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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 i^ ^-^0' 
 
 WIND ON THE HARP-STRINGS
 
 By the same Author 
 
 SUNSHINE AND SMOKE 
 
 A Book of Verse 
 
 ■*' ' - . ^ » •• .»} •'>
 
 Wind on the Harp-strings 
 
 POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 ARTHUR E. J. LEGGE 
 
 PUBLISHED BY ARTHUR L. HUMPHREYS, 
 187 PICCADILLY, LONDON, & SOLD BY 
 HATCHARDS, AT THE SAME ADDRESS . 1896
 
 TfZ 
 
 NOTE. ^>^3W 
 
 T UNDERSTAND that the legend of 
 Rolandseck has been told by Schiller. 
 I have not read his poem, and do not know 
 how he has treated the matter ; but, as I 
 may possibly be accused of presumption in 
 laying hands on a subject which his genius 
 had appropriated, perhaps I may say that 
 many English readers of poetry are unac- 
 quainted with the German language, and I 
 
 have ventured to hope that for them the 
 beauty of the story may to some extent atone 
 for my shortcomings in telling it. 
 
 For permission to reprint 'The Isolation 
 of England ' I have to thank the editor of 
 the Sf. /ames's Gazette ^ in which journal it 
 originally appeared. 
 
 824199
 
 r*-- ■ ^" m'm m
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ENGLAND 
 
 
 
 I 
 
 A LONDON FOG 
 
 
 
 4 
 
 UNDER A STREET LAMP . 
 
 
 
 6 
 
 THUNDER WEATHER 
 
 
 
 9 
 
 MIST .... 
 
 
 
 II 
 
 AN APRIL SONG 
 
 
 
 12 
 
 SEAGULLS IN THE THAMES 
 
 
 
 14 
 
 AT A BAL MASQUE 
 
 
 
 i6. 
 
 THE UNKNOWN LAND 
 
 
 
 i& 
 
 TWILIGHT 
 
 
 
 21 
 
 AN OLD HOUSE 
 
 
 
 22 
 
 AMONG THE MOUNTAINS . 
 
 
 
 2S 
 
 A HOT-HOUSE PLANT 
 
 
 
 30 
 
 A RHYME IN A RESTAURANT . 
 
 
 
 34 
 
 A PARIS DRESS. 
 
 
 
 39 
 
 SONG OF A TRAMP . 
 
 
 
 42 
 
 THE steamer's CALL 
 
 
 
 43> 
 
 THE BEAT OF THE DRUM 
 
 
 
 44 
 
 love's comedy 
 
 
 
 45 
 
 UPON THE BRINK 
 
 
 
 47 
 
 STILL WATER . . . . 
 
 
 
 48 
 
 A STUDY IN BROWN 
 
 
 
 5S 
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 
 
 56 
 
 THE ISOLATION OF ENGLAND 
 
 
 
 . 64 
 
 ROLANDSECK . 
 
 
 
 66
 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 My soul is fevered with enchanted wine 
 
 Poured golden from the jewelled cup of sprinp, 
 Here, where the hawthorn branches intertwine, 
 
 And, canopied in bloom, the thrushes sing 
 Concerted seconds to the nightingale 
 
 Who leads this chorus with more copious song 
 So sweet and strong 
 That, further down the vale, 
 
 I scarce can heed the cuckoo's muffled calling, 
 Or note the plaintive wind's eternal wail 
 
 Over the hill-top, through the pine-wood falling. 
 A goddess lays her hand upon my heart, 
 
 Touches its drooping chords with unseen fingers. 
 Till air, sky, ground, 
 
 Give harmonies of sight, and scent, and sound, 
 To soothe each aching nerve, to heal the smart 
 
 \Vhere the world's stroke still lingers. 
 
 My own loved land of blossom and of bird ! 
 
 Once more I come for shelter to thy breast. 
 Sick of the streets where puny mortals herd 
 
 Through sunless days, whose night is robbed of rest, 
 Whose hope drags down, whose joys are all unblest. 
 Give me again the right to walk 
 Alone beneath a wind-swept sky 
 
 B
 
 s ENGLAND. 
 
 Through countless shades of green and tones of 
 
 To watch the wheeling hawk [yellow, — 
 
 Before resentful swallows fly, 
 To hear the wood-dove calling to his fellow, 
 While sky-larks overhead are quivering 
 
 In rapturous madness as they sing, 
 And sound of lowing kine comes soft and mellow. 
 And all this wealth of beauty doth invite 
 To dream-born revelries of rich delight. 
 
 This is our England ! In these woods and fields 
 Through long-descending ages has been reared 
 
 A lordly brood of warriors, whose shields 
 
 Were bulwarks unto freedom, — who have heard 
 High voices calling them, — who have not feared 
 
 To walk erect in face of God and man. 
 
 Slow in speech and act and thought, 
 Slow, but steadfast, caring nought 
 
 WTiich way the shifting tide of Fortune ran ; 
 
 Fighters and workers, — somewhat stern of bearing, 
 Lacking, perhaps, the graceful Southern mirth, — 
 A little blind to beauty's living worth, — 
 
 Thinking their own large share of life the whole. 
 And yet of regal birth, 
 
 Proud with the manly pride of dauntless daring, 
 
 Firm in the liberty of self-control. 
 
 Oh wise, strong race! though jealous fools may sneer, 
 Loving to lay their finger on your faults, — 
 
 Like one who finds some great cathedral's gloom 
 Suggest no solemn hope, no sacred fear, 
 
 But only corpses rotting in each tomb 
 And skeletons corroded in its vaults, —
 
 ENGLAND. 3 
 
 However fierce a light be cast 
 Across the record of your days, 
 You will not need to shrink before its rays, 
 
 Nor strive to cloak your past 
 From any questioner's observant gaze. 
 Yours is an heritage of just renown, 
 
 Who still were sane when all the world went mad» 
 ^Vho have not trembled at a tyrant's frown, 
 Nor owned the spell of lawless folly, clad 
 In specious words with shallow cunning spoken, — 
 
 Guarding your crown 
 Of truth and honest purpose still unbroken. 
 
 Keep you your course along the tracks of time. 
 Bearing the stately burden you inherit, — 
 
 The shadow of a mystery sublime, — 
 
 The moving power of an unseen spirit, — 
 Before no fitful tempest bent, 
 In doubt and darkness undismayed, 
 
 From passion's futile thraldom free, nor swayed 
 By sickly, sensual sentiment ; 
 
 But keeping still untarnished that fair name 
 Your fathers won, who taught you to be free, 
 ^^^lOse star shines peerless through the days to be. 
 
 More precious than all store of kingly treasure, 
 
 Or music from enchanted isles of pleasure, — 
 
 Gift that no price of blood or gold can measure, 
 Glowing with rays of a celestial flame. 
 Shrined in the depths of an eternal sea.
 
 A LONDON FOG. 
 
 The gas-lamps flicker and flare 
 
 Like restless, straining eyes 
 "Mad with the great despair 
 
 Of a death that never dies ; 
 Yearning for cool repose 
 
 To freshen their jaded light, 
 For their eyelids do not close 
 
 In the night. 
 
 ■Out on the green old earth. 
 
 Beyond this shviddering pall, 
 With a sober, stately mirth 
 
 The temperate sunbeams fall,^ 
 Or the moonlight sips the dew 
 
 In the drifted leafs brown cup, 
 And colours the mist anew 
 
 Climbing up. 
 
 "But here there is no peace 
 
 From the quiver of endless pain, 
 From the sounds that never cease 
 
 To buffet the air in vain ; 
 Through the panting giant's lips 
 
 The murmur of anguish moans 
 As the tortured city grips 
 
 At its stones. 
 
 I can hear its fingers scrape 
 On its bosom's crumbling skin, 
 
 I can see their hideous shape. 
 Like the ghosts of gloomy sin,
 
 A LONDON FOG. 
 
 Flitting along the street 
 
 In the forms of women and men. 
 Ere the fog's half-lifted sheet 
 
 Falls again. 
 
 Jingle, and rattle, and roar ! 
 
 It draws its labouring breath, 
 Sweating at every pore 
 
 With the oozy slime of death. 
 Its streets are as swollen veins 
 
 Which the throb of its heart-beat loads 
 With blood that sullies and stains, 
 
 And corrodes. 
 
 Its jarring noises seem 
 
 To blend in a piteous prayer 
 For a break in its ghastly dream^ 
 
 A breath of untainted air. 
 Is the great, strong sun afraid 
 
 To offer so slight a boon ? 
 Is it idle to ask for aid 
 
 From the moon ? 
 
 Yes ! be it night or day, 
 
 No sunbeam rends the shroud » 
 While the moon is far away 
 
 Asleep on a feathery cloud. 
 The city may gasp and die 
 
 Ere ever its voice be heard, 
 Ere the heart of the sex-less sky 
 
 Shall be stirred.
 
 ( 6 ) 
 
 UNDER A STREET LAMP. 
 
 A PALE, but blotched and bloated face. 
 
 Ill-featured and unshaven, 
 With many a deep unlovely trace 
 
 Of lowest life engraven; 
 
 Thick, cruel lips, whose parting seemed 
 
 To form a fleshly pocket ; 
 And one forbidding eye that gleamed 
 
 Dull in its narrow socket ; 
 
 A flat, receding forehead, fringed 
 With locks unkempt and sandy ; 
 
 And cheeks whose native hue was tinged 
 With dirt, and bloud, and brandy ; — 
 
 Thus has the hasty portrait stood 
 That Memory's pencil sketches, — 
 
 The most repulsive in the brood 
 Of London's broken wretches. 
 
 I watched your shifting footsteps prowl 
 
 Close to the gas-lit tavern, 
 And likened you to spectres foul 
 
 In a subterranean cavern.
 
 UNDER A STREET LAMP. 
 
 For, 'mid the varied types that spring 
 
 From mortal man and woman, 
 'Twere strange to find another thing 
 
 So hard to rank as human. ^ 
 
 Noisily down the sloppy street 
 A cab came quickly splashing, , 
 
 "With throb of wheels and horse's feet, 
 With lights and panels flashing. 
 
 It stopped, and underneath the lamp 
 A girl, with swift and sure step 
 
 That scarcely touched the pavement's damp, 
 Glided upon a doorstep. 
 
 With one slim hand upon the bell. 
 Whose distant voice was pealing. 
 
 She turned, and all the gaslight fell 
 On face and form, revealing 
 
 ■Great eyes, like dark blue seas that shine 
 
 Beneath the moon's reflection, 
 Lips rounded in a mould divine, 
 
 A lustrous, pale complexion. 
 
 Thick coils of hazy, golden hair. 
 Draped on the brow of Venus, — 
 
 And you and I stood staring there, 
 With one brief bond between us. 
 
 A door flung back,— a flood of light, 
 
 Cut short, as the charm was shattered, — 
 
 And nothing left but the murky night 
 By flaming jets bespattered.
 
 UNDER A STREET LAMP, 
 
 And the joy that stirred my Ijosom sank 
 At the loss of that fair vision, 
 
 While my spirit strove to fill the blank 
 With a laugh of faint derision. 
 
 Was it in some sardonic mood 
 
 Of Fate's predestination 
 That from such elements was brewed. 
 
 So strange a combination ? 
 
 She, with her purity and grace ; 
 
 I, with — well, never mind it ; 
 You, with that God-forsaken face 
 
 And the fetid thoughts behind it ! 
 
 Well, let it pass ! We cannot know 
 On whom will rest the stigma, 
 
 When Time compels us all to go 
 And solve the great Enigma.
 
 ( 9 ) 
 
 THUNDER- WEATHER. 
 
 Silvery-grey the clouds, like gauzy pillows, 
 Dapple the misty sky, whose darkened sheen 
 
 Heightens the contrast of the clear-cut willows, 
 Silvery-green. 
 
 Silver, and green, and grey the water passes, 
 Calm and so sluggish you might almost think 
 
 Nothing was stirring save the long-stemmed grasses. 
 Grouped on the brink. 
 
 These bend and whisper while the wind comes drifting 
 Faint and half-hearted, as some Eastern bride. 
 
 Sold without love, her master's curtain lifting, 
 Creeps to his side. 
 
 Still lies the Sultan-earth, with slumber laden, 
 Drugged by the glow of vanished days to rest, 
 
 Scarcely awake when the dishevelled maiden 
 Moves on his breast. 
 
 This is the languid noontide of the summer ; 
 
 Bird-haunted copse and glade are songless now. 
 Only the nuthatch, like a ghostly drummer. 
 
 Taps on the bough.
 
 rto THUNDER- WEA THER, 
 
 Though clustered fruit will soon be soft and mellow, 
 Yet in the orchards all the leaves are green, 
 
 Though every cornfield is a patch of yellow, 
 No ricks are seen. 
 
 Sound of the sorrow-burdened breezes straying, 
 Moans through the branches like a dying breath, 
 
 All the great world of life and growth is paying 
 Tribute to death.
 
 '■ifc-*' 
 
 II 
 
 MIST. 
 
 We walked beneath a sullen, wintry sky, 
 
 Beside a leaden stream, 
 Whose sound was like some lonely spirit's sigh, 
 
 Awakened by the theme, 
 The sad old theme the river's whisper taught, 
 
 And poured on heart and brain. 
 With echoes, from the world's wild voices caught, 
 Of faded hopes, and dreams, and blighting thought. 
 
 And passion born in pain. 
 
 You told me half the burden of your mind, 
 
 And from your tone I guessed 
 How much of that which lay concealed behind 
 
 Was coloured like the rest. 
 It seemed to suit the river's mournful song, 
 
 For all its purport showed 
 That the keen sense of life proportioned wrong, 
 Of bitter disenchantment tasted long, / 
 
 Deep in your bosom glowed.
 
 12 
 
 AN APRIL SONG. 
 
 Like eyes, that with luminous fire 
 
 Most eloquent shine, 
 Reflecting some ardent desire, 
 
 Some phrenzy divine, 
 Broad sheet of blue waters, where dances 
 A cluster of glittering lances, 
 Thou sendest thy wandering glances 
 
 In concert with mine ! 
 
 Bare boughs, in whose piteous outstretching 
 
 We seem but to trace 
 Dark lines of laborious etching 
 
 On infinite space. 
 Though useless your longing to sever 
 The distance that parts you, for ever 
 You silently plead, and endeavour 
 
 To meet and embrace ! 
 
 Shy bird, though the branches be leafless, 
 
 Thou deignest to sing 
 Thy rhapsody, careless and griefless, 
 
 Which welcomes the Spring ! 
 Soft breezes, like spirits forsaken, 
 Your passionate whisper doth waken 
 Deep thoughts which have never mistaken 
 
 The burden you bring.
 
 AN APRIL SONG. 13 
 
 For, out of the murmur of voices 
 
 Afloat on this earth, 
 A strain, as of one who rejoices 
 
 In jubilant mirth, 
 An echo of hymns Cytherean, 
 Proclaims, with victorious psean, 
 How once in the foaming /Egean 
 
 A goddess had birth. 
 
 And through the dim shadow of ages 
 
 She cometh once more 
 To print on our century's pages 
 
 The text of her lore, 
 To kindle hot embers, now burning 
 In hearts that are slowly discerning 
 The strength of tumultuous yearning 
 
 Which moved them before. 
 
 "We wait thee, expectant and breathless 
 
 With triumph and shame, 
 Thou queen undisputed and deathless, 
 
 Who comest to claim 
 Thy power, but half comprehended, 
 Of passion and agony blended. 
 Of questions unanswered, unended, 
 
 For ever the same.
 
 ( 14 ) 
 
 SEA-GULLS IN THE THAMES. 
 
 Graceful, fearless sons of the sea ! 
 
 Stoop and glide, where the falling tide 
 Hurries its turbulent waters down, 
 Panting, quivering, stained and brown 
 With dust and grime of the gloomy town. 
 
 Like a restless host rushing on to the coast 
 In feverish haste to be free. 
 
 What should lead you to linger here ? 
 
 Warehouse walls, on whose squalor falls 
 Cankering light from a rusty sun ? 
 Latticed bridges, like webs once spun 
 By monstrous spiders, whose threads have run 
 
 In angular links o'er the stream that shrinks 
 From mouldering wharf and pier ? 
 
 You should be out on the broad expanse 
 
 Crystalline of luminous brine, 
 Where fiery Morn with her slim strong wrist 
 Guides her car through the golden mist 
 On a gleaming pathway of amethyst, 
 
 And the sky's bright blue is painted anew 
 And the wavelets ripple and dance.
 
 SEA-GULLS AV THE THAMES. 15: 
 
 Seething, frothing, eddies and whirls 
 
 Foam and flake in the steamer's wake, 
 And labouring paddle-wheels thump and churn, 
 And brass-bound eyes in the sunlight burn, 
 And the groaning rudder beneath the stern 
 Leaves a lingering line of bubbles, that shine 
 Like masses of floating pearls. 
 
 Sharply stamped on the ground of blue. 
 
 Dusky red, like beech-leaves dead 
 In a dark wood, flushed by an autumn glow, 
 Or white as patches of frozen snow. 
 The little square sails are gliding slow, 
 
 Ephemeral things, with butterfly wings, 
 As daintily feathered as you. 
 
 Oh ! my heart goes out to the open sea, — 
 
 Fiercely cries for cloudless skies 
 And waves that flash in the noon-day glare. 
 Far from the shadows of social care, 
 From the noise and strife of this human fair, — 
 
 And deeper than words are my thanks to the birds,. 
 Who have brought this vision to me.
 
 ( J5 ) 
 
 AT A BAL MASQUE. 
 
 Fair partner, I am sick of thought 
 
 And sick of unachieving toil, 
 Of buikling hopes that come to nought, 
 
 Of pUicking fruit for time to spoil. 
 I fain would cease to search and probe 
 
 Enigmas that I may not gviess. 
 And Folly's kindly hand shall robe 
 
 My spirit in a fancy dress. 
 
 The wail and throb of violins, 
 
 The muffled tread of dancing feet, 
 Have waked a chord whose music wins 
 
 Soft echoes from my pulse's beat. 
 Amidst the surging waves of sound. 
 
 The scented air, the brilliant light, 
 My soul a soothing draught has found 
 
 To drug it into sleep to-night. 
 
 And souls were surely out of place 
 
 In such a motley crowd as this, — 
 Wisdom should wear a fool's grimace 
 
 To yield the laugh we would not miss, — 
 Gay Fancy should transfigure Truth 
 
 To screen the damaged wares it sells, — 
 Maturity should mimic Youth, 
 
 And Reason don the cap and bells.
 
 AT A BAL MASQUE. ,17 
 
 "* How I love life ! ' you said, and I, 
 
 Who have not loved it over-much, 
 Can feel, responsive to your cry. 
 
 My blood go bounding at the touch 
 Of your light fingers on my sleeve, 
 
 Your slender arm against my side, 
 Till o'er the waves of make-believe 
 
 Before a buoyant wind I ride. 
 
 You, for this waning hour, shall be 
 
 My heart's delight, my spirit's breath, 
 The one complete epitome 
 
 Of all I hope in life or death ; 
 I'll take the tune of my desire 
 
 From your wide eyes, and will not ask 
 What hate or love, what frost or fire, 
 
 May slumber there beneath your mask. 
 
 Yes, life is good ! your curving lips 
 
 With smiling radiance part and glow, 
 Your shrouded bosom swells and dips 
 
 Beneath your drooping domino ; 
 The lilt of rhythmic motion springs 
 
 Through the lithe, supple form I press, 
 And, whirled away on magic wings, 
 
 We dance into forgetfulness.
 
 ( i8 ) 
 
 THE UNKNOWN LAND. 
 
 I WATCH deep shades of colour blending, 
 
 As the languid stream goes smoothly by, 
 Beneath the slope where boughs are bending 
 
 And the willows wave against the sky ; 
 Great drunken lilies stoop to tipple 
 
 From leafy cups with a crest of foam. 
 And the faint, faint note of many a ripple, 
 
 Is the voice of nymphs in their reed-girt home. 
 
 The jagged edge of a wood, which lies on 
 
 A long, low hill some fields away. 
 Has cut the rim of a clear horizon, 
 
 A dark green comb on a bed of gray. 
 That is broken here and there and brightened 
 
 By the pallid sunbeams struggling through, 
 Whose washed-out gold has almost whitened 
 
 In the thick, damp clouds that crown the view. 
 
 The blood is out of the face of nature. 
 
 And her eyes with the wanton tears are wet, 
 Which have blurred and softened every feature 
 
 In the mournful mood she is wearing yet ; 
 And the broad green valley is darkly quiet. 
 
 As the slumbrous wind blows moist and cool, 
 With never a sound save the distant riot 
 
 Of the foaming weir and its frothy pool.
 
 THE UNKNOWN LAND. 19 
 
 Far from the river my thoughts are taking 
 
 To the edge of the wood their lonely flight, 
 Where the last faint smile of the sun is making 
 
 The wet leaves flash with a misty light ; 
 And they pierce the watery curtain closing 
 
 The final scene of an ended play, 
 And reach at last to a land reposing 
 
 In the gold and green of a perfect day. 
 
 A land where no mortal eyes have rested, 
 
 Where no earthly foot has been known to pass, 
 Where the hills with diamond crags are crested, 
 
 And the dew drops pearls on the gleaming grass; 
 Not a flower of pain, not a plant of sorrow 
 
 Can scatter seed on the scented air, 
 For the magic peace of the great To-morrow 
 
 And its rainbow riches are buried there. 
 
 Day by day have we hoped to reach it, 
 
 And month by month has the hope proved vain ; 
 Though the truth has many a fact to teach it. 
 
 We turn and turn to our quest again. 
 Each morning flashes a look to find it 
 
 On the hazy brow of the furthest hill. 
 But our land is lost in the depths behind it, 
 
 And the sun goes down from us searching still. 
 
 It lay so close to our childhood's garden 
 
 We could hear the splash of its fairy streams. 
 
 In the days ere thought had begun to harden, 
 Ere the clouds grew dense in our world of dreams.
 
 20 THE UNKNOWN LAND. 
 
 But we lost our way in the tangled forest 
 Which the path of each earthly life has crossed. 
 
 And now, when the need of its hope is sorest. 
 The sight and the sound of our land are lost. 
 
 But our old belief in its sure existence 
 
 Still comes at times when our hearts are faint, 
 And our fancies float to the dim blue distance, 
 
 Led on by the smiling scenes they paint. I 
 
 Though doubts may fetter and fears encumber 
 
 Our course as we strive to understand, 
 We may still be soothed in a griefless slumber I 
 
 By the wind that sighs from the unknown land. I
 
 21 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 The lights burn red in the mist, 
 And the coal-black trees are bare, 
 
 And the gleam of the dark, wet street. 
 
 And the patter of restless feet 
 
 Seem to grip my heart with a dull despair 
 Too strong to resist. 
 
 Endless sorrow and pain. 
 
 Labour that leads to nought, 
 Passion that mocks and lies, 
 Love that flickers and dies. 
 
 For the fruitless battle must still be fought. 
 With nothing to gain. 
 
 WTiy must we darkly grope ? 
 
 Why must we labour and fight ? 
 What is the good of it all ? 
 No one hears when we call. 
 
 And yet we never have lost the light 
 Of a glimmer of hope.
 
 22 
 
 AN OLD HOUSE. 
 
 Peace of Autumn ! No sound that tells 
 
 Of the toil and clamour wherein man dwells, 
 
 But a stealthy rustle amongst the leaves, 
 
 And the ivy quivering under the eaves 
 
 Of the inner court, or waving yet 
 
 On the stone of the time-scarred parapet ; 
 
 And a pigeon's call l)lown faint from the wood 
 
 Hanging above like a monkish hood 
 
 On the hill's broad shoulders, where, to and fro 
 
 Reverberate echoes, as pheasants crow 
 
 A challenge of right to their roosting-place ; 
 
 WTiile from the willows, through which we trace 
 
 The course of the stream with its vapour cowl, 
 
 Come the plaintive voices of v/ater-fowl ; 
 
 And a slow rook, sailing across the sky, 
 
 Deepens the chords with a harsher cry. 
 
 All around are the woods aflush 
 With splashes of colour, — the beech leaves blush 
 On tapering branches, the oaks are brown, 
 And the birches carry a golden crown
 
 AN OLD HOUSE. 23. 
 
 To their stems of silver, — fair forest queens,— 
 
 While stripes of variant yellows and greens 
 
 Spread up to the rim of the world, and die 
 
 On the infinite blue of a flawless sky. 
 
 And here, where the flash of the sunlight falls 
 
 With a rich, red glow on the darkened walls, 
 
 And the panes of the dusky windows glare 
 
 Like eyes enfeebled with age and care, 
 
 'Twere a pleasant fancy to think there came 
 
 Through the mouldering mansion's stately frame 
 
 A last, dim flutter of vital breath 
 
 Ere its heart lay cold in the damp of death. 
 
 And, as before the dreamy gaze 
 
 Of a tired woman her early days 
 
 Revive in some winter evening's gloom, 
 
 When the firelight flickers across the room, 
 
 And scenes come back from the stage of youth, 
 
 And the plays are acted once more in truth, — 
 
 The loves and conquests, the fierce sweet strife 
 
 Of passion and strength and the pride of life, 
 
 The hopes and visions, so deep and vast. 
 
 All the fair, dead joys of the past, — 
 
 So, through the hush of the lonely house. 
 
 Where nothing stirs save the moth and the mouse, 
 
 Comes a vision, for those who have eyes to see, 
 
 Of a long-departed company. 
 
 In rooms where the woven hangings rust, 
 
 And the floor's dark polish is dim with dust, 
 
 Where time's disfiguring stains obscure 
 
 The faded hues of the furniture. 
 
 Hazy and blurred, like the shadows cast 
 
 By the struggling light, from a distant past
 
 24 AN OLD HOUSE. 
 
 Steal spectral faces with mournful eyes^ 
 And the misty shapes of the dead arise, 
 And wild, sad voices weirdly spring 
 From the lips of a ghostly gathering. 
 A moment's fancy ! — then nothing more 
 Than the slumbrous quiet that ruled before ^ 
 The glory dragged from its grave has fled, — 
 Let us leave the dead to bury their dead.
 
 ^ "■-, 
 
 ( 25 ) 
 
 AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Here, in the hush of the long grey mountain side, 
 Are the voices cahii that were loud in the world below j; 
 The quiver and throb of the turning wheels have died,. 
 And the notes that wail from the kennels of earthly- 
 woe 
 Are lost in the roar of the stream's resounding flow. 
 As it leaps and laughs, with its old mysterious song, 
 Like a ghostly troop of warriors swept along 
 Through the thick flakes foamed by the thundering^ 
 steeds they ride. 
 
 No further sound, — and, afar from its stony bed. 
 Where the music fails to strike on the listening car, 
 I clamber up to a world where the wind is dead. 
 Where the silence grows, till my spirit can almost 
 
 hear 
 The stealthy march of the shadows advancing near 
 O'er the short, smooth turf, as the sun goes sliding 
 
 down 
 On a bed of blue to the fringe of the fearful crown 
 Fashioned by crags on the mountain's slumbering head.-
 
 a6 AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Solemn and vagiie, through the depths of my shrink- 
 ing soul, 
 Moveth the spell of a stillness worse than sound, 
 And many a thought that has lived like a toiling mole 
 In the sightless gloom of its chambers underground 
 Comes blinking forth, and warily glances round 
 At this awful space of infinite air and sky. 
 And boldly joins the shadowy dreams that lie 
 Beyond the reach of a weary brain's control. 
 
 Far beneath, in the valley we call the world, 
 
 Where scraps of stone through the dark green surface 
 
 break. 
 We were wont to think them rocks by a Titan hurled. 
 And the sprigs that stand on the shore of the shrunken 
 
 lake 
 Were once tall trees, and the square white blocks 
 
 which make 
 A tiny patch on the carpet here and there, 
 With a blurr above like a whisp of elfin hair, 
 Were human homes over which the smoke-wreaths 
 
 curled. 
 
 There doth the empire end of the midget man, 
 WTio proudly plays his part in a world of toys. 
 Who ties the threads of thought in a worthless plan 
 Of childish hopes and vain illusory joys. 
 Whom the buzz and hum of his insect race annoys. 
 And the golden gleam of a grain of sand delights, 
 Who frets and struts through a few short days and 
 
 nights 
 Ere his footsteps fade in the mist where his course 
 
 began.
 
 AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 27 
 
 As I gaze and gaze I could almost laugh to think 
 Of the things whose life is measured by months and 
 
 weeks, 
 Of the films that are blown at hazard to dance and sink 
 On the breath of man, ere he tosses them down and 
 
 seeks 
 The lonely calm of the cold, majestic peaks, 
 With a wild endeavour to quench the burning thirst 
 That grips his throat like flame as the bubbles burst 
 Into shreds, and dry ere the tortured lips can drink. 
 
 But the mountain soothes his pain with a wondrous 
 
 cure 
 As he clings like a child to its vast maternal breast, 
 ^^^lere light and cloud and shadow alone endure, 
 Where space is a dreamer's vision and time a jest, 
 "Where, year on year, the slumbering ages rest, 
 As the suns like hurrying meteors sink and rise. 
 And the stars look down in the dusk with their sleep- 
 less eyes. 
 And the swift moons float through the darkness, pale 
 and pure. 
 
 As nothing now are the passions whose baneful fire 
 Have swept from the heart's wide fields the withering 
 
 corn ; 
 The panting hope and the unfulfilled desire. 
 The wasted love, the sorrowful, friendless scorn 
 Have spent their rage, and the soul, no longer torn 
 Like a wind-split sail, can cover its wounds and 
 
 sleep 
 In a silent sphere, where only the dewdrops weep, 
 Where the mists alone can fall and the clouds aspire.
 
 a8 AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 Oh, world of our life of pleasure and toil and pain ^ 
 We falter not from the price that your dealers ask ; 
 Our limbs will Ijcnd to carry your load attain ; 
 Our bleeding hands shall finish their fruitless task ; 
 We will drain the drops that linger yet in the flask, 
 And shuffle and cut with Time till the cards run 
 
 out ; 
 We will stand to box with the Fates for a final 
 
 bout, 
 In the courage surviving hope that is called disdain ; 
 
 We will climb the cliff to gather each scented flower ;• 
 We will gird our loins to race for a phantom prize ; 
 We will serve for fame and folly and wealth and 
 
 power, 
 For a tinsel wreath and a scroll of flattering lies ; 
 We will look for love in the gleam of amorous eyes, 
 And still pursue that flaunting will-o'-the-wisp, 
 With a fond belief in a flame so clear and crisp. 
 Though we dare not count on its light for a single 
 
 hour. 
 
 But before we turn to follow the path once more 
 Which leads us back to the life that we would not shirk. 
 Where the iron must probe our hearts to their inmost 
 
 core, 
 And gauge their mettle, and prove the powers that 
 
 lurk 
 To suffer and love, to laugh and wonder and work, 
 Let us cool our fevered veins in the gentle breath 
 That blows from the land beyond the river of Death, 
 With the sound of waves that sob on its tideless shore.
 
 \ 
 
 AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 29 
 
 Though the mountain's secret sleeps, — though the 
 
 mists are laid 
 To cover the curtained glory, fold on fold, — 
 Though we may not see the Spirits whose steps have 
 
 strayed 
 ■On the lonely peaks, whose hair is the sunbeam's 
 
 gold, 
 Whose eyes shine out of the tarns, whose voice is 
 
 rolled 
 In the surge and splash of the torrent, — our souls may 
 
 learn 
 What vastness spreads beyond their vision, and spurn 
 The Finite's tears and terrors, — of nought afraid.
 
 ( 30 ) 
 
 A HOT-HOUSE PLANT. 
 
 Our worlds are leagues asunder, 
 
 Our lives are years apart, 
 Through mists of doubt and wonder 
 
 The linked word-flashes dart. 
 Touched by the glow, we scarcely know 
 
 Where truth begins or ends ; 
 How far the moods that surge and sway 
 Are playful storm or stormy play, 
 
 And if we meet as lovers or as friends.. 
 
 We wear, to ontward seeming. 
 
 The bands of common-place ; 
 No shade of deeper dreaming 
 
 Reflects from face to face. 
 Convention's mask and fashion's task 
 
 Would seem to cover all. 
 Such level ground on either side, 
 The shortest distance serves to hide 
 
 The gulf across whose gaping rift we calU 
 
 You walk within a garden. 
 
 Whose bounds you may not pass, 
 
 Where dewdrop sprays are starred in 
 A cloth of velvet grass,
 
 A HOT-HOUSE PLANT. 31 
 
 Where colour shines in ordered lines 
 
 Of well-trimmed flower-beds, 
 Where slumbrous scents that poppies bear 
 Perfume the softly-stirring air, 
 
 And fragrant roses droop their idle heads. 
 
 A sheltered, soft existence 
 
 Fulfils your share of life ; 
 Far in the buried distance 
 
 Lie suffering and strife ; 
 The weary din of toil and sin 
 
 Sounds faintly to your ears ; 
 In shaded light your joys are cast, 
 In lighted shade your griefs have passed ; 
 
 Your laughter makes a mirror from your 
 tears. 
 
 You watch with gentle pity. 
 
 That scarce can understand, 
 The squalid, teeming city, 
 
 The barren, lonely land. 
 You hear the note of anguish float 
 
 Across the sweeter strain, 
 And wonder, with a dim regret, 
 Why thus the rope should gall and fret. 
 
 And what the weight of poverty and pain. 
 
 But I am of the nameless 
 
 Who pass your guarded gates ; 
 I share, content and shameless. 
 
 Their hopes and loves and hates.
 
 32 A HOT- HO USE PLANT. 
 
 The motley crowd, — the poor, the proud, — 
 
 The roving paladin, — 
 The harlot, pale beneath her paint, — 
 The bloated sot, — the humble saint, — 
 
 In rags or silk I see my kith and kin. 
 
 I rise on cars of fire, 
 
 I crouch in drifts of dust ; 
 I taste the world's desire, 
 
 I gauge its sad disgust. 
 The path I tread with blood is red, 
 
 And white with driven snow ; 
 I chase the sound of tramping feet, 
 I throb with every pulse's beat. 
 
 And all the lore of life I long to know. 
 
 From solitude and sorrow, 
 
 From labour and delight, 
 From every glad To-morrow, 
 
 And every sad To-night, 
 From death and birth, from grief and mirth, 
 
 From body and from soul. 
 From grey disease and florid health. 
 From pining want and stn.itting wealth, 
 
 I strive to learn the secret of the Whole. 
 
 But when the ceaseless riot 
 
 Is over-loud to bear, 
 I hunger for the quiet, 
 
 The purer breath of air ; 
 And, for a day, I turn away 
 
 From Heaven, Earth, and Hell, 
 To dally with the dainty toys, 
 The twilight hues, the bloodless joys, 
 
 Of yonder land of mirage where you dwell.
 
 A HOT-HOUSE PLANT. 33 
 
 Though passion never answers 
 
 The yearning of your eyes, 
 And though your world of dancers 
 
 And flowers and butterflies 
 Must fail to give the things that live, 
 
 Your heart has held for me 
 A palm-girt well amidst the sand, 
 A homestead in a dreary land, 
 
 A shaded coral island in the sea.
 
 ( 34 ) 
 
 A RHYME IN A RESTAURANT. 
 
 The glare of hard electric light 
 
 Gleaming on tables dingy white, 
 
 Across an atmosphere of smoke. 
 
 Through which the forms of hurrying waiters flit ; — 
 
 Piled hat and cloak 
 
 Make backgrounds for discoloured chairs where sit 
 
 Bohemians, — bourgeois, — all the crowd 
 
 Whose voices, strident, loud. 
 
 Are mingled with the clash of knives and forks, 
 
 The chink of glasses, pistol-pop of corks ; 
 
 A strange, unlovely din. 
 
 Well matched with certain odours of the place, 
 
 Where each habitual smell has found a space, — 
 
 Tobacco, steaming dishes, fumes of wine, — 
 
 Gehenna-fog of cookery, wherein 
 
 Perspiring mortals dine. 
 
 Surely no heart can find it good to look 
 
 On such a picture ! Let us take the book 
 
 Of life, and turn to some more pleasing page, 
 
 Some dainty landscape, some enchanted scene 
 
 Upon a brighter stage, 
 
 Where harmonies of colour soothe the sense, 
 
 And Fancy's gorgeous wing may waft us hence 
 
 Into a world, where Beauty once has been. 
 
 1^
 
 A RHYME IN A RESTAURANT. 35 
 
 No, this doth suit my mood ; 
 
 I wish not now to brood 
 
 Among the shadowy fables of the past. 
 
 Squalid reality 
 
 Beckoneth here to me ; 
 
 I would not linger in the soft light cast 
 
 By legendary sunbeams, which outlast 
 
 The setting of their sun. 
 
 Dead are the flowers in Tempe now, 
 
 And dry the magic fount on Helicon ; 
 
 Hushed is the Lesbian song, the lover's vow ; 
 
 And, one by one, 
 
 The silent ghosts have veiled their heads and gone. 
 
 The Muses haunt no more their sacred hill ; 
 
 Apollo's lyre is still ; 
 
 Dryads and nymphs have ceased to roam 
 
 Amongst the glades of Thessaly ; 
 
 Nor flames of kindling altars flare 
 
 Across the purple sea, 
 
 Where Aphrodite, with her wet gold hair, 
 
 Came smiling from the foam. 
 
 Robbed of such faded things, I turn 
 From buried dreams and beauteous lies 
 To search, with hard, contemptuous eyes. 
 The unlovely modern scene, and learn 
 To laugh away this hour that dies. 
 Fat tradesmen, gasping, over-fed ; 
 Lean debauchees, with hectic red 
 Flushing their mottled faces; girls 
 Ansemic, pale,— all mouth and curls, 
 .Sham jewellery, and tawdry pride,— 
 Ogling the flashy shopman at their side.
 
 36 A RHYME IN A RESTAURANT. 
 
 But why go through the list ? j 
 
 The one result is still the same, — the same, 
 And leaves a sense of scorn, repugnance, shame,- 
 Too potent to resist. 
 
 But is it that the chords are over-strung ? 
 \ Springs this dark cloud from throbbing brain, and 
 nerves 
 By feverish exhaustion racked and rung ? ; 
 
 Drink, and forget such folly ! Wine can give i 
 
 The glow that wakes vitality, that serves 
 
 To colour hueless hope, transfigure thought, | 
 
 And with its magic multiples of nought, I 
 
 Make wild solutions live. | 
 
 From this old bottle's dusty throat 
 I can pour a priceless draught. 
 Red with the blood of an age remote, 
 When blood was fire, and flashing yet 
 With the lurid gleam of a sun long set, 
 And the glitter of eyes, that laughed 
 As the grape-juice flushed on the dancing feet, 
 When they rose with a rhythmic beat, 
 And mirrored the glow on the swart cheeks, fanned 
 By the swooning breath of a southern land. 
 
 Yes, you may drug the brain, and shroud 
 
 Life's sharpest lines in a hazy cloud ; 
 
 You may shut your ears to each jarring voice. 
 
 You may pick the colours to suit your choice ; 
 
 But under the painted veil 
 
 Is the toothless grin, and the festered sore. 
 
 And the worm that eats at the inmost core, 
 
 While each clattering tongue but cloaks the wail
 
 I»* •fc*' 
 
 A RHYME IN A RESTAURANT. 37 
 
 Of a heart that builds its own despair 
 
 From idle sorrow and selfish care. 
 
 For the world is nought but a whitened tomb, 
 
 Where Fate, with a scornful laugh. 
 
 As it stripped each soul of its plumes, has thntst 
 
 A rotting handful of rags and dust. 
 
 And has screened the curse of its shameful doom 
 
 With a lying epitaph. 
 
 Ah, God ! It seems a simple thing for me 
 
 Thus to blaspheme humanity ; 
 
 But through my scorn the crimson lifedrops flow, 
 
 And by my bitter agonies I know 
 
 My lot is linked with theirs for praise or blame. 
 
 The inglorious woe 
 
 That dulls their coward hearts ; the fear ; the shame 
 
 Strutting in shamelessness ; the petty greed 
 
 For comfort, low delight, and self-content ; 
 
 The hopes that on such worthless aims are bent ; 
 
 The hard oblivion of another's need ; 
 
 The inhuman mockery, the shallow mirth ; 
 
 All the dark mudstains of this clogging earth. 
 
 Are mine, — are mine indeed ! 
 
 Oh, Love I 
 
 Eternal, infinite Love ! 
 
 Though far thy hidden dwelling-place may be, 
 
 Wrapped in the ghostly gloom that reigns below. 
 
 Or lost in distant, purple depths above, 
 
 Come to my prayer with thine inspiring glow, 
 
 And lay thy hand on me ! 
 
 Draw back the unsightly curtain that is spread 
 
 Over the portal of each shrinking heart.
 
 38 A RHYME IN A RESTAURANT. 
 
 And let the shrouded secrets be displayed ! 
 Across the home-spun fabric, torn and frayed, 
 Gleams the pure brij^htness of thy golden thread ; 
 In the grey mass of things corrupt and dead 
 A living hope and holiness thou art. 
 Heal with thy radiant touch the vision blind. 
 And, in the flame of everlasting Good, 
 Dissolve the transient dross of humankind ! 
 Light the pale stars once more, in heaven to burn. 
 And, by their beams, let doubting souls discern 
 The unchanging, deathless bonds of brotherhood !
 
 ( 39 ) 
 
 A PARIS DRESS. 
 
 Your hand was drooped in languid grace 
 
 Across the velvet chair, 
 And toyed with knots of foam-like lace. 
 And smoothed the satin's crumpled face 
 
 With gentle care. 
 
 And as your fingers idly moved, 
 
 And laid a soft caress 
 On folds with changing ripples grooved, 
 You asked me if my taste approved 
 
 Your Paris dress. 
 
 A jesting answer on my tongue, 
 
 I turned towards the door 
 Which showed the wall with roses hung. 
 The brilliant crowd that swayed and swung, 
 
 The polished floor. 
 
 In the first beams of coming day 
 The candle-flames were white ; 
 
 Beyond the broad, bare windows lay 
 
 The sky's expanse of pearly grey 
 And silver light. 
 
 And through the casement at my side 
 
 I saw the dusky street, 
 In whose cold depths faint echoes died 
 Of rich, voluptuous notes allied 
 
 With dancing feet.
 
 40 A PARIS DRESS. 
 
 The darkened mass of carriage roofs, 
 
 The grating of a wheel, 
 Some sleepy coachman's gruff reproofs,, 
 The stamping of impatient hoofs, 
 
 The chink of steel, 
 
 Made by their contrast deeper grow 
 
 The silence and the gloom 
 Of that un'ife-like world below, 
 Which served in vivid lines to show 
 
 Our radiant room. 
 
 Dim, ghost-like figures, here and there, 
 
 Like shadows crept along, 
 Sad types of homeless, dull despair, 
 Who stood to scan, with listless stare, 
 
 The whirling throng. 
 
 Then flashed to you my troubled gaze. 
 
 And fell, with scornful stress, 
 On your white throat with gems ablaze, — 
 Your strings of pearls, — your diamond sprays, - 
 
 Your Paris dress. 
 
 It seemed as though your pride had tossed 
 
 A cruel insult down 
 To those whose all, possessed and lost, 
 Would never count beside the cost 
 
 Of that one gown. 
 
 And hellish lines of lurid fire 
 
 Appeared to separate 
 Your hope and health and high desire 
 From outcasts, trampled in the mire 
 
 By mocking Fate,
 
 A PARIS DRESS. 41 
 
 And as a flaring badge of shame 
 
 I held your comelinesss, — 
 Your soft, sweet smile, that went and came, — 
 Your sheltered life, — your stately name, — 
 
 Your Paris dress. 
 
 But, as we talked of life and art, 
 
 By slow degrees I learned 
 How well you played your thankless part, 
 How deep within your weary heart 
 
 The brand was burned. 
 
 Beneath the veil, so proudly worn 
 
 To screen your self-control, 
 The bitter strife and anguish born 
 Of Destiny's defeats had torn 
 
 Your shrinking soul. 
 
 Thwarted ambition's hueless dust, — 
 
 Deep scars by Time unhealed, — 
 Great talents doomed to rot and rust, — 
 Life's hope in outer darkness thrust, — 
 
 Your smile concealed. 
 
 And, laden by the guilty sense 
 
 Of shallow blame bestowed. 
 My spirit, stripped of all defence, 
 Offered the humble reverence , 
 
 In justice owed. 
 
 Like him who brought his priestly lore 
 
 To curse, — and stayed to bless, 
 I bowed my conquered head before 
 The robe of martyrdom you wore, — 
 
 Your Paris dress.
 
 ( 42 ) 
 
 SONG OF A TRAMP. 
 
 All along the dusty road in bright June weather, 
 With the broom like flame upon the tangled banks, 
 
 While dandelion stalks are crowned with soft grey 
 feather, 
 And the big dog-daisies stand in snow-white ranks. 
 
 High above the ragged hills, where pine stems taper 
 Over oak-leaf cushions, drift the dappled clouds. 
 
 All the landscape quivers through a veil of vapour, 
 And the sunbeams sink to sleep in golden shrouds. 
 
 Far away, — oh, far away, I hear the voices 
 
 Of the glad birds mingled in their sweet-toned strife, 
 
 Deep within my veins the throbbing blood rejoices. 
 And my heart goes singing for the pride of life.
 
 ( 43 ) 
 
 THE STEAMER'S CALL. 
 
 There's a vessel in the river with her furnaces alight, 
 
 And the smoke-clouds pouring free 
 Through the long, dark funnels, that, before another 
 night, 
 Will be far on a western sea. 
 And the busy feet are moving, and the voices sound. 
 And the engine thumps and rattles as the stern swings 
 round. 
 And across the clamour falling 
 Comes a ghostly summons calling, 
 ' Will you out and away with me ? ' 
 
 I can see the swarthy faces of the sunburnt men 
 
 That are gliding to and fro, 
 And a burst of feeling rushes from the darkened pen 
 
 Where I locked it long ago ; 
 And I hear an ocean thunder far beyond the town, 
 And my thoughts are carried seaward as the tide slips 
 down. 
 And my heart is all on fire 
 With the bitter, sweet desire 
 To respond to the call and go.
 
 ( 44 ) 
 
 THE BEAT OF THE DRUM. 
 
 A BLAZE of scarlet, a gleam of gold, 
 
 A chequer of white, and a tinge of brown ; 
 The tramp and tremor of footsteps rolled 
 
 Through the pale grey street where the windows, 
 frown. 
 With a lusty manhood's reckless air, 
 
 In the flower and flush of their youth they come, 
 Treading in time to the brazen blare 
 And the beat of the drum. 
 
 The sounds grow faint as they pass away, 
 And the boiling flood of the street once more 
 
 Blots out, in the rush of a working day. 
 The look of a different world they wore. 
 
 But a note it is hard to understand 
 Seems to linger yet in the city's hum, 
 
 And softly throbs from a distant band 
 The beat of the drum. 
 
 Lost illusions and dead romance ! 
 
 I have seen your symbols flickering by. 
 You have helped me to cast a fleeting glance 
 
 To the land where the dreams of a boyhood die. 
 Though gold now governs in place of steel. 
 
 And life's work ends in a sordid sum, 
 Through the blood that springs from my heart I^feel 
 The beat of the drum.
 
 ( 45 ) 
 
 LOVE'S COMEDY. 
 
 It began, you know, with a jest. 
 And the end, if we leave it now, will be much the 
 same ; — 
 A feathery sigh and a fleeting kiss, — 
 It could scarce be reckoned a costly game. 
 But when souls are the cards, in a world like this, 
 Such stakes are the best. 
 
 Let me look just once in your eyes, — 
 As I hold you thus, with your heart-beat echoing mine. 
 And your hair so softly touching my sleeve, — 
 Under their lashes they darkly shine ; 
 In their liquid depths it were hard to perceive 
 The burden that lies. 
 
 Had I ventured to call it love,-^- 
 This passion that looked like foam on a sun-lit sea 
 Made but to melt in the dancing rays, — 
 How would those eyes have flashed at me 
 One glance, like the lightning's lurid blaze 
 In the darkness above ! 
 
 And the laugh of your merry scorn 
 AVould have called me back from the land where I 
 may not tread. 
 Where the light wind wanders unrestrained, 
 And the sun hangs glittering over-head, 
 And the fairy flowers are sweetly stained 
 With the dews of morn.
 
 46 LOVE'S COMEDY, 
 
 To the world of the shaded lamp, 
 Of costly dresses and daintily-furnished rooms, 
 Of pale, dim colouring, cold and chaste. 
 Of dusky hangings and faint perfumes, 
 Where the velvet touch of an iron taste 
 Has impressed its stamp. 
 
 Ah, yes ! — you are wise I know ; 
 And if life should seem but a frivolous fancy-ball. 
 Where the throb of a lonely heart's desire 
 Must be hushed, and a cooling stream must fall 
 On the blood that quivers like molten fire. 
 It is better so. 
 
 For although the whispering night 
 And the magic moon and the wonderful stars have made 
 Our spirits the chords of a dreamy song. 
 You creep from my passionate heart, afraid 
 Lest the link should break that has held so long, — 
 Let us hope you are right ! 
 
 And so,— though I long to quaff 
 The Tantalus-wine that Fate in the goblet pours. 
 
 From the fruit of no earthly vineyard pressed, — 
 Thus will I lay my lips on yours ; 
 Then bury the dream, with a faded jest 
 For its epitaph.
 
 ( 47 ) 
 
 UPON THE BRINK. 
 
 Upon the brink ! — for ever on the brink ! 
 
 Through densely twining under-growth we hear 
 The dabble of the water, faint and clear, 
 Above the whisper of the leaves, that shrink 
 From noon's hot breath ; we blunder on, and think 
 To escape the dark confines of doubt and fear, 
 To gain the margin of the silver mere, 
 And in its cooling depths to plunge and sink. 
 
 For we are fettered by the world's false creed, 
 "Which threads its thorny branches in our track ;. 
 
 Our feet are clogged by custom's binding weed ; 
 Our lungs are panting for the breath they lack ;. 
 
 With halting hearts we labour to be freed, — 
 But still the envious brambles hold us back.
 
 ( 48 ) 
 
 STILL WATER. 
 
 A LITTLE, limpid pool, 
 Set, like an opal, in a jagged ring 
 Of rocks, whose brown, wet surface, glistening 
 With crystal brine, spreads colour dark and cool 
 
 Beside this paler thing. 
 
 And, like a mermaid's hair, 
 The clustered seaweed hangs in every cleft, 
 Curled with the ripples that the waves have left, 
 Daintily combing out the tresses there 
 
 With fingers sweetly deft. 
 
 The silent hand of sleep 
 Rests on the water, and the light-beams blink 
 As though an eyelid fluttered from the brink, 
 Whose hazy lashes, the long shadows, sweep 
 
 Across the pool and sink. 
 
 And, motionless below, 
 A few blurred pinnacles have touched the light, 
 Like moon-kissed tree-tops in a summer night, 
 And through the veil of dusky green they show 
 
 Dim streaks of faintest white. 
 
 Beyond the wall of rocks, 
 The vast, unresting ocean heaves and sways. 
 And, grudging to the pool its peaceful ways. 
 Against the sand-stone portal softly knocks, 
 
 And for an entrance prays.
 
 STILL WATER. 49 
 
 But still the door is sealed, 
 And all its anxious asking is denied. 
 Till the perfection of another tide 
 Its bell-toned voices must be clanged and pealed 
 
 Upon the further side. 
 
 Fair Spirit ! who dost show 
 But seldom on this earth thy gentle face, 
 Thy wide-spread wings are drooping, for a space, 
 Above the water, and thy calm doth throw 
 
 Its mantle o'er the place. 
 
 For one enchanted hour 
 Imprisoned fantasies may find release ; 
 The burning throb of heart and brain can cease ; 
 And, like the perfume of some scented flower, 
 
 Is blown the breath of peace. 
 
 So rarely come for us 
 The dreamhke, mystic moments such as this, 
 When vague sensations that we seek and miss 
 Quiver across our heart-strings, trembling thus 
 
 As at an angel's kiss. 
 
 Our life is like the sea. 
 Where, even in this sunset's deepening glow, 
 WTien all the weary winds are sunk so low 
 That not one ripple moves, eternally 
 
 The currents ebb and flow. 
 
 Few are the havens found 
 Whose calm is thus unbroken, unassailed, 
 Where ghostly thoughts, like spectres cloaked and veiled. 
 May brood upon the fairy scene, when sound 
 
 Is hushed and light has paled.
 
 .!S0 STILL WATER. 
 
 In stillness life is cast 
 As in a mould, and motion doth but seem 
 The faint reflection of a sunken beam ; 
 Yon gliding sails are figments that out-last 
 
 The fading of a dream. 
 
 The bars are broken down, — 
 The line 'twixt sea and sky is swept away, — 
 In purple haze is night confused with day, — 
 And through the mysteries of death's dark frown 
 
 Life's radiant smile doth play. 
 
 Half opened is the door, — 
 Our vision almost dwells on things unseen. 
 We grasp at what the great enigmas mean, — 
 The starry ceiling and the briny floor, 
 
 And all that rests between. 
 
 The strife of soul and sense. 
 The fitful hope, lame faith, and frosty doubt, 
 The unmanly whimper, the defiant shout, 
 The opposing blades of thought that foil and fence,- 
 
 AU have been blotted out. 
 
 We travel on this earth 
 Searching for something which we never find. 
 Stung by the smarting flesh and aching mind, 
 Yet hoping still to rend the cloudy girth 
 
 And reach the light behind. 
 
 And man, to suit his mood, 
 A thousand mixed emotions tastes and tries,— 
 Takes agonies and raptures, loves and lies. 
 Hatreds and fears and laughter for his food, 
 
 In every shape and guise.
 
 STILL WATER. ^t 
 
 But all with one intent, 
 One purpose, which, perchance, he does not know ; — 
 The body's passions, eager blood's hot flow. 
 And struggling spirit's loftier sentiment 
 
 To this same object go. 
 
 The cravings of the flesh 
 Are but the blinded eff'orts of the soul 
 To gain some outlet from the net's control, 
 To touch the boundless void through every mesh, 
 
 And to possess the whole. 
 
 As their environment 
 Will cramp the form of healthy plants, that lie 
 Beneath some broken mass of masonry, 
 And boughs are dwarfed, and straining stems are bent 
 
 That pointed to the sky. 
 
 So man's desires will take 
 The course most clear for them, and clamber round 
 The shapeless stones that crush him to the ground ; 
 Bark must be bruised, and tender leaflets break, 
 
 Before a vent be found. 
 
 And, since he can discern 
 But here and there a filtered, straggling ray, 
 A washed-out gleam, that flickers in the way, — 
 Small wonder if his night be slow to learn 
 
 How best to reach the day. 
 
 Nor strange that he should think 
 Each low ambition and each paltry creed 
 Sufficed to satisfy his utmost need. 
 And fancy that his soul but asked to drink 
 
 From wells of lust and greed.
 
 
 52 STILL WATER. 
 
 Far from this peaceful spot 
 The crowded cities lie beneath their smoke, 
 "WTiere patient multitudes of toiling folk 
 Fulfil the strenuous labours of their lot, 
 
 Each weighted with his yoke. 
 
 And all have some design, 
 Some guiding motive for each conscious act, 
 Embodied in some hard, material fact. 
 By which their hearts have laboured to define 
 
 The want of what they lacked. 
 
 The harlot and the thief, 
 The clear-eyed thinker and the drunken clown. 
 The countless types and samples of the town, 
 In each incongruous action ask relief 
 
 From that which weighs them down. 
 
 Wherever man may turn 
 His path on land or water, east or west, 
 The vagvie impulsion of this fierce unrest 
 Like flames of fire unquenchable will burn 
 
 And flicker in his breast. 
 
 If, rapt in eager toil, 
 Our limbs grow weary and our senses tire, 
 The force that urges us to plough the soil, 
 To splash the page with ink, the wheel with oil, 
 
 Is still this self-same fire. 
 
 In Art's most sacred grove. 
 When our aspiring souls have drunk their fill 
 Of colour, sound, or form, and felt the thrill 
 Of mad accomplishment, they merely strove 
 
 To keep their hunger still.
 
 s^ "^ff 
 
 STILL WATER. 53 
 
 Or when our limbs have lain 
 In languid ease beneath a purple sky, 
 Soothed by the sunbeam's kiss, the breeze's sigh. 
 One single voice has echoed through our brain, 
 
 This same unearthly cry. 
 
 And when Love's anguish looks 
 From eyes o'er which the tangled hair is shed. 
 And cheeks are flushed, and mouths are flaming red. 
 Still is the burden of the Sybil's books 
 
 All uninterpreted. 
 
 This Life, — this motive force, 
 ^^^^ose impulse grows or weakens with our breath. 
 Is like some buried stream's mysterious course. 
 And vapour cloaks its outlet and its source. 
 
 Draped by the hand of Death. 
 
 And only now and then. 
 When Life and Death half-mingle, can we know 
 How near or far the seething waters flow, 
 Or cast one glance into the misty fen 
 
 Through which they come and go. 
 
 This is that magic hour ! 
 So come, O gentle Death and lusty Life ! 
 A moment's truce has calmed your playful strife. 
 And both abandon something of the power 
 
 With which your limbs are rife. 
 
 Be with me where I stand 
 Here on the margin of the perfect pool. 
 And hold me thus in friendship by the hand. 
 And let mc learn the lessons you have planned 
 
 In this your secret school.
 
 54 STILL WATER. 
 
 My heart doth feel no fear ; 
 Your arm, O Life, has linked with mine so long. 
 I will forget your frowns, your smile is dear ; 
 A little longer would I have you near, 
 
 My brother, brave and strong. 
 
 And thou, my sister dark, 
 Sweet Death, who hast for me no sombre face,— 
 Lean thy pale cheek to mine, and let me trace 
 Thy lineaments, and touch thy hair, and mark 
 
 Thy beauty for a space. 
 
 Thou boldest all the keys 
 Of those dim doors that I some day must pass ; 
 Thou waitest but the turning of the glass 
 To bid me bow my head and bend my knees 
 
 Upon the dewy grass. 
 
 Comest thou late or soon, 
 Oh, grant me that my course be bravely run ! 
 That I may take thine advent as a boon, 
 And watch with no dismay the pensive moon 
 
 Replace the jovial sun. 
 
 Look now ! — the day is dead ; 
 The sea her purple cloak of dusk has donned ; 
 The stars in mystic characters are spread 
 Across the sky ; their meaning have I read 
 
 In that brief glimpse beyond ?
 
 ( 55 ) 
 
 A STUDY IN BROWN. 
 
 Oh, bare winter fields, unlit by a straggling ray 
 From the sunless sky, spread out like a veil of grey, 
 O'er a silent world which muses its life away. 
 
 You are calling to me with the face of a long-lost friend, 
 And the warm dark tones, which colour your features, 
 
 blend 
 In a mist-draped mirror of thoughts that will know no 
 
 end. 
 
 And a long, wild wave of memory throbs and heaves, 
 And heart-strings are touched by the spell that your 
 
 silence weaves 
 On the breathless woods, still russet with last year's 
 
 leaves. 
 
 And the ragged turf is soft to my town-worn feet 
 In the wrinkled lane, where the grass and the road- 
 way meet, — 
 Till my heart's blank page is dyed with a painting 
 sweet 
 
 Of the rough brown land, and the paler brown that lies 
 In the dress of a girl, who recalls to me fairer skies 
 With her sunbeam hair and the blue of her English eyes.
 
 ( S6 ) 
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE. 
 
 The gas-light gleams upon the stage before us, 
 Tranfiguring the painted pageant there, — 
 
 The martial lover, with his warrior chorus, — 
 The low-voiced lady with her jewelled hair ; — 
 
 It seems as though some kindly spirit bore us 
 Through this enchanted land where life is fair» 
 
 Where on a couch of colour may be lulled 
 
 Our senses, in the music sweetly dulled. 
 
 But we are severed by the lifted curtain 
 
 From that gay world where Fancy's moonlight falls. 
 Around us all is darkness, vague, uncertain, — 
 
 Dim, crouching shapes monopolise the stalls, 
 And dusky galleries behind are girt in 
 
 Pale rings of faces, — much as if the walls 
 Were lined with portraits from some^ncient tomb. 
 Which show their ghostly features through the gloom. 
 
 The last soft line of thrilling verse is spoken, 
 The curtain drops upon an ended act. 
 
 The spell of Fancy for a space is broken. 
 
 And leaping light shows the vast building packed 
 
 With human forms, whose presence doth betoken 
 The assured domain of unromantic fact. 
 
 The stream of poetry no longer flows. 
 
 But voices mingle in the plainest prose.
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE. 57- 
 
 Yet, as I turn to you, who have been sitting, 
 Your elbow touching mine, throughout the play, 
 
 I mark the shadow of the dream still flitting 
 Through your dark eyes, and watch your fingers stray 
 
 Round your cloak's edge, and know that half unwitting- 
 Your mind pursues the thing that passed away, — 
 
 The phantom of ethereal delight, 
 
 ^Vhose charm has held us in its grip to-night. 
 
 With eyelids tremulous and bosom heaving, 
 Slowly you wake from your absorbing trance, 
 
 \Miile one faint sigh betrays your spirit grieving 
 For that which fled, and, with a drooping glance. 
 
 You mourn the cruel hindrance to believing 
 For ever in a world of pure romance. 
 
 And ask why Fate should mock you with the pain 
 
 Of these unblest realities again. . 
 
 You think the world a desert, — bare, unshaded, — 
 Wherein the false delusive atmosphere 
 
 Plays wanton freaks upon our vision jaded. 
 
 Painting bright landscapes, which our souls draw near^. 
 
 Only to find the tempting prospect faded. 
 And watch the gleaming waters disappear 
 
 From burning sands o'er which the sunlight flings 
 
 The pale monotony of mortal things. 
 
 Ah, yes, for us whom Fate conspires to fetter 
 With colourless convention's narrow rules, 
 
 Making the spirit subject to the letter. 
 
 Moulding our thought in artificial schools, 
 
 It seems at times as if our course were better 
 To fly from earthly wisdom, and be fools. 
 
 Our hearts are worn with unavailing strife, 
 
 Doomed to respectability for life.
 
 58 CIRCUMSTANCE. 
 
 Had we but courage for a brief resistance 
 Our spirits surely might break loose and find 
 
 That land whose aspect mocked us in the distance, 
 Where custom's dull restraints no longer bind, 
 
 Where we might lead a golden-hued existence 
 Amongst the laughing vagrants of mankind ; 
 
 Wander away from formal tracks, and be 
 
 The gipsy children of Eternity. 
 
 Yet must I pause upon a doubtful query 
 Before the tender beauty of your face ; — 
 
 Have life's hard roads had power so soon to weary 
 The feet which tread them with such youthful grace ? 
 
 If Paradise were opened to the Peri 
 
 Might it not prove a disappointing place ? 
 
 Was the desire for larger things unseen 
 
 That old weak worship of the might-have-been ? 
 
 Though you and I, beneath the ropes that bind us, 
 Should strain with swelling hearts to burst the knot, 
 
 Some jealous gazer in the Pit behind us 
 May now be dreaming of our fairer lot ; 
 
 Perhaps his envious fancy has assigned us, 
 In a strange drama with a stirring plot. 
 
 The leading parts of passion, pathos, love, 
 
 And lime-light always on us from above. 
 
 Pardon, I pray, the gleam of cynic laughter, 
 Which serves to cloak my sad bewilderment ; 
 
 'Such empty shadows do we hasten after. 
 To Reason's cold rebuffs indifferent ; — 
 
 Search through this theatre from floor to rafter. 
 You might not learn one lesson of content. 
 
 Fruit plucked is tasteless, and the hand of each 
 
 Stretches towards the branches out of reach.
 
 *^ *» 
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE. 
 
 59 
 
 And I, whom you have taken for confessor, 
 Shall prove, I fear, a very broken reed, 
 
 Being a most impenitent transgressor, 
 In humble ways against the shallow creed 
 
 Of commonplace proprieties, — a guesser 
 
 At all dark problems which I may not read. 
 
 Leaving dull tomes of learning on the shelf 
 
 I puzzle out solutions for myself. 
 
 How can I keep you from this hateful slumber 
 That droops like mist upon your helpless soul ? 
 
 The platitudes are more than man could number, 
 Which from the pompous tongues of pedants roll ; 
 
 Yet still the same hard agonies encumber 
 Our footsteps, — for we may not shirk the toll 
 
 Levied upon us by the bandit, Time, 
 
 \Vho leaves us crushed and beggared with his crime. 
 
 So soon, so soon, that bitter day doth reach us 
 WTien the full purport of the scroll is read, 
 
 "When life's forlorn and barren places teach us 
 To cease the search for flowers that are dead, 
 
 Though faint and broken voices still beseech us 
 To gaze upon the withered blossoms shed 
 
 Over life's trampled garden, sere and brown. 
 
 Where winter's biting breath has dashed them down. 
 
 Our widowed hearts recall t, eir childish pleasure 
 In things whose old myst-.ric>us charm is lost ; 
 
 There was a season when we did not measure 
 The depth of our sensations and their cost; 
 
 Life seemed a period of golden leisure 
 
 Where Destiny with lavish hand had tossed 
 
 Her gifts for us to gather, as we strayed 
 
 Down the bright pathway that the sunbeams made.
 
 6o CIRCUMSTANCE. 
 
 In those glad years the sky was surely bluer, 
 The grass was vivid with a fairer green, 
 
 The legends of a by-gone past were truer 
 To hearts illumined with a faith serene, 
 
 While sullen fogs and angry storms were fewer,, 
 And moonlight gilded with a purer sheen 
 
 The smile of sleeping summer and the stare 
 
 Of winter, watchful in the frozen air. 
 
 But now no more we gaze with joyful wonder 
 On heath and river, meadow, copse, and lane r 
 
 "We look to find no goblin treasure under 
 
 The golden load that crowns the harvest-wain i. 
 
 We hear no war-horse treading in the thunder, 
 No fairy footstep beating in the rain ; 
 
 The lightning leaps not from an Angel's sword 
 
 Flashing in front of the armies of the Lord. 
 
 Must this be, then, our ultimate conclusion, 
 
 That aspirations only court defeat. 
 That all we loved was born from the delusion 
 
 Of hopes that lie, and memories that cheat ? — 
 Your eyes are clouded with a sad confusion. 
 
 As thus you turn to question and entreat. 
 How could my answers help you, since they go 
 So little further than the lines you know ? 
 
 I can but speak of one day I remember. 
 
 Whose gleam yet lives, — and you might think itfgood 
 To light your lantern with its glowing ember 
 
 And find, perchance, some trifle understood 
 That barred your progress ; — it was in September, — 
 
 The sunset flamed upon a German wood. 
 Where all was silent save the leaves I heard 
 Rustle so faintly round some roosting bird.
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE. 6i 
 
 A broken pile of battlements and bastions 
 
 Above the topmost branches reared its head, — 
 
 A ruin, haunted with the dim suggestions 
 
 Of eyes that flashed and hearts that throbbed and bled. 
 
 The burden of the world's unanswered questions 
 In those grey walls and turrets might be read ; — 
 
 The stern old castle, — and the tourist names 
 
 Scribbled on parapets and window-frames. 
 
 But marks of all this modern desecration 
 Were hidden, and the hoary fabric grew 
 
 Out of the trees that rimmed its rocky station, 
 A dusky mass against the darkening blue, 
 
 Like some lone figure lost in meditation 
 Before the quiet scene, which stirred anew 
 
 Faint recollections of the life that hung 
 
 About its portals when the world was young. 
 
 Towards the tiny valley, cramped and wrinkled, 
 
 The sea of foliage undulated down, 
 A dull green canopy, where Autumn sprinkled 
 
 The earliest splashes from her brush of brown, 
 And smoke-rings curled, and lighted windows twinkled 
 
 Amongst the gables of the little town, 
 Under the time-scarred precipice of crags 
 From which the curving branches drooped like flags. 
 
 And, out beyond, I saw the gentle quiver 
 Of dancing waters, and the pale rays shine 
 
 On the broad surface of a gliding river 
 
 Which rolled beyond the wood;— it was the Rhine, 
 
 The father of fertility, — the giver 
 
 Of bending apple-trees and loaded vine, — 
 
 The sleepless sentinel,— the guardian stream 
 
 That mirrors in its depths a nation's dream.
 
 63 CIRCUMSTANCE. 
 
 And over all the fading landscape brooded 
 A haunting silence, — an unearthly spell, — 
 
 A sense of vague enchantment, that eluded 
 The burdened soul on which its influence fell. 
 
 No jarring sound of mortal grief intruded, — 
 Only the chime of a melodious bell 
 
 In the far village, and faint echoes stirred 
 
 By children driving home their scanty herd. 
 
 And that deep joy, whose old delight had failed me» 
 Rose from the silent grave of buried years. 
 
 Beneath the mist of ghostly garments veiled me, 
 Draping the landscape in a shroud of tears, 
 
 And, with its whispered eloquence assailed me, 
 Thrusting aside the phantom of my fears, — 
 
 Till once again the starry path I trod 
 
 To that dream-garden where we look for God. 
 
 And on the steps of an eternal altar, 
 
 I made a binding compact with my soul 
 
 That doubt no more should lead me with its halter, 
 A timid beast of burden, and control 
 
 My paces, and my feet should never falter 
 In treading onward to the changeless goal 
 
 Of lofty contemplation and desire, 
 
 And soaring hopes and fancies winged with fire. 
 
 But, from whatever substance life could offer. 
 Conceptions should be moulded to my will. 
 
 And, heedless of the dullard and the scoffer. 
 The vague ideal pursued through good and ill, 
 
 "Which makes us seekers for the fabled coffer 
 Of treasure where the rainbow meets the hill 
 
 That looms so near before the sun has gone, 
 
 Yet, as we walk, is always farther on.
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE. 6^ 
 
 There is no beauty, — so will artists tell us, — 
 Beyond the illusion that our minds create ; 
 
 If curve or contour, line or light repel us, 
 'Tis only that our hearts are fooled by Fate, 
 
 Who puts false colours in the picture, jealous 
 Of those that, looking through the narrow grate. 
 
 See the wide world spread out beneath its bars, 
 
 And commune with the silence and the stars. 
 
 Oh pilgrim, reaching for a hand to guide you, 
 My feet are lame and halting as your own ; 
 
 I wander in the drifted sand beside you 
 Through dusty darkness o'er the desert blown ; 
 
 I have not gained the peace that is denied you. 
 And all your toiling anguish have I known, — 
 
 After the weary march the fruitless fight. 
 
 And then the long sad watches of the night. 
 
 But let us break the clumsy cords that tether 
 Our straining fancy to this earth, and weave 
 
 A floating world of gossamer and feather. 
 An airy paradise of make-believe. 
 
 And play the childish game of hope together, 
 Content to give our service, and receive 
 
 No recompense beyond the boundless wage 
 
 Of rest within our heart's own hermitage. 
 
 For we will clothe our actions with the glory 
 
 Of proud defiance and exalted aim, 
 And walk through life as in a fairy story, 
 
 And give to every weed a flower's name, 
 Bearing the banner when our heads are hoary. 
 
 That youth once blazoned with a scroll of flame ; — 
 And Death may wake us with his trumpet-call, 
 And prove we were not dreaming after all.
 
 ( 64 ) 
 
 ' THE ISOLATION OF ENGLAND.' 
 
 November, 1895. 
 
 The wind is hushed ; — the darkness grows ; — 
 
 The fainting moon is lost in flight ; — 
 Death lifts a sombre hand, and throws 
 
 His clouds across the face of night. 
 With parted lips and haggard stare, 
 
 That strives and strains to pierce the gloom, 
 Each nation crouches in its lair. 
 
 And, breathless, waits the coming doom. 
 
 Dim, shapeless shadows pass like ghosts ; 
 
 Along the trembling earth they feel 
 The distant tramp of marching hosts, 
 
 And hear the smothered clash of steel ; 
 Till, reaching out for friendly hands 
 
 To guide them through the gloom, they press 
 To where one silent figure stands 
 
 Serene in lofty loneliness. 
 
 They hurl their taunts, their oaths, their prayers, — 
 The snarl of greed, — the growl of hate ; — 
 
 They spit upon the cloak she wears. 
 Or grasp its hem to supplicate.
 
 ' THE I SOLA TION OF ENGLAND.' 65 
 
 But still, as though she heard them not, 
 
 Her anxious eyes are fixed afar 
 Amongst the clouds, on one pale spot, 
 
 Where faintly gleams a single star. 
 
 By that same star she chose her path 
 
 For every night in vanished years ; 
 Though screened by mists of doubt and wrath, 
 
 She sees it still,— as if through tears. 
 Then, glancing at the fretful horde 
 
 Who call her now to bend the knee, 
 She lays her hand upon her sword. 
 
 And turns her eyes towards the sea.
 
 ( 66 ) 
 
 ROLANDSECK. 
 
 The flowing, flaxen hair of Hildegunde ! 
 
 The great, blue dreaming eyes of Hildegunde ! 
 
 Like a sweet, slender flower of love she stood 
 
 On the grey battlements, as though the wind 
 
 Had tossed a floating seed upon the wall 
 
 To find in drifts of scanty soil a bed 
 
 Between the stones, and, darkly nourished there, 
 
 To germinate beneath the sun till time 
 
 Drew forth this magic plant. What were the thoughts 
 
 That waved across her brain ? The vesper light 
 
 Moved on her cheek with the reflected blush 
 
 Of rose-petals, and threaded through her locks 
 
 The gleam of daffodils. Her warm, red mouth 
 
 Was curved as though to kiss the coming night, 
 
 Whose hand already touched a fairy chord 
 
 Upon her heart-strings, — so her yearning gaze 
 
 Would seem to promise. High above her head 
 
 The banner drooping on the topmost tower 
 
 Proclaimed no stirring breath. Before her lay 
 
 The vast, unbounded valley of the Rhine 
 
 Bathed in a dusky glow ; the purple hills 
 
 Stood out in distant solitude ; the fields 
 
 Were cushioned with the clumps of trailing vines 
 
 Whose load of fruit was green, and, here and there, 
 
 A paler patch betokened half-ripe corn.
 
 ROLANDSECK. ^ 
 
 The mist of sleep was on the hushed old earth, 
 
 Shrouding the happy laughter in his face, 
 
 And, from the little isle of Nonnenwerth, 
 
 The faint, low murmur of a throbbing bell. 
 
 Like a pulse beating in the golden air, 
 
 Was borne above the stream, and wafted up 
 
 Over the peaceful woods, whose foliage made 
 
 A bending carpet underneath the rock 
 
 Of dusky Drachenfels,— and, climbing yet. 
 
 The sound came singing to the maiden's ear. 
 
 It was the convent's message to the world, 
 
 Greeting the pure in heart,— as Hildegunde. 
 
 Her fingers sought the beads about her neck, 
 
 And, in the tremor of her parted lips, 
 
 Was breathed a whispered prayer. Her fancy dropped 
 
 Across the valley like a sinking bird, 
 
 And rested in the quiet cloister's shade. 
 
 It seemed a pure and holy fate to kneel 
 
 There in the chapel with the silent nuns, 
 
 And dedicate a human heart to God, 
 
 To snap the binding fetters of the world. 
 
 To shun the gilded mockeries of life, 
 
 And lay her sole and sacred offering 
 
 Before the curtained throne. But still she heard 
 
 A voice that held her from the sacrifice. 
 
 Not yet, — not yet the time for giving all ! 
 
 God surely had not claimed it ! In her blood 
 
 There rose a strange unrest ; she pushed the hair 
 
 Back from her forehead in a silky mass. 
 
 And gazed with pleading, undecided look 
 
 Into the gloaming. 
 
 In the wood beneath 
 The clatter of a toiling horse's hoofs
 
 68 ROLANDSECK. 
 
 Rang sharp upon the stones. Between the trees 
 
 A narrow, winding pathway scaled the hill, 
 
 Arched with a cani)py of bending boughs, 
 
 And through the leaves from time to time there flashed 
 
 The glint of burnished armour. Some one came. 
 
 The hoof-beats passed the turning of the wall 
 
 And softened into silence. Hildegunde 
 
 Waited and watched with languid wonderment. 
 
 Soon, by the castle gate, she heard a note 
 
 Blown from a bugle echoing down the hill, 
 
 To waken voices in the darkened glades, 
 
 And ring upon the half-uncovered crags, 
 
 And moan and die among the distant peaks. 
 
 Then came the warder's challenge, and the stir 
 
 And hum of moving men. She heard her name 
 
 Cried out in eager tones, and, hastening, 
 
 A damsel sped responsive to her call 
 
 "With eyes of great import. 
 
 ' My Lady, come !' 
 Breathless she said, ' My Lord, your father, waits 
 Your presence ; they are flinging back the doors, 
 And all the men-at-arms are mustering 
 To greet the noble knight. I heard them say 
 Such guests were honoured in the Drachenburg, 
 Claiming our warmest welcome ; and my Lord 
 Was urgent that your courtesy should grace 
 The coming of that prince of chivalry, 
 Count Roland of the Rhine.' 
 
 Then Hildegunde, 
 With faintly stirring pulse, and tingling cheek. 
 Followed the damsel, whose unwearied voice 
 Went galloping along the course of time. 
 To make her portrait of the guest complete
 
 ROLANDSECK. 69 
 
 "Before the moments fled. But Hildegunde 
 Was busy with her own uncertain thoughts. 
 Nor marked her empty words, but ghded on 
 With dim forebodings, vague and unexpressed. 
 
 Slowly she came into the castle-court 
 With stately self-possession, that belied 
 The fierce confusion in her beating veins ; 
 For all the blood seemed surging to her throat 
 And throbbing in her eye-balls, till the scene 
 Grew blurred and misty, with no certain shape 
 In all the expectant throng, save one small group. 
 Clear in the shadow of the solid arch 
 That framed the gaping doors. 
 
 Count Heribert, — 
 Lord of the Seven Mountains, noted chief 
 In battle, far-famed counsellor in peace, — 
 Came forward with the stranger, who had given 
 His horse, his shield, his helmet, and his lance 
 Into the guardianship of serving men 
 ^ That clustered in the gateway. Hildegunde 
 
 Moved on with lowered eyes and shortened breath. 
 Conscious of one that carried by her side 
 A cup of golden wine. Her father's voice 
 Proclaimed her to Count Roland as she took 
 In both her hands the mighty silver cup. 
 And offered it, with timid, bending grace. 
 In courteous reverence the stranger bowed 
 His goodly head before her ; then he curved 
 Long, shapely fingers round the proffered cup, 
 And, ere the draught was lifted to his lips. 
 Murmured a courtly phrase. His words were light. 
 But something in their accent brought the blood 
 Swift to the maiden's face. — She raised her eyes.
 
 fO ROLANDSECK. 
 
 One flashing moment in Eternity 1 
 One swift upheaval in a human life ! 
 One gleam of meeting glances !— and the world 
 Holds something that it never held licfore. 
 There, in the shadow of the frowning gate, 
 While the blue deepened in the darkening sky, 
 And ebbing sun-beams faded from the roof, 
 Two spirits woke and mingled. Face to face, 
 The silence linked their souls. — Nut Hcribert 
 Nor any in the observant groups around 
 Divined what deep emotion underlay 
 Their cold formality ; but Hildegunde 
 Knew nothing save the spell of searching eyes 
 That seemed to look into her inmost heart 
 Out of an eager, strong, yet gentle face ; 
 And Roland's brain was drugged into a dream, 
 Robbed of all clear sensationj save the joy 
 Of drinking in such loveliness, and giving 
 I lis voiceless homage to the pure, white girl 
 Whose presence seemed to fill the swooning air 
 With fragrance, like a breath from Paradise. 
 
 That meeting was the prelude ; from its chords 
 Long, subtle harmonies were woven then 
 To mingle in such music that all life 
 Became one sacred symphony ; the hours 
 Passed in an ecstacy that almost reached 
 The bounds of earthly passion. Day by day 
 The wind was loaded with a fairy song ; 
 The sun-beams bathed them in an atmosphere 
 Of soft enchantment ; the congenial woods 
 Made silence for them with their magic hush ; 
 And every flower joined in the design 
 To build a couch of udour-laden air,
 
 ROLANDSECK. Jf. 
 
 Whereon their burdened senses might be steeped 
 In balmy slumber. As the days rolled on 
 The rumoured secret that had gone the rounds 
 Of the castle gathered strength and certainty, 
 And men were glad that such a noble knight 
 Had plucked the lily from their garden-wall 
 And laid it in his bosom ; Hildegunde 
 Was Roland's promised bride. 
 
 His spirit moved 
 O'ershadowed with delicious wonderment 
 In acting this new part. He was a man 
 Whom Fortune's eyes had ever smiled upon, 
 wAjid he had made a play-ground of the world, 
 And taken life as one long holiday, 
 Fighting or revelling, in toil or sport, 
 With here and there a little careless love. 
 But all in lightest mood ; for no long time 
 Had he sustained resentment in his thoughts, 
 Or recollection of an idle kiss. 
 And ever with a cheerful heart had roved 
 The country-side, on chance adventures bent 
 As fighter or as lover. But a change 
 Had stirred his inmost nature when he walked 
 Into the fairy home of Hildegunde, 
 And found the palace of his heart's desire. 
 For love had fashioned in his soul a harp 
 And played its elfin music, day and night, 
 Half mocking at the sweet familiar strain 
 That ends so often in a broken chord. 
 
 Time rippled on in waves of happiness, 
 And with its stream the lovers drifted down 
 In blest oblivion, while the long white fringe 
 Of mist upon the sea of wedded life
 
 72 ROLANDSECK. 
 
 Grew clearer on the horizon ; soon their bark 
 Would float beneath its canopy and cross 
 The wide mysterious waters ; — Vain belief ! 
 Destiny's hateful pilot was on board, 
 And steered a sudden passage to the bank. 
 For, one day, to their idle dream-land came, 
 A message that eclipsed the wanton sun. 
 Filling their souls with darkness. Charlemagne 
 Sent forth a summons to the faithful knights 
 That owned allegiance to himself and God, 
 Bidding them leave their worldly heritage 
 For duties of diviner origin, 
 And hasten once more to the Holy Land 
 Where still the Heathen held the tomb of Christ. 
 
 Most piteous was the maiden's flower-like face 
 
 When Roland's faltering accents told the doom 
 
 That mocked their hopes ; yet no repining word 
 
 Constrained him from his duty. Her wide eyes, — 
 
 Deep ocean-pools of blue, — let not the tears 
 
 Steal o'er their fringing boundaries ; a smile 
 
 Played like a sun-beam on her trembling lips. 
 
 Across the cloud of grief; and, though her hands 
 
 Clung tightly to his arm, their pressure gave 
 
 No thought of a desire to hold him back. 
 
 Nor swerved his mind. There was a wealth[^of words 
 
 In the grave silence of his marble face. 
 
 And in the grip that clutched her to his heart 
 
 A fervour of emotion welling up 
 
 Out of his burdened soul. But in their hearts 
 
 No doubt had ever stained the simple faith, 
 
 Whose truth seemed certain as the daily course 
 
 Of cloud and wind and waterway ; for them
 
 ROLANDSECK. 73. 
 
 Religion was a force apart, above. 
 
 The common accidents of earthly life 
 
 Were things not reckoned in its holy sphere, 
 
 And the faint murmur of the Decalogue 
 
 Was lost beneath the thunder of the Creed. 
 
 Oh, plainer was the Problem in that age 
 
 When Thought went out along a hardened track 
 
 Lightly to solve the Eternal Mystery ! 
 
 The tone and temper of the obedient saint 
 
 Had held but little part in Roland's life 
 
 Of reckless, hot activities ; and yet 
 
 The transit showed to him and Hildegunde 
 
 A sequence natural as dark to light, 
 
 That he should bind the Cross upon his breast 
 
 And march beneath the banners of the Lord. 
 
 And so, while yet within the maiden's mind 
 
 Thought danced a devil's dance, till every shape 
 
 Was vague amidst the throng of whirling limbs, 
 
 And life was a delirium like the dreams 
 
 That surge and shiver in a drunken brain, 
 
 There came a sudden calm, stiller than death, 
 
 Wherein she woke, and learned that all was done. 
 
 That she was left before the castle gate 
 
 Staring with helpless eyes into the mass 
 
 Of corruscating leaves and twisted stems, 
 
 Whose shade had blotted out the man she loved ; 
 
 Leaving her nothing but her solitude, — 
 
 His faint voice buried in her frozen heart, — 
 
 And, on her flaming mouth his branded kiss. 
 
 Days grew to weeks, and weeks to weary months,. 
 And months began to gather into years ; 
 And life, with motion imperceptible,
 
 74 
 
 ROLANDSECK. 
 
 Like glaciers shifting on a mountain-side, 
 
 Drew down towards the Valley. Far away 
 
 Beneath the scornful, tearless Syrian sky 
 
 That seemed to mock, with its unchanging face. 
 
 The intruding host of Christians, Roland dwelt. 
 
 Amongst the stalwart soldiers of the Cross 
 
 His fame grew daily ; on each battle-field 
 
 His plume and pennon led the fiercest charge ; 
 
 And swarthy, nimble Saracens went down 
 
 Like grain before the reaper, as he rode 
 
 Across the burning desert. They would look 
 
 For the wild knight upon the great brown horse, 
 
 With crimson nostril and foam-fretted flanks, 
 
 As for the sandstorm of their native plains, 
 
 A scourge beyond the help of human power, 
 
 Hateful and yet sublime. When the first flame 
 
 Of wondrous Eastern mornings leaped and glowed 
 
 Along the opposing armies, quivering 
 
 In hot, white flashes on the countless points 
 
 Of burnished steel, and blended in the dance 
 
 Of streaming banners, tossing manes, and hoofs 
 
 That twinkled through the dust,— on Roland's mouth 
 
 A passing smile could curve the rigid lips. 
 
 And, from the glitter in his stern, sad eyes 
 
 The throng of careless comrades guessed the thought 
 
 That leaped across the continents, and took 
 
 From one lone watcher by the silent Rhine 
 
 An impulse that would nerve his hungry heart 
 
 To something higher than their reckless mood 
 
 Of honest courage. He became for them 
 
 The symbol of that undefined ideal 
 
 Whose spark yet flickered in the gloomiest soul ; 
 
 And, though the blunted sense of some might find
 
 fW* -^.■.' 
 
 ROLANDSECK. 75 
 
 Occasion for the comment of a sneer 
 In his retired and unconvivial moods, 
 From many a rocky, rugged heart there flowed 
 A httle silent stream of sympathy. 
 
 When the rapacious hand of conquest broke 
 
 The seal of sheltered harems, and brought forth 
 
 Spoil for the victors, he, with cold disdain, 
 
 Would waive all right to share ; others might choose 
 
 Their scarce-regretful victims from the throng 
 
 Of soulless Eastern women ; not for him 
 
 Were heaving bosoms and voluptuous shapes. 
 
 And rich ripe mouths that trembled with desire, 
 
 And all the sensuous harmonies of flesh. 
 
 Hereditary wantons, they would yield. 
 
 With half a sigh for lovers that were lost 
 
 And more than half a smile for lovers gained. 
 
 But Roland met the laughter in their eyes 
 
 With grave, cold courtesy, that sent a shade 
 
 Of wonder o'er their shallow, sparkling minds. 
 
 And kept his lonely faith with her he loved 
 
 In silent contemplation. 
 
 O'er the leagues 
 Of wave and woodland, mountain-crest and plain, 
 And scar-like valleys and excrescent towns 
 Their falcon-spirits passed in wheeling flight ; 
 But distance found them fainter on the wing. 
 And Time gave force to his hot slave, the sun, 
 Who Vjeat upon the waxen joints of Hope, 
 While salt and bitter waters of despair 
 Were swelling to devour them. Hildegunde, 
 "Galled with the burden of enchaining hours, 
 Grew white and wearied in her far-off home,
 
 76 ROLANDSECK. 
 
 And faltered through the wilderness of life 
 With lips that thirsted for the wells of Love. 
 But time crept on, and Roland came not back^ 
 And never golden word of tidings broke 
 The grey monotonies of grief. At last 
 A whisper fluttered to the Drachenfels, 
 Like a faint pigeon coming home to die 
 "With news beneath its wing. And all too soon 
 Hard repetition followed. Hildegunde 
 Kept the weak fire of doubt alive when first 
 The scattered drops of cold, wet rumour fell 
 Hissing amongst its embers ; but e'er long 
 The drops became a deluge, and the flame 
 Faded and sank in darkness, while her heart 
 Stood shivering beside its ashes, bare 
 Beneath the blotted sky.— There was no hope. 
 Roland had fallen.— He was dead, — was dead *■ 
 
 Like a dim ghost upon the castle-wall 
 
 Under the stars she stood. The magic hush 
 
 Of warm, still sleep was in the voiceless air, 
 
 And o'er the bosom of the spell-bound earth 
 
 Was breathed a languid sigh of fragrant wind, 
 
 Heavy with odours from the folded flowers 
 
 And freshness of the dew. Her eyes looked out,. 
 
 Dark, burning jewels in the dusky night. 
 
 And scanned unheedingly the silver path 
 
 Of pallid moonlight o'er the clustered leaves, 
 
 And watched the broad, white riband of the Rhine 
 
 Broken by shapeless islands, and beyond 
 
 The shadowy vagueness of the tree-clad hills. 
 
 Then, with clasped hands and moving lips she strained 
 
 Her sight towards the distant convent, lost
 
 ROLANDSECK. 77 
 
 In dense obscurity, and spoke this prayer, 
 
 \\Tiile round her danced and fluttered in the gloom 
 
 A gleaming moth, with wings Hke thistle-down. 
 
 * Oh, Marj',— Mar}',— Mother of our God ! 
 
 Thou too hast suffered ; Thou hast known the weight 
 
 And anguish of bereavement ; Thou hast seen 
 
 Thy Best-beloved taken, and, although 
 
 Thou knewest that He was not mortal man, 
 
 That sight drove deep into thy wounded breast 
 
 Before the Glory touched it. I have lost 
 
 That which had made my heart into a throne 
 
 Where earthly joy sat crowned. The tinsel pomp 
 
 Has faded, leaving but a robe of rags 
 
 To hide my shrinking nakedness. I come 
 
 Ruined and robbed to kneel before Thy feet. 
 
 Oh, spread Thy garment now to cover me ! 
 
 And let me hide beneath its friendly folds, 
 
 And in the cool, sweet shadow dull the pain 
 
 That burns into my bosom ! ' 
 
 And the moth 
 Just brushed against her pale face, hovering 
 As if to take her message, and passed on 
 Over the^wall.^and, with its faint white wings, 
 V^anished amongst the moon-beams in the wood. 
 
 And soon the maiden followed, far from men ; — 
 
 And in the cloister dwelt another nun 
 
 Beneath the trees that whispered o'er the Rhine. 
 
 But the mysterious Power that shapes the course 
 Of human^lives had woven once again 
 A cruel tangle from the knotted threads, 
 Perhaps in all the ironic bitterness
 
 78 ROLANDSECK. 
 
 Of angry scorn, perhaps with deep design 
 
 Of future consummation perfected 
 
 Far from the reach of limping mortal thought. 
 
 Ere yet another spring had flushed the trees 
 
 With dainty films of verdure like a cloud 
 
 Of pale green gauze, along the winding path 
 
 Rode, as before, a solitary knight 
 
 Who halted at the gate. Old Heribert 
 
 By chance was with the warder, and looked out. 
 
 Then from his lips there came a startled cry, 
 
 And o'er the waters of his soul there swept 
 
 A gust of dark emotion and dismay. 
 
 Like one who labours with a dream, he saw 
 
 The face of Roland, — Roland living yet, 
 
 And come to claim his bride. Count Heribert 
 
 Had seen the world's raw wounds, and felt the throb 
 
 Of anguish beating in its swollen veins, 
 
 And tasted of the foul and brackish pools 
 
 That fringe the paths of life. His feet had toiled 
 
 Over rough places, and his heart had known 
 
 The stab of sorrow, the constraint of care, 
 
 The burden of authority, the weight 
 
 Of melting vigour and declining years. 
 
 lie was familiar with the frown of death 
 
 And discipline of danger ; but throughout 
 
 The tasks and trials of his earthly doom 
 
 Nor pain nor loss had struck so hard a blow 
 
 As this encounter. Pitiful enough 
 
 Was the mute greeting of these hapless friends ; 
 
 For Roland read the meaning of his look, 
 
 And silence told the tale. When voices broke 
 
 The spell that gripped them, brief and clumsy words 
 
 Filled up the yawning gaps that time had left
 
 ROLANDSECK. 7^ 
 
 In the sad sequence of their chronicles. 
 With worn, white faces, bloodless lips, and eyes 
 That shunned the gaze they questioned, each in turn 
 Picked up the threads and straightened out the coil. 
 Roland had walked upon the shores of death. 
 And lingered in the shades of sickness, crushed 
 With well-nigh mortal wounds. WTien Fate had turned 
 The balance in his favour, and brought back 
 His soul from that dark region, he had sped, 
 Still weak and nerveless, to his spirit's home, 
 Flushed with the strength of hope, to find at last 
 An old man quavering his mournful news, 
 A dream-land laid in ruins, and the blank 
 Of helpless disappointment and despair. 
 
 Brief was his sojourn in that fatal house 
 
 Of mocking memories. Awhile he moved 
 
 In speechless, tearless anguish through the scenes 
 
 Of unforgotten happiness, and strove 
 
 To calm the fever which had filled his brain 
 
 With wild, sad thoughts, and half delirious doubts. 
 
 And ghoulish fears that left him on the brink 
 
 I Of madness worse than death. Some time he strayed 
 
 Among the relics of his lost delight ; — 
 The rooms that she had dwelt in, with their store 
 Of dainty trifles ; — the secluded nook 
 
 j Where she would watch the sunset from the wall ; — 
 
 The flowers her love had tended ; — and the space 
 Of white, stone floor whereon she knelt in prayer. 
 There was so little, — yet it held so much. 
 Then, with a face that seemed to copy death, 
 He dragged his listless limbs towards his steed 
 And climbed across the saddle. Old Heribert
 
 -80 ROLANDSECK. 
 
 Uttered no faint remonstrance, but stretched out 
 
 A trembling hand, and looked into his eyes 
 
 With helpless, dumb compassion. All around 
 
 The winter twilight came in noiseless waves 
 
 And in the hushed air there was the taste of frost, 
 
 But not one sound. With laboured self-control 
 
 The farewell past between them ; — ^just a word 
 
 In false, light tones that veiled a conquered sigh, — 
 
 A grip of hands, — a firmly governed gaze 
 
 Charged with well-acted cheerfulness, — a droop 
 
 Of eyelids falling as the strain relaxed, — 
 
 And Roland turned again into the dusk. 
 
 A little while they heard his horse's feet 
 
 Tramp on the stones, and watched his shape grow dim 
 
 Among the leafless trees, — then all was blank. 
 
 And on the castle fell the frozen night. 
 
 With silent steps and ever-changing face 
 
 The musing year stole onward, while the frown 
 
 Of winter melted out of Nature's eyes, 
 
 And leaves began to split the russet coats 
 
 That cased their nakedness, and starry flowers 
 
 Gleamed through the dew-drops in the brightening 
 
 grass, 
 And birds were fluting their melodious love, 
 And woodland whispers brought the fragrant smell 
 Of rich damp earth. Then on the timbered slope 
 That crowned the winding channel's further edge. 
 Was seen a daily movement like the stir 
 Of bees amidst a garden ; clear and faint 
 The sounds of toil were echoed o'er the stream ; — 
 The shock of sundered stem and wielded axe, — 
 The grating gasp of saws, — the muffled beat
 
 !»*• -■ 
 
 ROLANDS EC K. St 
 
 Of distant hammers, — and the steely chime 
 Of chisels biting on the blocks of stone. 
 Barges and rafts were moored beside the bank, 
 And busy sails came creeping up and down 
 Like birds that carried strips of water-weed 
 To twine into their nest. The country rang 
 With legends of the castle to be built 
 By Roland, there upon the lofty ridge 
 Nearest to the island where the Convent lay. 
 Slowly the solid walls began to lift 
 Their heads above the tree-tops ; arch by arch 
 And line by line the fabric shaped and grew. 
 Tower and bastion, battlement and keep, 
 Buttress and plinth and gable seemed to form 
 Their substance from the floating river-mist 
 And frown across the waters. Till one daj- 
 The castle in loveliness completed stood 
 Beneath a sun which glittered on its walls, 
 And flashed from every pinaret and peak. 
 
 And Roland, who had watched the daily toil. 
 Dwelling amongst the toilers, — who had seen 
 The stately buildings grow beneath their hands 
 As he designed them, like the unruly chords 
 Conquered and trained to noble harmonies 
 Majestic in some great musician's mind, — 
 Now reached his journey's end. The noisy crowd 
 And hum of labour passed like melting snow 
 Down the broad river. Save the modest troop 
 Of stern and faithful soldiers, who sufficed 
 To ensure the castle's safety, he was left 
 In solitude abiding. Then began 
 A life that linked him with the world of dreams. 
 
 G
 
 82 ROLANDSECK. 
 
 Long, lonely hours were passed in silent prayer 
 
 And secret warfare fiercer than the strife 
 
 Of all his earthly battles. In his soul 
 
 The conflict swelled, unceasingly sustained 
 
 By wounded Faith against the bitter doubts 
 
 Bom from the whirlwind that had wrecked his hopes, 
 
 And, night and day, he strove to crush the thoughts 
 
 That flung defiance in the face of God. 
 
 The contest left its scars upon his face 
 
 In furrowed wrinkles round his hollow eyes 
 
 That glowed with sunken fire. His youth was dead, 
 
 The power and grace of early days destroyed. 
 
 His haggard features and despondent air 
 
 Haunted the minds of men who could recall 
 
 The laughing, reckless soldier ; and the change 
 
 Had stirred the deepest currents of his blood; 
 
 For all his life was in the ways of peace. 
 
 And governed by constraining rules, austere 
 
 As any anchorite's. The lonely hut 
 
 Wherein the silent woodman shunned the gaze 
 
 Of this hard world, — the cottage on the hill 
 
 That shrined some timid household's hopes and fears 
 
 Under the friendly trees, — the quiet home 
 
 Of toiling priests who dwelt among the poor, 
 
 Believing that such company was meet 
 
 For those that lived near God, — such was the ground 
 
 Whereon he spent the vigour that for years 
 
 Had asked a fiery outlet, — and he gained 
 
 The priceless recompense of grateful hearts. 
 
 But all his recreation was to stand 
 And gaze across the moving water-sheet 
 To the green island and the convent walls.
 
 ROLANDSECK. 83 
 
 When the pure gleam of morning crowned with gold 
 Clamorous wavelets, and the drooping trees 
 Swung to the cadence of the rhythmic dance 
 That swayed their leafy branches as they dipped 
 Into the burnished flood, — when varied stripes. 
 Reflected from the canopy of clouds 
 That caught the splendour of the sinking sun, 
 Stretched o'er the glassy surface, and the trees 
 Were dark and still against the dusky sky. 
 Planted knee-deep in floating waves of mist 
 That showed transparent on the purple shades, — 
 And when the languid hush of drowsy night 
 j Lulled the warm bosom of the breathing world, 
 
 1 Whose blotted features took fantastic shapes 
 
 Till branch and crag and building were confused 
 In one blurred mass, that left no form distinct 
 Save the pale pathway where the waters ran 
 Mingling the yellow radiance of the stars 
 Willi white milk of the moon, — the sleepless eyes 
 Of Roland kept their vigil. He had learned 
 The daily course of labour, prayer, and rest, 
 That passed within the convent. When he heard 
 The silver chiming of the chapel bell 
 His sight would strain toward the distant tluong 
 Of hooded nuns, and single out a form 
 Which veil and hood were powerless to hide. 
 
 The chain of woven fancies seemed to stretch 
 Further and further, while his spirit climbed 
 Along this unseen bridge across the gulf 
 That yawned between them, till at last it scaled 
 The convent wall, and leaped upon her breast. 
 And daily grew the imagined intercourse, —
 
 84' ROLANDSF.CK. 
 
 The ghostly kiss that hovered on her mouth, — 
 The pleading voice that whispered in her ear, — 
 The touch that trembled on her silky locks. 
 Within the very hounds of Paradise 
 He boldly walked, and hotly claimed to share 
 The secrets of her life. I lis soul with hers 
 Wandered in meditation through the paths 
 That crossed the peaceful garden ; at her side 
 He paced in dreams the cloister's paving-stones ; 
 And, when she knelt upon the chapel floor 
 With soft light floating through the coloured glass 
 To bathe her in its glory, while around 
 The pealing organ-music swelled and surged, 
 His heart was conscious of her ecstacy. 
 Beating with like devotion, till the chains 
 Of earth and flesh seemed broken, and they soared 
 Upward together to the feet of God. 
 
 And, as the long days passed, within his breast 
 
 The turmoil waned and faded ; slowly sank 
 
 The devastating waters of revolt 
 
 Out of the flooded garden of his heart, 
 
 Till the bruised flowers of life again could lift 
 
 Their draggled heads. Those waters were not stained 
 
 With that dark substance which has fouled the stream 
 
 Of modern discontent, and given it power 
 
 To poison all it touches when the waves 
 
 Break out beyond their banks. He had not known 
 
 Til* bitter desolation and despair 
 
 That lays its hand upon our tired souls 
 
 As, 'mid the ruins of our earthly joys, 
 
 We stand and gaze into the leaden clouds 
 
 Which cloak the sky, nor catch one sickly gleam
 
 ROLANDSECK. s'l 
 
 Of sunlight on the wasted world of thought, 
 And wonder if there shines a sun at all. 
 His heart's rebellion was no complex war 
 Of fettered instincts and unruly blood, 
 And reason cramped and blinded in the folds 
 Of dark philosophies, — dim forces joined 
 To burst the meshes of dishonoured creeds 
 And struggle on to freedom ; he but knew 
 The fitful passion of a thwarted child 
 Who frets at irksome government and rule, 
 But questions not the source from which they spring. 
 Thus, then, his heart grew weaker in revolt 
 And stayed its useless struggles, till beneath 
 The twilight calm of aspirations dead 
 And hopes resigned and Fate confessed supreme 
 He found — not happiness, but bloodless moods 
 Of ghostly, pale content. From time to time 
 His body cried in protest impotent 
 I Against the conquered soul ; his veins would throb 
 
 With helpless yearning for acknowledgment 
 And satisfaction of his mortal love ; 
 But soon the stormy gust would pass away 
 To leave the troubled waters it had scourged 
 Sinking in sullen apathy to rest, — 
 A grey, cold ocean, where the shrouded sun 
 Woke the faint semblance of a mournful smile. 
 
 And time brought clearer vision, till he reached 
 Something of that deep truth which underlies 
 The shadows of existence. More and more 
 The soul transfigured and transfused the flesh 
 Under a veil of fancy that concealed 
 The fictions men call facts. Across the gulf
 
 86 ROLANDSECK. 
 
 Of time and tears the enchanted bridge was laid, 
 
 And in the golden garden of sweet dreams 
 
 Ife lived his wedded life. No change could mar, 
 
 No cloud of disillusionment destroy, 
 
 Thai perfect union. Soul entwined with soul 
 
 In bonds that never chafed, in linked delights 
 
 Out of the reach of galling human care, 
 
 Of sorrow, sickness, and satiety, 
 
 And all the thousand petty blots that stain 
 
 The page of earthly passion. False or true, 
 
 The vision never failed liiai. Year on year 
 
 Went rolling into silence, swept along 
 
 Towards Eternity, but time and age 
 
 Were powerless to quell the tire that burned 
 
 In that lone breast. His life remained a dream, 
 
 Perhaps a long delusion ; — who can tell ? 
 
 At least he gained what others ask and miss,— 
 
 A strong set purpose, — an abiding calm, — 
 
 An empire undisputed in his soul, — 
 
 The starry radiance of a quenchless love. — 
 
 And hope that looked for an unclouded dawn. 
 
 London : Str.'INGEways, Printers.
 
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