 Than even of old (when he of 
 Greece began 
 To sing ' ' that Achillean wrath which 
 slew 
 So many heroes"), seeing he shall 
 treat 
 The deeds of souls heroic toward the 
 true. 
 The oracles of life, previsions sweet 
 And awful, like divine swans gliding 
 through 
 White arms of Ledas, which will 
 leave the heat 
 Of their escajjing godship to endue 
 The human medium with a hea- 
 venly flush. 
 
 I 
 
442 
 
 CAS A GUIDI WINDOWS. 
 
 Meanwhile, in tliis same Italy we want 
 Not popular passion, to arise and 
 crush, 
 But popular conscience, which may 
 covenant 
 For what it knows. Concede with- 
 out a blush, 
 To grant the " civic guard " is not to 
 grant 
 The civic spirit, living and awake: 
 Those lappets on your shoulders, citi- 
 zens, 
 Your eyes strain after sideways till 
 they ache, 
 (While still, in admirations and 
 amens, 
 The crowd comes up on festa-days 
 to take 
 The great sight in), are not intelli- 
 gence, 
 Not courage even: alas ! if not the 
 sign 
 Of something A^ery noble, they are 
 nought ; 
 For every day ye dress your sallow 
 kine 
 "With fringes down their cheeks, 
 though unbesought 
 They loll their heavy heads, and 
 drag the wine, 
 And bear the wooden yoke as they 
 were taught 
 The first day. "What ye want is 
 light; indeed 
 Not sunlight (ye may well look up 
 surprised 
 To those unfathomable heavens 
 that feed 
 Your purjile hills), but God's light 
 organized 
 In some high soul crowned capable 
 to lead 
 The conscious people, conscious and 
 advised ; 
 For, if we lift a people like mere 
 clay. 
 It falls the same. We want thee, O 
 unfound 
 And sovran teacher ! if thy beard 
 be gray 
 Or black, we bid thee rise uj) from 
 the ground, 
 And speak the word God giveth 
 thee to say. 
 Inspiring into all this people round. 
 Instead of passion, thought, which 
 pioneers 
 All generous passion, purifies from 
 sin. 
 
 And strikes the hour for. Rise up, 
 teacher ! here's 
 A crowd to make a nation ! best be- 
 gin 
 By making each a man, till all be 
 peers 
 Of earth's true patriots and pure 
 martyrs in 
 Knowing and daring. Best imbar 
 the doors 
 Which Peter'.s heirs kept locked so 
 overdose 
 They only let the mice across the 
 floors, 
 While every churchman dangles, as 
 he goes. 
 The great key at his girdle, and ab- 
 hors 
 In Christ's name meekly. Open witle 
 the house, 
 Concede the entrance with Christ's 
 liberal mind. 
 And set the tables with his wine and 
 bread. 
 What ! " Commune in both kinds ? " 
 In every kind — 
 Wine, wafer, love, hope, truth, un- 
 limited. 
 Nothing ke]"it back. For, when a 
 man is blind 
 To starlight, will he see the rose is 
 red? 
 A bondsman shivering at a Jesuit's 
 foot — 
 " Vpe ! mea culpa!" — is not like to 
 stand 
 A freedman at a despot's, and dis- 
 pute 
 His titles l)y the balance in his 
 hand, 
 Weighing them " suo jure." Tend 
 the root. 
 If careful of the branches, and ex- 
 pand 
 The inner souls of men before you 
 strive 
 For civic heroes. 
 
 But the teacher, where ? 
 From all these crowded faces, all 
 alive. 
 Eyes, of their own lids flashing them- 
 selves bare, 
 And brows that with a mobile life 
 contrive 
 A deeper shadow, — may we in no 
 wise dare 
 To put a finger out, and touch a 
 man, 
 
a AS A GUIDI WINDOWS. 
 
 443 
 
 And cry, "This is the leader"? 
 Wiiat, all these ! 
 Broad heads, black eyes, yet not a 
 soul that ran 
 From God down with a message ? all, 
 to please 
 The donna waving measures with 
 her fan, 
 And not the judgment-angel on his 
 knees, 
 (The trumpet just an inch off from 
 his lips,) 
 Who, when he breathes next, will put 
 out the sun ? 
 
 Yet mankind's self were foundered 
 in eclipse. 
 If lacking doers, with great works to 
 be done; 
 And lo, the startled earth already 
 dips 
 Back into light; a better day's begian; 
 And soon this leader, teacher, will 
 stand plain, 
 And build the golden pipes and syn- 
 thesize 
 This people-organ for a holy strain. 
 We hold this hope, and still in all 
 these eyes 
 Go sounding for the deep look which 
 shall drain 
 Buffused thought into channelled en- 
 terprise. 
 Where is the teacher ? What now 
 may he do 
 Who shall do greatly ? Doth he gird 
 his waist 
 With a monk's roi)e, like Luther ? 
 or pursue 
 The goat, like Tell ? or dry his nets 
 in haste, 
 Liike Masaniellu when the sky was 
 blue ? 
 Keep house, like other peasants, with 
 inlaced 
 Bare brawny arms about a favorite 
 child, 
 And meditative looks beyond the 
 door, 
 (But not to mark the kidling's teeth 
 have filed 
 The green shoots of his vine which 
 last year bore 
 Full twenty bunches), or on triple- 
 piled 
 Throne-velvets sit at ease to bless the 
 poor. 
 Like other pontiffs, iu the Poorest's 
 name ? 
 
 The old tiara keeps itself aslope 
 Upon his steady brows, which, all 
 
 the same, 
 Bend mildly to permit the people's 
 
 hope ? 
 
 Whatever hand shall grasp this ori- 
 flamme 
 Whatever man (last peasant or first 
 pope 
 Seeking to free his country) shall 
 appear, 
 Teach, lead, strike fire into the 
 masses, fill 
 These empty bladders with fine air, 
 insphere 
 These wills into a unity of will, 
 
 And make of Italy a nation — dear 
 And blessed be that man ! the heav- 
 ens shall kill 
 No leaf the earth lets grow for him, 
 and Death 
 Shall cast him back upon the lap of 
 Life 
 To live more surely in a clarion- 
 breath 
 Of hero-music. Brutus with the 
 knife, 
 Rienzi with the fasces, throb be- 
 neath 
 Rome's stones, — and more who threw 
 away joy's fife 
 Like Pallas, that the beauty of 
 their souls 
 Might ever shine untroubled and en- 
 tire : 
 But if it can be true that he who 
 rolls 
 The Church's thunders will reserve 
 her fire 
 For only light, from eucharistic 
 bowls 
 Will pour new life for nations that 
 expire. 
 And rend the scarlet of his papal 
 vest 
 To gird the weak loins of his coun- 
 trymen, — 
 I hold that he sui'passes all the rest 
 Of Romans, heroes, patriots; and 
 that when 
 He sat down on the throne, he dis- 
 possest 
 The first graves of some glory. See 
 again. 
 This country-saving is a glorious 
 thing ! 
 And if a common man achieved it ? 
 WelL 
 
CAS A GUIDI WINDOWS. 
 
 Say, a rich man did ? Excellent. A 
 king ? 
 That grows sublime ? A priest ? Im- 
 probable. 
 A pope ? Ah, there we stop, and 
 cannot bring 
 Our faith up to the leap, with history's 
 bell 
 So heavy round the neck of it, al- 
 beit 
 "We fain would grant the possibility 
 For thy sake, Pio Nono ! 
 
 Stretch thy feet 
 In that case : I will kiss them rever- 
 ently 
 As any pilgrim to the papal seat: 
 And, such proved possible, thy throne 
 to me 
 Shall seem as holy a place as Pel- 
 lico's 
 Venetian dungeon, or as Spielberg's 
 grate. 
 At which the Lombard woman hung 
 the rose, 
 Of her sweet soul by its own dewy 
 weight. 
 To feel the dungeon round her sun- 
 shine close. 
 And, pining so, died early, yet too late 
 For what she suffered. Yea, I will 
 not choose 
 Betwixt thy throne, Pope Pius, and 
 the spot 
 Marked red forever, spite of rains 
 and dews. 
 Where two fell riddled by the Aus- 
 trian's shot, — 
 The brothers Bandiera, who ac- 
 cuse, 
 With one same mother-voice and face 
 (that what 
 They speak may be invincible) the 
 sins 
 Of earth's tormentors before God the 
 just, 
 Until the unconscious thunder-bolt 
 begins 
 To loosen in his grasp. 
 
 And yet we must 
 Beware, and mark the natural kiths 
 and kins. 
 Of circumstance and office, and dis- 
 trust 
 The rich man reasoning in a poor 
 man's hut. 
 The poet who neglects pure truth to 
 prove 
 
 Statistic fact, the child who leaves 
 a rut 
 For a smoother road, the priest who 
 vows his glove 
 Exhales no grace, the prince who 
 walks afoot, 
 The woman who has sworn she will 
 not love, 
 And this Ninth Pius in Seventh 
 Gregory's chair. 
 With Andrea Doria's forehead. ' 
 
 Count what goes 
 To making up a pope, before he 
 wear 
 That triple crown. We pass the 
 world-wide throes 
 Which went to make the popedom, 
 — the despair 
 Of free men, good men, wise men; 
 the dread shows 
 Of women's faces, by the fagot's 
 flash 
 Tossed out, to the minutest stir and 
 throb 
 O' the white lips; the least tremble 
 of a lash, 
 To glut the red stare of a licensed 
 mob; 
 The short mad cries down oubliettes, 
 and plash 
 So horribly far off; priests trained to 
 rob, 
 And kings, that, like encouraged 
 nightmares, sate 
 On nations' hearts most heavily dis- 
 tressed 
 With monstrous sights and apo- 
 thegms of fate — 
 We pass these things, because " the 
 times" are prest 
 With necessary charges of the 
 weight 
 Of all this sin, and " Calvin, for the 
 rest, 
 Made bold to burn Servetus. Ah, 
 men err ! " — 
 And so do churches ! which is all we 
 mean 
 To bring to proof in any register 
 Of theological fat kine and lean: 
 So drive them back into the pens 1 
 refer 
 Old sins (with pourpoint, "quotha" 
 and " I ween") 
 Entirely to the old times, the old 
 times; 
 Nor ever ask why this preponder- 
 ant 
 
CAS A GUIDI WINDOWS. 
 
 445 
 
 Infallible pure Church could set her 
 chimes 
 Most loudly then, just then, — most 
 jubilant. 
 Precisely then, when mankind stood 
 in crimes 
 Full heart-deep, and Heaven's judg- 
 ments were not scant. 
 Inquire still less what signifies a 
 church 
 Of perfect inspiration and pure laws 
 Who liurns the first man with a 
 brimstone-torch , 
 And grinds the second, bone by bone, 
 because 
 The times, forsooth, are used to 
 rack and scorch ! 
 What is a holy Church unless she 
 awes 
 The times down from their sins ? 
 Did Christ select 
 Such amiable times to come and 
 teach 
 Love to, and mercy ? The whole 
 world were wrecked 
 If every mere great man, who lives to 
 reach 
 A little leaf of popular respect, 
 Attained not simj^ly by some special 
 breach 
 In the age's customs, by some pre- 
 cedence 
 In thought and act, which, having 
 proved him higher 
 Than those he lived with, proved 
 his competence 
 In helping them to wonder and as- 
 pire. 
 
 My words are guiltless of the bigot's 
 sense. 
 My soul has fire to mingle viith the 
 fire 
 Of all these souls, within or out of 
 doors 
 Of Rome's church or another. I be- 
 lieve 
 In one Priest, and one temple, with 
 its floors 
 Of shining jasper gloomed at morn 
 and eve 
 By countless knees of earnest au- 
 ditors, 
 And crystal walls too lucid to per- 
 ceive. 
 That none may take the measure of 
 the place 
 And say, " So far the porphyry, then 
 the flint ; 
 
 To this mark mercy goes, and there 
 ends grace," 
 Though still the permeable crystals 
 hint 
 At some white starry distance, 
 bathed in space. 
 I feel how Nature's ice-crusts keep 
 the dint 
 Of undersprings of silent Deity. 
 I hold the articulated gospels which 
 Show Christ among us crucified on 
 tree. 
 I love all who love truth, if poor or 
 
 rich 
 In what they have won of truth pos- 
 sessively. 
 No altars, and no hands defiled with 
 pitch, 
 Shall scare me off; l)ut I will pray 
 and eat 
 With all these, taking leave to choose 
 my ewers. 
 And say at last, "Your visible 
 churches cheat 
 Their inward types; and, if a church 
 
 assures 
 Of standing without failure and de- 
 feat. 
 The same both fails and lies." 
 
 To leave which lures 
 Of wider subject through past years, 
 — behold. 
 We come back from the popedom to 
 the pope, 
 To ponder what he must be, ere we 
 are bold 
 For what he may be, with our heavy 
 hope 
 To trust upon his soul. So, fold by 
 fold. 
 Explore this mummy in the jjriestly 
 cope, 
 Transmitted through the darks of 
 time, to catch 
 The man within the wrappage, and 
 discern 
 How he, an honest man, upon the 
 watch 
 Full fifty years for what a man may 
 learn. 
 Contrived to get just there; with 
 what a snatch 
 Of old-world oboli he had to earn 
 The passage through; with what a 
 drowsy sop. 
 To drench the busy barkings of his 
 brain; 
 
 r 
 
 { UNI 
 
 UNIVERSd 
 
 Of / 
 
446 
 
 CAS A GUIDT WINDOWS. 
 
 What ghosts of pale tradition, 
 ■wreathed with hop 
 'Gainst wakeful thought, he had to 
 entertain 
 For heavenly visions; and consent 
 to stop 
 Tlie clock at noon, and let the hour 
 remain 
 (Without vain windings-up) invio- 
 late 
 Against all chimings from the belfry. 
 Lo, 
 From every given pope you must 
 abate, 
 Albeit you love him, some things — 
 good, you know — 
 Which every given heretic you 
 hate, 
 Assumes for his, as being plainly so. 
 A pope must hold by popes a little, 
 — yes, 
 By councils, from Nicaea up to 
 Trent, — 
 Bj- hierocratic empire, more or less 
 Irresponsible to men, — he must re- 
 sent 
 Each man's particular conscience, 
 and repress 
 Inquiry, meditation, argument. 
 As tyrants faction. Also, he must 
 not 
 Love truth too dangerously, but pre- 
 fer 
 " The interests of the Church " (be- 
 cause a blot 
 Is better than a rent, in miniver;) 
 Submit to see the people swallow 
 hot 
 Husk-porridge, which his chartered 
 churchmen stir 
 Quoting the only true God's epi- 
 graph, 
 "Feed my lambs, Peter!" must 
 consent to sit 
 Attesting with his pastoral ring and 
 staff 
 To such a picture of our Lady, hit 
 Off well by artist-angels (though 
 not half 
 As fair as Giotto would have painted 
 it;) 
 To such a vial, where a dead man's 
 blood 
 Huns yearly warm beneath a church- 
 man's finger; 
 To sucli a holy house of stone and 
 wood. 
 Whereof a cloud of angels was the 
 bringer 
 
 From Bethlehem to Loreto. Were 
 it good 
 For any pope on earth to he a tiinger 
 Of stones against these high-niched 
 counterfeits ? 
 Apostates only are iconoclasts. 
 He dares not say, while this false 
 thing abets 
 That true thing, "This is false." He 
 keeps his fasts 
 And prayers, as prayer and fast 
 were silver frets 
 To change a note upon a string that 
 lasts, 
 And juake a lie a virtue. Now, if 
 he 
 Did more than this, higher hoped, and 
 braver dared, 
 I think he were a pope in jeopardy, 
 Or no pope rather, for his truth had 
 barred 
 The vaulting of his life; and cer- 
 tainly, 
 If he do only this, mankind's regard 
 Moves on from him at once to seek 
 some new 
 Teacher and leader. He is good and 
 great 
 According to the deeds a pope can 
 do; 
 Most liberal, save those bonds; affec- 
 tionate. 
 As princes may be, and, as priests 
 are, true. 
 But only the ninth Pius after eight, 
 W^hen all's jiraised most. At best 
 and hopefullest. 
 He's pope: we want a man ! His 
 heart beats warm ; 
 But, like the prince enchanted to 
 the waist, 
 He sits in stone, and hardens by a 
 charm 
 Into the marble of his throne high- 
 placed. 
 Mild benediction waves bis saintly 
 arm — 
 So, good ! But what we want's a 
 perfect man. 
 Complete and all alive: half traver- 
 tine 
 Half suits our need, and ill sub- 
 serves our plan. 
 Feet, knees, nerves, sinews, energies 
 divine, 
 Were never yet too much for men 
 who ran 
 In such hard ways as must be this of 
 thine, 
 
 ^ 
 
CAS A GUTDI WINDOWS. 
 
 447 
 
 Deliverer whom we seek, whoe'er 
 thou art, 
 Pope, prince, or peasant ! If, indeed, 
 the first, 
 The noblest, therefore ! since the 
 heroic heart 
 Within thee must be great enough to 
 burst 
 Those trammels buckling to the 
 baser part 
 Thy saintly peers in Rome, who 
 
 crossed and curst 
 With the same finger. 
 
 Come, appear, be found. 
 If pope or peasant, come ! we hear the 
 cock. 
 The courtier of the mountains when 
 first crowned 
 With golden dawn ; and orient glories 
 flock 
 To meet the sun upon the highest 
 ground. 
 Take voice, and work ! we wait to 
 hear thee knock 
 At some one of our Florentine nine 
 gates, 
 On each of which was imaged a sub- 
 lime 
 Face of a Tuscan genius, which, for 
 hate's 
 And love's sake both, our Florence 
 in her prime 
 Turned boldly on all comers to her 
 states. 
 As heroes turned their shields in an- 
 tique time 
 Emblazoned with lionorable acts. 
 And though 
 The gates are blank now of such 
 images, 
 And Petrarch looks no more from 
 Nicolo 
 Toward dear Arezzo, 'twixt the aca- 
 cia-trees, 
 Nor Dante, from gate Gallo — still 
 we know. 
 Despite the razing of the blazonries, 
 Remains the consecration of the 
 shield: 
 The dead heroic faces will start out 
 On all these gates, if foes should 
 take the field. 
 And blend sublimely, at the earliest 
 shout. 
 With living heroes who will scorn 
 to yield 
 A hair's-breadth even, when, gazing 
 round about, 
 
 They find in what a glorious com- 
 pany 
 They fight the foes of Florence. Who 
 will grudge 
 His one poor life, when that great 
 man we see 
 Has given five hundred years, the 
 world being judge 
 To help the glory of his Italy ? 
 Who, born the fair side of the Alps, 
 will budge. 
 When Dante stays, when Ariosto 
 stays. 
 When Petrarch stays forever ? Ye 
 bring swoi'ds. 
 My Tuscans ? Ay, if wanted in 
 this haze. 
 Bring swords, but first bring souls, — 
 bring thoughts and words, 
 Unrusted by a tear of yesterday's, 
 Yet awful by its wrong, — and cut 
 these cords. 
 And mow this green, lush falseness 
 to the roots, 
 And shut the mouth of hell below 
 the swathe ! 
 And, if ye can bring songs too, let 
 the lute's 
 Recoverable music softly bathe 
 Some poet's hand, that, through all 
 bursts and bruits 
 Of popular passion, all unripe and 
 rathe 
 Convictions of the popular intellect, 
 Ye may not lack a finger up the air, 
 Annunciative, reproving, pure, 
 erect. 
 To show which way your first ideal 
 bare 
 The whiteness of its wings when 
 (sorely pecked 
 By falcons on your wrists) it unaware 
 Arose up overhead and out of sight. 
 
 Meanwhile, let all the far ends of the 
 world 
 Breathe back the deep breath of 
 their old delight. 
 To swell the Itahan banner just un- 
 furled. 
 Help, lands of Europe ! for, if Aus- 
 tria fight. 
 The drums will bar your slumber. 
 Had ye curled 
 The laurel for your thousand artists' 
 brows. 
 If these Italian hands had planted 
 none? 
 Can any sit down idle in the house, 
 
448 
 
 CAS A GUIDI WINDOWS. 
 
 Nor hear appeals from Buonarroti's 
 stone 
 And Raffael's canvas, rousing and 
 to rouse ? 
 Where's Poussin's master ? Gallic 
 Avignon 
 Bred Laura, and Vaucluse's fount 
 has stirred 
 The heart of France too strongly, as 
 it lets 
 Its little stream out (like a wiz- 
 ard's bird 
 Which bounds upon its emerald wing, 
 and wets 
 The rocks on each side), that she 
 should not gird 
 Her loins with Charlemagne's sword 
 when foes beset 
 The country of her Petrarch. Spain 
 may well 
 Be minded how from Italy she 
 caught, 
 To mingle with her tinkling Moor- 
 ish bell, 
 A fuller cadence and a subtler 
 thought. 
 And even the New World, the re- 
 ceptacle 
 Of freemen, may send glad men, as it 
 ought, 
 To greet Vespucci Amerigo's door. 
 While England claims, by trump of 
 poetry, 
 Verona, Venice, the Ravenna-shore, 
 And dearer holds John Milton's 
 Fiesole 
 Than Langlande's Malvern with the 
 stars in flower. 
 
 And Vallombrosa, we two went to 
 see 
 Last June, beloved companion, 
 where sublime 
 The mountains live in holy fami- 
 lies. 
 And the slow pine-woods ever climb 
 and climb 
 Half up their breasts, just stagger as 
 they seize 
 Some gray crag, drop back with it 
 many a time, 
 And straggle blindly down the preci- 
 pice. 
 The Vallombrosan brooks were 
 strewn as thick 
 That June day, knee-deep with dead 
 beechen leaves, 
 As Milton saw them ere his heart 
 grew sick. 
 
 And his eyes blind. I think the 
 monks and beeves 
 Are all the same too: scarce have 
 they changed the wick 
 On good St. Gualbert's altar which 
 receives 
 The convent's pilgrims; and the 
 pool in front 
 (Wherein the hill-stream trout are 
 cast, to wait 
 The beatific vision and the grunt 
 Used at refectory) keeps its weedy 
 state. 
 To baffle saintly abbots who would 
 count 
 The fish across their breviary, nor 
 'bate 
 The measure of their steps. O wa- 
 terfalls 
 And forests ! sound and silence ! 
 mountains bare. 
 That leap up peak by peak, and 
 catch the palls 
 Of purple and silver mist to rend and 
 share 
 With one another, at electric calls 
 Of life in the sunbeams, — till we can- 
 not dare 
 Fix your shapes, count your num- 
 ber ! we must think 
 Your beauty and your glory helped 
 to fill 
 The cup of Milton's soul so to the 
 brink, 
 He nevermore was thirsty when God's 
 will 
 Had shattered to his sense the last 
 chain-link 
 By which he had drawn from Na- 
 ture's visible 
 The fresh well-water. Satisfied by 
 this, 
 He sang of Adam's paradise, and 
 smiled. 
 Remembering Vallombrosa. There- 
 fore is 
 The place divine to English man and 
 child, 
 And pilgrims leave their souls here 
 in a kiss. 
 
 For Italy's the whole earth's treas- 
 ury, piled 
 With reveries of gentle ladies, 
 flung 
 Aside, like ravelled silk, from life's 
 worn stuff; 
 With coins of scholars' fancy, 
 which, being rung 
 
CAS A GUIDI WINDOWS. 
 
 449 
 
 On workday counter, still sound sil- 
 ver-proof: 
 In short, with all the dreams of 
 dreamers young, 
 Before their heads have time for slip- 
 ping off 
 Hope's pillow to the ground. How 
 oft, indeed, 
 We've sent our souls out from the 
 rigid north, 
 On bare white feet which would 
 not print nor bleed. 
 To climb the Alpine passes, and look 
 forth, 
 "Where booming low the Lombard 
 rivers lead 
 To gardens, vineyards, all a dream is 
 worth, — 
 Sights thou and I, love, have seen 
 afterward 
 From Tuscan Bellosguardo, wide 
 awake, 1 
 When, standing on the actual 
 blessed sward 
 W^here Galileo stood at nights to 
 take 
 The vision of the stars, we have 
 fouud it hard, 
 Gazing upon the earth and heaven, 
 to make 
 A choice of beauty. 
 
 Therefore let us all 
 Refreshed in England or in other 
 laud. 
 By visions, with their fountain rise 
 and fall, 
 Of this earth's darling, — we, who un- 
 derstand 
 A little how the Tuscan musical 
 Vowels do round themselves as if 
 they planned 
 Eternities of separate sweetness, — 
 we. 
 Who loved Sorrento vines in picture- 
 book. 
 Or ere in winecup we pledged faith 
 or glee, — 
 Who loved Rome's wolf with demi- 
 gods at suck, 
 Or ere we loved truth's own divini- 
 ty,— 
 Who loved, in brief, the classic hill 
 and brook, 
 And Ovid's dreaming tales and Pe- 
 trarch's song, 
 
 1 Galileo's villa, close to Florence, is 
 built on an eminence called Bellosguardo. 
 
 Or e'er we loved Love's self even, — 
 let us give 
 The blessing of our souls (and wish 
 them strong 
 To bear it to the height where prayers 
 arrive. 
 When faithful spirits pray against a 
 wrong,) 
 To this great cause of southern men 
 who strive 
 In God's name for man's rights, and 
 shall not fail ! 
 
 Behold they shall not fail. The 
 shouts ascend 
 Above the shrieks, in Naples, and 
 prevail. 
 Rows of shot corpses, waiting for the 
 end 
 Of burial, seem to smile up straight 
 and pale 
 Into the azure air, and apprehend 
 That final gun-flash from Palermo's 
 coast 
 Which lightens their apocalypse of 
 death. 
 So let them die ! The world shows 
 nothing lost; 
 Therefore not blood. Above or un- 
 derneath, 
 What matter, brothers, if ye keep 
 your post 
 On duty's side ? As sword returns to 
 sheath. 
 So dust to grave; but souls find 
 place in heaven. 
 Heroic daring is the true success, 
 The eucharistic bread requires no 
 leaven ; 
 And, though your ends were hopeless, 
 we should bless 
 Your cause as holy. Strive — and, 
 having sti'iven. 
 Take for God's recompense that right- 
 eousness ! 
 
 PART II. 
 
 I WROTE a meditation and a dream. 
 Hearing a little child sing in the 
 street: 
 I leant upon his music as a theme. 
 Till it gave way beneath my heart's 
 full beat 
 Which tried at an exultant prophecy. 
 
 r 
 
450 
 
 CAS A GUIDI WINDOWS. 
 
 But dropped before the measui-e 
 was complete — 
 Alas for songs and hearts ! O Tus- 
 cany, 
 O Dante's Florence, is the type too 
 plain ? 
 Didst thou, too, only sing of liberty, 
 As little children take up a high 
 strain 
 "With unintentioned voices, and break 
 off 
 To sleep upon their mothers' knees 
 again ? 
 Conldst thou not watch one hour"? 
 then sleep enough, 
 That sleep may hasten manhood, 
 and sustain 
 The faint, pale spirit with some mus- 
 cular stuff. 
 
 But we who cannot slumber as thou 
 dost; 
 We thinkers, who have thought for 
 thee, and failed; 
 We hopers, who have hoped for 
 thee, and lost ; 
 We poets, wandered round by 
 dreams,! who hailed 
 From this Atrides' roof (with lintel- 
 post 
 M'hich still drips blood, — the worse 
 part hath prevailed) 
 The iire-voice of the beacons to de- 
 clare 
 Troy taken, sorrow ended, — cozened 
 through 
 A crimson sunset in a misty air. 
 What now remains for such as we to 
 do? 
 God's judgments, peradventure, 
 will he bare 
 To the roots of thunder, if we kneel 
 and sue ? 
 
 From Casa Guidi windows I looked 
 forth. 
 And saw ten thousand eyes of Flor- 
 entines 
 Flash back the triumph of the Lom- 
 bard north, — 
 Saw fifty banners, freighted with the 
 signs 
 And exultations of the awakened 
 eartli, 
 Float on above the multitude in lines, 
 
 ' See the opening passage of the Agamem- 
 non of ^schylua. 
 
 Straight to the Pitti. So, the vision 
 went. 
 And so, between those populous rough 
 hands 
 Raised in the sun, Duke Leopold 
 outleant. 
 And took the patriot's oath which 
 henceforth stands 
 Among the oaths of perjurers, emi- 
 nent 
 To catch the lightnings ripened for 
 these lands. 
 
 Why swear at all, thou false Duke 
 Leopold ? 
 What need to swear ? What need to 
 boast thy blood 
 Unspoilt of Austria, and thy heart 
 unsold 
 Away from Florence ? It was under- 
 stood 
 God made thee not too vigorous or 
 too bold; 
 And men had patience with thy quiet 
 mood, 
 And womqn pity, as they saw thee 
 pace 
 Their festive streets with premature 
 gray hairs. 
 We turned tlie mild dejection of thy 
 face 
 To princely meanings, took thy wrin- 
 kling cares 
 For ruffling hopes, and called thee 
 weak, not base. 
 Nay, better light the torches for more 
 prayers. 
 And smoke the pale Madonnas at 
 the shrine, — 
 Being still " our poor Grand-duke, 
 our good Grand-duke, 
 Who cannot help the Austrian in 
 his line," — 
 Than write an oath upon a nation's 
 book 
 For men to spit at with scorn's 
 blurring brine ! 
 Who dares forgive what none can 
 overlook ? 
 
 For me, I do repent me in this 
 dust 
 Of towns and temples which makes 
 Italy; 
 I sigh amid the sighs which breathe 
 a gust 
 Of dying century to century 
 Around us on the uneven crater- 
 crust 
 
 1^ > ■ > i^ 
 
CAS A GUWI WINDOWS. 
 
 451 
 
 Of these old worlds; I bow my soul 
 and knee. 
 Absolve me, patriots, of my wo- 
 man's fault 
 Tliat ever I belieA'ed the man was 
 true ! 
 These sceptred strangers shun the 
 common salt, 
 And therefore, when the general 
 board's in view, 
 And they stand up to carve for 
 blind and halt. 
 The wise suspect the viands which 
 ensue. 
 I much repent, that in this time 
 and place. 
 Where many corpse-lights of experi- 
 ence burn 
 From Cjesar's and Lorenzo's fester- 
 ing race. 
 To enlighten growling reasoners, I 
 could learn 
 No better counsel for a simple case 
 Than to put faith in princes, in my 
 turn. 
 Had all the death-piles of the an- 
 cient years 
 Flared up in vain before me? knew 
 I not 
 What stench arises from some pur- 
 ple gears ? 
 And how the sceptres witness whence 
 they got 
 Their brier-wood, crackling through 
 the atmosphere's 
 Foul smoke, by princelv perjuries 
 kept hot ? 
 Forgive me, ghosts of patriots, — 
 Brutus, thou 
 Who trailest down hill into life again 
 Thy blood-weighed cloak, to indict 
 me with thy slow, 
 Reproachful eyes ! — for being taught 
 in vain. 
 That, while the illegitimate Caesars 
 show 
 Of meaner statiire than the first full 
 strain 
 (Confessed incompetent to conquer 
 Gaul,) 
 They swoon as feebly, and cross Ru- 
 bicons 
 As rashly, as any Julius of them 
 all! 
 Forgive, that I forgot the mind which 
 runs 
 Through absolute races, too unscep- 
 tical ! 
 I saw the man among his little sons. 
 
 His lips were warm with kisses 
 while he swore ; 
 And I, because I am a woman, I, 
 Who felt my own child's coming 
 life before 
 The prescience of my soul, and held 
 faith high, — 
 I could not bear to think, whoever 
 bore. 
 That lips so warmed could shape so 
 cold a lie. 
 
 From Casa Guidi windows I looked 
 out, 
 Again looked, and beheld a different 
 sight. 
 The Duke had fled before the peo- 
 ple's shout 
 " Long live the Duke ! " A people, to 
 speak right. 
 Must speak as soft as courtiers, lest 
 a doubt 
 Should curdle brows of gracious sov- 
 ereigns white. 
 Moreover, that same dangerous 
 shouting meant 
 Some gratitude for future favors 
 which 
 Were only promised, the Constitu- 
 ent 
 Implied; the whole l)eing subject to 
 the hitch 
 In " motu proprios," very inci- 
 dent 
 To all these Czars, from Paul to Paulo- 
 vitch. 
 Whereat the people rose up in the 
 dust 
 Of the ruler's flying feet, and shouted 
 still 
 And loudly; only, this time, as was 
 just, 
 Not "Live the Duke ! " who had fled 
 for good or ill. 
 But " Live the People I " who re- 
 mained and must. 
 The uurenounced and unrenouncea- 
 ble. 
 
 Long live the people ! How they 
 
 lived ! and boiled 
 And bubbled in the caldron of the 
 
 street ! 
 How the young blustered, nor the 
 
 old recoiled ! 
 And what a thunderous stir of tongues 
 
 and feet 
 Trod flat the palpitating bells, and 
 
 foiled 
 
452 
 
 CAS A GUIDI WINDOWS. 
 
 The joy-guns of their echo, shattering 
 it ! 
 How down they pulled the Duke's 
 arms everywhere ! 
 How up they set new cafe-signs, to 
 show 
 Where patriots might sip ices in 
 pure air ! 
 (The fresh paint smelling somewhat.) 
 To and fro 
 How marched the civic guard, and 
 stopped to stare 
 When boys broke windows in a civic 
 glow ! 
 How rebel songs were sung to loyal 
 tunes. 
 And bishops cursed in ecclesiastic 
 metres ! 
 How all the Circoli grew large as 
 moons, 
 And all the speakers, moonstruck, — 
 thankful greeters 
 Of prospects which struck poor the 
 ducal boons, 
 A mere free Press and Chambers ! 
 frank repeaters 
 Of great Guerazzi's praises — 
 "There's a man. 
 The father of the land, who, truly 
 great, 
 Takes off that national disgrace and 
 ban, 
 The farthing-tax upon our Florence- 
 gate, 
 And saves Italia as he only can ! " 
 How all the nobles tied, and would 
 not wait, 
 Because they were most noble ! 
 which being so, 
 How liberals vowed to burn their 
 jialaces, 
 Because free Tuscans were not free 
 to go ! 
 How grown men raged at Austria's 
 wickedness, 
 And smoked, while fifty striplings 
 in a row 
 Marched straight to Piedmont for the 
 wrong's redress ! 
 You say we failed in duty, — we 
 who wore 
 Black velvet like Italian democrats, 
 Who slashed our sleeves like patri- 
 ots, nor forswore 
 The trvie repulblic in the form of hats ? 
 We chased the archbishop from the 
 Duomo-door, 
 We chalked the walls with bloody 
 caveats 
 
 Against all tyrants. If we did not 
 fight 
 Exactly, we fired muskets up the 
 air 
 To show that victory was ours of 
 right. 
 We met, had free discussion every- 
 where 
 (Except, perhaps, i' the Chambers) 
 day and night. 
 We proved the poor should be em- 
 ployed . . . that's fair, — 
 And yet the ricli not worked for 
 anywise, — 
 Pay certified, yet payers abrogated, 
 Full work secured, yet liabili- 
 ties 
 To overwork excluded, — not one 
 bated 
 Of all our holidays, that still, at 
 twice 
 Or thrice a week, are moderately 
 rated. 
 We proved that Austria was dis- 
 lodged, or would 
 Or should be, and that Tuscany in 
 arms 
 Should, would, dislodge her, ending 
 the old feud; 
 And yet to leave our piazzas, shops, 
 and farms, 
 For the simple sake of fighting, was 
 not good — 
 We proved that also. " Did we carry 
 charms 
 Against being killed ourselves, that 
 we should rush 
 On killing others ? what, desert here- 
 with 
 Our wives and mothers ? — was that 
 duty? Tush!" 
 At which we shook the sword within 
 the sheath 
 Like heroes, only louder; and the 
 flush 
 Ran up the cheek to meet the future 
 wreath. 
 Nay, what we proved, we shouted 
 — how we shouted ! 
 (Especially the boys did), boldly 
 planting 
 That tree of liberty, whose fruit is 
 doubted. 
 Because the roots are not of Nature's 
 granting. 
 A tree of good and evil: none, with- 
 out it, 
 Grow gods; alas ! and, with it, men 
 are wanting. 
 
CASA GVIDI WINDOWS. 
 
 453 
 
 O holy knowledge, holy liberty ! 
 O holy rights of nations ! If I 
 speak 
 These bitter things against the jug- 
 glery 
 Of days that in your names proved 
 blind and weak, 
 It is that tears are bitter. When 
 we see 
 The brown skulls grin at death in 
 churchyards bleak, 
 We do not cry, " This Yorick is too 
 light," 
 For death grows deathlier with that 
 mouth he makes. 
 So with my mocking. Bitter things 
 I write 
 Because my soul is bitter for your 
 sakes, 
 O freedom I my Florence ! 
 
 Men who might 
 Do greatly in a universe that breaks 
 And burns, must ever knoio before 
 they do. 
 Courage and patience are but sacri- 
 fice; 
 And sacrifice is offered for and to 
 Something conceived of. Each man 
 jiays a price 
 For what himself counts precious, 
 whether true 
 Or false the appreciation it implies. 
 But here, — no knowledge, no con- 
 ception, nought ! 
 Desire was absent, that provides 
 great deeds 
 From out the greatness of preven- 
 ient thought; 
 And action, action, like a flame that 
 needs 
 A steady breath and fuel, being 
 caught 
 Up, like a burning reed from other 
 reeds. 
 Flashed in the empty and uncer- 
 tain air, 
 Then wavered, then went out. Be- 
 hold, who blames 
 A crooked course, when not a goal 
 is there 
 To round the fervid striving of the 
 games ? 
 An ignorance of means may minis- 
 ter 
 To greatness; but an ignorance of 
 aims 
 Makes it impossible to be great at 
 all. 
 
 So with our Tuscans. Let none dare 
 to say, 
 " Here virtue never can be nation- 
 al; 
 Here fortitude can never cut a way 
 Between the Austrian muskets, out 
 of thrall: 
 I tell you rather, that whoever may 
 Discern true ends here shall grow 
 pure enough 
 To love them, brave enough to strive 
 for them, 
 And strong to reach them, though 
 the roads be rough ; 
 That, having learnt— by no mere 
 apothegm — 
 Not just the draping of a graceful 
 stuff 
 About a statue, broidered at the 
 hem, — 
 Not just the trilling on an opera- 
 stage, 
 Of " liberta " to bravos — (a fair word. 
 
 Yet too allied to inarticulate rage 
 And breathless sobs, for singing, 
 though the chord 
 Were deeper than they struck it ! ) 
 but the gauge 
 Of civil wants sustained, and wrongs 
 abhorred. 
 The serious, sacred meaning and 
 full use 
 Of freedom for a nation, — then, in- 
 deed, 
 Our Tuscans, underneath the bloody 
 dews 
 Of some new morning, rising up 
 agreed 
 And bold, will want no Saxon souls 
 or thews 
 To sweep thoir piazzas clear of Aus- 
 tria's breed. 
 
 Alas, alas ! it was not so this 
 time. 
 Conviction was not, courage failed, 
 and truth 
 Was something t-o be doubted of. 
 The mime 
 Changed masks, because a mime. 
 The tide as smooth 
 In running in as out, no sense of 
 crime 
 Because no sense of virtue. Sudden 
 ruth 
 Seized on the people: they would 
 have again 
 Their good Grand-duke, and leave 
 Guerazzi, though 
 
454 
 
 CASA GUIDT WINDOWS. 
 
 He took that tax from Florence. 
 " Much in vain 
 He takes it from the market-carts, we 
 trow, 
 "While urgent that no niarket^men 
 remain, 
 But all march off, and leave the spade 
 and plough 
 To die among the Lombards. "Was 
 it thus 
 The dear paternal Duke did ? Live 
 the Duke ! " 
 At which the joy-bells multitudi- 
 nous, 
 Swept by an opposite wind, as loudly 
 shook. 
 Call back the mild archbishop to 
 his house, 
 To bless the people with his fright- 
 ened look, — 
 He shall not yet be hanged, you 
 comprehend ! 
 Seize on Guerazzi; guard him in full 
 view, 
 Or else we stab him in the back to 
 end ! 
 Rub out those chalked devices, set up 
 new 
 The Duke's arms, doff your Phry- 
 gian caps, and mend 
 The pavement of the piazzas broke into 
 By barren j^oles of freedom : smooth 
 the way 
 For the ducal carriage, lest his High- 
 ness sigh, 
 " Here trees of liberty grew yester- 
 day ! " 
 " Long live the Duke ! " How roared 
 the cannonry ! 
 How rocked the bell-towers ! and 
 through thickening spray 
 Of nosegays, wreaths, and kerchiefs 
 tossed on high. 
 How marched the civic guard, the 
 people still 
 Being good at shouts, especially the 
 boys ! 
 Alas, poor people, of an unfledged 
 will 
 Most fitly expressed by such a callow 
 voice ! 
 Alas, still poorer Duke, incapable 
 Of being worthy even of so much 
 noise ! 
 
 You think he came back instantly, 
 with thanks. 
 And tears in his faint eyes, and hands 
 extended 
 
 To stretch the franchise through 
 their utmost ranks ? 
 That having, like a father appre- 
 hended. 
 He came to pardon fatherly those 
 pranks 
 Played out, and now in filial service 
 ended ? 
 That some love-token, like a prince, 
 he threw 
 To meet the peo^ile's love-call in re- 
 turn ? 
 Well, how he came I will relate to 
 you; 
 And if your hearts should burn — 
 why, hearts must burn. 
 To make the ashes which things 
 old and new 
 Shall be washed clean in — as this 
 Duke will learn. 
 
 From Casa Guidi windows gazing, 
 then, 
 I saw and witness how the Duke 
 came back. 
 The regular tramp of horse, and 
 tread of men. 
 Did smite the silence like an anvil 
 black 
 And sparkless. With her wide 
 eyes at full strain. 
 Our Tuscan nurse exclaimed, " Alack, 
 alack, 
 Signora ! these shall be the Austri- 
 ans." — " Nay, 
 Be still," I answered; " do not wake 
 the child ! " 
 — For so, my two-months' baby 
 sleeping lay 
 In milky dreams upon the bed, and 
 smiled. 
 And I thought, " He shall sleep on, 
 while he may. 
 Through the world's baseness: not 
 being yet defiled. 
 Why should he be disturbed by 
 what is done ? " 
 Then, gazing, I beheld the long-drawn 
 street 
 Live out, from end to end, full in 
 the sun. 
 With Austria's thousand ; sword and 
 bayonet. 
 Horse, foot, artillery, cannons roll- 
 ing on 
 Like blind, slow storm-clouds gestant 
 with the heat 
 Of undeveloped lightnings, each 
 bestrode 
 
 I ^ I ■ I 1^ 
 
CAS A GUIDI WINDOWS. 
 
 455 
 
 By a single man, dust-white from 
 head to heel, 
 Indifferent as the dreadful thing he 
 rode. 
 Like a sculptured Fate serene and 
 terrible. 
 As some smooth river which has 
 overflowed, 
 Will slow and silent down its current 
 wheel 
 A loosened forest, all the pines 
 erect, 
 So swept, in mute significance of 
 storm. 
 The marshalled thousands; not an 
 eye deflect 
 To left or right, to catch a novel form 
 Of Florence city adorned by archi- 
 tect 
 And carver, or of beauties live and 
 warm 
 Scared at the casements, — all, 
 straightforward eyes 
 And faces, held as steadfast as their 
 swords, 
 And cognizant of acts, not image- 
 ries. 
 The key, O Tuscans, too well fits the 
 wards ! 
 Ye asked for mimes, — these bring 
 you tragedies; 
 For purple, — these shall wear it as 
 your lords. 
 Ye played like children, — die like 
 innocents. 
 Ye mimicked lightnings with a torch, 
 — the crack 
 Of the actual bolt, your pastime cir- 
 cumvents. 
 Ye called up ghosts, believing they 
 were slack 
 To follow any voice from Gilboa's 
 tents . . . 
 Here's Samuel ! — and so, Grand- 
 dukes come back ! 
 
 And yet they are no prophets, 
 though they come: 
 That awful mantle they are drawing 
 close 
 Shall be searched one day by the 
 shafts of doom 
 Through double folds now hoodwink- 
 ing the brows. 
 Resuscitated monarchs disentomb 
 Grave-reptiles with them in their 
 new life-throes. 
 Let such beware. Behold, the peo- 
 ple waits. 
 
 Like God: as he, in his serene of 
 might, 
 So they, in their endurance of long 
 straits. 
 Ye stamp no nation out, though day 
 and night 
 Ye tread them with that absolute 
 heel which grates 
 And gi'inds them flat from all at^ 
 tempted height. 
 You kill worms sooner with a gar- 
 den spade 
 Than you kill peoples: peoples will 
 not die; 
 The tail curls stronger when you 
 lop the head : 
 They writhe at every wound, and 
 multiply 
 And shudder into a heap of life 
 that's made 
 Thus vital from God's own vitality. 
 'Tis hard to shrivel back a day of 
 God's 
 Once fixed for judgment; 'tis as hard 
 to change 
 The peoples when they rise be- 
 neath their loads. 
 And heave them from their backs 
 with violent wrench 
 To crush the oppressor: for that 
 judgment-rod's 
 The measure of this popular revenge. 
 
 Meanwhile, from Casa Guidi win- 
 dows, we 
 Beheld the armament of Austria 
 flow 
 Into the drowning heart of Tus- 
 cany; 
 And yet none wept, none cursed, or, 
 if 'twas so. 
 They wept and cursed in silence. 
 Silently 
 Our noisy Tuscans watched the in- 
 vading foe ; 
 They had learnt silence. Pressed 
 against the wall. 
 And grouped upon the church-stejis 
 opi^osite, 
 A few pale men and women stared 
 at all. 
 God knows what they were feeling, 
 with their white 
 Constrained faces, — they, so prodi- 
 gal 
 Of cry and gesture when the world 
 goes right. 
 Or wrong indeed. But here was 
 depth of wrong, 
 

 CAS A GUIDI WINDOWS. 
 
 And here, still water: they were si- 
 lent here; 
 And through that sentient silence 
 struck along 
 That measured tramp from which it 
 stood out clear, 
 Distinct the sound and silence, like 
 a gong 
 At midnight, each by the other awful- 
 ler, — 
 While every soldier in liis cap dis- 
 played 
 A leaf of olive. Dusty, bitter thing ! 
 Was such plucked at Novara, is it 
 said ? 
 
 A cry is up in England, whicli doth 
 ring 
 The hollow world through, that for 
 ends of ti-ade 
 And virtue, and God's better worship- 
 ing, 
 We henceforth should exalt the 
 name of Peace, 
 And leave those rusty wars that eat 
 the soul, — 
 Besides their clippings at our golden 
 fleece. 
 I, too, have loved peace, and from 
 bole to bole 
 Of immemorial undeciduous trees 
 Would write, as lovers use upon a 
 scroll, 
 The holy name of Peace, and set it 
 high 
 Where none could pluck it down. On 
 trees, I say. 
 Not upon gibbets ! — With the 
 greenery 
 Of dewy branches and the flowery 
 May, 
 Sweet mediation betwixt earth and 
 sky 
 Providing, for the shepherd's holi- 
 day. 
 Not upon gibbets ! though the vul- 
 ture leaves 
 The bones to quiet, which he first 
 
 picked bare. 
 Not upon dungeons ! though the 
 
 wretch who grieves 
 And groans within, less stirs the outer 
 air 
 Than any little field-mouse stirs the 
 sheaves. 
 Not upon chain-bolts ! though the 
 slave's despair 
 Has dulled his helpless miserable 
 brain, 
 
 And left him blank beneath the free- 
 man's whip 
 To sing and laugh out idiocies of 
 pain. 
 Nor yet on starving homes ! where 
 many a lip 
 Has sobbed itself asleep through 
 curses vain. 
 I love no peace which is not fellow- 
 ship. 
 And which includes not mercy. I 
 would have 
 Rather the raking of the guns 
 across 
 The world, and shrieks against 
 heaven's architrave; 
 Rather the struggle in the slippery 
 fosse 
 Of dying men and horses, and the 
 wave 
 Blood-bubbling. . . . Enough said ! 
 — by Christ's own cross, 
 And by this faint heart of my wo- 
 manhood. 
 Such things are better than a Peace 
 that sits 
 Beside a hearth in self-commended 
 mood, 
 And takes no thought how wind and 
 rain by fits 
 Are howling out of doors against the 
 good 
 Of the poor wanderer. What ! your 
 peace admits 
 Of outside anguish while it keeps at 
 home ? 
 I loathe to take its name upon my 
 tongue. 
 'Tis nowise peace: 'tis treason, stiff 
 with doom ; 
 'Tis gagged despair, and inarticulate 
 wrong. 
 Annihilated Poland, stifled Rome, 
 Dazed Naples, Hungary fainting 
 'neath the thong. 
 And Austria wearing a smooth 
 olive-leaf 
 On her brute forehead, while her hoofs 
 outpress 
 The life from these Italian souls in 
 brief. 
 Lord of peace, who art Lord of 
 righteousness. 
 Constrain the anguished worlds 
 from sin and grief. 
 Pierce them with conscience, purge 
 them with redress, 
 And give us peace which is no coun- 
 terfeit ! 
 
 I ^m ' f * ^ 
 
CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 
 
 457 
 
 But wherefore should we look out 
 any more 
 From Casa Guidi windows ? Shut 
 them straight, 
 And let us sit down by the folded door, 
 And veil our saddened faces, and so 
 wait 
 What next the judgment-heavens 
 make ready for. 
 I have grown too weary of these 
 windows. Sights 
 Come thick enough and clear enough 
 in thought, 
 Without tlie sunshine: souls have 
 inner lights. 
 And since the Grand-duke has come 
 back, and brought 
 This army of the North which thus 
 requites 
 His filial South, we leave him to be 
 taught. 
 His South, too, has learnt something 
 certainly, 
 Whereof the practice will bring profit 
 soon; 
 And peradventure other eyes may 
 see. 
 From Casa Guidi windows, what is 
 done 
 Or undone. Whatsoever deeds they 
 be, 
 Pope Pius will be glorified in none. 
 
 Record that gain, Mazzini 1 It shall 
 top 
 Some heights of sorrow. Peter's rock, 
 so named, 
 Shall lure no vessel any more to 
 drop 
 Among the breakers. Peter's chair is 
 shamed. 
 Like any vulgar throne the nations 
 lop 
 To pieces for their firewood unre- 
 claimed; 
 And when it burns, too, we shall 
 see as well 
 In Italy as elsewhere. Let it burn. 
 The cross accounted still adorable 
 Is Christ's cross only ! If the thief's 
 would earn 
 Some stealthy genuflexions, we re- 
 bel; 
 And here the impenitent thief's has 
 had its turn, 
 As God knows; and the people on 
 their knees 
 Scoff, and toss back the crosiers 
 stretched like yokes 
 
 To press their heads down lower by 
 degrees. 
 So Italy, by means of these last 
 strokes. 
 Escapes the danger which preceded 
 these, 
 Of leaving captured hands in cloven 
 oaks,— 
 Of leaving very souls within the 
 buckle 
 Whence bodies struggled outward, — 
 of suj^posing 
 That freemen may like bondsmen 
 kneel and truckle. 
 And then stand up as usual, without 
 losing 
 An inch of stature. 
 
 Those whom she-wolves suckle 
 Will bite as wolves do in the grapple- 
 closing 
 Of adverse interests. This at last is 
 known, 
 (Thank Pius for the lesson) that albeit 
 Among the Popedom's hundred 
 heads of stone 
 Which blink down on you from the 
 roof's retreat 
 In Siena's tiger-striped cathedral, 
 Joan 
 And Borgia 'mid their fellows you may 
 greet, 
 A harlot and a devil, — you will see 
 Not a man, still less angel, grandly 
 set 
 With open soul to render man more 
 free. 
 The fishers are still thinking of the 
 net. 
 And, if not thinking of the hook 
 too, we 
 Are counted somewhat deeply in their 
 debt ; 
 But that's a rare case — so, by hook 
 and crook, 
 They take the advantage, agonizing 
 Christ 
 By rustier nails than those of Ce- 
 dron's brook, 
 I' the people's body very cheaply 
 priced, — 
 And quote high priesthood out of 
 Holy book. 
 While buying death-fields with the 
 sacrificed. 
 
 Priests, priests, — there's no such 
 name ! — God's own, except 
 Ye take most vainly. Through hea- 
 ven's lifted gate 
 
458 
 
 CASA QUID I WINDOWS. 
 
 The priestly ephod in sole glory 
 swept 
 When Christ ascended, entered in, 
 and sate 
 (With Aictor face sublimely over- 
 wept) 
 At Deity's right hand to mediate. 
 
 He alone, he forever. On his breast 
 The Urim and the Thiimmim, fed with 
 fire 
 From the full Godhead, flicker with 
 the unrest 
 Of human pitiful heart beats. Come 
 up higher, 
 All Christians. Levi's tribe is dis- 
 possest. 
 That solitary alb ye shall admire. 
 But not cast lots for. The last 
 chrism, poured right. 
 Was on that Head, and poured for 
 burial, 
 And not for domination in men's 
 sight. 
 What are these churches ? The old 
 temple wall 
 Doth overlook them juggling with 
 the sleight 
 Of surplice, candlestick, and altar- 
 pall; 
 East church and west church, ay, 
 north church and south, 
 Rome's church and England's — let 
 them all repent, 
 And make concordats 'twixt their 
 soul and mouth. 
 Succeed St. Paul by working at the 
 tent. 
 Become infallible guides by speak- 
 ing truth, 
 And excommunicate their pride that 
 bent 
 And cramped the souls of men. 
 
 Why, even here, 
 Priestcraft burns out, the twined 
 linen blazes; 
 Not, like asbestos, to grow white 
 and clear. 
 But all to perish ! while the fire- 
 smell raises 
 To life some swooning spirits, who 
 last year 
 Lost breath and heart in these church- 
 stifled places. 
 Why, almost through this Pius, we 
 believed 
 The i^riesthood could be an honest 
 thing, he smiled 
 So saintly while our corn was being 
 sheaved 
 
 For his own granaries ! Showing 
 now defiled 
 His hireling hands, a better help's 
 achieved 
 Than if they blessed us shepherd-like 
 and mild. 
 False doctrine, strangled by its own 
 amen, 
 Dies in the throat of all this nation. 
 Who 
 Will speak a pope's name as they 
 rise again ? 
 What woman or what child will count 
 him true ? 
 What dreamer praise him with the 
 voice or pen ? 
 What man fight for him ? — Pius takes 
 his due. 
 
 Record that gain, Mazzini ! — Yes, 
 but first 
 Set down thy people's faults; set down 
 the want 
 Of souI-conA'iction; set down aims 
 dispersed, 
 And incoherent means, and valor 
 scant 
 Because of scanty faith, and schisms 
 accursed 
 Tliat wrench these brother-hearts 
 from covenant 
 With freedom and each other. Set 
 down this, 
 And this, and see to overcome it 
 when 
 The seasons bring the fruits thou 
 wilt not miss 
 If wary. Let no cry of patriot 
 men 
 Distract thee from the stern analy- 
 sis 
 Of masses who cry only ! keep thy 
 ken 
 Clear as thy soul is virtuous. He- 
 roes' blood 
 Splashed up against thy noble brow 
 in Rome; 
 Let such not blind thee to an inter- 
 lude 
 Which was not also holy, yet did 
 come 
 'Twixt sacramental actions, — broth- 
 erhood 
 Despised even there, and something 
 of the doom 
 Of Remus in the trenches. Listen 
 now — 
 Rossi died silent near where Caesar 
 died. 
 
CAS A GUIDI WINDOWS. 
 
 459 
 
 Hk (lid not say, " Mv Brutus, is it 
 thou?" 
 But Italy unquestioned testified, 
 "J killed him! I am Brutus. — I 
 avow." 
 At which the whole world's laugli of 
 scorn replied, 
 " A poor maimed copy of Brutus ! " 
 Too much like, 
 Indeed, to be so unlike ! too un- 
 skilled 
 At Pliilii"ipi and the honest hattle- 
 pike, 
 To l)c so skilful where a man is killed 
 Near Pompey's statue, and the dag- 
 gers strike 
 At unawares i' the throat. AVas thus 
 fulfilled 
 An omen once of jSIichel Ange- 
 lo? — 
 When Marcus Brutus he conceived 
 complete, 
 And strove to hurl him out by blow 
 on blow 
 Upon the marble, at Arfs tliunder- 
 lieat, 
 Till haplj' (some pre-shadow rising 
 slow 
 Of what his Italy would fancy meet 
 To be called Brutus) straight his 
 plastic hand 
 Fell back before his prophet-soul, and 
 left 
 A fragment, a maimed Brntiis, — 
 but more grand 
 Thau this, so named at Rome, was ! 
 
 Let thy weft 
 Present one ^voof and warp, Mazzi- 
 ni ! Stand 
 "With no man hankering for a dagger's 
 heft, 
 No. not for Italy ! — nor stand 
 apart, 
 No, not for the Republic ! — from 
 those pure 
 Brave men who hold the level of 
 thy heart 
 In iiatriot truth, as lover and as 
 doer. 
 Albeit tliey will not follow where 
 thou art 
 As extreme theorist. Trust and dis- 
 trust fewer. 
 And so bind strong, and keep un- 
 stained the cause 
 "Which (God's sign granted) war- 
 trumps newly blown 
 Shall yet annunciate to the world's 
 applause. 
 
 But now, the world is busy: it has 
 grown 
 A Fair-going world. Imperial Eng- 
 land draws 
 The tlowiug ends of the oarth from 
 Fez, Canton, 
 Delhi, and Stockholm, Athens and 
 Madrid, 
 The Russias and the vast Americas, 
 As if a queen drew in her robes 
 amid 
 Her golden cincture, — isles, penin- 
 sulas. 
 Capes, continents, far inland coun- 
 tries hid 
 By jasper-sands and hills of cliryso- 
 pras. 
 All trailing in their splendors 
 through the door 
 Of tlie gorgeous Crystal Palace. 
 Every nation, 
 To every other nation strange of 
 yore. 
 Gives face to face the civic saluta- 
 tion. 
 And holds up in a proud right hand 
 before 
 That congress the best work which 
 she can fashion 
 By her best means. " These corals, 
 will you please 
 To match against your oaks ? They 
 grow as fast 
 Within my wilderness of juu-ple 
 seas." — 
 " This diamond stared upon me as I 
 passed 
 (As a live god's eye from a marble 
 frieze) 
 Along a dark of diamonds. Is it 
 classed? " — 
 " I wove these stuffs so subtly that 
 the gold 
 Swims to the surface of the silk like 
 cream 
 And curdles to fair patterns. Ye 
 behold! " — 
 " These delicatest muslins rather 
 seem 
 Than b^, you think ? Nay, touch 
 them and be bold, 
 Though such veiled Chakhi's face in 
 Hafiz' dream." — 
 " These carpets — you walk slow on 
 them like kings. 
 Inaudible like spirits, while your 
 foot 
 Dips deep in velvet roses and such 
 things." — 
 
460 
 
 CAS A GUIDI WINDOWS. 
 
 " Even ApoUonius might commend 
 this tiute;! 
 The music, winding through the 
 stops, upsprings 
 To make tlie player very rich: com- 
 pute ! " 
 " Here's goblet-glass, to take in 
 with your wine 
 The very sun its grapes were ripened 
 under: 
 Drink light and juice together, and 
 each tine." — 
 "This model of a steam-ship moves 
 your wonder ? 
 You' should liehold it crushing dowu 
 - the brine 
 Like a blind Jove, who feels his way 
 with thunder." — 
 " Here's sculpture ! Ah, loe live 
 too ! why not throw 
 Our life into our marbles? Art has 
 place 
 For other artists after Angelo." — 
 ■' I tried to paint out here a natural 
 face ; 
 For nature includes Raffael, as we 
 know. 
 Not Raffael nature. Will it help my 
 case ? " — 
 " Methinks you will not match this 
 steel of ours ! " — 
 " Nor you this porcelain ! One might 
 dream the clay 
 Retained in it the larva? of the 
 flowers, 
 They bud so round the cup, the old 
 spring-way. ' ' — 
 " Nor you these carveu woods, 
 where birds in bowers 
 With twisting snakes and climbing 
 cupids play." 
 
 Magi of the east and of the west. 
 Your incense, gold, and myrrh are 
 
 excellent ! — 
 What gifts for Christ, then, bring 
 ye with the rest ? 
 Your hands have worked well: is 
 your courage s]ient 
 In handwork only ? Have you 
 nothing best, 
 AVhich generous souls may perfect 
 and present, 
 
 1 Philostratus relates of Apellonius, bow 
 lie objected to the musical instrument of 
 Linus the Rbodian, that it could not enrich 
 or beautify. The liistory of music in oiu' 
 day would satisfy the philosopher on one 
 point at least. 
 
 And He shall thank the givers for ? 
 no light 
 Of teaching, liberal nations, for the 
 poor 
 Who sit in darkness when it is not 
 night ? 
 No cure for wicked children ? Christ 
 — no cure ! 
 No help for women sobbing out of 
 sight 
 Because men made the laws ? no 
 brothel-lure 
 Burnt out by popidar lightnings ? 
 Hast thou found 
 No remedy, my England, for such 
 woes ? 
 No outlet, Austria, for the scourged 
 and bound. 
 No entrance for the exiled ? no re- 
 pose, 
 Russia, for knouted Poles worked 
 underground, 
 And gentle ladies bleached among 
 the snows ? 
 No mercy for the slave, America ? 
 No hope for Rome, free France, chi- 
 valric France ? 
 Alas, great nations have great 
 shames, I say. 
 No pity, O world, no tender utter- 
 ance 
 Of benediction, and praj-ers 
 stretched this way 
 For poor Italia, baffled by mischance ? 
 O gracious nations, give some ear 
 to me ! 
 You all go to your Fair, and I am one 
 
 Who at the roadside of humanity 
 Beseech your alms, — God's justice to 
 be done. 
 So, prosper ! 
 
 In the name of Italy, 
 Meantime her jjatriot dead have beni- 
 son. 
 They only have done well; and, 
 what they did 
 Being perfect, it shall triumph. Let 
 them slumber: 
 No king of Egypt in a pyramid 
 Is safer from oblivion, though he 
 number 
 Full seventy cerements for a cover- 
 lid. 
 These dead be seeds of life, and shall 
 encumber 
 The sad heart of the land until it 
 loose 
 The clammy clods, and let out the 
 spring-growth 
 
CAS A GUIDI WINDOWS. 
 
 461 
 
 111 beatific green through every 
 bruise. 
 The tyrant should take heed to what 
 he dotli, 
 Since every victim-carrion turns to 
 use, 
 And drives a chariot, like a god made 
 wroth. 
 Against each piled injustice. Ay, 
 the least, 
 Dead for Italia, not in vain has died; 
 Though many vainly, ere life's 
 struggle ceased. 
 To mad dissimilar ends have swerved 
 aside ; 
 Eacli grave her nationality has 
 pieced 
 By its own majestic breadth, and for- 
 tified, 
 And pinned it deeper to the soil. 
 Forlorn 
 Of thanks be, therefore, no one of 
 these graves ! 
 Not hers, —who, at her husband's 
 side, in scorn, 
 Outfaced the whistling shot and hiss- 
 ing waves. 
 Until she felt lier little babe unborn 
 Recoil, within her, from the violent 
 staves 
 And bloodhounds of the world: at 
 which her life 
 Drojit inwards from her eyes, and fol- 
 lowed it 
 Beyond the hunters. Garibaldi's 
 wife 
 And child died so. And now the sea- 
 weeds fit 
 Her body, like a proper shroud and 
 coif. 
 And murmurously the ebbing waters 
 grit 
 The little pebbles while she lies in- 
 terred 
 In the sea-sand. Perhaps, ere dying 
 thus. 
 She looked up in his face (which 
 never stirred 
 From its clinched anguish) as to 
 make excuse 
 For leaving him for his, if so she 
 erred. 
 He well remembers that she could 
 not choose. 
 A memorable grave ! Another is 
 At Genoa. There a king may fitly 
 lie, 
 "Who, bursting that heroic heart of 
 his 
 
 At lost Novara, that he could not 
 die, 
 (Though thrice into the cannon's 
 eyes for this 
 He plunged his shuddering steed, and 
 felt the sky 
 Reel back between the fire-shocks) 
 stripped away 
 The ancestral ermine ere the smoke 
 had cleared. 
 And, naked to the soul, that none 
 might say 
 His kingship covered what was base 
 and bleared 
 With treason, went out straight an 
 exile, yea, 
 An exiled patriot. Let him be re- 
 vered. 
 
 Yea, verily, Charles Albert has dietl 
 well; 
 And if he lived not all so, as one 
 spoke. 
 The sin pass softly with the pass- 
 ing-bell : 
 For he was shriven, I think, in can- 
 non-smoke. 
 And, taking off his crown, made 
 visible 
 A hero's forehead. Shaking Austria's 
 yoke. 
 He shattered his own hand and 
 heart. " So best," 
 His last words were upon his lonely 
 l)ed, 
 I do not end like popes and dukes 
 at least — 
 "Thank God for it." And now that 
 he is dead. 
 Admitting it is proved and mani- 
 fest 
 That he was worthy, with a dis- 
 crowned head, 
 To measure heights with patriots, 
 let them stand 
 Beside the man in his Oporto shroud, 
 And each vouchsafe to take him by 
 the hand, 
 And kiss him on the cheek, and say 
 aloud, 
 "Thou, too, hast suffered for our 
 native land ! 
 My brother, thou art one of us ! be 
 proud." 
 
 Still, graves, when Italy is talked 
 upon. 
 Still, still, the patriot's tomb, the 
 stranger's hate. 
 
 \-*-m-^ 
 
462 
 
 CAS A GVIDI WINDOWS. 
 
 Still Niobe ! still fainting in the sun, 
 By whose most dazzling arrows vio- 
 late 
 Her beauteous offsjiring perished ! 
 has she won 
 Nothing but garlands for the graves, 
 from Fate ? 
 Nothing but death-songs ? Yes, be 
 it understood 
 Life throbs in noble Piedmont ! while 
 the feet 
 Of Rome's claj" image, dabbled soft 
 in blood, 
 Grow fiat with dissolution, and, as 
 meet, 
 Will soon bo shovelled off like 
 other mud, 
 To leave the passage free in church 
 and street. 
 And I, who first took hope up in 
 this song, 
 Because a child was singing one . . . 
 behold. 
 The hope and omen were not, hap- 
 ly, wrong ! , 
 Poets are soothsayers still, like those 
 of old 
 AVho studied flights of doves; and 
 creatures young 
 And tender, mighty meanings maj' 
 unfold. 
 
 The sun strikes through the win- 
 dows, up the floor; 
 Stand out in it, my own young Flor- 
 entine, 
 Not two j^ears old, and let me see 
 thee more ! 
 It grows along thy amber curls, to 
 shine 
 Brighter than elsewhere. Now, 
 look straight before. 
 And fix thy brave blue English eyes 
 on mine. 
 And from my soixl, which fronts the 
 f iiti;re so, 
 "With unabashed and unabated gaze, 
 Teach me to hope for, what the an- 
 gels know 
 When they smile clear as thou dost, 
 Down God's ways 
 With just alighted feet, between 
 the snow 
 And snowdrops, where a little lamb 
 ma J' graze, 
 Thou hast no fear, ray lamb, about 
 the road. 
 
 Albeit in our vain-glory we assume 
 That, less than we have, thou hast 
 learnt of God. 
 Stand out, my blue-eyed prophet ! — 
 thou to whom 
 The earliest world-day light that 
 ever flowed. 
 Through Casa Guidi windows 
 chanced to come ! 
 Now shake the glittering nimbus of 
 thy hair. 
 And be God's witness that tlie ele- 
 mental 
 New springs of life are gushing 
 everywhere 
 To cleanse the water-courses, and 
 prevent all 
 Concrete obstructions which infest 
 the air ! 
 That earth's alive, and gentle or un- 
 gentle 
 Motions within her signifj' but 
 growth ! — 
 The ground swells greenest o'er the 
 laboring moles. 
 
 Howe'er the uneasy world is vexed 
 and wroth. 
 Young children, lifted high on parent 
 souls, 
 Look round them with a smile upon 
 the mouth. 
 And take for music every bell that 
 tolls; 
 (Who said we should be better if 
 like these ?) 
 But ive sit murmuring for the future, 
 though 
 Posterity is smiling on our knees. 
 Convicting us of folly. Let us go — 
 We will trust God. The blaidf in- 
 terstices 
 Men take for ruins, he will build 
 into 
 With pillared marbles rare, or knit 
 across 
 With generous arches, till the fane's 
 complete. 
 This world has no perdition, if 
 some loss. 
 
 Such cheer I gather from thy smil- 
 ing, sweet ! 
 The selfsame cherub-faces which 
 emboss 
 
 The Veil, lean inward to the Mercy- 
 seat. 
 
1/ 
 
 POEMS BEFORE CO^^GRESS. 
 
 NAPOLEOX III. IX ITALY. 
 
 Emperor, Emperor ! 
 
 From the centre to the shore, 
 
 From the Seine back to the Rhine, 
 Stood eight millions \\p and swore 
 By their manhood's right divine 
 So to elect and legislate. 
 
 This man shonld renew the line 
 Broken in a strain of fate, 
 And leagned kings at Waterloo, 
 When the people's hands let go. 
 Emperor 
 Evermore. 
 
 II. 
 
 With a universal shout 
 They took the old regalia out 
 From an open grave that day, — 
 
 From a grave that would not close. 
 Where the first Napoleon lay 
 
 Expectant in repose. 
 As still as Merlin, Avith his conquer- 
 ing face 
 Turned up in its unquenchable ap- 
 peal 
 To men and heroes of the advancing 
 race. 
 Prepared to set the seal 
 Of what has been on what shall be. 
 Emperor 
 Evermore. 
 
 III. 
 
 The thinkers stood aside 
 To let the nation act. 
 Some hated the new-constituted fact 
 Of empire, as pride treading on their 
 
 pride. 
 Some quailed, lest what was poison- 
 ous in the past 
 Should graft itself in that Druidic 
 bough 
 On this green Now. 
 Some cursed, because at last 
 The open heavens, to which thej' had 
 
 looked in vain 
 For many a golden fall of marvellous 
 rain, 
 
 »Were closed in brass; and some 
 Wept on, because a gone thing could 
 
 not come ; 
 And some were silent, doubting all 
 
 things for 
 That popular conviction, — evermore 
 Emperor. 
 
 jcv. 
 
 That day I did irot hate. 
 
 Nor doubt, nor quail, nor curse. 
 I, reverencing the people, did not 
 
 bate 
 My reverence of their deed and ora- 
 cle, 
 Nor vainly prate 
 
 Of better and of worse 
 Against the great conclusion of their 
 will. 
 And yet, O voice and verse ! 
 Which God set in me to acclaim and 
 
 sing 
 Conviction, exaltation, aspiration. 
 We gave no music to the patent thing, 
 Nor spared a holy rhythm to throb 
 
 and swim 
 About the name of him 
 Translated to the sphere of domina- 
 tion 
 By democratic passion. • 
 I was not used, at least. 
 
 Nor can be, now or then, \ 
 To stroke the ermine beast I 
 On any kind of throne 
 (Though builded by a nation for its 
 own,) 
 And swell the surging choir for kings 
 of men, — 
 " Emperor 
 Evermore." 
 
 But now. Napoleon, now. 
 That, leaving far liehind the purpl0^ 
 throng 
 Of vulgar monarchs, thou 
 Tread'st higher in thy deed 
 Than stair of throne can lead, 
 
 463 
 
464 
 
 POEMS BEFORE CONGRESS. 
 
 To help ill the hour of wrong 
 The broken hearts of nations to be 
 strong, — 
 Now, lifted as thou art 
 To the level of jmre song. 
 We stand to meet thee on these Al- 
 pine snows. 
 And while the palpitating jieaks 
 Ijreak out 
 Ecstatic from somnambular repose, 
 With answers to the iiresence and 
 the shout, 
 We, i"ioets of the people, who take 
 part 
 Witli elemental jiistice, natural 
 right, 
 Join in our echoes also, nor refrain. 
 We meet thee, O Napoleon ! at this 
 height 
 At last, and find thee great enough to 
 
 praise. 
 Receive the poet's chrism, which 
 smells beyond 
 The priest's, aud pass thy ways: 
 An English poet warns thee to main- 
 tain 
 God's word, not England's: let his 
 
 truth be true 
 And all men liars ! with his truth 
 
 respond 
 To all men's lie. Exalt the sword, 
 
 aud smite 
 On that long anvil of the Apennine 
 Where Austria forged the Italian 
 
 chain in view 
 Of seven consenting nations, sparks 
 of fine 
 Admonitory light. 
 Till men's ej'es wink before convic- 
 tions new. 
 Flash in God's justice to the world's 
 
 amaze. 
 Sublime Deliverer ! after many days 
 Found worthy of the deed thou art 
 come to do — 
 Emperor 
 Evermore. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But Italy, my Italy, 
 
 Can it last — this gleam ? 
 Can she live and be strong, 
 
 Or is it another dream. 
 Like the rest we have dreamed so 
 
 long? 
 And shall it, must it, be, 
 That, after the battle-cloud has bro- 
 ken, 
 
 She will die off again 
 
 Like the rain. 
 Or like a poet's song 
 
 Sung of her, sad at the end, 
 Because her name is Italy, — 
 
 Die, and count no friend ? 
 Is it true, may it l)e spoken, 
 
 That she who has lain so still, 
 W^ith a wound in her breast, 
 And a liower in her hand, 
 And a gravestone under her head. 
 
 While every nation at will 
 Beside her has dared to stand, 
 And tiout her with pity and scorn. 
 
 Saying, " She is at rest. 
 She is fair, she is dead, 
 And, leaving room in her stead 
 To L^s who are later born, 
 
 This is certainly best ! " 
 Saying, " Alas, she is fair. 
 Very fair, but dead: give place. 
 And so we have room for the race." 
 — Can it be true, be true. 
 That she lives anew ? 
 That she rises \\\) at the shout of her 
 sons, 
 
 At the trumpet of France, 
 And lives anew ? Is it true 
 
 That she has not moved in a 
 trance, 
 As in Forty-eight? 
 
 When her ej'es were troubled with 
 blood 
 Till she knew not friend from foe, 
 Till her hand was caught in a strait 
 Of her cerement, and bafiled so 
 
 From doing the deed she would ; 
 And her weak foot stumbled across 
 The grave of a king. 
 And down she drojit at heavy loss 
 
 Aud we gloomily covered her face, 
 and said, 
 " We have dreamed the thing: 
 
 She is not alive, but dead." 
 
 VII. 
 
 Now, shall we say 
 
 Our Italy lives indeed ? 
 And, if it were not for the beat and 
 
 bray 
 Of drum and trump of martial men. 
 Should we feel the underground hea^■e 
 
 and strain, 
 Where heroes left their dust as a 
 
 seed 
 Sure to emerge one day ? 
 And, if it were not for the rhythmic 
 
 march 
 
 i 
 
NAPOLEON 11 r. IN ITALY. 
 
 465 
 
 Of 
 
 and 
 
 France and Piedmont's donblo 
 hosts, 
 Should we hear the ghosts 
 Thrill through ruined aisle and areh, 
 
 Throb along the frescoed wall, 
 Whisper an oath by that divine 
 They left in pictni-e, book, 
 stone. 
 That Italy is not dead at all ? 
 Ay, if it were not for the tears in our 
 
 eyes, — 
 These tears of a sudden i^assionate 
 
 joy — 
 
 Shoiild we see her arise 
 From the place where the wicked are 
 
 overthrown, 
 Italy, Italy? loosed at length 
 
 From the tyrant's thrall, 
 I'ale and calm in her strength ? 
 Pale as the silver cross of Savoy 
 AVhen the hand that bears the flag is 
 
 brave. 
 And not a breath is stirring, save 
 
 What is blown 
 Over the war-trump's lip of brass, 
 Ere Garibaldi forces the pass ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Ay, it is so, even so. 
 
 Ay, and it shall be so. 
 Each broken stone that long ago 
 She flung behind her as she went 
 In discouragement and bewilderment 
 Through tlie cairns of Time, and 
 
 missed her way 
 Between to-day and yesterday, 
 
 Up springs a living man. 
 Ancl each man stands with his face in 
 the light 
 
 Of his own drawn sword, 
 Ready to do what a hero can. 
 
 Wall to sap, or river to ford. 
 Cannon to front, or foe to pursue, — 
 Still ready to do, and sworn to be 
 true. 
 
 As a man and a patriot can. 
 
 Piedmontese, Neapolitan, 
 Lombard, Tuscan, Romagnole, 
 Each man's bodj' having a soul, — 
 Count how many they stand. 
 All of them sons of the land. 
 
 Every live man there 
 Allied to a dead man below. 
 
 And the deadest with blood to spare 
 To quicken a living hand 
 In case it should ever be slow. 
 Count how many they come 
 To the beat of Piedmont's drum, 
 
 With faces keener and grayer 
 Than swords of the Austrian slayer. 
 All set against the foe. 
 
 " Emperor 
 
 Evermore." 
 
 IX. 
 
 Out of the dust, where they ground 
 them; 
 Out of the holes, where they dogged 
 them; 
 Out of the hulks, where they wound 
 them 
 In iron, tortured and flogged them; 
 Out of the streets, where they chased 
 them. 
 Taxed them, and then bayonetted 
 them ; 
 Out of the homes, where they spied 
 on them, 
 (Using their daughters and wives;) 
 Out of the church where they fret- 
 ted them. 
 Rotted their souls and debased them. 
 Trained them to answer witli 
 knives. 
 Then cursed them all at their pray- 
 ers; 
 Out of cold lands, not theirs. 
 Where they exiled them, starved 
 
 them, lied on then>, — 
 Back they come like a wind, in vain 
 Cramped up in the hills, that roars 
 its road 
 The stronger into the open plain ; 
 Or like a Are that burns the hotter 
 
 Ami longer for the crust of cinder, 
 Serving better the ends of the potter; 
 Or like a restrained word of God, 
 Fulfilling itself by what seems to 
 hinder. 
 " Emperor ' 
 Evermore." 
 
 Shout for France and Savoy ! 
 
 Shout for the helper and doer. 
 Shout for the good sword's ring. 
 
 Shout for the thought still truer. 
 Shout for the spirits at large 
 Who passed for the dead this spring, 
 
 Whose living glory is sure. 
 Shout for France and Savoy ! 
 Shout for the council and charge ! 
 
 Shout for the head of Cavour; 
 And shout for the heart of a king 
 That's great with a nation's joy. 
 
 Shout for France and Savoy ! 
 
I ^ I ■ I ^ 
 
 4GG 
 
 POEMS BEFORE CONGRESS. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Take up the cliild, Macmahon, though 
 Thy hand 1)6 red 
 From Magenta's dead, 
 And riding on, in front of the troop, 
 
 In the dust of the whirlwind of war, 
 Through the gate of the city of Milan, 
 
 stoop 
 And take up the child to thy saddle- 
 bow, 
 Nor fear the touch as soft as a flower 
 
 of his smile as clear as a star. 
 Thou hast a right to the child, we say, 
 Since the women are weeping for joy 
 
 as they 
 Who, by thy help and from this daj'. 
 
 Shall be happy mothers indeed. 
 They are raining flowers from terrace 
 and roof: 
 Take up the flower in the child. 
 While the shout goes up of a nation 
 freed 
 And heroically self-reconciled. 
 Till the snow on that i^eaked Alp 
 
 aloof 
 Starts, as feeling God's finger anew, 
 And all those cold white marble fires 
 Of mounting saints on the Duomo- 
 spires 
 Flicker against the Blue. 
 " Emperor 
 Evermore." 
 
 XII. 
 
 Ay, it is he. 
 Who rides at the king's right hand ! 
 Leave room to his horse, and draw to 
 the side. 
 Nor press too near iu the ecstasy 
 Of anewly delivered impassioned land. 
 
 He is moved, you see, — 
 He who has done it all. 
 They call it a cold, stern face; 
 
 But this is Italy 
 Who rises up to her place ! — 
 For this he fought in his youth. 
 Of this he dreamed in the past; 
 The lines of the resolute mouth 
 Tremble a little at last. 
 Cry, he has done it all ! 
 " Emperor 
 Evermore." 
 
 XIII. 
 
 It is not strange that he did it. 
 Though the deed may seem to strain 
 
 To the wonderful, unpermitted, 
 For such as lead and reign. 
 
 But he is strange, this man: 
 
 The people's instinct found him 
 (A wind in the dark that ran 
 Through a chink where was no door,) 
 And elected him and crowned him 
 Emperor 
 Evermore. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Autocrat ! let them scoff. 
 
 Who fail to comprehend 
 That a rviler incarnate of 
 
 The people must transcend 
 All common king-born kings. 
 These subterranean springs 
 A sudden outlet winning 
 
 Have special virtues to spend. 
 The people's blood runs through him, 
 
 Dilates from head to foot. 
 
 Creates him absolute, 
 And from this great beginning 
 
 Evokes a greater end 
 To justify and renew him — 
 Emperor 
 Evermore. 
 
 XV. 
 
 What ! did any maintain 
 
 That God or the people (think ! ) 
 
 Could make a marvel in vain? — 
 
 Out of the water-jar there 
 Draw wine that none could drink ? 
 Is this a man like the rest, — 
 
 This mii-acle, made unaware 
 
 By a rapture of popular air, 
 And caught to the place that was 
 
 best ? 
 You think he could barter and cheat 
 
 As vulgar diplomats use, 
 With the people's heart in his breast ? 
 Prate a lie into shape 
 Lest truth should cumber the road ? 
 
 Play at the fast and loose 
 Till the world is strangled with 
 
 tape ? 
 Maim the soul's complete 
 
 To fit the hole of a toad, 
 And filch the dogman's meat 
 
 To feed the offsiDring of God ? 
 
 XVT. 
 
 Nay, but he, this wonder. 
 
 He cannot palter nor prate. 
 Though many around him and under, 
 AVitli intellects trained to the curve, 
 Distrust him in spirit and nerve 
 
 Because his meaning is straight. 
 Measure him, ere he depart, 
 
NAPOLEON III. IN ITALY. 
 
 467 
 
 \ 
 
 1 
 
 T 
 
 With those who have governed and 
 led, — 
 Larger so much by the heart, 
 Larger so much by the liead. 
 Emperor 
 Evermore. 
 
 XVIJ. 
 
 He hohls that, consenting or dissi- 
 dent. 
 Nations m^ist move with tlie time; 
 Assumes that crime with a i^recedent 
 
 Doubles the guilt of the crime; 
 — Denies that a slaver's bond, 
 
 Or a treaty signed by knaves, 
 {Quorum niar/im pars and beyond 
 Was one of an honest name) 
 Gives an inexpugnable claim 
 To abolish men into slaves. 
 Emperor 
 Evermore. 
 
 xviir. 
 
 Ho will not swagger, nor boast 
 
 Of his country's meeds, in a tone 
 Missuiting a great man most. 
 
 If such should speak of his own ; 
 Nor will he act on her side 
 
 From motives baser, indeed. 
 Than a man of a noble pride 
 
 Can avow for himself at need; 
 Never, for lucre or laurels. 
 
 Or custom, though such should be 
 rife. 
 Adapting the smaller morals 
 
 To measure the larger life. 
 He, though the merchants persuade, 
 
 And the soldiers are eager for strife, 
 Finds not his country in quarrels 
 
 Only to find her in trade; 
 ^^'hiIe still he accords her such honor 
 
 As never to flinch for her sake 
 Where men j)ut service upon her, 
 
 Found heavy to iindertake, 
 And scarcely like to be paid; 
 Believing a nation may act 
 
 Unselfishly, shiver a lance 
 (As the least of her sons may, in fact,) 
 
 And not for a cause of finance. 
 Emperor 
 Evermore. 
 
 < 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Great is he 
 Who uses his greatness for all. 
 His name shall stand perpetually 
 
 As a name to applaud and cherish, 
 Not only within the civic wall 
 
 For the loyal, but also without 
 
 For the generous and free. 
 
 Just is he 
 Who is just for the popular due 
 
 As well as the private debt. 
 The praise of nations ready to perish 
 Fall on him, — crown himin view 
 
 Of tyi-auts caught in the net, 
 And statesmen dizzy with fear and 
 
 doubt ! 
 And though, because they are many, 
 
 And he is merely one. 
 And nations selfish and cruel 
 Heap up the inquisitor's fuel 
 
 To kill the body of high intents, 
 And burn great deeds from their 
 
 place. 
 Till this, the greatest of any. 
 
 May seem imperfectly done; 
 
 Courage, whoever circumvents ! 
 Courage, courage, whoever is base ! 
 The soul of a high intent, be it known, 
 Can die no more than any soul 
 Which God keeps by him under 
 
 the throne; 
 And this, at whatever interim. 
 
 Shall live, and be consummated 
 Into the being of deeds made whole. 
 Covirage, courage ! happy is he 
 
 Of whom (himself among the dead 
 
 And silent), this word shall be said: 
 — That he might have had the world 
 with him, 
 
 But chose to side with suffering 
 men. 
 
 And had the 
 when 
 He came to deliver Italy 
 Emperor 
 Evermore. 
 
 world against him 
 
 THE DANCE. 
 
 You remember down at Florence our 
 
 Cascine, 
 Where the people on the feast-days 
 
 walk and drive. 
 And through the trees, long-drawn in 
 
 many a green way, 
 O'er-rooflng hum and murmur like 
 
 a hive, 
 The river and the mountains look 
 
 alive ? 
 
i 
 
 i 
 
 468 
 
 POEMS BEFORE CONGRESS. 
 
 II. 
 
 You remember the piazzone there, tlie 
 
 stand-place 
 Of carriages a-brim with Florence 
 
 lieaiities, 
 Who lean and melt to music as the 
 
 band plays, 
 Or smile and chat with some one 
 
 who afoot is. 
 Or on horseback, in observance of 
 
 male duties ? 
 
 III. 
 
 'Tis so pretty, in the afternoons of 
 summer, 
 
 So many gracious faces brought to- 
 gether ! 
 Call it rout, or call it concert, they 
 have come here, 
 
 In the floating of the fan and of the 
 feather, 
 
 To reciprocate with beauty the line 
 weather. 
 
 IV. 
 
 While the flower-girls offer nosegays 
 (because (hey too 
 Go with other sweets) at every car- 
 riage-door ; 
 Here, by shake of a white finger, 
 signed away to 
 Some next buyer, who sits buying 
 
 score on score, 
 Piling roses upon roses evermore. 
 
 And last season, when the French 
 camp had its station 
 lu the meadow-ground, things 
 quickened and grew gayer 
 Through the mingling of the liberat- 
 ing nation 
 With this people; groups of French- 
 men everywhere, 
 Strolling, gazing, judging lightly — 
 " who was fair." 
 
 VI. 
 
 Then the noblest lady present took 
 
 upon her 
 To speak nobly from her carriage 
 
 for the rest: 
 " Pray these officers from France to 
 
 do us honor 
 By dancing with us straightway." 
 
 The request 
 AVas gravely apprehended as ad- 
 
 drest. 
 
 vir. 
 
 And the men of France bareheaded, 
 bowing lowly, 
 
 Led out each a proud signora to the 
 space 
 Which the startled crowd had round- 
 ed for them — slowh'. 
 
 Just a touch of still emotion in his 
 face, 
 
 Not presuming, through the symbol, 
 on the grace. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 There was silence in the people: some 
 lips trembled, 
 But none jested. Broke the music 
 at a glance; 
 And the daughters of our princes, 
 thus assembled. 
 Stepped the measure with the gal- 
 lant sons of France, 
 Hush ! it might have been a Mass, 
 and not a dance. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And they danced there till the blue 
 
 that overskied us 
 Swooned with passion, though the 
 
 footing seemed sedate; 
 And the mountains, heaving mighty 
 
 hearts beside us. 
 Sighed a rapture in a shadow, to 
 
 dilate, 
 And touch the holy stone where 
 
 Dante sate. 
 
 Then the sons of France bareheaded, 
 lowly bowing. 
 
 Led the ladies back where kinsmen 
 of the south 
 Stood, received them; till, with burst 
 of overflowing 
 
 Feeling, husbands, brothers, Flor- 
 ence's male youth, 
 
 Turned and kissed the martial 
 strangers mouth to mouth. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And a cry went up, — a cry from all 
 that people ! 
 
 — You have heard a peojjle cheer- 
 ing, you suppose. 
 For the member, mayor . . . with 
 chorus from the steeple ? 
 
 This was dilfei-ent, scarce as loiul 
 perhaps (who knoAvs ?) 
 
 For we saw wet eyes around us ere 
 the close. 
 
"f^" 
 
 t' - <{• 
 
 [■■J »s. 
 
 y,. 
 
 
 
 " While the flower-girls oflFer nosegays 
 
 — at every carriage door." — Page 468. 
 
I 
 
 A TALI-: OF VILLAFRANCA. 
 
 469 
 
 i 
 
 And 
 By 
 
 XII. 
 
 \vc felt as if a nation, too long 
 
 home in 
 
 hard wrongers, — comprehend- 
 ing in such attitude 
 That God had spoken somewhere 
 
 since the morning, 
 That men were somehow brothers, 
 
 by no platitude, 
 Cried exultant in great wonder and 
 
 free gratitude. 
 
 A TALE OF yiLLAFRANCA. 
 
 TOLD IX TUSCANY. 
 
 My little son, my Florentine, 
 
 Sit down beside my knee, 
 And I will tell you why the sign 
 
 Of joy Avhich flushed our Italy 
 Has faded since but yesternight. 
 And why your Florence of delight 
 
 Is mourning, as you see. 
 
 ij. 
 A great man (who was crowned one 
 clay) 
 Imagined a great deed: 
 He shajied it out of cloud and clay; 
 He touched it finely, till the seed 
 Possessed the flower; from heart and 
 
 brain 
 He fed it with large thoughts humane, 
 To help a people's need. 
 
 HI. 
 
 He brought it out into the sun: 
 
 They blessed it to his face: 
 " O great pure deed, that hast lui- 
 done 
 
 So many bad and base ! 
 O generous deed, heroic deed. 
 Come forth, be perfected, succeed. 
 
 Deliver by God's grace." 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then sovereigns, statesmen, north and 
 south, 
 
 Hose up in wrath and fear, 
 And cried, protesting by one mouth, 
 
 " What monster have' we here ? 
 A great deed at this hour of day ? 
 A, great just deed, and not for pay ? 
 
 Absurd — or insincere. 
 
 " And if sincere, the heavier blow 
 In that case we shall bear, 
 
 For Where's our blessed ' status quo ' 
 Our holy treaties, where ? 
 
 Our rights to sell a race, or buy. 
 
 Protect and iJillage, occupy. 
 And civilize despair ? " 
 
 VI. 
 
 that 
 
 the great deed 
 
 Some muttered 
 meant 
 A great pretext to sin ; 
 And others, the pretext, so lent, 
 
 Was heinous (to begin). 
 Volcanic terms of "great" and 
 
 "just"? 
 Admit such tongues of flame, the crust 
 Of time and law falls in. 
 
 VII. 
 
 A great deed in this world of ours ? 
 
 Unheard of the pretence is ! 
 It threatens plainly the great Powers, 
 
 Is fatal in all senses. 
 A just deed in the world? — Call out 
 The rifles ! be not slack about 
 
 The national ttefeuces. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And many murmured, " From this 
 source 
 
 Wliat red blood must be poured ! " 
 And some rejoined, " 'Tis even worse: 
 
 What red tape is ignored ! " 
 All cursed the doer for an evil 
 Called here enlarging on the Devil; 
 
 There monkeying the Lord. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Some said it could not be explained; 
 
 Some, could not be excused; 
 And others, " Leave it unrestrained, 
 
 Gehenna's self is loosed." 
 And all cried, " Crush it, maim it. 
 
 gag it, 
 Set dog-toothed lies to tear it ragged. 
 
 Truncated and traduced ! " 
 
 X. 
 
 But He stooil sad before the sun, 
 (The jieoples felt their fate.) 
 
 " 'The world is many; I am one: 
 My great deed was too great. 
 
 God's fruit of justice ripens slow: 
 
 Men's souls are narrow ; let them grow. 
 My brothers, we must wait." 
 
470 
 
 POEMS BEFORE CONGRESS. 
 
 XI. 
 
 The tale is ended, child of mine, 
 Turned graver at my knee. 
 
 They say your eyes, my Florentine, 
 Are English: it may be; 
 
 And yet I've marked as blue a pair 
 
 Following the doves across the square 
 At Venice bv the sea. 
 
 xn. 
 
 All child ! ah child 1 I cannot say 
 A word more. You conceive 
 
 The reason now, why just to-day 
 We see our Florence grieve. 
 
 Ah child, look up into the sky ! 
 
 In this low world, where great deeds 
 die, 
 What matter if we live ? 
 
 A COURT LADY. 
 
 IIer hair was tawny with gold: her 
 eyes with purple were dark ; 
 
 Her cheeks' pale opal burnt with a 
 red and restless spark. 
 
 II. 
 Never was lady of Milan nobler in 
 
 name and in race; 
 Never was lady of Italy fairer to see 
 
 in the face. 
 
 III. 
 
 Never was lady on earth more true 
 
 as woman and wife. 
 Larger in judgment and instinct, 
 
 l)rouder in manners and life. 
 
 IV. 
 
 She stood in the early morning, and 
 said to her maidens, " Bring 
 
 That silken robe made ready to wear 
 at the court of the king- 
 
 " Bring me the clasps of diamond, 
 lucid, clear of the mote; 
 
 Clasji me the large at the waist, and 
 clasp me the small at the throat. 
 
 VI. 
 
 "Diamonds to fasten the hair, and 
 diamonds to fasten the sleeves, 
 
 Laces to drop from their raj's, like a 
 powder of snow from the eaves. ' ' 
 
 VII. 
 
 Gorgeous she entered the sunlight, 
 which gathered her up in a 
 flame, 
 
 While, straight in her open carriage, 
 she to the hospital came. 
 
 vui. 
 
 In she went at the door, and gazing 
 
 , from end to end, 
 "Many and low are the pallets; but 
 each is the jjlace of a friend." 
 
 IX. 
 
 Up she passed through the wards, 
 and stood at a young man's bed: 
 
 Bloody the band on his brow, and 
 Jivid the droop of his head. 
 
 "Art thou a Lomliard, my brother? 
 
 Happy art thou ! " she cried. 
 And smiled like Italy on him: he 
 
 tlreamed in her face — and died. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Pale with his passing soul, she went 
 on still to a second: 
 
 He was a grave hard man, whose 
 years by dungeons were reck- 
 oned. 
 
 xn. 
 
 Wounds in his hody were sore, 
 wounds in his life were sorer. 
 
 "Art thou a Romaguole?" Her 
 eyes drove lightnings before 
 her. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " Austrian and priest had joined to 
 double and tighten the cord 
 
 Able to bind thee, O strong one, free 
 bj' the stroke of a sword. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " Now be grave for the rest of us, 
 
 using the life overcast 
 To ripen our wine of the present 
 
 (too new) in glooms of the 
 
 past." 
 
 i 
 
A COURT LADY. 
 
 471 
 
 XV. 
 
 Down she stepped to a ]iallet wliere 
 
 lay a face like a girl's, 
 Young, and pathetic with dying, — a 
 
 deep black hole in the curls. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 "Art thou from Tuscany, brother? 
 
 and seest thou, dreaming in 
 
 pain. 
 Thy mother stand in the piazza, 
 
 searching the list of the slain ? " 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Kind as a mother herself, she touched 
 his cheeks with her hands: 
 
 " Blessed is she who has borne thee, 
 although she should weep as 
 she stands." 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 On 
 
 she passed to a Frenchman, his 
 arm carried off by a ball: 
 Kneeling, " O more than my brother ! 
 how shall I thank thee for all ? 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " Each of the heroes around us has 
 fought for his land and line ; 
 
 But thou hast fought for a stranger, 
 in hate of a wrong not thine. 
 
 XX. 
 
 " Happy are all free peoples, too 
 strong to be dispossest ; 
 
 But blessed are those among nations 
 who dare to be strong for the 
 rest." 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Ever she passed on her way, and 
 came to a couch where pined 
 
 One with a face from Venetia, white 
 with a hope out of mind. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Long she stood and gazed, and twice 
 
 she tried at the name; 
 But two great crystal tears were all 
 
 that faltered and came. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Only a tear for Venice ? She turned 
 
 as in passion and loss. 
 And stooped to his forehead and 
 
 kissed it, as if she were kissing 
 
 the cross. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Faint with that strain of heart, she 
 moved on then to another. 
 
 Stern and strong in his death. " And 
 dost thou suffer, my brother? " 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Holding his hands in hers: "Out of 
 
 the Piedmont lion 
 Cometh the sweetness of freedom J 
 
 sweetest to live or to die on." 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Holding his cold rough hands: " Well, 
 
 oh, well have ye done 
 In noble, noble Piedmont, who would 
 
 not be noble alone." 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Back he fell vs^hile she spoke. SIk 
 rose to her feet with a spring, 
 
 "That was a Piedmontese ! and this 
 is the court of the King." 
 
 AN AUGUST VOICE. 
 
 ' Una voce augusta." — 
 
 MONITORE TOSCANO. 
 
 You'll take back your Grand-duke ? 
 
 I made the treaty ujion it. 
 Just venture a quiet rebuke; 
 
 Dair Ongaro write him a sonnet; 
 Ricasoli gently explain 
 
 Some need of the constitution: 
 He'll swear to it over again. 
 
 Providing an " easy solution." 
 You'll call back the Grand-duke. 
 
 You'll take back your Grand-duke ? 
 
 I promised the Emperor Francis 
 To argue the case by his book, 
 
 And ask yoix to meet his advances. 
 The ducal cause, we know, 
 
 (Whether you or he be the wronger,} 
 Has very strong points, although 
 
 \'"our bayonets there have stronger, 
 You'll call back the Grand-duke. 
 
 I 
 
472 
 
 POEMS BEFORE CONGRESS. 
 
 III. 
 
 Yoii'll take back your Graiid-rluke ? 
 
 He is not -pwre altogether. 
 For instance, the oath which lie took 
 
 (In the Forty-eight rough weather) 
 He'd " nail yonr flag to his mast," 
 
 Then .softly scuttled the hoat you 
 Hoped to escape in at last. 
 
 And both by a " Proprio motu." 
 You'll call back the Grand-duke. 
 
 IV. 
 
 You'll take back your Grand-duke ? 
 
 The scheme meets nothing to shock 
 it 
 In this smart letter, look, 
 
 We found in Radetsky's pocket; 
 "Where his Highness in sprightly style 
 
 Of the flower of his Tuscans wrote, 
 " These heads be the hottest in file; 
 
 Pray shoot them the quickest." 
 Quote, 
 And call back the Grand-duke. 
 
 V. 
 
 Y^ou'll take back your Grand-duke ? 
 There are some things to object to. 
 He cheated, betrayed, and forsook. 
 Then called in the foe to protect 
 you. 
 He taxed you for win-es and for meats 
 Tiiroughout that eight years' pas- 
 time 
 Of Austria's drum in your streets. 
 Of course j'ou remember the last 
 time 
 You called back your Grand-duke. 
 
 VI. 
 
 You'll take back the Grand-duke ? 
 
 It is not race he is poor in. 
 Although he never could brook 
 
 The patriot cousin at Turin. 
 His love of kin you discern, 
 
 By his hate of your flag and me — 
 So decidedly a))t to turn 
 
 All colors at the sight of the three. i 
 You'll call back the Grand-duke. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Y''ou'll take back your Grand-duke ? 
 
 'Twas weak that he tied from the 
 Pitti; 
 But consider how little he shook 
 
 At thought of bombarding your city! 
 
 1 The Italian tricolor, — red, green, and 
 
 white. 
 
 And, balancing that with this. 
 The Christian rule is plain for us; 
 
 ... Or the Holy Father's Swiss 
 Have shot his Perugians in vain for 
 us. 
 
 You'll call back the Grand-duke. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Praj' take back your Grand-duke. 
 
 — I, too, have suffered jiersuasion. 
 All Europe, raven and rook, 
 
 Screeched at me armed for your 
 nation. 
 Your cause in my heart struck spurs- 
 
 I swept such warnings aside for you : 
 My very child's eyes, and hers. 
 
 Grew like mj^ brother's who died 
 for you. 
 You'll call back the Grand-duke. 
 
 IX. 
 
 You'll take back your Grand-duke ? 
 
 My French fought nolilj- with rea- 
 son, — 
 Left manj' a Lomliardy nook 
 
 Red as with wine out of season. 
 Little we grudged what was done 
 there, 
 
 Paid freely your ransom of blood: 
 Our heroes stark in the sun there. 
 
 We would not recall if we could. 
 You'll call back the Grand-duke. 
 
 X. 
 
 You'll take back your Grand-duke ? 
 
 His son rode fast as he got off 
 That day on the enemj-'s hook, 
 
 When I had an epaulet shot off. 
 Though splashed (as I saw him afar, 
 no, 
 
 Near) by those ghastly rains, 
 The mark, when you've washed hiu) 
 in Arno, 
 
 Will scarcely lie larger than Cain's. 
 You'll call back the Grand-duke. 
 
 XI. 
 
 You'll take back your Grand-duke? 
 
 'Twill be so simple, quite beautiful: 
 The shepherd recovers his crook, 
 
 ... If vou should be sheejj, and 
 dutiful. 
 I spoke a word worth chalking 
 
 On Milan's wall — but staj', 
 Here's Poniatowsky talking, — 
 
 You'll listen to liim to-day. 
 And call back the Grand-duke. 
 
 il 
 
 <> 
 <> 
 
 I 
 
 1 
 
CHRISTMAS GIFTS. 
 
 473 
 
 XII. 
 
 You'll take back your Grand-duke ? 
 
 Observe, there's no one to force it, 
 Unless the Madonna, St. Luke 
 
 Drew for you, choose to indorse it. 
 / charge you by great St. Martino, 
 
 And prodigies quickened by wrong, 
 Remember yoiir dead on Ticino; 
 
 Be worthy, be constant, be strong. 
 — Bah ! — call back the Grand-diike ! 
 
 CHRISTMAS GIFTS. 
 
 Gregory Nazianzen. 
 
 The Pope on Christmas Day 
 
 Sits in St. Peter's chair; 
 But the peoples murmur, and say, 
 
 "Our souls are sick and forlorn, 
 And who will show us where 
 
 Is the stable where Christ was 
 born?" 
 
 n. 
 
 The star is lost in the dark; 
 
 The manger is lost in the straw: 
 The Christ cries faintly . . . hark ! — 
 
 Through bands that swaddle and 
 strangle — 
 But the Pope in the chair of awe 
 
 Looks down the great quadrangle. 
 
 III. 
 
 The magi kneel at his foot, 
 
 Kings of the east and west; 
 But, instead of the angels (mute 
 Is the " Peace on earth " of their 
 song). 
 The peoples, perplexed and opprest, 
 Are sighing, " How long ! how 
 long ! " 
 
 IV. 
 
 And, instead of the kine, bewilder in 
 Shadow of aisle and dome, 
 
 The bear who tore up the children, 
 The fox who burnt up the corn. 
 
 And the wolf who suckled at Rome 
 Brothers to slav and to scorn. 
 
 Cardinals left and right of him. 
 
 Worshippers round and beneath. 
 The silver trumpets at sight of him, 
 
 Thrill with a musical blast: 
 But the people say through their 
 teeth, 
 " Trumpets ? we wait for the 
 Last ! " 
 
 VI. 
 
 He sits in the place of the Lord, 
 And asks for the gifts of the time, — 
 
 Gold, for the haft of a sword, 
 To win back Romagna averse, 
 
 Incense to sweeten a crime, 
 And myrrh to imbitter a curse. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Then a king of the west said, " Good I 
 I bring thee the gifts of the time, — 
 Red, for the patriot's blood; 
 
 Green, for the martyr's crown; 
 "White for the dew and the rime. 
 When the morning of God comes 
 down." 
 
 vni. 
 
 — O mystic tricolor bright ! 
 
 The Pope's heart quailed like a 
 man's: 
 The cardinals froze at the sight. 
 
 Bowing their tonsures hoary; 
 And the eyes in the peacock-fans 
 
 Winked at the alien glory. 
 
 IX. 
 
 But the peoples exclaimed in hope, 
 " Now blessed be he who has 
 brought 
 These gifts of the time to the Pope, 
 When our souls were sick and for- 
 lorn; 
 
 — And here is the star we sought. 
 
 To show us where Christ was 
 born ! " 
 
 ITALY AND THE WORLD. 
 
 Florence, Bologna, Parma, Modena, 
 When you named them a year ago. 
 
 So many graves reserved by God, in a 
 Day of Judgment, you seemed to 
 know, 
 
 To open and let out the resurrection. 
 
 h 
 
474 
 
 POEMS BEFORE CONGRESS. 
 
 II. 
 
 And meantime (you made yonr reflec- 
 tion, 
 If you were Englisli) was nought to 
 be done 
 But sorting sables, in predilection 
 
 For all those martyrs dead and gone, 
 Till the new earth and heaven made 
 ready. 
 
 III. 
 
 And if your politics were not heady, 
 Violent . . . "Good," you added, 
 " good 
 In all things ! mourn on sure and 
 steady. 
 Churchyard thistles are wholesome 
 food 
 For our European wandering asses. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " The date of the resurrection passes 
 Human foreknowledge: men un- 
 born 
 Will gain by it (even in the lower 
 classes) ; 
 But none of these. It is not the 
 morn 
 Because the cock of France is crow- 
 ing. 
 
 V. 
 
 " Cocks crow at midnight, seldom 
 knowing 
 Starlight from dawn-light. 'Tis a 
 mad 
 Poor creature." Here you paused, 
 and growing 
 Scornful, suddenly, let us add. 
 The trumpet sounded, the graves 
 were open. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Life and life and life ! agrope in 
 The dusk of death, warm hands 
 stretched out 
 For swords, proved more life still to 
 hope in, 
 Beyond and behind. Arise with a 
 shout. 
 Nation of Italy, slain and buried ! 
 
 vu. 
 Hill to hill, and turret to turret. 
 Flashing the tricolor, — newly cre- 
 ated 
 Beautiful Italy, calm, unhurried, 
 
 Rise heroic and renovated, 
 Rise to the final restitution. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Rise ; prefigure the grand solution 
 Of earth's municipal, insular 
 schisms. 
 Statesmen draping self-love's conclu- 
 sion 
 In cheap vernacular patriotisms. 
 Unable to give up Judfea for Jesus. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Bring us the higher example; release 
 us 
 Into the larger coming time; 
 And into Christ's broad garment 
 piece us 
 Rags of virtue as poor as crime, 
 National selfishness, civic vaunting. 
 
 X. 
 
 No more Jew nor Greek then, taunt- 
 ing 
 Nor taunted; no more England nor 
 France ! 
 But one confederate brotherhood 
 planting 
 One flag only to mark the advance. 
 Onward and upward, of all humanity 
 
 XI. 
 
 For civilization perfected 
 
 Is fully developed Christianity. 
 "Measure the frontier," shall it be 
 said, 
 " Count the ships," in national 
 vanity ? 
 — Count the nation's heart-beats 
 sooner. 
 
 XII. 
 
 For, though behind by a cannon or 
 schooner. 
 That nation still is predominant. 
 Whose pulse beats quickest in zeal to 
 oppugn or 
 Succor another, in wrong or want, 
 Passing the frontier in love and ab- 
 horrence. 
 
 xui. 
 
 Modena, Parma, Bologna, Florence, 
 
 Open us out the wider way ! 
 Dwarf in that chapel of old St. Law- 
 rence 
 Your Michel Angelo's giant Day, 
 With the grandeur of this Day break- 
 ing o'er us ! 
 
 I ^ I ■ I 1^ 
 
ITALY AND THE WORLD. 
 
 475 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Ye who, restrained as an ancient 
 chorus, 
 
 Mute while the coryphfeus spake, 
 Hush your separate voices before us, 
 
 Sink your separate lives for the sake 
 Of one sole Italy's living forever ! 
 
 XV. 
 
 Givers of coat and cloak too, — never 
 Grudging that purple of yours at 
 the best, — 
 By your heroic will and endeavor 
 
 Each sublimely dispossest, 
 That all may inherit what each sur- 
 renders ! 
 
 xvi. 
 
 Earth shall bless you, O noble emend- 
 ers 
 On egotist nations ! Ye shall lead 
 The plough of the world, and sow 
 new splendors 
 Into the furrow of things for seed, 
 Ever the richer for what ye have 
 given. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Lead us and teach us, till earth and 
 heaven 
 Grow larger around us, and higher 
 above. 
 Our sacrament bread has a bitter 
 leaven; 
 We bait our traps with the name of 
 love. 
 Till hate itself has a kinder meaning. 
 
 XVIIl. 
 
 Oh, this world: this cheating, and 
 screening 
 Of cheats ! this conscience for can- 
 dle-wicks, 
 Not beacon-fires ! this over-weening 
 Of underhand diplomatical tricks. 
 Dared for the country while scorned 
 for the counter ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Oh, this envy of those who mount 
 here, 
 And oh, this malice to make them 
 trip ! 
 Rather quenching the Are there, diy- 
 ing the fount here, , 
 
 To frozen body and thirsty lip, 
 Than leave to a neighbor their minis- 
 tration. 
 
 XX. 
 
 I cry aloud in my poet-passion, 
 Viewing my England o'er Alp and 
 sea. 
 I loved her more in her ancient fash- 
 ion: 
 She carries her rifles too thick for 
 me, 
 Who spares them so in the cause of a 
 brother. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Suspicion, jianic ? end this pother. 
 The sword kept sheathless at peace- 
 time rusts. 
 None fears for himself while he feels 
 for another: 
 The brave man either fights or 
 trusts, 
 And wears no mail in his private 
 chamber. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Beautiful Italy ! golden amber 
 Warm with the kisses of lover and 
 traitor ! 
 Thou who hast drawn us on to re- 
 member. 
 Draw us to hope now: let us be 
 greater 
 By this new future than that old 
 story, 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Till truer glory replaces all glory. 
 As the torch grows blind at the 
 dawn of day; 
 And the nations, rising up, their 
 sorry 
 And foolish sins shall put away, 
 As children their toys when the 
 teacher enters. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Till Love's one centre devour these 
 centres 
 Of many self-loves; and the patri- 
 ot's trick 
 
 To better his land by egotist ven- 
 tures, 
 Defamed from a virtue, shall make 
 men sick. 
 
 As the scalp at the belt of some red 
 hero. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 For certain virtues have dropped to 
 zero, 
 Left by the sun on the mountain's 
 dewv side; 
 
 I 
 
476 
 
 POEMS BEFORE CONGRESS. 
 
 Churchmau's charities, tender as 
 
 Nero, 
 Indian suttee, heathen suicide, 
 Service to rights divine proved hol- 
 
 lovr: 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 And Heptarchy patriotisms must fol- 
 low. 
 — National voices, distinct yet de- 
 pendent. 
 
 Ensphering each other, as swallow- 
 does swallow, 
 With circles still widening and 
 ever ascendent. 
 
 In multiform life to united progres- 
 sion, — 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 These shall remain. And when in 
 the session 
 Of nations, the separate language is 
 heard, 
 Each shall aspire, in sublime indis- 
 cretion, ' 
 To help with a thought or exalt 
 with a word 
 Less her own than her rival's honor. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Each Christian nation shall take upon 
 
 her 
 The law of the Christian man in 
 
 vast: 
 The crown of the getter shall fall to 
 
 the donor. 
 And last shall be first while first 
 
 shall be last, 
 And to love best shall still be to reign 
 
 unsurpassed. 
 
 A CURSE FOR A NATION. 
 
 PKOLOGUE. 
 
 I HEAKD an angel speak last night, 
 
 And he said, " Write ! — 
 Write a nation's curse for me. 
 And send it over the Western Sea." 
 
 I faltered, taking up the word: 
 
 " Not so, my lord ! 
 If curses must be, choose another 
 To send thy curse against my brother, 
 
 " For I am bound by gratitude. 
 
 By love and blood. 
 To brothers of mine across the sea, 
 Who stretch out kindly hands to me." 
 
 " Therefore," the voice said, " shalt 
 
 thou write 
 My curse to-night. 
 From the summits of love a curse is 
 
 driven, 
 As lightning is from the tops of 
 
 heaven." 
 
 " Not so," I answered. " Evermore 
 
 My heart is sore 
 For my own land's sins: for little 
 
 feet 
 Of children bleeding along the street: 
 
 " For parked-up honors that gainsay 
 
 The right of way : 
 For almsgiving through a door that is 
 Not open enough for two friends to 
 kiss: 
 
 " For love of freedom which abates 
 
 Beyond the Straits: 
 For patriot virtue starved to vice on 
 Self-praise, self-interest, and suspi- 
 cion: 
 
 " For an oligarchic parliament, 
 And bribes well-meant. 
 What curse to another land assign, 
 When heavy-sou led for the sins of 
 
 mine 
 
 9" 
 
 " Therefore," the voice said, " shalt 
 
 thou write 
 My curse to-night. 
 Because thou hast strength to see and 
 
 hate 
 A foul thing done loithin thy gate." 
 
 " Not so," I answered once again. 
 
 " To curse choose men. 
 For I, a woman, have only known 
 How the heart melts, and the tears 
 run down." 
 
 " Therefore," the voice said, " shalt 
 thou write 
 My curse to-night. 
 Some women weep and curse, I say, 
 (And no one marvels) night and day. 
 
 " And thou shalt take their jjart to- 
 night, 
 Weep and write. 
 
A CURSE FOR A NATION. 
 
 A curse from the depths of woman- 
 hood 
 Is very salt, and bitter, and good." 
 
 So thus I wrote, and mourned indeed, 
 
 What all may read. 
 And thus as was enjoined on me, 
 I send it over the Western Sea. 
 
 THE CURSE. 
 
 Because ye have broken your own 
 chain 
 With the strain 
 Of brave men climbing a nation's 
 
 height. 
 Yet thence bear down with brand and 
 
 thong 
 On souls of others, — for this wrong 
 This is the curse. Write. 
 
 Because yourselves are standing 
 straight 
 In the state 
 Of Freedom's foremost acolyte, 
 Yet keep calm footing all the time 
 On writhing bond-slaves, — for this 
 crime 
 This is the curse. Write. 
 
 Because ye prosper in God's name, 
 
 With a claim 
 To honor in the old world's sight. 
 Yet do the fiend's work perfectly 
 In strangling martyrs, — for this lie 
 
 "This is the curse. Write. 
 
 II. 
 
 Ye shall watch while kings conspire 
 Round the people's smouldering fire. 
 
 And, warm for your part. 
 Shall never dare — O shame ! 
 To utter the thought into flame 
 
 Which burns at your heart. 
 
 This is the curse. Write. 
 
 Ye shall watch while nations strive 
 With the bloodhounds, die or survive, 
 Drop faint from their jaws, 
 
 Or throttle them backward to death ; 
 And only under your breath 
 Shall favor the cause. 
 
 This is the curse. Write. 
 
 Ye shall watch while strong men 
 
 draw 
 The nets of feudal law 
 
 To strangle the weak; 
 And, counting the sin for a sin, 
 Your soul shall be sadder within 
 Thau the word ye shall speak. 
 This is the curse. Write. 
 
 When good men are praying erect 
 That Christ may avenge his elect. 
 
 And deliver the earth. 
 The prayer in your ears, said low, 
 Shall sound like the tramp of a foe 
 
 That's driving you forth. 
 
 This is the curse. Write. 
 
 When wise men give you their 
 
 praise. 
 They shall pause in the heat of the 
 phrase. 
 As if carried too far. 
 When ye boast your own charters 
 
 kept true. 
 Ye shall blush; for the thing which ye 
 do 
 Derides what ye are. 
 
 This is the curse. Write. 
 
 When fools cast taunts at your gate. 
 Your scorn ye shall somewhat abate 
 
 As ye look o'er the wall: 
 For your conscience, tradition, and 
 
 name 
 Explode with a deadlier blame 
 Than the worst of them all. 
 
 This is the curse. Write. 
 
 Go, wherever ill deeds shall be 
 
 done, 
 Go, i^lant your flag in the sun 
 
 Beside the ill-doers ! 
 And recoil from clenching the curse 
 Of God's witnessing Universe 
 With a curse of yours. 
 
 This is the curse. Write. 
 
LAST POEMS. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 A few 
 
 These poems are given as they occur on a list drawn up last June. 
 had already been printed in periodicals. 
 
 There is hardly such direct warrant for publishing the translations, which 
 were only intended, many years ago, to accompany and explain certain 
 engravings after ancient gems, in the projected work of a friend, by whose 
 kindness they are now recovered; but, as two of the original series (the 
 "Adonis" of Bion, and "Song to the Rose," from Achilles Tatius) have 
 subsequently appeared, it is presumed that the remainder may not improp- 
 erly follow. 
 
 A single recent version is added. 
 
 London, February, 1862. 
 
 LITTLE MATTIE 
 
 I. 
 Dead ! Thirteen a month ago ! 
 
 Short and narrow her life's walk* 
 Lover's love she could not know 
 
 Even by a dream or talk : 
 Too young to be glad of youth. 
 
 Missing honor, labor, rest. 
 And the warmth of a babe's mouth 
 
 At the blossom of her breast. 
 ]\Iust you pity her for this 
 And for all the loss it is. 
 You, her mother, with wet face, 
 Having had all in your case " 
 
 II. 
 
 Just so young but yesternight, 
 
 Now she is old as death. 
 Meek, obedient in your sight. 
 
 Gentle to a beck or breath 
 Only on last Monday ! Yours, 
 
 Answering you lilie silver bells 
 Lightly touched ! An hour matures: 
 
 You can teach her nothing else. 
 She has seen the mystery hid 
 Under Egypt's pyramid: 
 By those eyelids pale and close 
 Now she knows what Rhamses knows. 
 
 478 
 
 III. 
 Cross her quiet hands, and smooth 
 
 Down her patient locks of silk. 
 Cold and passive as in truth 
 
 You your fingers in spilt milk 
 Drew along a marble floor; 
 
 But her lips you cannot wring 
 Into saying a word more, 
 
 " Yes," or " No," or such a thing: 
 Though you call and beg and wreak 
 Half your soul out in a shriek, 
 She will lie there in default 
 And most innocent revolt. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ay, and if she spoke, may be 
 She would answer like the Son, 
 
 " What is now 'twixt thee and me ? '' 
 Dreadful answer ! better none. 
 
 Yours on Monday, God's to-day ! 
 Y'ours, your child, your blood, your 
 
 Called . . .' you called her, did you 
 say, 
 " Little Mattie " for your part ? 
 Now already it sounds strange. 
 And you wonder, in this change, 
 What He calls his angel-creature. 
 Higher up than you can reach her. 
 
i 
 
 VOID IN LAW. 
 
 479 
 
 'Twas a green and easy world 
 
 As she took it; room to play, 
 (Though one's hair might get uncurled 
 
 At the far end of the day). 
 What she suffered she shook off 
 
 In the sunshine: what she sinned 
 She could pray on high enough 
 
 To keep safe above the wind. 
 If reproved by God or you, 
 'Twas to l)etter her, she knew; 
 And, if crossed, she gathered still 
 'Twas to cross out something ill. 
 
 VI. 
 
 You, you had the right, you thought, 
 
 To survey her with sweet scorn, 
 Poor gay child, who had not caught 
 
 Yet the octave-stretch forlorn 
 Of your larger wisdom ! Nay, 
 
 Now your places are changed so. 
 In that'same superior way 
 
 She regards you dull and low 
 As you did herself exempt 
 From life's sorrows. Grand contempt 
 Of the spirits risen a while. 
 Who look back with such a smile ' 
 
 VII. 
 
 There's the sting oft. That, I think. 
 
 Hurts the most a thousand-fold ! 
 To feel sudden, at a wink. 
 
 Some dear child we used to scold, 
 Praise, love both ways, kiss and tease, 
 
 Teach, and tumble as our own 
 All its curls about our knees. 
 
 Rise up suddenly full-grown. 
 AYho could wonder such a sight 
 Made a woman mad outright ? 
 Show me Michael with the sword 
 Rather than such angels, Lord ? 
 
 A FALSE STEP. 
 
 Sweet, thou hast trod on a heart. 
 
 Pass; there's a world full of men; 
 And women as fair as thou art 
 
 Must do such things now and then. 
 
 II. 
 
 Thou only hast stepped unaware ; 
 Malice, not one can impute ; 
 
 And why should a heart have been 
 there, 
 In the way of a fair woman's foot ? 
 
 III. 
 
 It was not a stone that could trip, 
 Nor was it a thorn that could rend: 
 
 Put up thy proud underlii^ ! 
 'Twas merely the heart of a friend. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And yet, peradventure, one day 
 Thou, sitting alone at the glass. 
 
 Remarking the bloom gone away, 
 Where the smile in its dimplement 
 v,'as, 
 
 V. 
 
 be^ 
 
 And seeking around thee in vain. 
 From hundreds who flattered 
 fore, 
 
 Such a word as, " Oh, not in the main 
 Do I hold thee less precious, but 
 
 more 
 
 I " 
 
 VI. 
 
 Thou'lt sigh, very like, on thy part, 
 " Of all I have known or can know, 
 
 I wish I had only that heart 
 I trod upon ages ago ! " 
 
 VOID IN LAW 
 
 Sleep, little babe, on my knee. 
 
 Sleep, for the midnight is chill, 
 And the moon has dietl out in the 
 tree. 
 And the great human world goeth 
 ill. 
 Sleep, for the wicked agree : 
 
 Sleep, let them do as they will. 
 Sleep. 
 
 II. 
 
 Sleep, thou hast drawn from my 
 breast 
 The last drop of milk that was good. 
 And now, in a dream, suck the rest. 
 Lest the real should trouble thy 
 blood. 
 Suck, little lips dispossest, 
 As we kiss iu the air whom wc 
 would. 
 Sleep. 
 
480 
 
 LAST POEMS. 
 
 III. 
 
 lips of thy father ! the same, 
 
 So like! Very deeply they swore 
 When he gave me his ring and his 
 name, 
 To take back, I imagined, no more ! 
 And now is all changed like a game, 
 Though the old cards are used as of 
 yore ? 
 Sleep. 
 
 ir. 
 
 "Void in law," said the courts. 
 Something wrong 
 In the forms ? Yet, " till death part 
 us two, 
 
 1 James take thee Jessie," was 
 
 strong, 
 And One witness competent. True 
 Such a marriage was worth an old 
 song, 
 Heard in heaven, though, as plain 
 as the New. 
 Sleep. 
 
 Sleep, little child, his and mine ! 
 
 Her throat has the antelope curve, 
 And her cheek just the color and line 
 Which fade not before him nor 
 
 swerve; 
 Yet she has no child ! the divine 
 Seal of right upon loves that de- 
 serve. 
 Sleep. 
 
 VI. 
 
 My child ! though the world take her 
 
 part. 
 Saying, " She was the woman to 
 
 choose, 
 He had eyes, was a man in his heart," 
 
 We twain the decision refuse; 
 We . . . weak as I am, as thou art. 
 
 Cling on to him, never to loose. 
 Sleep. 
 
 VII. 
 
 He thinks, that, when done with this 
 place, 
 All's ended ? he'll new-stamp the 
 ore ? 
 Yes, Cfesar's — but not in our case. 
 
 Let him learn we are waiting before 
 The grave's mouth, the heaven's gate, 
 God's face. 
 With imj)lacable love evermore. 
 Sleep. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 He's ours, though he kissed her but 
 now; 
 He's ours, though she kissed in re- 
 ply; 
 He's ours, though himself disavow. 
 
 And God's universe favor the lie, — 
 Ours to claim, ours to clasp, ours be- 
 low. 
 Ours above, ... if we live, if we 
 die. 
 Sleep. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Ah, baby, my baby, too rough 
 Is my lullaby ? What have I said ? 
 
 Sleep ! When I've wept long enough 
 I shall learn to weep softly instead. 
 
 And piece with some alien stuff 
 My heart to lie smooth for thy head. 
 
 Sleep. 
 
 X. 
 
 Two souls met upon thee, my sweet; 
 
 Two loves led thee out to the sun: 
 Alas, pretty hands, pretty feet. 
 
 If the one who remains (only one) 
 Set her grief at thee, turned in a heat 
 
 To thine enemy — were it well done ? 
 Sleep. 
 
 XI. 
 
 May He of the manger stand near 
 And love thee ! An infant he came 
 
 To his own who rejected him here. 
 But the Magi brought gifts all the 
 same. 
 
 / hurry the cross on my dear ! 
 My gifts are the griefs I declaim ! 
 
 Sleep. 
 
 LORD WALTER'S WIFE. 
 
 " But why do you go ? " said the 
 
 lady, while both sate under the 
 
 yew. 
 And her eyes were alive in their 
 
 depth, as the kraken beneath 
 
 the sea-blue. 
 
 II. 
 
 "Because I fear you," he answered; 
 
 " because you are far too fair. 
 And able to strangle my soul in a 
 
 mesh of your gold-colored hair." 
 
 I ^ I ■ I 1^ 
 
LORD WALTERS WIFE. 
 
 481 
 
 III. 
 
 XI. 
 
 " Oh, that," she said, " is no reason. 
 
 Such knots are quickly undone, 
 And too much beauty, I reckon, is 
 
 nothing but too much sun." 
 
 IV. 
 
 "Yet farewell so," he answered: 
 " the sun-stroke's fatal at times. 
 
 I value your husband, Lord Walter, 
 whose gallop rings still from 
 the limes." 
 
 V. 
 
 "Oh, that," she said, "is no reason. 
 
 You smell a rose through a 
 
 fence : 
 If two should smell it, what matter? 
 
 who grumbles ? and where's the 
 
 pretence ?" 
 
 VI. 
 
 " But I," he replied, "have promised 
 another, when love was free. 
 
 To love her alone, alone, who alone 
 and afar loves me." 
 
 vii. 
 
 " Why, that," she said, " is no reason. 
 
 Love's always free, I am told. 
 Will you vow to be safe from the 
 
 headache on Tuesday, and 
 
 think it will hold ? " 
 
 VIII. 
 
 "But you," he replied, "have a 
 
 daughter, a young little child, 
 
 who was laid 
 In your lap to be pure; so I leave 
 
 you: the angels would make 
 
 me afraid." 
 
 IX. 
 
 "Oh, that," she said, "is no reason. 
 •The angels keep out of the way; 
 
 And Dora, the child, observes noth- 
 ing, although you should please 
 me and stay." 
 
 At which he rose up in his anger. 
 
 " Why, now you no longer are 
 
 fair ! 
 Why, now you no longer are fatal, 
 
 but ugly and hateful, I swear." 
 
 At 
 
 which she laughed out in her 
 scorn: "These men! oh, these 
 men overnice. 
 Who are shocked if a color not virtu- 
 ous is frankly put on by a vice." 
 
 XII. 
 
 Her eyes blazed upon him: "And 
 
 you ! You bring us your vices 
 
 so near 
 That we smell them ! You think in 
 
 our presence a thought 'twould 
 
 defame us to hear ! 
 
 xui. 
 
 " What reason had you, and what 
 right, — I appeal to your soul 
 from my life, — 
 
 To find me too fair as a woman? 
 Why, sir, I am pure, and a wife. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " Is the day star too fair up above 
 
 you ? It burns you not. Dare 
 
 you imply 
 I brushed you more close than the 
 
 star does, when Walter had set 
 
 me as high ? 
 
 XV, 
 
 " If a man finds a woman too fair, he 
 means simply adapted too much 
 
 To uses unlawful and fatal. The 
 praise! — shall I thank you for 
 such? 
 
 XVI. 
 
 "Too fair? Not unless you misuse 
 
 us ? and surely, if once in a 
 
 while 
 You attain to it, straightway you call 
 
 us no longer too fair, but too 
 
 vile. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " A moment, — I pray your attention ! 
 
 — I have a poor word in my 
 
 head 
 I must utter, though womanly custom 
 
 would set it down better un- 
 said. 
 
 xvni. 
 " You grew, sir, pale to impertinence, 
 
 once when I showed you a ring. 
 You kissed my fan when I dropped 
 
 it. No matter ! — I've broken 
 
 the thing. 
 
LAST POEMS. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " You did me the honor, perhaps, to 
 
 be moved at my side now and 
 
 then 
 In the senses, — a vice, I have heard, 
 
 which is common to beasts and 
 
 some men. 
 
 XX. 
 
 " Love's a virtue for heroes ! — as 
 white as the snow on high hills. 
 
 And immortal, as every great soul is 
 that struggles, endures, and ful- 
 fils. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 I 
 
 love my "Walter profoundly, — 
 you, Maude, though you faltered 
 a week. 
 For the sake of . . . what was it ? an 
 eyebrow? or, less still, a mole 
 on a cheek ? 
 
 XXII. 
 
 " And since, when all's said, you're 
 too noble to stoop to the frivo- 
 lous cant 
 
 About crimes irresistible, virtues that 
 swindle, betray, and supplant, 
 
 xxni. 
 
 " I determined to prove to yourself, 
 that, whate'er you might dream 
 or avow 
 
 By illusion, you wanted precisely no 
 more of me than you have now. 
 
 xxrv. 
 
 " There ! Look me full in the face ! 
 
 — in the face. Understand, if 
 
 you can, 
 That the eyes of such women as I am 
 
 are clean as the palm of a man. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 " Drop his hand, you insult him. 
 
 Avoid us for fear we should 
 
 cost you a scar — 
 You take us for harlots, I tell you, 
 
 and not for the women we are. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 "You wronged me; but then I con- 
 sidered . . . there's "Walter ! 
 And so at the end. 
 
 I vowed that he should not be 
 mulcted by me in the hand of 
 a friend. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 "Have I hurt you indeed? "We are 
 
 quits, then. Nay, friend of my 
 
 Walter, be mine ! 
 Come Dora, my darling, my angel, 
 
 and help me to ask him to 
 
 dine." 
 
 BIANCA AMONG THE 
 NIGHTINGALES. 
 
 The cypress stood up like a church 
 That night we felt our love would 
 hold, 
 And saintly moonlight seemed to 
 search 
 And wash the whole world clean as 
 gold; 
 The olives crystallized the vales' 
 Broad slopes until the hills grew 
 strong; 
 The fireflies and the nightingales 
 Throbbed each to either, flame and 
 song. 
 The nightingales, the nightingales. 
 
 II. 
 
 Upon the angle of its shade 
 The cypress stood, self-balanced 
 high; 
 Half up, half down, as double-made. 
 Along the ground, against the sky. 
 And we, too ! from such soul-height 
 went 
 Such leaps of blood, so blindly 
 driven, 
 "We scarce knew if our nature meant 
 Most passionate earth or intense 
 heaven. 
 The nightingales, the nightingales. 
 
 III. 
 We i^aled with love, we shook with 
 love. 
 We kissed so close we could not 
 vow; 
 Till Giulio whispered, " Sweet, above 
 God's Ever guarantees this Now." 
 
i 
 
 BIANCA AMONG THE NIGHTINGALES. 
 
 483 
 
 And through his words the nightin- 
 gales 
 Drove straight and full their long, 
 clear call, 
 Like arrows through heroic mails, 
 
 And love was awful in it all. 
 The nightingales, the nightingales. 
 
 IV. 
 
 O cold, white moonlight of the north, 
 Refresh these pulses, quench this 
 hell! 
 O coverture of death drawn forth 
 Across this garden-chamber . . 
 well ! 
 But what have nightingales to do 
 In gloomy England, called the 
 free . . . 
 (Yes, free to die in ! . . .) when we 
 two 
 Are sundered, singing still to me ? 
 And still they sing, the nightingales. 
 
 I think I hear him, how he cried 
 " My own soul's life " between their 
 notes. 
 Each man has but one soul supplied. 
 And that's immortal. Though his 
 throat's 
 On fire with jiassion now, to her 
 
 He can't say what to me he said ! 
 And yet he moves her, they aver. 
 The nightingales sing through my 
 head. 
 The nightingales, the nightingales. 
 
 VI. 
 
 He says to her what moves her most. 
 He would not name his soul with- 
 in 
 Her hearing; rather pays her cost 
 
 With praises to her lips and chin. 
 Man has but one soul, 'tis ordained. 
 And each soul but one love, I add; 
 Yet souls are damned, and love's pro- 
 faned. 
 These nightingales will sing me 
 mad ! 
 The nightingales, the nightingales. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I marvel how the birds can sing. 
 
 There's little difference, in their 
 .view, 
 Betwixt our Tuscan trees that spring 
 
 As vital flames into the blue, 
 
 And dull, round blots of foliage meant 
 Like saturated sjionges here 
 
 To suck the fogs up. As content 
 Is he, too, in this land, tis clear. 
 
 And still they sing, the nightingales. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 My native Florence ! dear, foregone ! 
 
 I see across the Alpine ridge 
 How the last feast-day of St. John 
 
 Shot rockets from Carraia bridge. 
 The luminous city, tall with fire. 
 
 Trod deep down in that river of ours, 
 "While many a boat with lamp ami 
 choir 
 
 Skimmed birdlike over glittering 
 towers. 
 I will not hear these nightingales. 
 
 IX. 
 
 I seem to float, we seem to float, 
 Down Arno's stream in festive 
 guise; 
 A boat strikes flame into our boat. 
 
 And up that lady seems to rise 
 As then she rose. The shock had 
 flashed 
 A vision on us ! What a head ! 
 What leaping eyeballs ! — beauty 
 dashed 
 To splendor by a sudden dread. 
 And still they sing, the nightingales. 
 
 X. 
 
 Too bold to sin, too weak to die: 
 
 Such women are so. As for me, 
 I would we had drowned there, he 
 and I, 
 
 That moment, loving jierfectly. 
 He had not caught her with her loosed 
 
 Gold ringlets . . . rarer in the 
 south . . . 
 Nor heard the " Grazie tan to " bruised 
 
 To sweetness by her English mouth. 
 And still they sing, the nightingales. 
 
 XI. 
 
 She had not reached him at my heart 
 
 With her fine tongue, as snakes in- 
 deed 
 Kill flies; nor had I, fur my ])art, 
 
 Yearned after, in my desperate 
 need. 
 And followed him, as he did her. 
 
 To coasts left bitter by the tide, 
 Whose very nightingales, elsewhere 
 
 Delighting, torture and deride ! 
 For still they sing, the nightingales. 
 
484 
 
 LAST POEMS. 
 
 XII. 
 
 A worthless woman, mere cold clay, 
 
 As all false things are; but so fair, 
 She takes the breath of men away 
 
 Who gaze upon her unaware. 
 I would not play her larcenous tricks 
 
 To have her looks I She lied and 
 stole, 
 And spat into my love's pure pyx 
 
 The rank saliva of her soul. 
 And still they sing, the nightingales. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 I would not for her white and jnnk, 
 Though such he likes; her grace of 
 limb, 
 Though such he has praised ; nor yet, 
 I think, 
 rot life itself, though spent with 
 him, — 
 Commit such sacrilege, affront 
 
 God's nature which is love, intrude 
 'Twixt two affianced souls, and hunt 
 
 Like spiders in the altar's wood. 
 I cannot bear these nightingales. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 If she chose sin, some gentler guise 
 
 She might have sinned in, so it 
 seems: 
 She might have pricked out both my 
 eyes. 
 
 And I still seen him in my dreams ! 
 — Or drugged me in my soup or wine. 
 
 Nor left me angry afterward: 
 To die here with his hand in mine. 
 
 His breath upon me, were not hard. 
 (Our Lady hush these nightingales !) 
 
 XV. 
 
 But set a springe for him, " mio ben;" 
 
 My only good, my first, last love ! 
 Though Christ knows well what sin 
 is, when 
 
 He sees some things done, they must 
 move 
 Himself to wonder. Let her pass. 
 
 I think of her by night and day. 
 Must /, too, join her . . . out, alas ! . . . 
 
 With Giulio, in each word I say ? 
 And evermore the nightingales ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Giulio, my Giulio ! — sing they so, 
 And you be silent ? Do I speak, 
 
 And you not hear? An arm you 
 throw 
 Round some one, and I feel so 
 weak ? 
 — O owl-like birds ! They sing for 
 spite, 
 They sing for hate, they sing for 
 doom , 
 They'll sing through death who sing 
 through night. 
 They'll sing, and stun me in the 
 tomb — 
 The nightingales, the nightingales ! 
 
 MY KATE. 
 
 She was not as pretty as women I 
 know; 
 
 And yet all your best, made of sun- 
 shine and snow, 
 
 Drop to shade, melt to nought, in the 
 long trodden ways, 
 
 While she's still remembered on warm 
 and cold days — 
 
 My Kate. 
 
 II. 
 
 Her air had a meaning, her move- 
 ments a grace ; 
 
 You turned from the fairest to gaze 
 on her face: 
 
 And, when you had once seen her 
 forehead and mouth, 
 
 You saw as distinctly her soul and 
 her truth — 
 
 My Kate. 
 
 III. 
 
 Such a blue inner light from her eye- 
 lids outbroke. 
 
 You looked at her silence, and fancied 
 she spoke: 
 
 When she did, so peculiar yet soft 
 was the tone, 
 
 Though the loudest spoke also, j'ou 
 heard her alone — 
 
 My Kate. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I doubt if she said to you much that 
 
 could act 
 As a thought or suggestion: she did 
 
 not attract 
 
SONG FOR THE RAGGED SCHOOLS OF LONDON. 
 
 485 
 
 lu the sense of the brilliant or wise; 
 
 I infer 
 'Twas her thinking of others made 
 
 you think of her — 
 
 My Kate. 
 
 V. 
 
 She never found fault with you, never 
 
 implied 
 Your wrong by her right; and yet 
 
 men at her side 
 Grew nobler, girls purer, as through 
 
 the whole town 
 The children were gladder that pulled 
 
 at her gown — 
 
 My Kate. 
 
 VI. 
 
 None knelt at her feet confessed lov- 
 ers in thrall: 
 
 They knelt more to God than they 
 lased, — that was all. 
 
 If you praised her as charming, some 
 asked what you meant; 
 
 But the charm of her presence was 
 felt when she went — 
 
 My Kate. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The weak and the gentle, the ribald 
 
 and rude, 
 She took as she found them, tind did 
 
 them all good ; 
 It always was so with her — see what 
 
 you have ! 
 She has made the grass greener even 
 
 here . . . with her grave — 
 
 My Kate. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 My dear one ! when thou wast alive 
 
 with the rest, 
 I held thee the sweetest, and loved 
 
 thee the best; 
 And now thou art dead, shall I not 
 
 take thy part. 
 As thy smiles used to do for thyself, 
 
 mv sweet heart — 
 
 My Kate ? 
 
 A SONG FOR THE RAGGED- 
 SCHOOLS OF LONDON. 
 
 WRITTEN IN ROME. 
 
 I AM listening here in Rome. 
 "England's strong," say 
 speakers : 
 
 many 
 
 " If she winks, the Czar must come, 
 Prow and topsail to the breakers." 
 
 II. 
 
 " England's rich in coal and oak," 
 Adds a Roman, getting moody: 
 
 " If she shakes a travelling-cloak, 
 Down our Appian roll the scudi.' 
 
 III. 
 
 " England's righteous," they rejoin: 
 " Who shall grudge her exaltations, 
 
 "When her wealth of golden coin 
 Works the welfare of the nations ? " 
 
 IV, 
 
 I am listening here in Rome. 
 
 Over Alps a voice is sweeping, — 
 " England's cruel, save us some 
 
 Of these victims in her keeping ! ' 
 
 As the cry beneath the wheel 
 Of an old triumphal Roman 
 
 Cleft the people's shouts like steel. 
 While the show was spoilt for no 
 man, 
 
 VI. 
 
 Comes that voice. Let others shout. 
 Other poets praise my land here : 
 
 I am sadly sitting out, 
 Praying, " God forgive her gran- 
 deur." 
 
 VII. 
 
 Shall we boast of empire, where 
 Time with ruin sits commissioned ? 
 
 In God's liberal blue air 
 Peter's dome itself looks wizened ; 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And the mountains, in disdain. 
 Gather back their lights of opal 
 
 From the dumb despondent plain. 
 Heaped with jaw-bones of a people. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Lordly English think it o'er, 
 Caesar's doing is all undone ! 
 
 You have cannons on your shore. 
 And free Parliaments in London, 
 
 X. 
 
 Princes' parks, and merchants' 
 homes, 
 Tents for soldiers, ships for sea- 
 men, — 
 
486 
 
 LAST POEMS. 
 
 Ay, but ruins worse than Rome's 
 In your pauper men and women. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Women leering through the gas, 
 (Just such bosoms used to nurse 
 you,) 
 Men, turned wolves by famine,— 
 j)ass ! 
 Those can speak themselves, and 
 curse you. 
 
 XII. 
 
 But these others — children small, 
 Spilt like blots about the city. 
 
 Quay and street, and palace-wall — 
 Take them up into your pity ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Ragged children with bare feet, 
 Whom the angels in white raiment 
 
 Know the names of, to rejieat 
 When they come on you for pay- 
 ment. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Ragged children, hungry-eyed. 
 Huddled up out of the coldness 
 
 On your doorsteps, side by side, 
 Till your footman damns their bold- 
 ness. 
 
 XV 
 
 In the alleys, in the squares. 
 Begging, lying little rebels; 
 
 In the noisy thoroughfares, 
 Struggling on with piteous trebles. 
 
 xvr. 
 
 Patient children — think what pain 
 Makes a young child patient — 
 ponder ! 
 
 Wronged too commonly to strain 
 After right, or wish, or wonder. 
 
 XVI J. 
 
 Wickeil children, with peaked chins, 
 And old foreheads ! there are many 
 
 With no pleasures except sins, 
 Gambling with a stolen penny. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Sicl*:ly children, that whine low 
 To themselves, and not their 
 mothers. 
 
 From mere habit, — never so 
 Hoping help or care from others. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Healthy children, with those blue 
 English eyes, fresh from their 
 Maker, 
 
 Fierce and ravenous, staring through 
 At the brown loaves of the baker. 
 
 XX. 
 
 T am listening here in Rome, 
 And the Romans are confessing, 
 
 " English children pass in bloom 
 All the prettiest made for blessing. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " Aiif/U (mr/cli .' " (resumed 
 
 From the mediaeval story) 
 '■ Such rose angelhoods, emplumed 
 
 In such ringlets of pure glory ! " 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Can we smooth down the bright hair, 
 O my sisters ! calm, unthrilled in 
 
 Our heart's pulses ? Can we bear 
 The sweet looks of our own children, 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 While those others, lean and small. 
 Scurf .and mildew of the city, 
 
 Spot our streets, convict us all 
 Till we take them into pity ? 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " Is it our fault ? " you reply, 
 " When, throughout civilization, 
 
 Every nation's empery 
 Is asserted by starvation ? 
 
 XXV. 
 
 " All these mouths we cannot feed. 
 And we cannot clothe these bodies." 
 
 Well, if man's so hard indeed. 
 Let them learn, at least, what God 
 is! 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Little outcasts fi'om life's fold, 
 The grave's hope they may be 
 joined in. 
 
 By Christ's covenant consoled 
 "For our social contract's grinding 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 If no better can be done. 
 Let us do but this, — endeavor 
 
 That the sun behind the sun 
 Shine upon them while they shiver! 
 
AMY'S CRUELTY. 
 
 48: 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 On the dismal London flags, 
 Through the cruel social juggle, 
 
 Put a thought beneath their rags 
 To ennoble the heart's struggle. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 O my sisters I not so much 
 
 Are we asked for, — not a blossom 
 From our children's nosegay, such 
 
 As we gave it from our bosom, 
 
 Not the milk left in their cup, 
 Not the lamp while they are sleep- 
 ing, 
 
 Not the little cloak hung up 
 While the coat's in daily keeping, 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 But a i>laee in Ragged-Schools, 
 Where the outcasts may to-morrow 
 
 Learn by gentle words and rules 
 Just the uses of their sorrow. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 O my sisters ! children small. 
 
 Bhie-eyed, wailing through the city, 
 Our own babes cry in them all: 
 
 Let us take them into pity. 
 
 MAY'S LOVE. 
 
 You love all, you say, — 
 Round, beneath, above, me: 
 
 Find me, then, some way 
 Better than to love me, 
 
 Me, too, dearest May ! 
 
 O world-kissing eyes 
 
 Which the blue heavens melt to; 
 I, sad, overwise, 
 
 Loathe the sweet looks dealt to 
 All things — men and flies. 
 
 HI. 
 
 You love all, you say: 
 Therefore, dear, abate me 
 
 Just your love, I pray ! 
 Shut your eyes and hate me — 
 
 Only me, fair Maj' ! 
 
 AMY'S CRUELTY. 
 
 Fair Amy of the terraced house. 
 
 Assist me to discover 
 Why you, who would not hurt a 
 mouse, 
 
 Can torture so your lover. 
 
 11. 
 
 You give your coffee to the cat, 
 You stroke the dog for coming, 
 
 And all your face grows kinder at 
 The little brown bee's humming. 
 
 III. 
 
 But when Jie haunts your door . . . 
 the town 
 Marks coming, and marks going . . . 
 You seem to have stitched your eye- 
 lids down 
 To that long piece of sewing ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 You never give a look, not you, 
 Nor drop him a " Good-morning," 
 
 To keep his long day warm and blue, 
 So fretted by your scorning. 
 
 She 
 
 head - 
 
 The mouse 
 
 shook her 
 and bee 
 For crumb or flower will linger; 
 The dog is happy at my knee ; 
 The cat purrs at my finger. 
 
 VI, 
 
 "But he . . . to him, the least thing 
 given 
 Means great things at a distance : 
 He wants my world, my sun, my 
 heaven, 
 Soul, body, whole existence. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " They say love gives, as well as takes ; 
 
 But I'm a simjde maiden, — 
 My mother's first smile when she 
 wakes 
 
 I still have smiled and prayed in. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " I only know my mother's love, 
 Which gives all, and asks nothing; 
 
 And this new loving sets the groove 
 Too much the way of loathing. 
 
 ,.l.». 
 
488 
 
 LAST POEMS. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " Unless lie gives me all in change, 
 I forfeit all things by him: 
 
 The risk is terrible and strange — 
 I tremble, doubt . . . deny him 
 
 " He's sweetest friend or hardest foe, 
 
 Best angel or worst devil: 
 I either hate or . . . love him so, 
 
 1 can't be merely civil ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 " You trust a woman who puts forth 
 Her blossoms thick as summer's ? 
 
 You think she dreams what love is 
 worth, 
 "Who casts it to new-comers ? 
 
 XII. 
 
 " Such love's a cowslip-ball to fling, — 
 A moment's jiretty pastime: 
 
 /give ... all me, if any thing. 
 The first time and the last time. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " Dear neighbor of the trellised house, 
 A man should murmur never, 
 
 Though treated worse than dog and 
 mouse. 
 Till doted on forever ! " 
 
 MY HEART AND I. 
 
 Enough ! we're tired, my heart and I. 
 We sit beside the headstone thus. 
 And wish that name were carved 
 for us. 
 The moss reprints more tenderly 
 The hard types of the mason's knife, 
 As heaven's sweet life renews 
 earth's life 
 With which we're tired, my heart 
 and I. 
 
 You see we're tired, my heart and I. 
 We dealt with books, we trusted 
 
 men, 
 And in our own blood drenched the 
 pen. 
 As if such colors could not fly. 
 
 We walked too straight for for- 
 
 tune's end, 
 We loved too true to keep a friend : 
 At last we're tired, my heart and I. 
 
 III. 
 
 How tired we feel, my heart and 1 1 
 
 We seem of no use in the world; 
 
 Our fancies hang gray and uncurled 
 About men's eyes indifferently; 
 
 Our voice, which thrilled you so, 
 will let 
 
 You sleep; our tears are only wet: 
 What do we here, my heart and I ? 
 
 IV, 
 
 So tired, so tired, my heart and 1 1 
 It was not thus in that old time 
 When Ralph sat with me 'neath the 
 lime 
 To watch the sunset from the sky. 
 "Dear love, you're looking tired," 
 
 he said ; 
 I, smiling at him, shook my head: 
 'Tis now we're tired, my heart and I. 
 
 So tired, so tired, my heart and I ! 
 
 Though now none takes me on his 
 arm 
 
 To fold me close, and kiss me warm 
 Till each quick breath end in a sigh 
 
 Of happy languor. Now, alone, 
 
 We lean ujion this graveyard stone, 
 Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Tired out we are, my heart and I. 
 Suppose the world brought diadems 
 To tempt us, crusted with loose 
 gems 
 
 Of powers and pleasures ? Let it try. 
 We scarcely care to look at even 
 A pretty child, or God's blue heaven, 
 
 We feel so tired, my heart and I. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Yet who complains ? My heart and I ? 
 In this abundant earth no doubt 
 Is little room for things worn out: 
 Disdain them, break them, throw 
 them by ! 
 And if, before the days grew rough, 
 We once were loved, used, — well 
 enough 
 I think we've fared, my heart and I. 
 
WHERE'S AGNES? 
 
 489 
 
 THE BEST THING IN THE 
 WORLD. 
 
 What's the best thing in the world ? 
 Jane-rose, by May-dew impearled; 
 Sweet south w;nd that means no rain ; 
 Truth, not cruel to a friend; 
 Pleasure, nov m haste to end; 
 Beauty, not self-decked and curled 
 Till its pride is over plain; 
 Light, that never makes you wink; 
 Memory, that gives no pain; 
 Love, when, so, you're loved again. 
 What's the best thing in the world ? 
 — Something out of it, I think. 
 
 WHERE'S AGNES 
 
 Nay, if I had come back so, 
 And found her dead in her grave, 
 
 And if a friend I know 
 Had said, " Be strong, nor rave; 
 
 She lies there, dead below: 
 
 II. 
 
 " I saw her, I who speak. 
 White, stiff, the face one blank: 
 
 The blue shade came to her cheek 
 Before they nailed the plank, 
 
 For she had been dead a week," — 
 
 m. 
 
 Wby, if he had spoken so, 
 
 I might have believed the thing. 
 
 Although her look, although 
 Her step, laugh, voice's ring. 
 
 Lived in me still as they do. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But dead that other way. 
 Corrupted thus and lost ? 
 
 That sort of worm in the clay ? 
 I cannot count the cost. 
 
 That I should rise and pay 
 
 V. 
 
 My Agnes false ? such shame ? 
 
 She ? Rather be it said 
 That the pure saint of her name 
 
 Has stood there in her stead. 
 And tricked you to this blame. 
 
 VI 
 
 Her very gown, her cloak. 
 Fell chastely: no disguise. 
 
 But expression ! while she broke 
 With her clear gray morning-eyes 
 
 Full upon me, and then spoke. 
 
 VII. 
 
 She wore her hair away 
 
 From her forehead, like a cloud 
 Which a little wind in May 
 
 Peels off finely; disallowed. 
 Though bright enough to stay. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 For the heavens must have the place 
 To themselves, to use and shine in, 
 
 As her soul would have her face 
 To press through u2:)on mine, in 
 
 That orb of angel grace. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Had she any fault at all, 
 
 'Twas having none, I thought too- 
 There seemed a sort of thrall; 
 
 As she felt her shadow ought to 
 Fall straight upon the wall. 
 
 Her sweetness strained the sense 
 
 Of common life and duty; 
 And every day's expense 
 
 Of moving in such beauty 
 Required, almost, defence. 
 
 XI. 
 
 What good, I thought, is done 
 By such sweet things, if any ? 
 
 This world smells ill i' the sun 
 Though the garden-flowers are 
 many, — 
 
 She is only one. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Can a voice so low and soft 
 
 Take open actual part 
 With Right, — maintain aloft 
 
 Pure truth in life or art, 
 Vexed always, wounded oft ? — 
 
 xrn. 
 
 She fit, with that fair pose 
 
 Which melts from curve to curve. 
 To stand, run, work with those 
 
 Who wrestle and deserve. 
 And speak plain without gloze ? 
 
LAST POEMS. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 But I turned round on my fear 
 
 Defiant, disagreeing — 
 What if God has set her here 
 
 Less for action than for being ? — 
 For the eye and for the ear. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Jnst to show what beauty may, 
 Just to prove what music can, — 
 
 And then to die away 
 From the presence of a man 
 
 "Who sliall learn henceforth to pray ? 
 
 XVI. 
 
 As a door left half ajar 
 
 In heaven would make him thinK. 
 How heavenly-different are 
 
 Things glanced at through the 
 chink. 
 Till he pined from near to far. 
 
 xvn. 
 That door could lead to hell ? 
 
 That shining merely meant 
 Damnation ? What ! She fell 
 
 Like a woman, who was sent 
 Like an angel, by a spell ? 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 She, who scarcely trod the earth, 
 Turned mere dirt ? My Agnes, — 
 mine ! 
 
 Called so ! felt of too much worth 
 To be used so ! too divine 
 
 To be breathed near, and so forth ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Why, I dared not name a sin 
 In her presence: I went round. 
 
 Clipped its name, and shut it in 
 Some mysterious crystal sound, — 
 
 Changed the dagger for the pin. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Now you name herself that word ? 
 
 O my Agnes ! O my saint ! 
 Then the great joys of the Lord 
 
 Do not last? Then all this paint 
 Runs off nature ? leaves a board ? 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Who's dead here ? No, not she: 
 Rather I ! or whence this damp 
 
 Cold* corruption's misery? 
 While my very mourners stamp 
 
 Closer in the clods on me. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 And my mouth is full of dust 
 Till I cannot speak and curse — 
 
 Speak and damn him ..." Blame's 
 unjust " ? 
 Sin blots out the universe, 
 
 All because she would and must ? 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 She, my white rose, dropping off 
 The high rose-tree branch T and not 
 
 That the night-wind blew too rough. 
 Or the noon-sun burnt too hot. 
 
 But, that being a rose — 'twas enough! 
 
 earth grow 
 straight 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Then henceforth may 
 trees ! 
 No more roses ! — hard 
 lines 
 
 To score lies out I none of these 
 Fluctuant curves, but firs and 
 pines. 
 Poplars, cedars, cypresses ! 
 
 DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 Thk face, which, duly as the sun, 
 Rose up for me with life begun. 
 To mark all bright hours of the day 
 With hourly love, is dimmed away, — 
 And yet my days go on, go on. 
 
 n. 
 
 The tongue, which, like a stream, 
 could run 
 
 Smooth music from the roughest 
 stone. 
 
 And every morning with " Good- 
 day" 
 
 Make each day good, is hushed 
 away, — 
 
 And yet my days go on, go on. 
 
 ni. 
 
 The heart, which, like a staff, was one 
 For mine to lean and rest upon, 
 The strongest on the longest day 
 With steadfast love, is caught 
 
 away, — 
 Aud yet my days go on, go on. 
 
 I ^m > ■ I 1^ 
 
BE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 491 
 
 IV. 
 
 And cold before my summer's done. 
 And deaf in Nature's general tune, 
 And fallen too low for special fear, 
 And here, with hope no longer here, — 
 While the tears drop, my dajs go on. 
 
 The world goes whisi^ering to its own, 
 " This anguish pierces to the hone; " 
 And tender friends go sighing round, 
 " What love can ever cure this 
 
 wound?" 
 My days go on, my days go on. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The j)ast rolls forward on the sun, 
 And makes all night. O dreams be- 
 gun, 
 Not to be ended ! Ended bliss, 
 And life that will not end in this ! — 
 My days go on, my days go on. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Breath freezes on my lips to moan : 
 As one alone, once not alone, 
 I sit and knock at Nature's door. 
 Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor. 
 Whose desolated days go on. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 I knock and cry. Undone, undone ! 
 Is there no help, no comfort, — none ? 
 No gleaning in the wide wheat-plains 
 Where others drive their loaded 
 
 wains ? — 
 My vacant days go on, go on. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Tliis Nature, though the snows be 
 
 down. 
 Thinks kindly of the bird of June: 
 The little red hip on the tree 
 Is ripe for sucli. What is for me 
 AVhose days so winterly go on ? 
 
 No bird am I to sing in June, 
 And dare not ask an equal boou. 
 Good nests and berries red are Na- 
 ture's 
 To give away to better creatures, — 
 And yet my days go on, go on. 
 
 / ask less kindness to he done, — 
 Onlj' to loose these pilgrim-shoon, 
 (Too early worn and grimed) witli 
 
 sweet 
 Cool deathly touch to these tired feet, 
 Till days gg out which now go on. 
 
 . xir. 
 
 Only to lift the turf unmown 
 
 From off the earth where it has 
 
 grown. 
 Some cubit-space, and say, " Behold ! 
 Creep in, poor heart, beneath that 
 
 fold, 
 Forgetting how the days go on." 
 
 xliii. 
 
 What harm would that do? Green 
 
 anon 
 The sward would quicken, overshone 
 By skies as blue ; and crickets might 
 Have leave to chirp there day and 
 
 night 
 While my new rest went on, went on. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 From gracious Nature have I won 
 Such liberal bounty ? may I run 
 So, lizard-like, within her side, 
 And there be safe, who now am tried 
 By days that painfully go on ? 
 
 XV. 
 
 — A Voice reproves me thereupon. 
 More sweet than Nature's when the 
 
 drone 
 Of bees is sweetest, and more deep 
 Than when the rivers overleap 
 The shuddering jiines, and thunder 
 
 on. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 God's voice, not Nature's ! Night 
 
 and noon 
 He sits upon the great white throne. 
 And listens for the creatures' praise. 
 What babble we of days and days ? 
 The Dayspring He, whose days go on. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 He reigns above, he reigns alone; 
 Systems burn out, and leave hid 
 
 throne ; 
 Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall 
 Around him, changeless amid all, — 
 Ancient of days, whose days go on. 
 
LAST POEMS. 
 
 xvin. 
 
 He reigns below, he reigns alone, 
 And, having life iu love foregone 
 Beneath the crown of sovran thorns 
 He reigns the jealous God. Who 
 
 mourns 
 Or rules with him, while days go on ? 
 
 XIX. 
 
 By anguish which made pale the sun, 
 I hear him charge Ins saints that none 
 Among his creatures anywhere 
 Blaspheme against him with despair, 
 However darkly days go on. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Take from my head the thorn-wreath 
 
 brown ! 
 No mortal grief deserves that crown. 
 
 supreme love, chief misery. 
 The sharp regalia are for Thee 
 Whose days eternally go on ! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 For us, whatever's undergone. 
 Thou knowest, wiliest, what is done. 
 Grief may be joy misunderstood: 
 Only the Good discerns the good. 
 
 1 trust Thee while my days go on. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Whatever's lost, it first was won; 
 We will not struggle nor impugn. 
 Perhaps the cup was broken here. 
 That heaven's new wine might show 
 
 more clear. 
 I praise Thee while my days go on. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 I praise Thee while my days go on; 
 I love Thee while my days go on; 
 Through dark and dearth, through 
 
 fire and frost. 
 With emptied arms and treasure lost, 
 I thank Thee while my days go on. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 And having in thy life-depth thrown 
 Being and suffering (which are one), 
 As a child drops his pebble small 
 Down some deep well, and hears it 
 
 fall 
 Smiling, — so I. Thy days go oh. 
 
 A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT. 
 
 What was he doing, the great god 
 Pan, 
 Down in the reeds by the river ? 
 Spreading ruin, and scattering ban, 
 Splashing and paddling with hoofs of 
 
 a goat, 
 And breaking the golden lilies afloat 
 With the dragon-fly on the river. 
 
 II. 
 
 He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, 
 From the deep, cool bed of the 
 river. 
 The limpid water turbidly ran. 
 And the broken lilies a-dying lay, 
 And the dragon-fly had fled away, 
 Ere he brought it out of the river. 
 
 III. 
 
 High on the shore sat the great god 
 Pan, 
 While turbidly flowed the river, 
 
 And hacked and hewed as a great god 
 can, 
 
 With his hard bleak steel at the pa- 
 tient reed. 
 
 Till there was not a sign of the leaf 
 indeed 
 To prove it fresh from the river. 
 
 IV. 
 
 He cut it short, did the great god 
 Pan, 
 (How tall it stood in the river !) 
 Then drew the pith, like the heart of 
 
 a man. 
 Steadily from the outside ring. 
 And notched the poor, dry, empty 
 thing 
 In holes as he sat by the river. 
 
 " This is the way," laughed the great 
 god Pan, 
 (Laughed while he sat by the river,) 
 " The only way, since gods began 
 To make sweet music, they could suc- 
 ceed." 
 Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in 
 the reed, 
 He blew in power by the river. 
 
/ 
 
 VICTOR EMANUEL ENTERING FLORENCE. 
 
 493 
 
 VI. / 
 
 Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Paii, 
 
 Piercing sweet \)j the river I 
 Blinding sweet, O great god Pan 
 The sun on the hill forgot 'to die, 
 And the lilies revived, and the dragon- 
 fly 
 Came back to dream on the river. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, 
 
 To laugh as he sits by the river. 
 Making a poet out of a man: 
 The true gods sigh for the cost and 
 
 pain, — 
 For the reed which grows nevermore 
 again 
 As a reed with the reeds in the 
 river. 
 
 FIRST NEWS FROM VILLA- 
 FRANCA. 
 
 Peace, peace, peace, do you say ? 
 What! — with the enemy's guns in 
 
 our ears ? 
 "With the country's wrong not ren- 
 dered back ? 
 "What ! — while Austria stands at bay 
 In Mantua, and our Venice bears 
 The cursed flag of the vellow and 
 black ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Peace, peace, peace, do you say ? 
 And this the Mincio ? Where's the 
 
 fleet, 
 And Where's the sea ? Are we all 
 blind 
 Or mad with the blood shed yester- 
 day. 
 Ignoring Italy under our feet. 
 And seeing things before, behind ? 
 
 III. 
 
 Peace, peace, peace, do you say ? 
 
 What ! — ^ uncontested, undenied ? 
 
 Because we triumph, we succumb? 
 A pair of emperors stand in the way, 
 
 (One of whom is a man, beside) 
 
 To sign and seal our cannons dumb? 
 
 y, 
 
 IV. 
 
 No, not Napoleon ! — he who mused 
 At Paris, and at Milan spake, 
 And at Golferino led the fight: 
 Not he we trusted, honored, used 
 Our hopes and hearts for . . . till 
 
 they break — 
 Even so, you tell us . . . in his 
 sight. 
 
 Peace, peace, is still your word ? 
 We say you lie then! — that is 
 
 plain. 
 There in no peace, and shall be 
 none. 
 Our very dead would cry, " Absurd I " 
 And clamor that they died in vain, 
 And whine to come back to the sun. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Hush ! more reverence for the dead ! 
 They've done the most for Italy 
 Evermore since the earth was fair. 
 
 Now would that we had died instead. 
 Still dreaming peace meant liberty, 
 And did not, could not, mean de- 
 spair. 
 
 yes, peace, m 
 
 VII. 
 
 Peace, you say? — 
 
 truth ! 
 But such a peace as the ear can 
 
 achieve 
 'Twixt the rifle's click and the rush 
 
 of the ball, 
 'Twixt the tiger's spring and the 
 
 crunch of the tooth, 
 'Twixt the dying atheist's negative 
 And God's face — waiting, after all! 
 
 KING VICTOR EMANUEL EN- 
 TERING FLORENCE, APRIL, 
 
 1860. 
 
 King of us all, we cried to thee, cried 
 to thee, 
 
 Trampled to earth by the beasts im- 
 pure. 
 
 Dragged by the chariots which 
 shame as they roll: 
 
494 
 
 LAFT POEMS. 
 
 The dust of our torment far and wide 
 to thee 
 "Went up, darkening thy royal soul. 
 Be w'itjie|Sj_ Cavour, 
 That the knig was sad for the people 
 in thrall, 
 This king of us all ! 
 
 ir. 
 King, we cried to thee ! Strong in 
 replying. 
 Thy word and thy sword sprang 
 
 rapid and sure, 
 Cleaving our way to a nation's 
 place. 
 Oh first soldier of Italy ! — crying 
 Now grateful, exultant, we look in 
 thy face. 
 — —- -- Be witness, Cavour, 
 That, freedom's first soldier, the freed 
 should call 
 First king of them all 1 y 
 
 III. 
 This is our beautiful Italy's birth- 
 day : 
 High-thoughted souls, whether 
 
 many or fewer. 
 Bring her the gift, and wish her the 
 good, 
 While Heaven presents on this sunny 
 earth-day 
 The noble king to the land re- 
 newed. 
 Be witness, Cavour ! 
 Roar, cannon-mouths! Proclaim, in- 
 stall 
 The king of us all ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Grave he rides through the Florence 
 gateway, 
 Clenching his face into calm, to im 
 
 mure 
 His struggling heart till it half dis- 
 appears : 
 If he relaxed for a moment, straight- 
 way 
 He would break out into passionate 
 tears — 
 (Be witness, Cavour ?) 
 AVhile rings the cry without interval, 
 " Live, king of us all ! " 
 
 V. 
 
 Cry, free peoples! Honor the nation 
 By crowning the true man: and 
 none is truer: 
 
 Pisa is here, and Livorno is here. 
 And thousands of faces, in wild exul- 
 tation. 
 Burn over the windows to feel him 
 near, — 
 (Be witness, Cavour !) 
 Burn over from terrace, roof, window- 
 and wall, 
 On this king of us all. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Grave ! A good man's ever the 
 gi'aver 
 For bearing a nation's trust secure; 
 And he, he thinks of the heart, be- 
 side, 
 Which broke for Italy, failing to save 
 her, 
 And pining away by Oporto's tide; 
 Be witness, Cavour, 
 That he thinks of his vow on that 
 royal pall — 
 This king of us all. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Flowers, flowers, from the flowery 
 city ! 
 Such innocent thanks for a deed so 
 
 pure, 
 As, melting away for joy into flow- 
 ers, 
 The nation invites him to enter his 
 Pitti, 
 And evermore reign in this Florence 
 of ours. 
 Be witness, Cavour I 
 He'll stand where the reptiles were 
 used to crawl — 
 This king of us all. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Grave, as the manner of noble men 
 is — 
 Deeds unfinished will weigh on the 
 
 doer; 
 And, baring his liead to those crape- 
 veiled flags, 
 He bows to the grief of the South and 
 Venice. 
 Oh, riddle the last of the yellow to 
 rags. 
 And swear by Cavour 
 That the king shall reign where the 
 tyrants fall, 
 True king of us all ! 
 
SUMMING UP IN ITALY. 
 
 495 
 
 THE SWORD OF CASTRUC- 
 CIO CASTRACANI. 
 
 " Questa iper me." 
 
 King Victor Emanuel. 
 
 When "Victor Emanuel, the king, 
 
 Went down to his Lucca that day, 
 The people, each vaunting the thing 
 As he gave it, gave all things 
 
 away, — 
 In a burst of fierce gratitude, say. 
 As they tore out their hearts for the 
 king. 
 
 II. 
 — Gave the green forest- walk on the 
 ■wall. 
 With the Apennine blue through 
 the trees { 
 Gave the palaces, churches, and all 
 The great pictures which burn out 
 
 of these : 
 But the eyes of the king seemed to 
 freeze 
 As he gazed upon ceiling and wall. 
 
 III. 
 
 " Good ! " said the king as he passed. 
 
 W'as he cold to the arts ? — or else 
 
 coy 
 
 To possession ? or crossed, at the last, 
 
 (Whispered some) by the vote in 
 
 Savoy ? 
 Shout ! Love him enough for his 
 joy ! 
 " Good ! " said the king as he passed. 
 
 IV. 
 
 lie travelling the whole day through 
 flowers, 
 And protesting amenities, found 
 At Pistoia, betwixt the two showers 
 Of red roses, the " Orphans " (re- 
 nowned 
 As the heirs of Puccini), who wound 
 With a sword through the crowd and 
 the flowers. 
 
 V. 
 
 " 'Tis the sword of Castruccio, O 
 
 king, — 
 In that strife of intestinal hate. 
 Very famous ! Accept what we 
 
 bring, 
 
 We who cannot be sons, by our fate. 
 Rendered citizens by thee of late. 
 And endowed with a country and 
 king. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Read ! Puccini has willed that this 
 sword 
 (Which once made in an ignorant 
 feud 
 Many orjihans) remain in our ward 
 Till some patriot its pure civic blood 
 AVipe away in the foe's, and make 
 good. 
 In delivering the land by the .sword." 
 
 VII. 
 
 Then the king exclaimed, " This is for 
 me!" 
 And he dashed out his hand on the 
 hilt, 
 While his blue eye shot fire openly. 
 And his heart overboiled till it spilt 
 A hot prayer: "God! the rest as 
 thou wilt. 
 But grant me this ! — This is for me." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 O Victor Emanuel, the king, 
 The sword is for thee, and the deed, 
 
 And nought for the alien, next spring. 
 Nought for Hapsburg and Bourbon 
 
 agreed — 
 But, for us, a great Italy freed. 
 
 With a hero to head us, — our king ! 
 
 SUMMING UP IN ITALY. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO INTELLIGENT PUB- 
 LICS OUT OF IT. 
 
 Observe how it will be at last, 
 When our Italy stands at full stat- 
 ure, 
 A year ago tied down so fast 
 That the cord cut the quick of her 
 nature ! 
 You'll honor the deed and its scope, 
 Then in logical sequence upon it, 
 Will use up the remnants of rope 
 By hanging the men who have done 
 it. 
 
496 
 
 LAST POEMS. 
 
 11. 
 
 The speech in the Commons, which 
 hits you 
 A sketch off, how dungeons must 
 feel; 
 The official despatch, which commits 
 you 
 From stamping out groans with 
 your heel; 
 Suggestions in journal or book for 
 Good efforts are i>raised as is 
 meet, — 
 But what in this world can men look 
 for. 
 Who only achieve and complete ? 
 
 III. 
 
 True, you've praise for the fireman 
 who sets his 
 Brave face to the axe of the flame. 
 Disappears in the smoke, and then 
 fetches 
 A babe down, or idiot that's lame, — 
 For the boor even, who rescues 
 through pity 
 A sheep from tlie brute who would 
 kick it: 
 But saviors of nations ! — 'tis pretty. 
 And doubtful : they may be so 
 wicked: 
 
 IV. 
 
 Azeglio, Farini, Mamiani, 
 
 Ricasoli, — doubt by the doze'i. — 
 here's 
 Pepoli too, and Cipriani, . 
 
 Imperial cousins and cozener.' — 
 Arese, Laiatico, — courtly 
 
 Of manners, if stringent of ir outh: 
 Garibaldi ! we'll come to him shortly 
 
 (As soon as he ends in the South.) 
 
 V. 
 
 Napoleon — as strong as tei armi js, 
 Corrupt as seven devils- a fact 
 
 You accede to, then seek wheve the 
 harm is 
 Drained off from the man to his act, 
 
 And find — a free nation ! Suppose 
 Some hell-brood in Eder s sweet 
 
 greenery, 
 Convoked for creating — a rose 1 
 Would it suit the infernal 
 chinery ? 
 
 ma- 
 
 VI. 
 
 Cavour — to the despot's desire. 
 Who his own thought so craftily 
 marries — 
 What is he but just a thin wire 
 For conducting the lightning from 
 Paris ? 
 Yes, write down the two as compeers, 
 Confessing (you would not permit a 
 lie) 
 He bore up his Piedmont ten years 
 Till she suddenly smiled, and wa* 
 Italy. 
 
 vn. 
 
 And the king, with that "stain on 
 his scutcheon," i 
 Savoy — as the calumny runs; 
 (If it be not his blood, — with his 
 clutch on 
 The sword, and his face to the guns). 
 
 first, where the battle-storm gath- 
 
 ers, 
 O loyal of heart on the throne. 
 Let those keep the " graves of their 
 
 fathers" 
 Who quail in a nerve from their 
 
 own I 
 
 VIII. 
 
 For thee — through the dim Hades- 
 portal 
 The dream of a voice — "Blessed 
 thou 
 Who hast made all thy race twice im- 
 mortal ! 
 No need of the sepulchres now ! 
 - - Left to Bourbons and Hapsburgs, 
 who fester 
 Above-ground with worm-eaten 
 souls. 
 While the ghost of some pale feudal 
 jester 
 Before them strews treaties in 
 holes." 
 
 IX. 
 
 But hush ! — am I dreaming a poem 
 Of Hades, Heaven, Justice? Not I; 
 
 1 began too far off, in my proem. 
 With what men believe and deny; 
 
 And on earth, whatsoever the need is, 
 (To sum up as thoughtful reviewers) 
 
 The moral of every great deed is — 
 The virtue of slandering the doers. 
 
 • Blue Book, 
 euce. 
 
 Diplomatical Correspond- 
 
THE FORCED RECRUIT. 
 
 497 
 
 "DIED ..." 
 THE "TIMES" OBITUARY. 
 
 What shall we add now ? He is 
 dead. 
 And I who praise, and yon who 
 
 blame, 
 With wasli of words across his name. 
 Find suddenly declared instead — 
 " On Sunday, third of August, dead." 
 
 II. 
 
 Which stops the whole we talked to- 
 day, 
 I, quickened to a plausive glance 
 At his large general tolerance 
 By common people's narrow way, 
 Stopped short in praising. Dead, 
 they say. 
 
 III. 
 
 And you, who had just put in a sort 
 Of cold deduction — " rather, large 
 Through weakness of the continent 
 marge, 
 Than greatness of the thing con- 
 tained " — 
 Broke off. Dead ! — there, you stood 
 restrained. 
 
 IV. 
 
 As if we had talked in following one 
 Up some long gallery. ' ' Would you 
 
 choose 
 An air like that ? The gait is loose, 
 Or noble." Sudden in the sun 
 An oubliette winks. Where i.s he ? 
 Gone. 
 
 V. 
 
 Dead. Man's " I was," by God's " I 
 am " — 
 
 All hero-worship comes to that. 
 High heart, high thought, high fame, 
 as flat 
 As a gravestone. Bring your Jacet 
 
 jam — 
 The epitaph's an epigram. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Dead. There's an answer to arrest 
 All carping. Dust's his natural 
 
 place ? 
 He'll let the flies buzz round his 
 face, 
 And, though you slander, not protest ? 
 — From such an one exact the best ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 Opinions gold or brass are null. 
 We chuck our flattery or abuse, 
 Called Cpesar's due, as Charon's 
 dues, 
 I' the teeth of some dead sage or fool, 
 To mend the grinning of a .skull, 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Be abstinent in praise and blame. 
 
 The man's still mortal, who stands 
 tirst. 
 
 And mortal only, if last and worst. 
 Then slowly lift so frail a fame, 
 Or softly drop so poor a shame. 
 
 THE FORCED RECRUIT. 
 
 SOLFERINO, 1859. 
 
 I. 
 
 In the ranks of the Austrian you found 
 him. 
 
 He died with his face to you all; 
 Yet bury him here where around him 
 
 You honor your bravest that fall. 
 
 II. 
 
 Venetian, fair-featured and slender, 
 He lies shot to death in his youth, 
 
 With a smile on his lips over-tender 
 For any mere soldier's dead mouth. 
 
 III. 
 
 No stranger, and yet not a traitor. 
 Though alien the cloth on his breast, 
 
 Underneath it how seldom a greater 
 Young heart has a shot sent to rest I 
 
 IV. 
 
 By your enemy tortured and goaded 
 To march with them, stand iu their 
 file. 
 His musket (see) never was loaded, 
 He facing your guns with that 
 smile ! 
 
 As orphans yearn on to their mothers, 
 He yearned to your patriot bands ; — 
 
 " Let me die for our Italy, brothers, 
 If not in your ranks, by your hands! 
 
498 
 
 LAST POEMS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Aim straightly, fire steadily ! spare 
 me 
 
 A ball in the body which may 
 Deliver my heart here, and tear me 
 
 This badge of the Austrian away I " 
 
 VII. 
 
 So thought he, so died he this morn- 
 ing. 
 What then ? many others have died. 
 Ay, but easy for men to die scorning 
 The death-stroke, who fought side 
 by side — 
 
 VIII. 
 
 One tricolor floating above them; 
 Struck down 'mid triumphant ac- 
 claims 
 Of an Italy rescued to love them 
 And blazon the brass with their 
 names. 
 
 IX. 
 
 But he, without witness or honor, 
 Mixed, shamed in his country's re- 
 gard, 
 "With the tyrants who march in upon 
 her, 
 Died faithful and passive: 'twas 
 hard. 
 
 X. 
 
 'Twas sublime. In a cruel restric- 
 tion 
 Cut off from the guerdon of sous. 
 With most filial obedience, convic- 
 tion. 
 His soul kissed the lips of her guns. 
 
 XI. 
 
 That moves you ? Nay, grudge not 
 to show it, 
 
 While digging a grave for liim here: 
 The others who died, says your poet. 
 
 Have glory, — let 1dm have a tear. 
 
 GARIBALDI. 
 
 He bent his head upon his breast 
 Wherein his lion-heart lay sick: 
 " Perhaps we are not ill repaid; 
 
 Perhaps this is not a true test ; 
 
 Perhaps this was not a foul trick; 
 Perhaps none wronged, and none 
 betrayed. 
 
 II. 
 
 " Perhaps the people's vote which 
 here 
 United, there may disunite. 
 And both be lawful as they think; 
 Perhaps a patriot statesman, dear 
 For chartering nations, can with 
 
 right 
 Disfranchise those who hold the 
 ink. 
 
 III. 
 
 " Perhaps men's wisdom is not craft; 
 Men's greatness, not a selfish greed; 
 Men's justice, not the safer side; 
 Perhaps even women, when they 
 laughed. 
 Wept, thanked us that the land was 
 
 freed, 
 Not wholly (though they kissed us) 
 lied. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Perhaps no more than this we 
 meant. 
 When up at Austria's guns we flew, 
 And quenched them with a cry 
 apiece, 
 Italia ! — Yet a dream was sent . . . 
 The little house my father knew, 
 The olives and the palms of Nice." 
 
 V. 
 
 He paused, and drew his sword out 
 slow, 
 Then pored upon the blade intent. 
 As if to read some written thing; 
 While many murmured, " He will go 
 In that despairing sentiment 
 And break his sword before the 
 king." 
 
 VI. 
 
 He poring still upon the blade. 
 His large lid quivered, something 
 
 fell. 
 "Perhaps," he said, "I was not 
 born 
 With such fine brains to treat and 
 trade, — 
 And, if a woman knew it well. 
 Her falsehood only meant her scorn. 
 
ONLY A CURL. 
 
 499 
 
 VII. 
 
 Yet through Varese's cannon-smoke, 
 My eye saw clear: men feared this 
 
 man 
 At Como, where this sword could 
 seal 
 Death's protocol with every stroke: 
 And now . . . the droj} there scarce- 
 ly can 
 Impair the keenness of the steel. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 ■ So man and sword may have their 
 use; 
 And if the soil beneath my foot 
 In A-alor's act is forfeited, 
 I'll strike the harder, take my dues 
 Out nobler, and all loss confute 
 From ampler heavens above my 
 head. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " My king, King Victor, I am thine ! 
 
 So much Nice-dust as what I am 
 
 (To make our Italy) must cleave. 
 Forgive that." Forward with a sign 
 
 He went. 
 
 You've seen the telegram ? 
 
 Palermo's taken, we believe. 
 
 ONLY A CURL. 
 
 Friends of faces unknown and a land 
 
 Unvisited over the sea, 
 Who tell me how lonely you stand 
 With a single gold curl in the hand 
 
 Held up to be looked at by me, — 
 
 II. 
 
 While you ask me to ponder and say 
 What a father and mother can do, 
 With the bright fellow-locks put away 
 Out of reach, beyond kiss, in the clay 
 Where the violets press nearer than 
 you: 
 
 III. 
 
 Shall I speak like a poet, or run 
 
 Into weak woman's tears for relief ? 
 O children ! — I never lost one, — 
 Yet my arm's round my own little 
 son, 
 And love knows the secret of grief. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And I feel what it must be and is, 
 When God draws a new angel so 
 
 Through the house of a man up to 
 his. 
 
 With a murmur of music you miss, 
 And a rapture of light you forego. 
 
 V. 
 
 How you think, staring on at the 
 door. 
 Where the face of your angel flashed 
 in, 
 That its brightness, familiar before, 
 Burns off from you ever the more 
 For the dark of your sorrow and 
 sin. 
 
 VI. 
 
 "God lent him and takes him," you 
 sigh; 
 — Nay, there let me break with 
 your pain: 
 God's generous in giving, say I; 
 And the thing which he gives, I deny 
 That he ever can take back again. 
 
 VII. 
 
 He gives what he gives. I appeal 
 
 To all who bear babes, — in the hour 
 When the veil of the body we feel 
 Rent round us, — while torments re- 
 veal 
 The motherhood's advent in power. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And the babe cries ! — has each of us 
 known 
 By apocalypse (God being there 
 Full in nature) the child is our own. 
 Life of life, love of love, moan of 
 moan. 
 Through all changes, all times, 
 everywhere. 
 
 IX. 
 
 He's ours and forever. Believe, 
 
 O father ! — O mother, look back 
 To the first love's assurance ! To 
 
 give 
 Means with God not to tempt or de- 
 ceive 
 With a cup thrust in Benjamin's 
 sack. 
 
500 
 
 LAST POEMS. 
 
 X. 
 
 He gives what he gives. Be content ! 
 
 He resumes nothing given, be sure ! 
 God lend ? Where the usurers lent 
 In his temple, indignant he went 
 
 And scourged away all those im- 
 pure. 
 
 XI. 
 
 He lends not, but gives to the end. 
 As he loves to the end. If it seem 
 
 That he draws back a gift, compre- 
 hend 
 
 'Tis to add to it rather, — amend, 
 And finish it up to your dream, — 
 
 xn. 
 Or keep, as t, mother will toys 
 
 Too costly, though given by herself, 
 Till the room shall be stiller from 
 
 noise. 
 And the children more fit for such 
 joys 
 KejJt over their heads on the shelf. 
 
 xm. 
 
 So look up, friends ! you, who indeed 
 Have possessed in your house a 
 sweet piece 
 Of the heaven which men strive for, 
 
 must need 
 Be more earnest than others are,— 
 sijeed 
 Where they loiter, persist where 
 they cease. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 You 
 
 know how one angel smiles 
 there. 
 Then weep not. 'Tis easy for you 
 To be drawn by a single gold hair 
 Of that curl, from earth's storm and 
 despair. 
 To the safe place above us. Adieu. 
 
 A VIEW ACROSS THE 
 ROMAN CAMPAGNA. 
 
 1861. 
 
 Over the dumb Campagna-sea, 
 Out in the ofBng through mist and 
 rain, 
 St. Peter's Church heaves silently 
 
 Like a mighty ship in pain. 
 Facing the tempest with struggle 
 and strain. 
 
 II. 
 
 Motionless waifs of ruined towers. 
 Soundless breakers of desolate land : 
 
 The sullen surf of the mist devours 
 That mountain-range upon either 
 
 hand. 
 Eaten away from its outline grand. 
 
 III. 
 
 And over the dumb Campagnarsea 
 Where the ship of the Church 
 heaves on to wreck. 
 Alone and silent as God must be. 
 The Christ walks. Ay, but Peter's 
 
 neck 
 Is stiff to turn on the foundering 
 deck. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Peter, Peter ! if such be thy name. 
 Now leave the ship for another to 
 steer. 
 And, proving thy faith evermore the 
 same, 
 Come forth, tread out through the 
 
 dark and drear. 
 Since He who walks on the sea is 
 here. 
 
 Peter, Peter ! He does not speak ; 
 
 He is not as rash as in old Galilee: 
 Safer a ship, though it toss and leak. 
 
 Than a reeling foot on a rolling sea ! 
 
 And he's got to he round in the 
 girth, thinks he. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Peter, Peter ! He does not stir; 
 
 His nets are heavy with silver fish; 
 He reckons his gains, and is keen to 
 infer 
 — "The broil on the shore, if the 
 
 Lord should wish: 
 But the sturgeon goes to the Caesar's 
 dish." 
 
 VII. 
 
 Peter, Peter ! thou fisher of men, 
 Fisher of fish wouldst thou live in- 
 stead ? 
 Haggling for pence with the other 
 ten, 
 Cheating the market at so much a 
 
 head, 
 Griping the bag of the traitor dead ? 
 
 ^ > ■ t ^ 
 
PARTING LOVERS. 
 
 501 
 
 VIII. 
 
 At the triple crow of the Gallic cock 
 Thou weep'st not, thou, though 
 thine eyes be dazed: 
 What bird comes next in the tempest- 
 shock ? 
 — Vultures I see, — as when Romu- 
 lus gazed, — 
 To inaugurate Rome for a world 
 amazed 1 
 
 THE KING'S GIFT. 
 
 Teresa, ah, Teresita I 
 Now what has the messenger brought 
 
 her, 
 Our Garibaldi's young daughter, 
 To make her stop short in her sing- 
 ing? 
 Will she not once more repeat a 
 Verse from that hymn of our hero's, 
 
 Setting the souls of us ringing ? 
 Break off the song where the tear 
 rose ? 
 
 Ah, Teresita ! 
 
 II. 
 
 A young thing, mark, is Teresa: 
 Her eyes have caught fire, to be sure, 
 
 in 
 That necklace of jewels from Turin, 
 Till blind their regard to us men is. 
 But still she remembers to raise a 
 Sly look to her father, and note — 
 "Could she sing on as well about 
 Venice, 
 Yet wear such a flame at her throat ? 
 Decide for Teresa." 
 
 III. 
 
 Teresa, ah, Teresita ! 
 His right hand has paused on her 
 
 head; 
 " Accept it, mj' daughter," he said; 
 " Ay, wear it, true child of thy 
 mother ! 
 Then sing, till all start to their feet, a 
 New verse ever bolder and freer ! 
 
 King Victor's no king like another. 
 But verily noble as we are, 
 Child, Teresita ! " 
 
 PARTING LOVERS. 
 
 SIENA, I860. 
 
 I LOVE thee, love thee, Giulio; 
 Some call me cold, and some de- 
 mure ; 
 And if thou hast ever guessed that so 
 I loved thee . . . well, the proof 
 was poor. 
 And no one could be sure. 
 
 II. 
 
 Before thy song (with shifted rhymes 
 
 To suit my name) did I undo 
 The Persian ? If it stirred sometimes, 
 Thou hast not seen a hand push 
 through 
 A foolish flower or two. 
 
 My mother, listening to my sleep. 
 
 Heard nothing but a sigh at night, — 
 The short sigh rippling on the deep, 
 When hearts run out of breath and 
 sight 
 Of men, to God's clear light 
 
 IV. 
 
 When others named thee, — thought 
 thy brows 
 Were straight, thy smile was ten- 
 der — " Here 
 He comes between the vineyard 
 rows ! " 
 I said not " Ay," nor waited, dear. 
 To feel thee step too near. 
 
 I left such things to bolder girls, — 
 
 Olivia or Clotilda. Nay, 
 When that Clotilda, through her curls, 
 Held both thine eyes in hers one 
 day, 
 I marvelled, let me say. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I could not try the woman's trick: 
 Between us straightway fell the 
 blush 
 Which kept me separate, blind, and 
 sick. 
 A wind came with thee in a flush. 
 As blown thro' Sinai's bush-. 
 
LAST POEMS. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But now that Italy invokes 
 Her yoiiug men to go forth, and 
 chase 
 The foe or perish, — nothing chokes 
 My voice, or drives me from tlie 
 place. 
 I look thee in the face. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 I love thee ! It is understood, 
 Confest; I do not shrink or start. 
 
 No blushes ! all my body's blood 
 Has gone to greaten this poor heart. 
 That, loving, we may part. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Our Italy invokes the youth 
 To diie if need be. Still there's 
 room, 
 Though earth is strained with dead in 
 truth ; 
 Since twice the lilies were in bloom 
 They have not grudged a tomb. 
 
 X. 
 
 And many a i)lighted maid and wife 
 And mother, who can say, since 
 then, 
 " My country," — cannot say through 
 life 
 "My son," "my spouse," "my 
 fiower of men," 
 And not weep dumb again. 
 
 xi. 
 
 Heroic males the country bears; 
 But daughters give up more than 
 sons: 
 Flags wave, drums beat, and un- 
 awares 
 You flash your souls out witli the 
 guns. 
 And take your heaven at once. 
 
 XII. 
 
 But we ! we empty heart and home 
 Of life's life, love ! We bear tu 
 think 
 You're gone, to fee;! you may not 
 come. 
 To hear the door-latch stir and 
 clink. 
 
 Yet no more you ! . . . nor 
 sink. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Dear God I when Italy is one. 
 Complete, content from bound to 
 bound. 
 Suppose, for my share, earth's un- 
 done 
 By one grave in't ! — as one small 
 wound 
 Will kill a man, 'tis found. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 What then ? If love's delight must 
 end, 
 At least we'll clear its truth from 
 flaws. 
 I love thee, love thee, sweetest 
 friend ! 
 Now take my sweetest without 
 pause. 
 Ami help the nation's cause. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And thus, of noble Italy 
 We'll both he worthy ! Let her 
 show 
 The future how we made her free, 
 Not sparing life . . . nor Giulio, 
 
 Nor this — this heartbreak! 
 Go. 
 
 MOTHER AND POET. 
 
 TURIN, AFTER NEWS FROM GAETA, 
 1861. 
 
 Dead ! One of them shot ])y the sea 
 in the east, 
 And one of them shot in the west 
 by the sea. 
 Dead ! both my boys ! When you sit 
 at the feast. 
 And are wanting a great song for 
 Italy free. 
 Let none look at ?ne. 
 
 Yet I was a poetess only last year. 
 And good at my art, for a woman, 
 men said; 
 But this woman, this, who is agonized 
 here, 
 — The east sea and west sea rhyme 
 on in her head 
 Forever instead. 
 
MOTHER AND POET. 
 
 503 
 
 III. 
 
 What art can a woman be good at? 
 Oh, vain! 
 What art is she good at, but hurt- 
 ing her breast 
 With the milk-teeth of babes, and a 
 smile at the pain ? 
 Ah, boys, how you hurt ! you were 
 strong as you prest, 
 And I proud by that test. 
 
 IV, 
 
 ? To hold 
 
 by 
 
 What art's for a woman 
 on her knees 
 Both darlings ! to feel all their 
 arms round her tliroat. 
 Cling, strangle a little ! to sew 
 degrees, 
 
 And 'broider the long-clothes and 
 neat little coat ; 
 To dream and to dote. 
 
 To teach them. ... It stings there ! 
 I made them indeed 
 Speak plain the word countvy. I 
 taught them, no doubt. 
 That a country's a thing men should 
 die for at need. 
 I prated of liberty, rights, and 
 about 
 The tyrant cast out. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And 
 
 O 
 
 when their eyes Hashed . 
 my beautiful eyes ! . . . 
 /exulted; nay, let them go forth at 
 the wheels 
 Of the guns, and denied not. But 
 then the surprise 
 When one sits quite alone ! Then 
 one weeps, then one kneels 
 God, how the house feels ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 At 
 
 first, happj' news came, in gay 
 letters moiled 
 With my kisses, of camp-life and 
 glory, and how 
 They both loved me; and, soon com- 
 ing home to be spoiled, 
 In return would fan off every fiy 
 from ray brow 
 With their green laurel-bough. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 triumph at 
 
 Turin : "An- 
 
 Then was 
 
 cona was free I 
 And some one came out of the 
 cheers in the street, 
 With a face pale as stone, to say 
 something to me. 
 My Guido was dead I I fell down 
 at his feet, 
 W^hile they cheered in the street. 
 
 IX. 
 
 I bore it; friends soothed me; my 
 grief looked sublime 
 As the ransom of Italy. One boy 
 remained 
 To be leant on and walked with, re- 
 calling the time 
 When the first grew immortal, 
 while both of us strained 
 To the height he had gained. 
 
 And letters still came, shorter, sadder, 
 more strong. 
 Writ now but in one hand. "I 
 was not to faint, — 
 One loved me for two, would be with 
 me ere long: 
 And Viva I' Italia ! — he died for, 
 our saint, 
 Who forbids our complaint." 
 
 My Nanni would /add, " he was safe, 
 and aware ' 
 Of a presence /that turned off the 
 balls, — wAs imprest 
 It was Guido/ himself, who knew 
 what I could bear. 
 And how 'Irwas impossible, quite 
 dispossest, 
 To live on for the rest." 
 
 XII. 
 
 On which, without pause, up the tele- 
 graph-line 
 Swept smoothlj- the next news 
 from Gaeta, — Shot. 
 Tell his mother. Ah, ah! "his," 
 " their " mother, not " mine: " 
 No voice says, " 3/// mother," again 
 to me. What ! 
 You think Guido forgot ? 
 
504 
 
 LAST POEMS. 
 
 xin. 
 
 Are 
 
 that, 
 
 1 
 
 souls straight i so happy, 
 dizzy with heaven, 
 They drop earth's affections, con- 
 ceive not of w^oe ? 
 think not. Themselves were too 
 
 lately forgiveij 
 Through That Love and Sorrow 
 which reconciled so 
 The Above and [Below 
 
 xr\|. 
 
 Christ of the fiVe wounds, who 
 look'dst through the dark 
 To the face of thy mother ! con- 
 sider, I pray, 
 How we common mothers stand deso- 
 late, mark, 
 Whose sons, not being Christs, die 
 with eyes turned away, 
 And no last word to say. 
 
 / 
 
 XV. 
 
 Both boys dead ? but that's out of 
 nature. "VVe all 
 Have been patriots, yet each house 
 must always keep one. 
 'Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to 
 a wall; 
 And, when Italy's made, for what 
 end is it done. 
 If we have not a son ? 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Ah, ah, ah ! when Gaeta's taken, 
 what then ? 
 When the fair wicked queen sits no 
 more at her sport 
 Of (he fire-balls of death crashing 
 souls out of men ? 
 When the guns of Cavalli with 
 final retort 
 Have cut the igame short ? 
 
 XiVII. 
 
 When Venice and Rome keep their 
 new jubilee; 
 When your flag takes all heaven for 
 its white, green, and red; 
 When you have your country from 
 rnountain to sea; 
 When King Victor has Italy's 
 crown on his head, 
 (And I have my dead), — 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 What then ? Do not mock me. Ah, 
 ring your bells low, 
 And burn your lights faintly ! My 
 country is there, 
 Above the star pricked by the last 
 peak of snow: 
 My Italy's there, with my brave 
 civic pair 
 To disfranchise despair ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Forgive me. Some women bear chil- 
 dren in strength, 
 And bite back the cry of their pain 
 in self-scorn; 
 But the birth-pangs of nations will 
 wring us at length 
 Into wail such as this; and we sit 
 on forlorn 
 When the man-child is born. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Dead ! One of them shot by the sea 
 in the east, 
 And one of them shot in the west 
 by the sea. 
 Both ! both my boys ! If in keeping 
 the feast 
 You want a great song for your 
 Italy free, 
 Let none look at me ! 
 
 [This was Laura Savio of Turin, a poet- 
 ess and patriot, whose sons were Jiilled at 
 Ancona and Gaeta.] 
 
 NATURE'S REMORSES. 
 
 ROME, 1861. 
 
 Her soul was bred by a throne, and 
 fed 
 From the sucking-bottle used in her 
 race 
 On starch and water (for mother's 
 milk, 
 Which gives a larger growth instead). 
 And, out of the natural liberal 
 grace, 
 Was swaddled away in violet silk. 
 
NA T URE ' S REMORSES. 
 
 II. 
 
 And young and kind, and royally 
 blind, 
 Forth she stepped from her palace- 
 door 
 On three-piled carpet of compli- 
 ments, 
 Curtains of incense drawn by the 
 wind 
 In between her forevermore 
 And daylight issues of events. 
 
 III. 
 
 On she drew, as a queen might do. 
 To meet a dream of Italy, — 
 
 Of magical town and musical 
 wave, 
 "Where even a god, his amulet blue 
 Of shining sea, in an ecstasy, 
 Dropt and forgot in a nereid's 
 cave. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Down she goes, as the soft wind 
 blows. 
 To live more smoothly than mortals 
 can. 
 To love and to reign as queen and 
 wife. 
 To wear a crown that smells of a rose. 
 And still, with a sceptre as light as 
 a fan. 
 Beat sweet time to the song of 
 life. 
 
 What is this ? As quick as a kiss 
 Falls the smile from her girlish 
 mouth ! 
 The lion-people has left its lair, 
 Roaring along her garden of bliss. 
 And the fiery underworld of the 
 South 
 Scorched a way to the upper air. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And a fire-stone ran in the form of a 
 man, 
 Burningly, boundingly, fatal and 
 fell. 
 Bowling the kingdom down ! 
 Where was the king ? 
 She had heard somewhat, since life 
 began. 
 Of terrors on earth, and horrors in 
 hell, 
 But never, never, of such a thing. 
 
 VII. 
 
 You 
 
 her 
 
 think she dropped when 
 di'eam was stopped, 
 When the blotch of Bourbon blood 
 inlay, 
 Lividly rank, her new lord's 
 cheek ? 
 Not so. Her high heart overtopped 
 The royal part she had come to 
 play. 
 Only the men in that hour were 
 weak. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And twice a wife by her ravaged life, 
 And twice a queen by her kingdom 
 lost, 
 She braved the shock and the 
 counter-shock 
 Of hero and traitor, bullet and knife, 
 While Italy pushed, like a vengeful 
 ghost. 
 That son of the Cursed from Gae- 
 ta's rock. 
 
 IX. 
 
 What will ye give her, who could not 
 deliver, 
 German princesses ? A laurel- 
 wreath 
 All over-scored with your signa- 
 tures ? 
 Graces, Serenities, Highnesses ever ? 
 Mock lier not fresh from the truth 
 of death, 
 Conscious of dignities higher than 
 yours. 
 
 X. 
 
 What will ye put in your casket shut, 
 Ladies of Paris, in sympathy's 
 name ? 
 Guizot's daughter, what have you 
 brought her ? 
 Withered immortelles, long ago cut 
 For guilty dynasties perished in 
 shame. 
 Putrid to memory, Guizot's daugh- 
 ter? 
 
 XI. 
 
 Ah, poor queen ! so young and serene ! 
 What shall we do for her, now 
 hope's done. 
 Standing at Rome in these ruins 
 old. 
 She too a ruin, and no more a queen ? 
 Leave her that diadem made by the 
 sun 
 Turning her hair to an innocent 
 gold. 
 
506 
 
 LAST POEMS. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Ay ! bring close to her, as 'twere a 
 rose to her, 
 Yon free child from an Apennine 
 city 
 Singing for Italy, — dumb in the 
 place ! 
 Something like solace, let us suppose, 
 to her 
 Given, in that homage of wonder 
 and pity. 
 By his pure eyes to her beautiful 
 face. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Nature, excluded, savagely brooded; 
 Ruined all queendom and dogmas 
 of state: 
 Then, in re-action remorseful and 
 mild. 
 Rescues the womanhood, nearly 
 eluded, 
 Shows her what's sweetest in wo- 
 manly fate — 
 Sunshine from heavej, and the 
 eyes of a child. 
 
 THE 
 
 THE 
 
 NORTH AND 
 SOUTH. 
 
 [THE LAST POEM.] 
 Rome, Mat, 1861. 
 
 " Now give us lands where the olives 
 grow," 
 Cried the North to the South, 
 " Where the sun, with a golden 
 
 mouth, can blow 
 Blue bubbles of grapes down a vine- 
 yard-row ! " 
 Cried the North to the South. 
 
 " Now give us men from the sunless 
 plain," 
 Cried the South to the North, 
 
 " By need of work in the snow and 
 
 the rain. 
 Made strong, and brave by familiar 
 
 pain 
 
 Cried the South to the North. 
 
 II. 
 
 " Give lucider hills and intenser 
 seas," 
 Said the North to the South, 
 " Since ever, by symbols and bright 
 
 degrees, 
 Art, childlike, climbs to the dear 
 Lord's knees," 
 Said the North to the South. 
 
 " Give strenuous souls for belief and 
 prayer," 
 Said the South to the North, 
 "That stand in the dark on the low- 
 est stair, 
 While affirming of God, ' He is cer- 
 tainly there,' " 
 Said the South to the North. 
 
 III. 
 
 " Yet, oh for the skies that are softer 
 and higher ! " 
 Sighed the North to the South ; 
 " For the flowers that blaze, and the 
 
 trees that aspire, 
 And the insects made of a song or a 
 flre ! " 
 Sighed the North to the South. 
 
 " And oh for a seer to discern the 
 
 same 
 
 I " 
 
 Sighed the South to the North ; 
 " For a poet's tongue of baptismal 
 
 flame, 
 To call the tree or the flower by its 
 name ! " 
 Sighed the South to the North. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The North sent therefore a man of 
 men 
 As a grace to the South ; 
 And thus to Rome came Andersen. 
 — "Alas, but must you take him 
 again ? " 
 Said the South to the North. 
 
TRANSLATIOJ^S. 
 
 FROM THEOCRITUS. 
 THE CYCLOPS. 
 
 (Idyl XI.) 
 
 And so an easier life our Cyclops 
 drew, 
 The ancient Polyphemus, who in 
 youth 
 Lioved Galatea while the manhood 
 grew 
 Adown his cheeks, and darkened 
 round his mouth. 
 No jot he cared for apples, olives, 
 roses; 
 Love made him mad; the whole 
 world was neglected, 
 The very sheep went backward to 
 their closes 
 From out the fair green pastures, 
 self-directed. 
 And singing Galatea, thus, he wore 
 The sunrise down along the weedy 
 shore, 
 And pined alone, and felt the cruel 
 wound 
 Beneath his heart, which Cypris' ar- 
 row bore, 
 With a deep pang: but, so, the cure 
 was found; 
 And, sitting on a lofty rock, he cast 
 His eyes upon the sea, and sang at 
 
 last: 
 " O whitest Galatea, can it be 
 That thou shouldst s])urn me off who 
 love thee so ? 
 More white than curds, my girl, thou 
 
 art to see, 
 More meek than lambs, more full of 
 leaping glee 
 Than kids, and brighter than the 
 early glow 
 On grapes that swell to ripen, — sour 
 
 like thee ! 
 Thou comest to me with the fragrant 
 sleep, 
 And with the fragrant sleep tb.ca 
 goest from me; 
 
 Thou fliest . . . fiiest as a frightened 
 sheep 
 Flies the gray wolf ! — yet love did 
 •overcome me. 
 So long ! — I loved thee, maiden, first 
 of all, 
 "When down the hills (my mother 
 fast beside thee) 
 I saw thee stray to pluck the summer- 
 fall 
 Of hyacinth-bells, and went myself 
 to guide thee ; 
 And since my eyes have seen thee, 
 they can leave thee 
 No more, from that day's light ! 
 But thou . . . by Zeus, 
 Thou wilt not care for that, to let it 
 grieve thee ! 
 I know thee, fair one, why thou 
 springest loose 
 From my arm round thee. "Why ? I 
 tell thee, dear ! 
 One shaggy eyebrow draws its 
 smudging road 
 Straight through my ample front, 
 from ear to ear; 
 One eye rolls underneath; and 
 yawning, broad, 
 Flat nostrils feel the bulging lips too 
 
 near. 
 Yet . . . ho, ho ! — I, — whatever I 
 appear, — 
 Do feed a thousand oxen ! "When 
 I have done, 
 I milk the cows, and drink the milk 
 that's best ! 
 I lack no cheese, while summer 
 keeps the sun; 
 And after, in the cold, it's ready prest ! 
 And then, I know to sing, as there 
 is none 
 Of all the Cyclops can, ... a song of 
 
 thee, 
 Sweet apple of my soul , on love's fair 
 
 tree. 
 And of myself who love thee . . . till 
 
 the west 
 Forgets the light, and all but I have 
 rest. 
 
 507 
 
608 
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 I feed for thee, besides, eleven fair 
 does, 
 And all in fawn; and four tame 
 whelps of bears. 
 Come to me, sweet ! thou shalt have 
 all of those 
 In change for love ! I will not 
 halve the shares. 
 Leave the blue sea, with pure white 
 arms extended 
 To the dry shore; and, in my cave's 
 recess. 
 Thou shalt be gladder for the noon- 
 light ended ; 
 For here be laurels, spiral cypresses, 
 Dark ivy, and a vine whose leaves 
 
 infold 
 Most luscious grapes; and here is 
 water cold. 
 The wooded .^tna pours down 
 through the trees 
 From the white snows, which gods 
 were scarce too bold 
 To drink in turn with nectar. Who 
 
 with these 
 "Would choose the salt wave of the 
 lukewarm seas ? 
 Nay, look on me ! If I am hairy and 
 rough, 
 I have an oak's heart in me; there's 
 a fire 
 In these gray ashes which burns hot 
 enough ; 
 And, when I burn tor thee, I grudge 
 the pyre 
 No fuel . . . not my soul, nor this one 
 
 eye,— 
 Most precious thing I have, because 
 
 thereby 
 I see thee, fairest ! Out, alas ! I 
 
 wish 
 My mother had borne me flnned like 
 
 a fish. 
 That I might plunge down in the 
 ocean near thee, 
 And kiss thy glittering hand be- 
 tween the weeds, 
 If still thy face were turned; and I 
 would bear thee 
 Each lily white, and poppy fair that 
 bleeds 
 Its red heart down its leaves ! — one 
 gift, for hours 
 Of summer, — one for winter; since 
 to cheer thee, 
 I could not bring at once all kinds of 
 
 flowers. 
 Even now, girl, now, I fain would 
 learn to swim^ 
 
 If stranger in a ship sailed nigh, 1 
 
 wis, 
 That I may know how sweet a thing 
 it is 
 To live down with you in the deep 
 
 and dim ! 
 Come up, O Galatea, from the 
 ocean. 
 And, having come, forget again to 
 go ! 
 As I, who sing out here my heart's 
 emotion. 
 Could sit forever. Come up from 
 below ! 
 Come, keep my flocks beside me, 
 milk my kine; 
 Come, press my cheese, distrain my 
 whey and curd ! 
 Ah, mother ! she alone . . . that 
 mother of mine . . . 
 Did wrong me sore ! I blame her ! 
 Not a word 
 Of kindly intercession did she ad- 
 dress 
 Thine ear with for my sake; andne'er- 
 theless 
 She saw me wasting, wasting, day 
 
 by day: 
 Both head and feet were aching, I 
 will say, 
 All sick for grief, as I myself was 
 sick. 
 O Cyclops, Cyclops ! whither hast 
 
 thou sent 
 Thy soul on fluttering wings ? If 
 thou wert bent 
 On turning bowls, or pulling green 
 and thick 
 The sprouts to give thy lambkins, 
 
 thou wouldst make thee 
 A wiser Cyclops than for what we 
 take thee. 
 Milk dry the present ! Why pursue 
 
 too quick 
 That future which is fugitive aright ? 
 Thy Galatea thovi shalt haply find, 
 Or else a maiden fairer and more 
 kind; 
 For many girls do call me through 
 the night. 
 And, as they call, do laugh out sil- 
 
 verly. 
 I, too, am something in the world, 
 I see ! " 
 
 While thus the Cyclops love and 
 
 lambs did fold, 
 Ease came with song, he could not 
 
 buy with gold. 
 
TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 509 
 
 FROM APULETUS. 
 PSYCHE GAZING ON CUPID. 
 
 (Metamorph., Lib. IV.) 
 
 Then P.syche, weak in body and soul, 
 put on 
 The cruelty of fate, in place of 
 strength : 
 She raised the lamp to see what 
 should be done, 
 And seized the steel, and was a man 
 at length 
 In courage, though a woman ! Yes, 
 but when 
 The light fell on the bed whereby 
 she stood 
 To view the "heast" that lay there, 
 certes, then. 
 She saw the gentlest, sweetest beast 
 in wood, — 
 Even Cupid's self, the beauteous god ! 
 more beauteous 
 For that sweet sleep across his eye- 
 lids dim. 
 The light the lady carried as she 
 viewed 
 Did blush for pleasure as it lighted 
 him, 
 The dagger trembled from its aim un- 
 duteous : 
 And she . . .oh, she — amazed and 
 soul-distraught. 
 And fainting in her whiteness like a 
 veil, 
 Slid down upon her knees, and, 
 shuddering, thought 
 To hide — though in her heart — the 
 
 dagger pale ! 
 She would have done it; but her hands 
 did fail 
 To hold the guilty steel, they shiv- 
 ered so; 
 And feeble, exhausted, unawares she 
 
 took 
 To gazing on the god, till, look by 
 look, 
 Her eyes with larger life did fill and 
 glow. 
 She saw his golden head alight with 
 curls: 
 She might have guessed their bright- 
 ness in the dark 
 By that ambrosial smell of heavenly 
 mark ! 
 She saw the milky brow, more pure 
 tLan pearls, 
 
 The purple of the cheeks, divinely 
 sundered 
 By the globed ringlets, as they glided 
 
 free, 
 Some back, some forwards, — all so 
 radiantly. 
 That, as she watched them there, 
 
 she never wondered 
 To see the lamplight, where it 
 touched them, tremble: 
 On the god's shoulders, too, she 
 marked his wings 
 Shine faintly at the edges, and re- 
 semble 
 A flower that's near to blow. The 
 poet sings 
 And lover sighs, that love is fugi- 
 tive; 
 And certes, though these jiinions lay 
 reposing, 
 The feathers on them seemed to stir 
 and live 
 As if by instinct, closing and unclos- 
 ing. 
 Meantime the god's fair body slum- 
 bered deep, 
 All worthy of Venus, in his shining 
 
 sleep; 
 Wliile at the bed's foot lay the 
 quiver, bow. 
 And darts, — his arms of godhead. 
 Psyche gazed. 
 With eyes that drank the wonders 
 in, said, " Lo, 
 Be these my husband's arms?" and 
 straightway raised 
 An arrow from the quiver-case, and 
 tried 
 Its point against her finger: trem- 
 bling till 
 She pushed it in too deeply (foolish 
 bride !) 
 And made her blood some dewdrops 
 
 small distil, 
 And learnt to love Love, of her own 
 good will. 
 
 PSYCHE WAFTED BY ZEPHY- 
 
 RUS. 
 
 (Metamorph., Lib. IV.) 
 
 While Psyche wept upon the rock, 
 forsaken. 
 Alone, despairing, dreading, gradu- 
 ually 
 
TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 By Zephyrus she was inwrapt and 
 taken, 
 Still trembling;, — like the lilies 
 planted high, — 
 Through all her fair white limbs. 
 Her vesture spread, 
 Her very bosom eddying with sur- 
 prise. 
 He drew her slowly from the moun- 
 tain-head, 
 And bore her down the valleys with 
 wet eyes. 
 And laid her in the lap of a green dell 
 As soft with grass and flowers as 
 any nest. 
 With trees beside her, and a limpid 
 well: 
 Yet Love was not far off from all that 
 rest. 
 
 PSYCHE AND PAN. 
 
 (Metamorph., Lib. V.) 
 
 The gentle River, in her Cupid's 
 honor, 
 Because he used to warm the very 
 wave. 
 Did ripple aside, instead of closing on 
 her. 
 And cast up Psyche, with a refluence 
 brave, 
 UiJon the flowery bank, all sad and 
 
 sinning. 
 Then Pan, the rural god, by chance 
 was leaning 
 Along the brow of waters as thej' 
 
 wound. 
 Kissing the reed-nymph till she sank 
 to ground 
 And teaching, without knowledge of 
 the meaning, 
 To run her voice in music after his 
 Down many a shifting note (the goats 
 around. 
 In wandering pasture and most 
 leaping bliss. 
 Drawn on to crop the river's flowery 
 
 hair). 
 And as the hoary god beheld her 
 there. 
 The poor, worn, fainting Psyche ! 
 
 knowing all 
 The grief she suffered, he did gently 
 call 
 Her name, and softly comfort her de- 
 spair : — 
 
 " O wise, fair lady I I am rough and 
 rude, 
 And yet experienced through my 
 weary age ; 
 And if I read aright, as soothsayer 
 should. 
 Thy faltering steps of heavy pilgrim- 
 age, 
 Thy paleness, deep as snow we can- 
 not see 
 The roses through, — thy sighs of 
 
 quick returning, 
 Thine eyes that seem themselves two 
 souls in mourning, — 
 Thou lovest, girl, too well, and bit- 
 terly ! 
 But hear me : rush no more to a head- 
 long fall : 
 Seek no more deaths ! leave wail, 
 lay sorrow down. 
 And pray the sovran god; and use 
 withal 
 Such prayer as best may suit a ten- 
 der youth, 
 Well pleased to bend to flatteries from 
 thy mouth, 
 And feel them stir the myrtle of his 
 crown." 
 
 — So spake the shepherd-god; and 
 answer none 
 Gave Psyche in return; but silently 
 She did him homage with a bended 
 knee. 
 And took the onward path. 
 
 PSYCHE PROPITIATING CERES. 
 
 (Metamorph., Lib. VI.) 
 
 Thex mother Ceres from afar beheld 
 
 her, 
 While Psyche, touched, with rever- 
 ent fingers meek. 
 The temple's scythes; and with a cry 
 
 compelled her: — 
 " O wretched Psyche, Venus roams 
 
 to seek 
 Thy wandering footsteps round the 
 
 weary earth, 
 Anxious and maddened, and adjures 
 
 thee forth 
 To accept the imputed pang, and 
 
 let her wreak 
 Full vengeance with full force of 
 
 deity ! 
 
TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 511 
 
 Yet thou, forsooth, art in my temple 
 here, 
 Touching my scythes, assuming my 
 degree, 
 And daring to have thoughts that are 
 not fear ! " 
 — But Psyche clung to her feet, and 
 as they moved 
 Rained tears along their track, tear 
 dropped on tear. 
 And drew the dust on in her trailing 
 locks, 
 And still, with passionate prayer, 
 the charge disproved : — 
 " Now, by thy right hand's gathering 
 
 from the shocks 
 Of golden corn, and by thy gladsome 
 
 rites 
 Of harvest, and thy consecrated sights 
 Shut safe and mute in chests, and by 
 
 the course 
 Of thy slave dragons, and the driving 
 
 force 
 Of ploughs along Sicilian glebes pro- 
 found, 
 By thy swift chariot, by thy stead- 
 fast ground, 
 By all those nuptial torches that de- 
 parted 
 With thy lost daughter, and by 
 those that shone 
 Back with her when she came again 
 glad-hearted, 
 And by all other mysteries which 
 are done 
 In silence at Eleusis, I beseech thee, 
 O Ceres ! take some pity, and ab- 
 stain 
 From giving to my soul extremer 
 pain 
 AVho am the wretched Psyche. Let 
 me teach thee 
 A little mercy, and have thy leave 
 to spend 
 A few days only in thy garnered corn. 
 Until that wrathful goddess, at the 
 end, 
 Shall feel her hate grow mild, the 
 
 longer borne; 
 Or till, alas ! this faintness at my 
 breast 
 Pass from, me, and my spirit appre- 
 hend 
 From lifelong woe a breath-time hour 
 
 of rest!" 
 — But Ceres answered, " I am moved 
 indeed 
 By prayers so moist with tears, and 
 would defend 
 
 The poor beseecher from more utter 
 need ; 
 But where old oaths, anterior ties, 
 
 commend, 
 I cannot fail to a sister, lie to a 
 friend. 
 As Venus is to me. Depart with 
 speed ! " 
 
 PSYCHE AND THE EAGLE. 
 (Metamorph., Lib. VI.) 
 
 But sovran Jove's rapacious bird, the 
 
 regal 
 High percher on the lightning, the 
 
 great eagle, 
 Drove down with rushing wings; and 
 
 thinking how. 
 By Cupid's help, he bore from Ida's 
 
 brow 
 A cup-boy for his master, he inclined 
 To yield, in just return, an influence 
 
 kind; 
 The god being honored in his lady's 
 
 woe. 
 And thus the Bird wheeled downward 
 
 from the track 
 Gods follow gods in, to the level low 
 Of that poor face of Psyche left in 
 
 wrack. 
 — "Now fie, thou simple girl!" the 
 
 bird began; 
 " For, if thou think to steal and carry 
 
 back 
 A drop of holiest stream that ever 
 
 ran. 
 No simpler thought, methinks, were 
 
 found in man. 
 "What ! know'st thou not these Sty- 
 gian waters be 
 Most holy, even to Jove ? that as, on 
 
 earth, 
 Men swear by gods and by the thun- 
 der's worth. 
 Even so the heavenly gods do utter 
 
 forth 
 Their oaths by Styx's flowing majes- 
 
 ty? 
 
 And yet one little urnful I agree 
 
 To grant thy need ! " Whereat, all 
 
 hastily. 
 He takes it, fills it from the willing 
 
 wave. 
 And bears it in his beak, incarnadined 
 
THAN SLAT IONS. 
 
 By the last Titan-prey he screamed 
 
 to have ; 
 And, striking calmly out against the 
 
 wind 
 Vast wings on each side, there, where 
 
 Psyche stands. 
 He drops the urn down in her lifted 
 
 hands. 
 
 PSYCHE AND CERBERUS. 
 (Metamobph., Lib. VI.) 
 
 A MIGHTY dog with three colossal 
 necks, 
 And heads in grand proportion; 
 vast as fear, 
 
 "With jaws that bark the thunder out 
 that breaks 
 In most innocuous dread for ghosts 
 anear, 
 
 Who are safe in death from sorrow: 
 he reclines 
 
 Across the threshold of Queen Pros- 
 erpine's 
 
 Dark-sweeping halls, and there, for 
 Pluto's spouse, 
 
 Doth guard the entrance of the empty 
 house. 
 
 When Psyche threw the cake to him, 
 once amain 
 
 He howled up wildly from his hun- 
 ger-pain, 
 
 And was still after. 
 
 PSYCHE AND PROSERPINE. 
 
 (Metamorph., Lib. VL) 
 
 Then Psyche entered in to Proser- 
 pine 
 
 lu the dark house, and straightway 
 did decline 
 
 With meek denial the lu.\urious seat, 
 The liberal board for \Velcome stran- 
 gers spread, 
 
 But sate down lowly at the dark 
 queen's feet, 
 And told her tale, and brake her 
 oaten bread. 
 
 And when she had given the pyx in 
 humble duty, 
 
 And told how Venus did entreat 
 the queen 
 To fill it up with only one day's beau- 
 ty 
 She used in Hades, star-bright and 
 serene. 
 To beautify the Cyprian, who had 
 been 
 All spoilt with grief in nursing her 
 sick boy. 
 Then Proserpine, in malice and in joy. 
 Smiled in the shade, and took the 
 
 pyx. and put 
 A secret in it; and so, tilled and 
 shut. 
 Gave it again to Psyche. Could she 
 
 tell 
 It held no beautv but a dream of 
 hell ? 
 
 PSYCHE AND VENUS, 
 
 (Metamorph., Lib. VI.) 
 
 And Psyche brought to Venus what 
 was sent 
 
 By Pluto's spouse; the paler, that 
 she went 
 
 So low to seek it down the dark de- 
 scent. 
 
 MERCURY CARRIES PSYCHE TO 
 OLYMPUS. 
 
 (Metamorph., Lib. VI.) 
 
 Then Jove commanded the god Mer- 
 cury 
 
 To float up Psyche from the earth. 
 And she 
 
 Sprang at the first word, as the foun- 
 tain springs. 
 
 And shot up bright and rustling 
 through his wings. 
 
 MARRIAGE OF PSYCHE AND 
 CUPID. 
 
 (Metamorph., Lib. VI.) 
 
 And Jove's right hand approached 
 the ambrosial bowl 
 To Psyche's lips, that scarce dared 
 vet to smile: 
 
TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 513 
 
 " Drink, O my daughter, and acquaint 
 thy soul 
 "With deathless uses, and be glad 
 the while I 
 No more shall Cupid leave thy lovely 
 side : 
 Thy marriage-joy begins for never- 
 ending." 
 "While yet he spake, tlie nuptial feast 
 sui^plied, 
 The bridegroom on the festive couch 
 was bending 
 O'er Psyche inhis bosom,. Jove the same 
 
 On Juno, and the other deities 
 Alike ranged round. The rural cup- 
 boy came 
 And poured Jove's nectar out with 
 shining eyes. 
 While Bacchus for the others did as 
 much, 
 And Vulcan spread the meal; and 
 
 all the Hours 
 Made all things purple with a sjirin- 
 kle of flowers. 
 Or roses chiefly, not to say the touch 
 Of tlieir sweet fingers; and the 
 Graces glided 
 Their balm around; and the Miises 
 through the air 
 Struck out clear voices, which were 
 still divined 
 By that divinest song Apollo there 
 Intoned to his lute; while Ajihro- 
 dite fair 
 I>id float her beauty along the tune, 
 and play 
 The notes right with her feet. And 
 thus the day 
 Through every perfect mood of joy 
 was carried. 
 The Muses sang their chorus ; Saty- 
 
 rus 
 Did blow his jJipes; Pan touched 
 his reed: and thus 
 At lastwere Cupidandhis Psyche mar- 
 ried. 
 
 FROM NONNUS. 
 
 HOW BACCHUS FINDS ARIAD- 
 NE SLEEPING. 
 
 (DiONTSIACA, Lib. XLVII.) 
 
 When Bacchus first beheld the deso- 
 late 
 
 And sleeping Ariadne, wonder 
 straight 
 
 Was mixed with love in his great 
 
 golden eyes; 
 He turned to his Bacchantes in sur- 
 prise, 
 And said with guarded voice, " Hush! 
 
 strike no more 
 Your brazen cymbals; keep those 
 
 voices still 
 Of voice and pipe; and, since ye 
 
 stand before 
 Queen Cypris, let her slumber as 
 
 she will ! 
 And yet the cestus is not here in 
 
 proof. 
 A Grace, perhaps, whom sleep has 
 
 stolen aloof: 
 In which case, as the morning shines 
 
 in view, 
 "Wake this Aglaia ! — yet in Naxos, 
 
 who 
 Would veil a Grace so ? Hush ! And 
 
 if that she 
 "Were Hebe, which of all the gods can 
 
 be 
 The pourer out of wine ? or if we 
 
 think 
 She's like the shining moon by ocean's 
 
 brink, 
 The guide of herds, why, could she 
 
 sleep without 
 Endymion's breath on her cheek ? or 
 
 if I doubt 
 Of silver-footed Thetis, used to tread 
 These shores, even she (in reverence 
 
 be it said) 
 Has no such rosy beauty to dress deep 
 With the blue waves' The Loxian 
 
 goddess might 
 Repose so from her hunting toil 
 
 aright 
 Beside the sea, since toil gives birth 
 
 to sleep; 
 But who would find her with her 
 
 tunic loose. 
 Thus ? Stand off, Thracian ! stand 
 
 off ! Do not leap. 
 Not this way ! Leave that piping, 
 
 since I choose, 
 O dearest Pan, and let Athene rest ! 
 And yet if she be Pallas . . . truly 
 
 guessed . . . 
 Her lance is — where ? her helm and 
 
 aegis — where ? " 
 — As Bacchus closed, the miserable 
 
 Fair 
 Awoke at last, sprang upward from 
 
 the sands. 
 And gazing wild on that wild 
 
 throng that stands 
 
514 
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Around, around her, and no Theseus 
 
 there ! — 
 Her voice went moaning over shore 
 
 and sea, 
 Beside the halcyon's cry; she called 
 
 her love; 
 She named her hero, and raged mad- 
 deningly 
 Against the brine of waters; and 
 
 above. 
 Sought the ship's track, and cursed 
 
 the hours she slept; 
 And still the chiefest execration 
 
 swept 
 Against Queen Paphia, mother of the 
 
 ocean; 
 And cursed and prayed by times in 
 
 her emotion 
 The winds all round. . . . 
 
 Her grief did make her glorious ; her 
 
 despair 
 Adorned her with its weight. Poor 
 
 wailing child ! 
 She looked like Venus when the 
 
 goddess smiled 
 At liberty of godship, debonair: 
 Poor Ariadne ! and her eyelids fair 
 Hid looks beneath them lent her by 
 
 persuasion 
 And every grace, with tears of love's 
 
 own i^assion. 
 She wept long; then she spake: 
 
 " Sweet sleep did come 
 While sweetest Theseus went. Oh, 
 
 glad and dumb, 
 I wish he had left me still ! for in my 
 
 sleep 
 I saw his Athens, and did gladly 
 
 keep 
 My new bride-state within my The- 
 seus' hall; 
 And heard the pomp of Hymen, and 
 
 the call 
 Of ' Ariadne, Ariadne,' sung 
 In choral joy; and there with joy I 
 
 hung 
 Spring-blossoms round love's altar ! 
 
 ay, and wore 
 A wreath myself; and felt him ever- 
 more, 
 Oh, evermore beside me, with his 
 
 mighty, 
 Grave head bowed down in prayer to 
 
 Aphrodite ! 
 Why, what a sweet, sweet dream ! 
 
 He went with it. 
 And left me here unwedded where I 
 
 sitl 
 
 Persuasion help me ! The dark night 
 
 did make me 
 A brideship the fair morning takes 
 
 away; 
 My love had left me when the hour 
 
 did wake me ; 
 And while I dreamed of marriage, 
 
 as I say, 
 And blest it well, my blessed Theseus 
 
 left me; 
 And thus the sleep I loved so has be- 
 reft me. 
 Speak to me, rocks, and tell thy grief 
 
 to-day 
 Who stole my love of Athens." . . . 
 
 HOW BACCHUS COMFORTS 
 ARIADNE. 
 
 (DiONTSiACA., Lib. XLVn.) 
 
 Then Bacchus' subtle speech her sor- 
 row crossed : 
 
 " O maiden, dost thou mourn for hav- 
 ing lost 
 
 The false Athenian heart ? and dost 
 thou still 
 
 Take thought of Theseus, when tliou 
 mayst at will 
 
 Have Bacchus for a husband ? Bac- 
 chus bright I 
 A god in place of mortal ! Yes, and 
 though 
 
 The mortal youth be charming in thy 
 sight. 
 That man of Athens cannot strive 
 below, 
 
 In beauty and valor, with my deity 1 
 Thou'lt tell me of the labyrinthine 
 dweller. 
 
 The fierce man-bull he slew: I pray 
 thee, be. 
 Fair Ariadne, the true deed's true 
 teller, 
 
 And mention thy clew's help ! be- 
 cause, forsooth, 
 Thine armed Athenian hero had 
 
 not found 
 A power to fight on that prodigious 
 ground, 
 
 Unless a lady in her rosy youth 
 
 Had lingered near him; not to speak 
 the truth 
 
 Too definitely out till names be known 
 
 Like Paphia's, Love's, and Ariadne's 
 own, 
 
T RAN SLA TIONS. 
 
 515 
 
 Thou wilt not say that Athens can 
 compare 
 "With ^ther, nor that Minos rules 
 like Zeus, 
 Nor yet that Gnossus has such golden 
 air 
 As high Olympus. Ha ! for noble 
 use 
 We came to Naxos ! Love has well 
 
 intended 
 To change thy bridegroom ! Happy 
 
 thou, defended 
 From entering in thy Theseus' earth- 
 ly hall, 
 That thou mayst hear the laughters 
 rise and fall 
 Instead, where Bacchus rules I Or 
 wilt thou choose 
 A still-surpassing glory? — take it 
 
 all,— 
 A heavenly house, Kronion's self for 
 
 kin, — 
 A place where Cassiopea sits within 
 Inferior light, for all her daughter's 
 
 sake. 
 Since Perseus, even amid the stars, 
 
 must take 
 Andromeda in chains ethereal ! 
 But I will wreathe thee, sweet, an as- 
 tral crown. 
 And as my queen and spouse thou 
 
 shalt be known; 
 Mine, the crown-lover's ! " Thus, at 
 
 length, he j^roved 
 His comfort on her; and the maid was 
 
 moved; 
 And, casting Theseus' memory down 
 
 the brine, 
 She straight received the troth of her 
 
 divine. 
 Fair Bacchus; Love stood by to close 
 
 the rite. 
 The marriage-chorus struck up clear 
 
 and light, 
 Flowers sprouted fast about the 
 
 chamber green. 
 And with spring-garlands on their 
 
 heads, I ween, 
 The Orchomenian dancers came 
 
 along. 
 And danced their rounds in Naxos to 
 
 the song. 
 A Hamadryad sang a nuptial dit 
 Right shrilly; and a Naiad sat be- 
 side 
 A fountain, with her bare foot shelv- 
 ing it. 
 And hymned of Ariadne, beauteous 
 bride, 
 
 Whom thus the god of grapes had 
 
 deified. 
 Ortygia sang out, louder than her 
 
 wont, 
 An ode which Phoebus gave her to 
 
 be tried, 
 And leapt in chorus, with her stead- 
 fast front, 
 "While prophet Love, the stars have 
 
 called a brother, 
 Burnt in his crown, and twined in one 
 
 another 
 His love-tiower with the purple roses, 
 
 given 
 In type of that new crown assigned 
 
 in heaven. 
 
 FROM HESIOD. 
 BACCHUS AND ARIADNE. 
 
 (Theog. 947.) 
 
 The golden-haired Bacchus did es- 
 pouse 
 That fairest Ariadne, Minos' daugh- 
 ter, 
 
 And made her wifehood blossom in 
 the house, 
 "Where such protective gifts Kronion 
 brought her. 
 
 Nor Death nor Age could find her 
 when they sought her. 
 
 FROM EURIPIDES. 
 AURORA AND TITHONUS. 
 
 (Tboades, Antistrophe, 853.) 
 
 Love, Love, who once didst pass the 
 Dardan portals. 
 Because of heavenly passion ! 
 Who once didst lift up Troy in exulta- 
 tion. 
 To mingle in thy bond the high im- 
 mortals ! 
 Love, turned from his own name 
 To Zeus' shame. 
 Can help no more at all. 
 And Eos' self, the fair, white-steeded 
 
 morning, — 
 Her light which blesses other lands, 
 returning, 
 
516 
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Has changed to a gloomy pall ! 
 She looked across the land with eyes 
 
 of amber; 
 She saw the city's fall; 
 She who, in pure embraces, 
 Had held there, in the hymeneal 
 
 chamber, 
 Her children's father, bright Tithonus 
 
 old. 
 Whom the four steeds with starry 
 
 brows and paces 
 Bore on, snatched upward, on the car 
 
 of gold. 
 And with him, all the land's full hope 
 
 of joy ! 
 The love-charms of the gods are vain 
 
 for "Troy. 
 
 Note. — Rendered after Mr. Burges's 
 reading, in some respects, not quite all. 
 
 FROM HOMER. 
 HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE. 
 
 ([LiAD, Lib. VI.) 
 
 She rushed to meet him: the nurse 
 following 
 
 Bore on her bosom the unsaddened 
 child, 
 
 A simple babe, prince Hector's well- 
 loved son. 
 
 Like a star shining when the world is 
 dark. 
 
 Scamandrius, Hector called him; but 
 the rest 
 
 Named him Astyanax, the city's 
 prince. 
 
 Because that Hector only, had saved 
 Troy. 
 
 He, when he saw his son, smiled si- 
 lently; 
 
 While, dropping tears, Andromache 
 pressed on, 
 
 And clung to his hand, and spake, 
 and named his name. 
 
 " Hector, my best one, thine own 
 
 nobleness 
 Must needs undo thee. Pity hast 
 
 thou none 
 For this young child and this most 
 
 sad myself. 
 Who soon shall be thy widow, since 
 
 that soon 
 
 The Greeks will slay thee in the gen- 
 eral rush ; 
 
 And then, for me, what refuge, 'reft 
 of thee. 
 
 But to go graveward ? Then, no com- 
 fort more 
 
 Sliall touch me, as in the old sad 
 times thou know'st. 
 
 Grief only — grief ! I have no father 
 now, 
 
 No mother mild. Achilles the di- 
 vine. 
 
 He slew my father, sacked his lofty 
 Thebes, 
 
 Cilicia's populous city, and slew its 
 king, 
 
 Eetion — father ! — did not spoil the 
 corse. 
 
 Because the Greek revered him in his 
 soul, 
 
 But burnt the body with its d?edal 
 arms. 
 
 And poured the dust out gently. 
 Round that tomb 
 
 The Oreads, daughters of the goat- 
 nursed Zeus, 
 
 Tripped in a ring, and planted their 
 green elms. 
 
 There were seven brothers with me 
 in the house. 
 
 Who all went down to Hades in one 
 day, — 
 
 For he slew all, Achilles the divine, 
 
 Famed for his swift feet, — .slain 
 among their herds 
 
 Of cloven-footed bulls and Hocking 
 sheep ! 
 
 My mother too, who queened it o'er 
 the woods 
 
 Of Hippoplacia, he, with other 
 spoil, 
 
 Seized, — and, for golden ran.som, 
 freed too late, — 
 
 Since, as slie went home, arrowy Ar- 
 temis 
 
 Met her and slew her at my father's 
 door. 
 
 But — O my Hector, — thou art still 
 to me 
 
 Father and mother! — yes, and brother 
 dear, 
 
 O thou, who art my sweetest spouse 
 beside ! 
 
 Come now, and take me into pitv ! 
 Stay 
 
 I' the town here with us ! Do not 
 make thy child 
 
 An orphan, nor a widow thy pooi 
 wife ' 
 
^K*H 
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 51' 
 
 Call up the people to the fig-tree, 
 
 where 
 The city is most accessible, the 
 
 wall 
 Most easy of assault ! — for thrice 
 
 thereby 
 The boldest Greeks have mounted to 
 
 the l)reach,— 
 Both Ajaxes, the famed Idomeneus, 
 Two sons of Atreus, and the noble 
 
 one 
 Of Tydeus, — whether taught by some 
 
 wise seer. 
 Or by their own souls prompted and 
 
 inspired." 
 
 Great Hector answered: "Lady, for 
 these things 
 
 It is my part to care. And / fear 
 most 
 
 My Trojans, and their daughters, and 
 their wives, 
 
 Who through their long veils would 
 glance scorn at me 
 
 If, coward-like, I sluinned the open 
 war. 
 
 Nor doth my own soul prompt me to 
 that end ! 
 
 I learnt to be a brave man constantly. 
 
 And to fight foremost where my Tro- 
 jans fight, 
 
 And vindicate my father's glory and 
 mine — 
 
 Because I know, by instinct and my 
 soul, 
 
 The day comes that our sacred Troy 
 must fall, 
 
 And Priam and his people. Knowing 
 which, 
 
 I have no such grief for all my Tro- 
 jans' sake. 
 
 For Hecuba's, for Priam's, our old 
 king. 
 
 Not for my brothers', who so many 
 and brave 
 
 Shall bite the dust before our ene- 
 mies, — 
 
 As, sweet, for thee! — to think some 
 mailed Greek 
 
 Shall lead thee weeping and deprive 
 thy life 
 
 Of the free sun-sight — that when 
 gone away 
 
 To Argos, thou shalt throw the dis- 
 taff there, 
 
 Not for thy uses — or shalt carry in- 
 stead 
 
 Upon thy loathing brow, as heavy as 
 doom, 
 
 The water of Greek wells — Messeis' 
 
 own, 
 Or Hyperea's ! — that some stander- 
 
 by, 
 Marking my tears fall, shall say, ' This 
 
 is she. 
 The wife of that same Hector who 
 
 fought best 
 Of all the Trojans, when all fought 
 
 for Troy ' — 
 Ay ! — and, so speaking, shall renew 
 
 thy pang 
 That, 'reft of him so named, thou 
 
 shouldst survive 
 To a slave's life ! But earth shall 
 
 hide my corse 
 Ere that shriek sound, wherewith 
 
 thou art dragged from Troy." 
 
 Thus Hector spake, and stretched his 
 arms to his child. 
 
 Against the nurse's breast, with child- 
 ly cry, 
 
 The boy clung back, and shunned his 
 father's face. 
 
 And feared the glittering brass and 
 waving hair 
 
 Of the high helmet, nodding horror 
 down. 
 
 The father smiled, the mother could 
 not choose 
 
 But smile too. Then he lifted from 
 his brow 
 
 The helm, and set it on the ground to 
 shine: 
 
 Then kissed his dear child — raised 
 him with both arms. 
 
 And thus invoked Zeus and the gen- 
 eral gods : — 
 
 " Zeus, and all godships ! grant this 
 boy of mine 
 
 To be the Trojans' help, as I my- 
 self, — 
 
 To live a brave life and rule well in 
 Troy ! 
 
 Till men shall say, ' The son exceeds 
 the sire 
 
 By a far glory.' Let him bring home 
 spoil 
 
 Heroic, and make glad his mother's 
 heart." 
 
 With which prayer, to his wife's ex- 
 tended arms 
 
 He gave the child; and she received 
 him straight 
 
 To her bosom's fragrance — smiling up 
 her tears. 
 
I 
 
 518 
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Hector gazed on her till his soul was 
 moved ; 
 
 Then softly touched her with his hand 
 and spake : 
 
 " My best one — 'ware of jiassion and 
 excess 
 
 In any fear. There's no man in the 
 world 
 
 Can send me to the grave apart from 
 fate, — 
 
 And no man . . . sweet, I tell thee 
 . . . can fly fate, — 
 
 No good nor bad' man. Doom is self- 
 fulfilled. 
 
 But now, go home, and ply thy wo- 
 man's task 
 
 Of wheel and distaff ! bid thy maidens 
 haste 
 
 Their occupation. "War's a care for 
 men — 
 
 For all men born in Troy, and chief 
 for me." 
 
 Thus spake the noble Hector, and re- 
 sumed 
 
 His crested helmet, while his spouse 
 went home; 
 
 But as she went, still looked back 
 lovingly, 
 
 Dropping the tears from her reverted 
 face. 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF PANDA- 
 RUS. 
 
 (Odtss., Lib. XX.) 
 
 And so these daughters fair of Pan- 
 
 darus. 
 The whirlwinds took. The gods had 
 
 slain their kin: 
 They were left orphans in their 
 
 father's house. 
 And Aphrodite came to comfort them 
 With incense, luscious honey, and 
 
 fragrant wine; 
 And Her& gave them beauty of face 
 
 and soul 
 Beyond all women ; purest Artemis 
 Endowed them with her stature and 
 
 white grace; 
 And Pallas taught their hands to flash 
 
 along 
 Her famous looms. Then, bright 
 
 with deity. 
 Toward far Olympus, Aphrodite went 
 
 To ask of Zeus (who has his thunder- 
 joys 
 
 And his full knowledge of man's 
 mingled fate) 
 
 How best to crown those other gifts 
 with love 
 
 And worthy marriage: but, what time 
 she went. 
 
 The ravishing Harpies snatched the 
 maids away. 
 
 And gave them up, for all their loving 
 eyes. 
 
 To serve the Furies who hate con- 
 stantly. 
 
 ANOTHER VERSION. 
 
 So the storms bore the daughters of 
 Pandarus out into thrall — 
 
 The gods slew their parents; the or- 
 phans were left in the hall. 
 
 And there, came, to feed their young 
 lives. Aphrodite divine, 
 
 With the incense, the sweet-tasting 
 honey, the sweet-smelling wine; 
 brought them her wit above 
 woman's, and beauty of face; 
 pure Artemis gave them her 
 stature, that form might have 
 grace ; 
 
 Athene instructed their hands 
 in her works of renown; 
 
 Then, afar to Olympus, divine Aphro- 
 dite moved on : 
 
 To complete other gifts, by uniting 
 each girl to a mate. 
 
 She sought Zeus, who has joy in the 
 thunder and knowledge of fate. 
 
 Whether mortals have good chance 
 or ill. But the Harjjies alate 
 
 In the storm came, and swept off the 
 maidens, and gave them to wait, 
 
 With that love in their eyes, on the 
 Furies who constantly hate. 
 
 Here 
 And 
 
 And 
 
 FROM ANACREON. 
 
 ODE TO THE SWALLOW. 
 
 Thou indeed, little swallow, 
 A sweet yearly comer. 
 Art building a hollow 
 New nest every summer, 
 And straight dost depart 
 Where no gazing can follow, 
 
TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 519 
 
 Past Memphis, down Nile ! 
 All ! but love all the while 
 Builds his nest in my heart, 
 Through the cold winter weeks: 
 And as one love takes flight, 
 Comes another, O swallow, 
 In an egg warm and white, 
 And another is callow. 
 And the large gaping beaks 
 Chirp all day and all night: 
 And the loves who are older 
 Help the young and the poor loves. 
 And the young loves grown bolder 
 Increase by the score loves — 
 Why, what can be done ? 
 If a noise comes from one 
 Can I bear all this rout of a hundred 
 and more loves ? 
 
 FROM HEINE. 
 
 [THE LAST TRANSLATION".] 
 
 ROME, 1860. 
 
 I. 
 
 Out of my own great woe 
 
 I make my little songs. 
 
 Which rustle their feathers in throngs. 
 
 And beat on her heart even so. 
 
 II. 
 
 They found the way, for their part, 
 Yet come again, and complain, 
 Complain, and are not fain 
 To say what they saw in her heart. 
 
 II. 
 
 Art thou indeed so adverse ? 
 Art thou so changed indeed ? 
 Against the woman who wrongs me, 
 I cry to the world in my need. 
 
 II. 
 
 O recreant lips unthankful, 
 
 How could ye speak evil, say. 
 
 Of the man who so well has kissed 
 
 you 
 On many a fortunate day ? 
 
 III. 
 
 I. 
 
 My child, we were two children, 
 Small, merry by childhood's law: 
 We used to crawl to the hen-house. 
 And hide ourselves in the straw. 
 
 II. 
 
 We crowed like cocks; and whenever 
 The passers near us drew — 
 Cock-a-doodle ! they thought 
 'Twas a real cock that crew. 
 
 III. 
 
 The boxes about our courtyard 
 We carpeted to our mind. 
 And lived there both together, — 
 Kept house in a noble kind. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The neighbor's old cat often 
 Came to pay us a visit : 
 We made her a bow and courtesy, 
 Each with a compliment in it. 
 
 After her health we asked. 
 Our care and regard to evince — 
 (We have made the very same 
 
 speeches 
 To many an old cat since). 
 
 VI. 
 
 We also sate and wisely 
 Discoursed, as old folks do. 
 Complaining how all went better 
 In those good times we knew, — 
 
 vn. 
 
 How love and truth and believing 
 Had left the world to itself, 
 And how so dear was the coffee, 
 And how so rare was the pelf. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The children's games are over, 
 The rest is over with youth, — 
 The world, the good games, the good 
 
 times, 
 The belief, and the love, and the 
 
 truth. 
 
 ( 
 
520 
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thou lovest me not, thou lovest me 
 not ! 
 'Tis scarcely worth a sigh: 
 "Let me look in thy face, and no king 
 in his place 
 Is a gladder man than I. 
 
 II. 
 
 Thou hatest me well, thou hatest me 
 well — 
 Thy little red mouth has told: 
 Let it reach me a kiss, and, however 
 it is, 
 My child, I am well consoled. 
 
 My own sweet love, if thou in the 
 grave, 
 The darksome grave, wilt be, 
 Then will I go down by the side, and 
 crave 
 Love-room for thee and me. 
 
 II. 
 
 I kiss and caress and press thee wild, 
 Thou still, thou cold, thou white ! 
 
 I wail, I tremble, and weeping mild, 
 Turn to a corpse at the right. 
 
 in. 
 
 The dead Piand up, the midnight 
 calls. 
 They dance in airy swarms — 
 We two keep still where the grave- 
 shade falls. 
 And I lie on in thine arms. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The dead stand up, the Judgment- 
 day 
 Bids such to weal or woe — 
 But nought shall trouble us where we 
 stay 
 Embraced and embracing below. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I. 
 
 Thk years they come and go, 
 Tlie races drop in the grave. 
 Yet never the love doth so. 
 Which here in my heart I have. 
 
 Could I see thee but once, one day , 
 And sink down so on my knee. 
 And die in thy sight while I say, 
 " Lady, I love but thee ! " 
 
 V 
 
 V- i & « >, 
 
 or rue 
 
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