THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES FREDERIC THOMAS BLANCHARD ENDOWMENT FUND A POEM S. POEMS GEORGE FRANCIS ARMSTRONG. LONDON: E. MOXON, SON, & CO.. DOVER STREET. 1869. LONDON : SWIFT & CO., REGENT PRESS, KING STREET, REGENT STREET, W. FR CONTENTS. Slain in the Forefront Sundered Friendship . . The Invisible . . Iesus Hominum Salvator — A Latter Crucifixion At the Sepulchre The Christ The False Christs Through the Solitudes Ditty Kisses A Life's Love &ciio-Song Babble . . Coragenk's Temptation Poet and Mistress . . Among the Vii-ers 'They ake gone through th \ . Avowal dusk PAGE 1 3 12 *4 zo 22 3 1 33 ■o 43 44 44 48 5° 73 77 77 78 • VI CONTENTS. PAGE A Remonstrance . . . . . . . . . . . . 80 In the Dance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82 Love's Cowardice . . . . . . . . . . . . 86 In the Tempest. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88 The Confessor . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 A Difficulty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96 In the Pass . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97 In Meditation . . . . . . . . . . . . 98 A Valediction . . . . . . . . . . . . 99 Gain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ioo Follow not — Follow . . . . . . . . 101 Three Sinners . . . . . . . . . . . . 102 A Demonstration . . . . . . . . . . . . 103 A Jilt . . 104 At the Desk .. .. .. .. .. .. ..106 Trapt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107 A ' City Idyl ' . . . . . . . . . . . . 109 A Misgiving . . . . . . . . . . . . ..113 Love-Labour .. .. .. .. .. .. ..114 'Can the cankered bud blow?' .. .. .. .. 115 A Young Fugitive . . . . . . . . . . ..115 Gained in Losing . . . . . . . . ..117 In the Studio .. .. .. .. .. ..118 A Love's Loss .. .. .. .. .. ..119 Work-Song .. .. .. .. .. .. ..122 St. Andrew in the Rock .. .. .. .. ..125 A Day's Bliss.. .. .. .. .. .. .. 126 A Fallen Life .. .. .. .. .. .. 128 En Voyage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 30 Summer Rhyme .. .. .. .. .. ..134 A Man's Devotion .. .. .. .. .. i-:; CONTENTS. Vll PAGE Chemin Di5touknk I36 Misunderstandings •• '37 ' Old Lad, old Lad ' .. 138 The Singer . . ' . . •• 139 A Love's Theology .. 140 The Rider •■"^ . • . . • .. 142 A Waverjng •• H3 A Latter-Day Psalm •• i45 The Most Highest . . .. 150 SLAIN IN THE FOREFRONT. He's down in the battle, The foremost to fall, The loved of our host, Whom / loved more than all. The golden-brown hair In the battle-dust lies ; The black silken lashes Droop o'er the great eyes ; To the full, fringed lips Clings a smile ; like a streak Of a sunset the life-tint Still rests on his cheek. ' His life is not wasted,' God calleth to me : 4 The battle rolls onward, His spirit's made free. For the freer life fought he, Fought well, and has won B SLAIN IN THE FOREFRONT. What the battle-host strove for, That still shall strive on. Come thou from the rearward, Step forth to his place, Lift off the stout armour, The helmet unlace ; Make fast the stained corslet Around thine own breast ; About thine own temples Bind morion and crest, Upraise the fallen buckler, Take thou the red sword, The dead broad hand that grasps it Will yield at thy word ; And sigh not, and grieve not, Nor turn left or right, But strong and undaunted Move on to the fight.' I've ta'en helm and buckler Of him my soul loved, Put on the whole armour The brave one has proved, Stept out to the forefront, And stand as he stood, When arrayed for the onset He spilt his warm blood. SUNDERED FRIENDSHIP. And his soul with my soul In the long eager strife Shall nerve arm and hand With a life more than life ; With a force not mine only, As blow follows blow, Every stroke of his good sword Shall sweep on the foe ; And the might of his great heart With mine shall be blent, Till the last power is ebbed, And all energy spent, And I drift through the gloom Firm of hope, high of cheer, To the land where he roameth, My soul's pioneer. SUNDERED FRIENDSHIP. Must we part thus, with even so light a touch Of hands, and so cold murmuring of lips, Nor dare lift up our faces, lest our eyes Meet once, and as a stream of moonlight slips Drenching the broken cloud and muffled skies Storm-blown, the soul through yearning overmuch B 2 4 SUNDERED FRIENDSHIP. Outshed itself? nor tell to one another How dear the life was that hath end to-night, Nor drink one pure sad kiss, as child or mother, We who have loved as child or mother might ? What had they whispered had I laid mine arm Under the streaming darkness of thy hair, Drawn thee beside my bosom tenderly, With tears of sorrow and words of weak despair Blest thee and taken sad farewell of thee, Leaning my lips a moment on the warm Flushed cheek uplifted ; rather than repressing My spirit's gentle love of thee, I stilled Mine agony, and without word of blessing, Or tear, or sigh, passed from thee mute and chilled? I sought thee not for touch of toying hand, Or pressure of lip, whose lips were fair to kiss, Whose hands were clear as carven lily-flowers; I sought thee not for any spousal-bliss : Ah, if amid thy laughter in light hours When thy mouth smiled and all thy face was bland, I had seized thee in the storm of thy pure glad- ness, For kisses and soft words, as lovers may, I wis I should have held thee half in sadness, Even as one pitying clasps a child at play. SUNDERED FRIENDSHIP. 5 I loved thee for that dear deep lovingness Resting within thy tender-brooding eyes ; I loved thee for thy wealth of womanhood ; Thy quiet questionings, thy sweet replies ; Thy patient brows that knew no bitter mood ; Thy mouth's compression, telling of distress Held by the throat in strength of self-devotion, Hard duties borne and love unconquered ; Not for thy footstep's gentle stately motion, Nor the proud pose of thine imperial head. Ah, sitting at thy side, I felt that God Slept not nor had forgot us in disdain ; Ah, sitting in the hearing of thy breath, I gave God thanks for life and sorrow and pain, And smiled upon the livid frown of death, And dreaded not the foldings of the sod, Nor the far shadow of the dim hereafter, Nor any clouds that darken or efface — Sitting within the hearing of thy laughter, And gazing at God's light upon thy face. Ah, when the little children round thee prest, Caught at thy skirts and beat thee on the cheek, And called thee tender little baby-names, Thou smiling down upon them mild and meek, My heart forgot its narrow earthly aims, 6 SUNDERED FRIENDSHIP. I felt the great sobs rising in my breast, I could have bowed before thy knees in sorrow, And wept till every pang had passed and died: From thy great heart my poorer heart would borrow New strength of love to cheer me and to guide. We shall not ever wander in the woods Once more, or laugh together, or clasp hands Going and coming; nay, the merry jest Shall be a thing unspoken, like hid lands That blossom for no eyes, lying at rest, Or sparkle and glimmer of unholden goods Where no hand lives to clutch them ; we shall listen Never again together to low sighs /Eolian when winds breathe and soft stars glisten, Nor watch again the sunset-stained skies. All is gone over, and thy life will run Even as ere my coming ; thou wilt clasp A hundred hands, and feel mine nevermore Woven in thine with loyal reverent grasp ; Treading of many a foot about thy door Will thrill thee, never of that familiar one Dead summers had made dearest; friend and lover SUNDERED FRIENDSHIP. J Will look into thy face, but among men, That one man's eyes wherein thou couldst discover Thy soul's own soul, shall reach thee not again. Awhile thou wilt come back to me with drift Of the sea's breath ; ay, with the cuckoo's plaint ; With snatches of sad music or of sweet ; With gleams of sun on mountain heights ; and quaint Odour of warm rare blooms ; and rhythmic beat Of happy dances : suddenly as shift Clouds from autumnal stars, or in the branches Leap with light feet the winds amid the leaves, Thou wilt come back to me, as the moon quenches Her glory, or at sad dawns, or silent eves. And all my heart will yearn and give God praise, Seeing thee nigh, and tears of dear delight Will rise and choke the full soul's utterance, And swift as the cloud blots the stars of night, Or the wind lulls amid the leaves, the trance That bore thee back will fade, and the old days With love and rest will be a hueless vision, And the bleak mist will fold me like a spell, Dead mouths leer round about me in derision, Dead faces flash against me out of hell. 8 SUNDERED FRIENDSHIP. Awhile thou wilt weep gentle tears in vain, Remembering happy laughter in the leas ; The shadow crossing o'er the gravel walk Will draw thee to thy window ; cadences Of manly voices heard in blended talk Will startle thee and wring thy heart with pain ; At turnings of the street thine eyes will wander. Seeking for one who comes not in the throngs ; Over thy hand's work thou wilt droop to ponder, And pause to sigh amid thy merriest songs. Thy dresses will hold memories of me ; Thou wilt lay by a ribbon or a flower To bring back thoughts of me — ' for this he chanced To give me, drenched with April's dewy dower ; And this I wore one happy time we danced Together on a night of jubilee.' Thou wilt not wear thy hair flung back un- braided, Adown thy neck, lest even so slight a thing Looked at should hurt thee with a pleasure faded : Thou wilt not gladden with the dawn of spring. Awhile, and all will sicken like a dream — Ay, Time will draw thee from me, as the sea SUNDERED FRIENDSHIP. 9 Draws weed or shell flung up from glutted graves To the starved sand, and runs in mockery Back, laughing in the hollows of his waves ; Awhile, and all will sicken like a dream, And though I stretch wild arms, and follow crying Down the steep shores, and calling on thy name, There will come nought but noise, and the wind flying, And buffetings to bruise me and to maim. Out of the gulfs Time rendereth not his prey. I will go wandering up and down till all Anger and bitterness be spent, and strength Fail utterly, and sorrow's sweetness pall — Yea, till the joy of sorrow faint at length, And all pain's pleasantness be drained away, And it seem better and wiser to forget thee Than nurse a life with withered sorrow fraught, To weed thee out of memory, and set thee A dream among dead dreams that trouble us not. We shall forget, and deem it happiest To have forgotten, finding other loves, Finding and losing all our whole lives through : For we shall grow too wise, as our sun moves Seaward and deathward, even to renew IO SUNDERED FRIENDSHIP. Old pains of youth to vex a hard-won rest . . ' Let youth drift by with all its weary passion :' Then the hard lips will smile, and all the soul Laugh quietly and in a lordly fashion, Having outlived its hour of heaviest dole. Forget, forget — ah God, is this life's end, To love, and lose, and weep, and laugh at tears? Is there too much of love in the world, that men Must curse it so, and let the hurrying years Sweep over it in ruin ? Is there, then, No lack of love to succour and befriend, Or need of it to lighten and to leaven Life and the spites and griefs and hates therein, But earth must crush the purest flower of heaven, Branding it, as God brands the flower of sin ? It would not understand, it would not wait; The world must sin or slay — and so hath slain, And sinned in slaying, that high love of ours ; It could not watch us loving and not stain Its hands with hues of bruised poison-flowers Polluted, being skilled to imitate Foul ways, and with a heart athirst to cherish Foul dreams of sin where sin is none to find ; So, for the great world's good we bleed and perish, Maiden, because the world is foul and blind. SUNDERED FRIENDSHIP. II O come to me, come back across the night, Dear human soul that smiled but yester-morn Through soft sad eyes upon me, loving me ; Dear human hands which God hath framed to adorn Earth with their beauty, touch me trustfully, Stretching mine own out desolate ! . . What blight Hath God thrown down on our abiding-places, Or what fell sin hath man found power to do, That we must shun the light of dearest faces Lest new sin thrive of loving leal and true ? . . Tis well, dear heart — 'tis best — we know not all : Let them go by, the world and sin and love. I marvel what the Father keeps for us, Beyond the great wide sea where the winds rove Lonely, and never ship hath sailed, who thus Have seen love fade in us, and droop and fall, And lost the one best gift of life in living, And emptied all our heart of it, and passed Out thus into the tracts of darkness, giving The world its will. What shall be found at last ? ( 12 ) THE INVISIBLE. Wilt thou give no sign, though I call, though I cry Through the night, O my God, though I seek in the waste, In the seas, and my eyes strain up through Thy wide Drear heaven ? O where, in what deep, dread abyss Of the infinite skies Dwellest Thou, that the wild long cry of my lips Pierces nor reaches Thee ? — so far, far, So far, far off from the mean weak worm Thou hast made for Thy sport, and forgotten ! My mouth Is parched with my crying; the jaw hangs down Through this yearning, this pain ; and my brows are claspt As with steel pressed in and in. But the hours Roll by in their black dull foam-strewn tide — On, on — and Thou the Inexorable From Thy height movest not, nor by hand, nor by mouth Sendest down to the poor, frail, blind one here One little message of peace ; THE INVISIBLE. 13 Thou, who by breath of the wind in the boughs, Or sighing of grasses, or lisp and shout And prattle of billow or ripple, or cry Of mad wild stream in the clefts of the hills, Where I climb in the morn to behold the red brow Of the blood-banded sun uprear through the glooms Of the cloud-wrapt East, Couldst speak if Thou wouldst, couldst tell to the soul Pain furrowed, what hope in the midst of Thy worlds Of homeless bitter lands and tracts Of desolate seas, for such as I, The sin-stained, yet may live : while thus I creep to the gate of the field where the dead, The beloved of my breast, lie cold in the earth, To stand in the night, my hands close locked To the clammy rails, with sore sad eyes Gazing up at the pitiless, grey, hard clouds And the cold, bleak, silent stars. ( H ) IESUS HOMINUM SALVATOR. A Latter Crucifixion. Crucify, crucify, crucify. Out with him straight from the council-hall ; We have found him worthy of death ; Say, by what doom shall he die, This Christ who would reign over all, This king, this God, as he saith, Say by what doom shall he fall ? Crucify, crucify, crucify. Hath he not said, ' I am king ? ' Who made thee a king over us, thou Christ, Who made thee a king ? Yea, for that word thou diest, Yea, for that lie. Crucify, crucify. To whom shall we bow the knees ? We worship Reason and Truth, We have bowed to them from our youth, We will have no king but these : Art thou a king, in sooth ? IESUS HOMINUM SALVATOR. 15 Saith Pilate, whom will ye that I set free ? Ye know Barabbas, of sinners chief — Better Barabbas or he ? Whom shall it be ? Barabbas, Barabbas — give us the thief. Crucify, crucify, crucify. Bring hither the crown for his head, Bring hither the robe of purple dye, To array this Lord of the living and dead, This God most High ! Simon, Simon, carry the cross — Hey ! what is it Pilate saith ? ' I have tried and found in him no fault, No sin that is worthy of death ' . . Thy laws are not our laws. Wouldest thou Caesar exalt ? Wouldest thou Truth defend ? Ha! if thou lettest him free Thou art not Caesar's friend : Away with him, then, to his end. Prophesy, prophesy, prophesy, Who was it spat on thee, Christ, but now ? Who was it spurned at thee ? Who in their mockery bow ? Aha ! we would crave thy grace. Who is it smote thy face ? l6 IESUS HOMINUM SALVATOR. Who is it smote thy cheek ? Why feareth the King to speak ? Strip off the royal array, And clothe him again in his own attire. Behold this God is a thing of clay : Our God is a mist, a fire, A force, a will, a law, An essence invisible, An energy — who can tell ? What need of further delay — Have we not found a flaw ? Lay him along on the cross, Have ye driven the nails through palms and feet ? Heave softly.then, as is meet; Heave bravely, now, with a will ; Here on the brow of the hill, Betwixt the sinners twain, Heave him aloft in his pain. . . Nay, not to us is the loss : Let him hang on his cross. But write not, ' the King of the Jews,' But that he said, « I am King : ' There is nought better a man can choose But only by truth to cling ! Write that he said, ' I am king.' IESUS HOMINUM SALVATOR. 17 Aha, thou Christ, art thou God indeed ? Then, save thyself in thy need. Yea, doth Messias bleed ? Could blood from the Godhead ooze ? Lo, ye, the King of the Jews ! Now, if he were the Christ of men, Surely a sign would come. Hey ? art thou stricken dumb ? He will answer us not again. Might we not, might we not yet believe, Would he but render a fuller sign ? We thirst not at all for that blood of thine, Only to Reason cleave : Wilt thou not render a sign ? Doth he call Elias ? well, let be — Elias will come to his aid ! And what if the proof delayed Be brought to light at the last ! Elias, Elias — why comes not he, This bearer of tidings vast ? But they are deceivers both. So faith in the dust we cast, And leave him aloft for the world to see, — A sight to tickle their sloth. l8 IESUS HOMINUM SALVATOR. What is this that his servants cry, The wailing women, the men apart That beat the breast, and stand Grief-stricken, with frenzied eye ? ' He hath healed the broken heart ; He hath strengthened the feeble hand ; He hath given as God can give, — Bread to the hungry breast, Light to the darkened land ; He hath made the dead to live ; He hath soothed the soul that waits For dawn in the mist and chill, Saying to sorrow, Be still, Quelling the pangs of fear. Ah, cannot ye understand That only God can fill The wants that God creates ? He hath rent the veil of night ; He hath given us eye and ear For pleasure, for new delight, Letting us feel anear The breath and glory of God, Spreading in boundless feasts Knowledge, and wondrous thought, From the pleasant gardens brought By the feet of the angels trod.' IESUS HOMINUM SALVATOR. 19 Peace : are not we the Priests ? We hold of knowledge the keys ; We can measure the mind of God ; In our hands is the measuring rod ; We stand and keep the door Of the mystic sanctuaries Of wisdom, of hidden lore ; What can ye know of these ? We are the Priests, ye wot ; We have measured him body and soul ; We have deemed him nought but man ; He hath done as the rest have done, Who have laboured under the sun, And no more than a leader can ; The tale of his acts is a cheat, a lie, A rhyme on a poet's scroll ; We have measured him body and soul We have done the thing we sought ; What cause for sorrow or ruth ? We have found him worthy to die. (We are the Priests, ye wot ; We worship Reason and Truth.) c 2 20 IESUS HOMINUM SALVATOR. At the Sepulchre. Ah pale, grand face wherein the life-tint rests Not wholly gone, ah lips that smile at peace Lit as with dawn-light of a glorious dream Unuttered, ah great cold perfect brows Wherefrom death's hand hath smoothed the wrinkles out, Leaving the strong, thought-moulded marble clear. Ay me, my Lord, thine eyes of love look up Brimmed with heaven's blue, like living water- wells : They know not death, those eyes that brood in love On me, thy servant, who am strong at length To bear the wagging of their scornful heads Who shoot their lips out in disdain of thee; Or why the patient playful smile that lurks Under the large and heavy-fringed lids ? Yea, wilt thou rise and speak, and heal thine hands — Ah God — that hold thy blood within their palms, Staining the fair white skin of them ? They said ' He raised the dead to life,' and I believed : And they that slew thee flung the taunt at thee, That even now the mocking hideous cry Mixed with their demon laughter rings and clings IESUS HOMINUM SALVATOR. 21 Within my brain, and will not cease or die, ' Himself he cannot save ! come down, O Christ, Drop from thy cross, aha, and save thyself.' I stopt mine ears, and fled far off for pain : I thought, 'yea, surely at the last my Lord Will come thence, walking through the midst of them, As through the waves of Galilee he came That night the fishers tell of up and down ; Or else his servants will arise and smite, And make him king indeed, and he will war And slay and take revenge ; and then I stole Back to the Mount in fear, and heard the last Wild awful cry of thee, to God methought, That ran across the gathering night, and tore Up through the heavens a path unto his ears Who sits upon His throne and hears. And what Was left for me, but just to take it down, This body which was thine ; and bind thy head Thus ; while that other — he who clave to thee, In mind still unbelieving, yet in heart Beyond all p jwer of unbelief convinced, That weak one, in the heaviest hour made strong As I am made — brought goodly spices here, That we might swathe, embalm, and bury thee, Our Master, out of sight of them that slew? 22 IESUS HOMINUM SALVATOR. And what is left me now, but just to bow Above this form of thine, and kiss thy face, And look into thine eyes, and think of all The lovely deeds of thee, and all thy words Sweeter than woodland honey-drops, wherewith Thou in old days wast wont to comfort them, Thy people wandering up and down the earth ; And all the goodly promise of bright hours Closed in thy life ; and lay the still, cold limbs Reverently thus ; and smooth the golden hair Back with its rippling streams adown thy neck; And turn from thee, and screen thy resting-place, And go hence, sorrowful and sick with fear, Into the blind, mad throngs of wilful men ? The Christ. He is not dead but sleepeth — Yea, though ye laugh us to scorn, As the dawn from the darkness upleapeth, As the night dashes out into morn, As the moon cleaveth clouds in her glory, As the spring flameth forth into flower, To his side that your spear has made gory, To his arm ye despoiled of its power, IESUS HOMINUM SALVATOR. 23 To the head ye have wreathed in derision, The feet ye have nailed to the tree, There will come back the beauty elysian, There will come life and fervour, the free Fair light to the lips, and the splendour Of thought to the brow, and the rose To the palm-smitten cheek, and the tender Love-smile to the eyes that repose ; And as soft as a sleeper awaketh He will wake from the slumber of death ; As a sun-litten cloud the wind shaketh Blowing clear into flame with its breath, He will shake out the hair from its bindings, As tow that is burning his bands Break through, and the swathes and the windings Rend loose with the might of his hands, And strong as the sun in his gladness, Come forth like a king to his bride, Our Christ whom ye mocked in your madness, Made drunk with the wine of your pride. There is not a bone of him broken ; — There is not a deed of him lost To his world, or a word he hath spoken But God hath uptaken and tost Far away among tribes, among nations, Like seeds whirled about in the fields 24 IESUS HOMINUM SALVATOR. When the hurricanes leap from their stations, And autumn its winnow-fan wields, And the year goeth forth like a sower To sow for the years that will be — Sweet grass for the scythes of the mower, Sweet herbs for the kine of the lea, Nut-kernels and pippins of apple, And the corn shaken clear of its shells, And flower-seed to deck and to dapple Spring's brow with the blooms and the bells. And though winter drive wild from the nor' ward, And the earth be entombed in the snow, Though the clods be frost-fettered, and forward And backward the keen winds blow — Will ye hold in the might of the summer ? Will ye rein the strong steeds of the sun ? — Lo, back come the song-bird and hummer, And the rillets are glad as they run, And the woods with their old summer sighings Sway green in the gray of the dawn, And the breezes with laughter and cryings Tread free in the flowers of the lawn, And the knolls are new-clad, and the mountains Arrayed in the garment God weaves With the hues of the bow of the fountains, Of the sun-widowed skies of fair eves. Will ye cause the cold winter to linger ? IESUS HOMINUM SALVATOR. 25 Will ye screen in the snows from the heat ? Will ye hold the mad months with a finger? Will ye trample earth dead with your feet ? Will ye blow back the storms that are blowing, Or baffle the tides in career? Have ye frozen the rivers in flowing ? Have ye vanquished the Christ with a spear ? Aha ! He is back in despite of you ! Lo ye the prints in His palm ! Reach hither your hands in the might of you ; Feel ye His side ... be ye calm . . . Can a man for his pleasuring smother The stars or the sun in eclipse ? It is He, it is Christ, and none other, Yea, Christ by the smile on His lips. He is out as of old in the city, He is walking abroad in the street ; He tendeth the poor in His pity, The leper that crawls to your feet, Tne halt and the maim and the maddened ; He feedeth the hungry with bread ; He cheereth the heart that is saddened, The dying, the loved of the dead ; He restoreth the child to its mother ; He giveth the wayfarer rest — It is He, it is Christ and none other, Yea, Christ by the love in His breast. 26 IESUS HOMINUM SALVATOR. He craveth for virtue and beauty ; He cleaveth to good from His youth ; To witness of truth is a duty, Yea, a triumph to die for the truth ; He toileth from dawn-time till even That light may be given to men, That earth be uplifted to heaven, And sin driven down to his den ; He calleth the meanest His brother, He draggeth the tyrant in dole — It is He, it is Christ and none other, Yea, Christ by the might of His soul. For holiest freedom He yearneth, Made blest by the law that is good ; For justice, clear-eyed, that discerneth, Not blindfold in shedding of blood, — Firm-handed to hold, and fair-sighted To watch as the balances sway ; And for Him is the black heaven lighted With streaks of perpetual day ; And for Him is the world-life a prison, By death to be cloven apart — It is He, it is Christ re-arisen, Yea, Christ by the hope in His heart. His face to the night He uplifteth, He searcheth the stars and the sun, IESUS HOMINUM SALVATOR. 27 For the secrets they hold ; and He sifteth The sands where the gold-rivers run, — The rivers of knowledge, of wonder, That roll to the infinite deeps ; Hid treasure He draweth from under The caves of the hill where it sleeps, And the waifs of old time that are lying Where the earth of dead centuries lies — It is He, it is Christ the undying, Yea, Christ by the thirst in His eyes. He trampleth the seas in His pleasure ; He soweth the desert with flowers ; He dareth to strive and to measure His power with invisible powers ; He burneth the idols with fire ; From the courts of the temples of God He scourgeth the seller and buyer, He driveth them forth with a rod ; And His sword He hath sheathed, in His craving For love in the turbulent lands — It is He, it is Christ the all saving, Yea, Christ by the strength of His hands. From the cloud-folded ultimate regions, East and west over measureless seas, Come thronging the myriad legions Of the gojd, of the wise, at His knees 28 IESUS HOMINUM SALVATOR. Bowing down, and from hands heavy-laden For gifts pouring pearl and fine gold ; Yea, the youth high of heart, and the maiden Pure-eyed, and the rulers of old, All the just, and the great, God-appointed, Come thronging with reverent pace — It is He, it is Christ the Anointed, Yea, Christ by God's light on His face. Ere the world was rolled forth into spaces Of light, into regions of day, Ere the waters ran over dry places, And the grasses sprang green from the clay, His rest was of old with the Highest, He abode with the Infinite King, He was King from the first, and the nighest To God, and we praise Him, and sing, Lifting hands to the throne of His splendour, Sing aloud in our joy, ' It is Thou, It is Thou, O Christ, our defender, Our King by the crowns on Thy brow ! ' He made Thee a King to reign over us, God, who is throned on high, Whose wings soft-shadowing cover us, Curved wide as the sky ; Who is crowned with the suns, O Supernal ! Who is girdled about with the stars ; IESUS HOMINUM SALVATOR. 20, At whose feet the strong oceans eternal Are crouched in their bars ; Whose breastplate is darkness ; who scatters The robes from His shoulder like fire ; Who calleth from chaos and shatters The worlds in His ire. Thou movest a King everlasting, Thou abidest with man to the end ; Thou art with him to comfort him, casting Thine arms close about ; to befriend In the moment supreme of his sorrow That is blackened with death for his doom ; For Thou givest him hope of a morrow Of rest — we are strong in the gloom, And we know that the sun going seaward Will arise at the morn from the sea, As we strain from the bow looking leeward, While the wind in our hair bloweth free ; Looking forth at the mountain-tops cleaving The clear golden spaces of light, A.id we spurn at the shores we are leaving, And laugh as we drift into night. Thou changest from glory to glory, Thou growest for man as he grows — As peak after peak, high and hoary, Palm-plumed, clad with vine and with rose, 30 IESUS HOMINUM SALVATOR. As bay after bay that with thunder Of breaker on cliff and on sand, Running inward afar, rolling under Great capes of a bountiful land, Bursts full on the voyager sailing By coasts of a tropical clime, ■In sunlight, in moonlight unveiling, Receding, so Thou in our time, In the days God hath made for our moulding, As we fleet on our way, evermore Enlargest, upheavest, unfolding Thy beauty, thy light and thy power ; And as ever we speed to the ending, As earth rolleth on to her goal, Thou wilt lend us thy strength, ever blending Thy light with the light of the soul ; Till to nought hath our labour diminished, And the deeds have been done God hath willed, And the work God hath set man hath finished, The purpose of ages fulfilled ; Till the stars from their cycles are shaken, The sun from his fervour hath waned ; And life in our hands we have taken, The realms of our glory attained. iesus hominum salvator. 3 1 The False Christs. * And there shall come false Christs.' Unto three kings the years have given birth, Three throned by men, and crowned, the first with gold, The second thorns, the third a simple fold Of stained cerement. And these hold the earth. Now, the first king is gorgeously arrayed ; Gold is his crown, and golden cloth his robe, His breastplate gold with myriad gems inlaid And with his foot he covereth the globe ; And in his hand he holdeth ready-drawn A falchion double-edged, to smite and slay ; And round about his throne at eve and dawn Stand mailed men, the weapons of his sway; And he is hard and ruleth cruelly; And at his will must all men bow the knee ; And for his favour will his servants wear Sackcloth and ashes, gash themselves with knives, In flame or torrent fling away their lives ; Yet will he not his tyranny forbear, But sitteth smiling at a race down-trod, Wasting his servants with a selfish care, And craving woes ; and so blasphemeth God. 32 1ESUS HOMINUM SALVATOR. The second king is like unto the first, But lowlier ; humble are his mien and dress, Nor doth he in his heart for splendour thirst — Wearing the guise of pain and long distress : Yet is he bitter in his ways and cold, And cutteth off his servants' hands and feet Lest they should grow in searching overbold, Lusting that light for which the heart doth beat. He darkeneth their path with wings of night Lest in its sheen his servants may delight; Of the world's best he would not have them share, And holdeth clenched in his hands the keys Of those fair gardens where the bounteous trees Fruits of free life and of sweet knowledge bear: He trampleth down the flowerets in the sod, Cursing their beauty; yea, what God called fair He calleth foul, and so blasphemeth God. And the third king in pride of lowlihead Is like unto the second ; in his pride His bleeding hands he showeth (having shed Blood for his servants) and a bleeding side ; Then doth he point them out a gulf of flame, Saying, ' My blood hath so appeased His ire Who sitteth on His throne and is the same For ever, ye are rescued from that fire ; THROUGH THE SOLITUDES. 33 Yet if ye seek not to observe my will, Behold the gulf that gapeth for ye still ; To save yourselves is of all cares the chief; To 'suage His anger I by you am slain ' (This king is weak and wandereth in brain) ' Therefore in my great love I crave belief: Have I not broken the Avenger's rod ? ' Thus teacheth he, and addeth grief on grief, Darkening God's ways ; and so blasphemeth God. Such are the three crowned kings in their degrees. These are False Christs, and we will none of these. THROUGH THE SOLITUDES. 1. It was long past the noon when I pushed back my chair In the hostel, slung knapsack on shoulder, and walked Through the low narrow room where the folk from the fair, Old peasants deep-wrinkled, sat clustered and talked D 34 THROUGH THE SOLITUDES. In their guttural Gaelic; and out through the stalls Girt with marketers laughing, and groups here and there Of maidens blue-eyed, hooded figures in shawls Of scarlet, and wild mountain lads in long hair, Rude carts, and rough ponies with creels ; gaily passed Up the street ; through the starers and bar- gainers prest ; And asked of an idler my way ; and at last Struck out on the hill-road that winds to the west. ii. And I thought, as I strode by the last heavy cart Moving earlier home than the rest (wife and child Sitting close on the trusses of straw, and apart On the road, cracking whip, chatting loud, laughing wild, The husband and sire in knee-breeches and shoes), Though it was of the first of such journeys to me Since my life's friend was lost, yet I dared not refuse The gift of good angels that even, the free Glad heart in my breast, the delight in my soul, As I greeted the hill-tops, and saw down below The sea winding in from afar, heard the roll THROUGH THE SOLITUDES. 35 Of the stream on the rocks, felt the autumn air blow Through my hair as I moved with light step on the way : And I said, < Let me drink to the dregs the black cup Of pain when 'tis nigh ; but if joy come to-day, Let me drain the last drop of the demon-wine up.' Then I journeyed along through the moorlands, and crossed • The mad stream by the bridge at the crest of the creek, And wound up the mountain to northward, and lost All sight of the village and hill-folk. in. A bleak Heavy cloud, dull and inky, crept over the sun And blackened the valleys. IV In under the hills Ran the road, among moors where the myrtle stood dun, And the heather hung rusted. The voice of the rills Was choked in grey rushes. No footstep was nigh. u 2 36 THROUGH THE SOLITUDES. One rush-covered hut smoked aloft. Not a bird Or a bee flitted by me. The wind seemed to die In the silence and sadness. No blade of grass stirred. Not a tuft of the bog cotton swayed. Lone and rude Grew the path ; and the hills, as I moved, stood apart, And opened away to the drear solitude. v. Then a sorrow crept writhingly over my heart And clung there — a viper I dared not fling off. The sound of dear voices sang soft in my ear To mock me, dear faces came smiling to scoff At my loneliness, making the drearness too drear. Up the track now to right now to left as I clomb, Weird visions came thronging in thick on the brain, — Of days long forgotten, of friends, of a home By death desolated, of eyes that in vain Gazed out for a soul that no more would come back, Of one face far away drawing out my life's love Very strangely that day to it. Everywhere, black, Storm-shattered, the mountains loomed lonely above. THROUGH THE SOLITUDES. 37 A horror, a sickness slipt down through my blood. All my thoughts, all my dreams, all that memory's load, All the terror of loneliness, broke like a flood Over body and soul, and I shrank from the road. VI. I cowered at the frown of the mountains that hung On this side and that; and the brown dreary waste ; The barren grey rocks far aloft ; for they wrung My soul with dim fears ; and I yearned but to taste The sweets of companionship, yearned to return To the far away village ; to hear once again The buzz of kind voices about me ; to spurn The sadness and horror, the fear and the pain. Then I bent down my head as I moved, and my mind Ran out in vague musings: ' If God laid His hand On my life now, and suddenly, swiftly consigned My soul, at a breath, to the dim spirit-land— Guiding on to a world that at best would be strange, Would be sad in its joys, in its sweetness unsweet 38 THROUGH THE SOLITUDES. To a mind rent away in so awful a change From a world of bright faces, the park and the street, And the room, and the glances of languishing eyes, The smiles of red lips, and the touch of soft arms, The gay merry laughters, the happy love sighs — And I found myself out in a region of storms, Out beating my way through the waste, with one star In dark heavens to lead me ; through regions unknown, Dim regions of midnight outstretching afar; A bodiless soul on its journey alone : Ah, methinks I would yearn for a land such as this, For a cloud that but darkens the sun, for the strife With dim dreams, for the heights that shut out the near bliss Of dear home for a little. . . O life of my life, My lost one, thou stay of my childhood, my youth, Thou fount of my joys in the days that are gone, Where, where in the darkness, the regions of drouth, The realm of the dead, art thou journeying on ? THROUGH THE SOLITUDES. 39 Is it strange to thee now that new being of thine ? Dost thou fear in the midst of the darkness, and yearn To be back in the sweet human throngs, in the shine Of the bird-waking sun, 'mid the soft eyes that burn With love and with bliss ? . . art thou lonely as I ? Art thou sad in a world that belieth its God In its pitiless coldness ? ' . . Then up to the sky I lifted my face, and I cried unto God. VII. And when back from the dream I had come, every rock Had a livelier tinge, and the frown from the heaven Had faded, the mountains no more seemed to lock My lone life in their folds out of hate, and the even Grew cheery, grew sweet, and a light wind upsprung 'Mid the grasses, and fanned me, and wooed me to roam Through the moorland to seaward, and blissfully sung In music as soothing as whispers of home. 40 DITTY. And at last when the sun had gone down to his sleep, And I caught the Atlantic's loud roar from the west, Saw the flare of the lighthouse, and wound to the deep, All awe of the wilds had died out in my breast. DITTY. Come back to days of summer, Come back to smiles and trust, Meet eyes and laugh together, Bring in the blissful weather, Gay leaf and glancing feather, And fields of flowery dust, And songs of bird and hummer, Lush fruit and honey-crust, And fear me not nor shun me, My love whose love's undone me ; Come back to days of summer, Come back to smiles and trust. DITTY. 41 O Love, thou'rt like the dawn-wind That sighs across the sea ; For at its sweet upspringing, Sad dreams will cease from stinging, And clouds of fire come winging, From sunward o'er the lea, And forest-land and lawn find A heart for shouts and glee, And the laughing leaves are shaken, And night is captive taken, — O Love, thou'rt like the dawn-wind That steals across the sea. O Love, thou'rt like the flowing Of wine on fainting lips ; For swift there comes a gushing Through silent veins, a rushing Of life the pale cheek flushing, And, like a star that clips A path through blackness glowing, A light from pallor slips, And eyes are strong and certain Beneath their lifted curtain — O Love, thou'rt like the flowing Of wine on swooned lips. O Love, thou'rt like the fervour, Of suns in happy spring, 42 DITTY. When flocks of clouds are shifting, And flights of sea-birds lifting, And like a snow-storm drifting, White seabirds grey of wing ; Spring sways, and none may swerve her, All joys about her cling ; God's palms are stretched o'er her, And death is dead before her — O Love, thou'rt like the fervour Of suns in fervid spring. O Love, thou'rt like the breathing Of music subtle-sweet ; For all the soul is saddened, Made faint and faintly gladdened. Made wild in mirth, and maddened With dreams that flash and fleet ; Made free like white waves seething, Made strong like winds that beat Wide wings in leaves and grasses, With light that broods and passes — O Love, thou'rt like the breathing Of music strange and sweet. Come back to days of summer, Come back to smiles and trust ; Lift laughter-lightened faces ; Bring in the leafy mazes, kisses. 43 Bring apple-blooms and daisies; Bring breath of rose, and gust Of songs from early comer, And scents of vine and must; And shrink not, fail not, dearest, And fear not, as thou fearest — Come back to days of summer, Come back to smiles and trust. KISSES. When I sprang up from a dream last night, And kissed, kissed, kissed, across the air, Where wast thou then, thou darling, Where, thou dearest, where ? I have kissed thee never in life, nor dare, Yet those pure lips were thine, I swear, That clung so hard, that cleaved so fast, That pressed so close — till away they passed. And I fell back upon the bed, With soul full-fed. ( 44 ) A LIFE'S LOVE. We met amid the meadowlands At dawning of the day, She to the east and I to the west Journeying on our way. A glance from her eyes, and a smile from her lips, And the gust of a lovesome song ; And into the heart of the blissful grove She lightly tript along. But my lone path ran over the hill And across the weary plains, Into the night, and into the storm, And into the snows and the rains. ECHO-SONG. i. Ha-ha ! aha ! my Echo brave, Still living in your mountain cave ? I've journeyed lone since break of morn By glacier blue and snowy Horn, ECHO-SONG. 45 Through spectral troops of bearded pine, Without one voice to answer mine, Till, singing here my roundelay, I've caught your cry from hollows grey, And so I fling my staff aside, And, ere I pass, whate'er betide, Ha-ha ! aha ! my Echo true, I'll have a merry hour with you. ii. Ha-ha ! aha ! my Echo mad, Must lonely laughter make you glad ? Must sorrow bring your heart distress Amid the mountain wilderness ? Must foot of startled wayfarer Your cruel wanton mockery stir ? Must cannon-boom and bugle-note Find answer from your strained throat ? And what regrets are yours when lone You languish on your marble throne ? Ha-ha ! aha ! my Echo true, Confide to me, as I to you. in. Ha-ha ! aha ! my Echo clear, When Here bent a charmed ear 46 ECHO-SONG. To list your voice on noiseless nights, That tempted from Olympian heights Old Jove to godless sports of earth, I ween your speech and warbled mirth, Your nymphic face and oread-art, Would cheer her light immortal heart Not more than, void of nymph array, You cheer this mortal heart of clay : Ha-ha ! aha ! my Echo t'rue, Cry glad to me, as I to you. IV. Ha-ha ! aha ! my Echo gay, I've got a bitter word to say ; The world would laugh my wrongs to death, But you will hark my mournful breath : — I've wandered now through half the day By ferny cave, by torrent-spray, By leafy wood and castle grim, By cloven ravine cold and dim, Yet never form, or eye, or voice Has awed my breast or bade rejoice, Ha-ha ! aha ! my Echo true, Till here I heard that note from you. v. Ha-ha ! aha ! my Echo good, They've driven the Dryad from her wood, ECHO-SONG. 47 They've driven the Naiad from the foam, The Oreads from their mountain-home ; There's ne'er a ghost in ghostly tower, Or giant left with eye to glower, Loup-garou, ghoul, or banshee dire, Or dragon fierce with fangs of fire ; They've rid the lawns with deadly swoop Of nymph and sylph and elfin-troop ; Ha-ha ! aha ! my Echo true, They've rid the hills of all but you. VI. Ha-ha ! aha ! my Echo blest, 'Tis but a meagre joy at best For days in sacred paths to tread And find the old delights are dead. Say, how shall poets vex the brain, While now the old delights are slain, Until they find diviner dreams To throng anew the hills and streams, Since only empty earth is left, The soulless wood, the darkened cleft, Ha-ha ! aha ! my Echo true, And all are lost, are lost, but you ? ( 48 ) BABBLE. Silvery rivulet, merrily murmuring, What are you talking of, what are you laughing at? Will you not tell it me, rivulet, rivulet, Silvery rivulet, mocking me laughingly ? Reason nor rhyme can I read in your murmuring: Tell me the words that are wed to your melody. Here on the grass am I waiting and wondering, Bending to hearken and eagerly questioning, Wooing your confidence, flattering lavishly, Like a poor lover entreating his lady-love : Yet you go mocking me, laughingly mocking me, Yet you'll not answer me, rivulet, rivulet, Silvery rivulet, cold-hearted rivulet ! Robin that pipes in the willow-bough over you Sings a plain melody quite comprehensible; Calls to his pretty mate, ' Come to me, come to me ; Here am I waiting, my pretty one, lonelily ; Come to me, come to me ' — mournfully calling her. Skylark that warbles above us so cheerily Talks in a tongue that'll need no interpreter; Tells that the nest is all safe in the meadow-grass; Tells that the little ones soon'll go wandering BABBLE. 49 Into the beautiful, beautiful fairy world; Tells how delicious a flight up to heaven is, High in the balmy air warbling and fluttering ; Sweet is the climbing and sweet the return to earth, Diving adown to the nest in the meadow-grass. Language of breeze and of bird is well known to me, — Why will yours, rivulet, ever be mystical ? Turbulent rivulet, meaningless rivulet ! . . On you go mazily winding and wandering; Here the sun kisses you, here the rock teases you, Here in his soft arm the meadow embraces you, Here falls the tree on your breast and entreatingly Prays you to pause for a moment and talk to him — I too entreat of you only to talk to me — On you go heedlessly laughing and mocking us ! Well, then, another day here will I visit you, Walk with you, talk with you, leap with you, laugh with you, Question you, kneel to you, flatter you, sigh to you, So it may be you will solemnly speak to me, Tell me the meaning that's hid in your melody. E ( 50 ) CORAGENE'S TEMPTATION. " And did I say The Saint had never known true love, who hurled To the black wave that maiden of blue eyes Who followed him through all the world forlorn ? — The books I've read have taught me otherwise." Ovoca. CORAGENE. What if she come not ! — then should I be free To turn from her for ever, to forget The passionate earnest eyes, and fair white brow, And touch of slender fingers thrilling through My flesh like burning fire. I would kneel down And pray that such oblivion might be mine, That all the past might grow more black than clouds That cloak the slender moon in winter storms, So she might fade from memory, and the soul That hath forgotten heaven find its God. O subtle-smiling maiden-lips, sweet eyes Full of love-languor, full of eager fire That tempts me from high dreams ; O warm white arms And bosom warmly beating with wild love, CORAGENE S TEMPTATION. 5 1 I loathe ye . . . back from me ! — for I am pure, My heart clings fast to God, and I am clean But for this dread temptation. When a boy, A tender child that wandered up and down Among the groves and meadows, in me grew High aspirations, love of holiness, Hatred of evil, and through all my years Have I with earnest care weeded and cleansed This garden of my soul. But now, ah me, The lamp that led my footsteps groweth dim In the fierce blaze of this strange love. No stream That murmurs in the valley moves me now To worship with its God-given melody, The waving woodlands bring to me no joy. When first I tasted of her love I seemed To rise above my narrower ways, and grow Greater in wisdom as I grew in love ; I said ' She loves me sister-like, and I Lonely will drink a brother's joy in life In blissful interchange of dreams and thought . . Death, death, not love ! I dream of her soft cheek, Her rosy lips pouting to meet mine own, And of her soul the insatiable thirst That leads her forth to follow on my steps, And burns on cheek and brow whene'er we meet — I trust not that swift blood. . . O would that now I were borne hence, far into lonely lands, E 2 52 CORAGENE S TEMPTATION. To live in solitary fasts and prayers, Purging my spirit of the dross of sin That clings about it ! — If she come to-day, We shall not meet together any more. . . Ah ! — what is that sweet music on the breeze, And whose the light step treading through the fern? — (Forth from the waving branches of the grove, Thridding the primrose-tufts with gentle foot, And singing low a mournful song, she comes : Circling her brow the wreath of skyey blue Binds her brown hair that o'er her shoulder falls A sombre stream, and under lashes dark Moves her deep violet eye, radiant with love. There seems a sadness o'er her mouth and brows, A brooding shade of trouble, like a cloud That darkens all day long the summer hills While heaven laughs in sunshine, and the smile That lightens on her lips and in her eyes Has such a yearning sorrow living in it As tells of pain deep hidden) . . Cathleen. God be thanked, My trouble is gone over, and my heart Has found once more its home. My Coragene ! Coragene. Sit yonder on the gnarled bough, and tell CORAGENE S TEMPTATION. 53 Why thus you come so weary, thus so late, And with so much of sadness in your eyes. Cathleen. Here let me lay my hand in yours, dear love, And feel that in the harsh and bitter storm I have found my one sure haven once again. Late — late ? — ah, would that I were fleet of foot As the wild doe that leaps the mountain-brooks, That I might speed to you as my soul speeds ! Weary and sorrowful ? — weary indeed, But now not sorrowful, but full of peace, Full of deep peace, my hand thus laid in yours, Now that my fear is ended. When the sun Was gathering up the dew-mist round the hills, I rose — for they had gone at break of day To chase the deer across the upland heaths — I rose, I stole away unseen, and left The hated house, and took the lonely path That thrids the meadows in the valley. Ah, The bliss of entering on the journey, love ! How sweet the breath the meadow-flowers of May Wafted about me ! and the dreamy hills, The hanging rocks girt with fresh-foliaged boughs, The tiny cataracts flashing far aloft Among the mountain ravines, how they seemed Instinct with love to bless me as I moved 54 coragene's temptation. Among them with unutterable dreams, Unutterable yearnings, and the storm Of ravishing expectancy that seemed As it must suddenly cease in deepest sorrow, Or break the frail heart with excess of joy ! The mountains narrowed round me, and half-awed, Yet moving as one seems to move amid Such strange enchanted regions as the eye Dreams of when strong tumultuous music breathes, I entered in beneath the branching woods That clothed the craggy barriers of the glen. The morning air amid the myriad leaves, The still, pure air below the screening boughs, And down among the blue-bell beds, and plots Of springy moss, was one soft ringing noise, Twitter and buzz and warble and low trill And babble of bright rivulets unseen. And there I sat me down a little space Aweary, drinking in the fragrant breath Of wild flowers and the wandering breeze of morn ; When suddenly the shouts of mirthful men, Mingled with many an echo of the rock, Broke through the ravine ; in affright I rose — That way the stag had fled from cruel death — I dared not keep the path, I dared not turn And seek the open valley : then I plunged Adown the brake and fled across the woods. coragene's temptation. 55 And so I have been wandering up and down All the long day, seeking whatever path Might lead to you, dear love, now on the hills, Now in the wildering woodlands, till at length God's angel bore me hither — though so late. CORAGENE. Cathleen, I had all but prayed a moment since That we might meet no more . . . ay, draw your hand Thus from me if you will, and flash the fire Of your wild eyes reproachful on my face. There is a grievous burthen on my heart That I would fain fling from me : hearken to me And earnestly give heed, while now the power Of Heaven is in me, lending strength to speak. There was a time, Cathleen, not long ago — Nay, not so long but that my wounded life Gapes even now unhealed, and bleeds anew — A happy time, ere yet the name of sin Had lost its bitter flavour on the lips, A happy time, for then the light of God Shone full across my path, and all my heart Clave unto holiness. I could not roam In leafy woodlands then with soul unmoved In fervent thankfulness to Him who clothed The branches in their glory ; everywhere 56 coragene's temptation. All nature seemed uplifting hands of praise. Ah, then 'twas passing sweet to live, and feel God all about me ; sweet to lie and dream Of worlds beyond this bounded world ; to gaze On crimson-tinted clouds amid the blue Floating far outward, and to draw from them Into my being thoughts divinely fair, Deep impulses and yearnings, such as made My breast the abiding place of peace. O sweet To pour my whole soul out before its God In full repentance, sweet to consecrate My body to His work, and take the pangs Of toil and self-negation with a smile. Then came the wildering change. O blissful days When the new summer-tide of love upsprung Within my life, and sleeping nature seemed To break forth in innumerable flowers ! . . Cathleen, when first my spirit thrilled to yours In love's divine awakening, I believed (Though well I knew how deeply I had fallen) That being pure and true, that love of ours Could take no soilure . . . hearken to my words, And shroud your eyes for me a little space . . . My love is altogether whirled to earth, And trails its leaves and blossoms in the mire . . . Fly from me . . there's a devil in my blood ; I am no more that Coragene who feared CORAGENE S TEMPTATION. 57 Even to lay his lips upon your brow, Dreading a kiss might taint a love that breathed From the deep spirit, to lay hand to hand, Lest pressure of hand should grow as dear to us As high soul-commune . . . Fly from me, avoid me, Curse me to death with those sweet lips I love . . . Or rise and bid me leave you, cast me off With your own mouth — I dare not go unbidden — But I would leave you, I would seek out God, And burn this poison from my flesh with fasts And prayer and pain and life-long penitence. Cathlfen. Ah, what a dream is this that vexes you ! Till now hath God not smiled upon our loves ? Hath he not sealed our wish and left us free To love unharmed, unheeded ? . . . Turn and smile, Turn, darling . . . Will the shadow never leave Your face, love ? . . . Smile, and say 'tis but a dream. CORAGENE. Back, with your heated hands ! . . . O God, O Christ, Sustain me now, for I am tempted sore, Let me not yield, keep ye my purpose firm . . . 58 coragene's temptation. Ay ? wilt you tempt me, woman ? . . . Nay, now, there, What need of tears ? I mean not any wrong. Cathleen. Lo, now, I have been straying all the day In lonely places whither maiden's foot Save mine has never wandered ; better far To have lost myself among the mountain wastes Than thus to meet the chillness of your eyes, The terrible darkness of your anger. Coragene. Child, I am not angered with you, not a whit ; In sooth I know no bitterness to you : Say but you dare not love me, that my soul Is loathsome in its blackness in your eyes, And let me hence to wash away my sin. Cathleen. Nay, for I know 'tis but a dismal doubt Has made you wild and sorrowful, Nay, love — But sit beside me here among the flowers, And I will sing to you a gentle song, And soothe your o'erwrought mind, and by-and-by The weary dream will roll away and leave coragene's temptation, 59 Your heavens blue and pure and calm once more ; Or we shall sit all silent here, and list The birds' low warbling and the streamlet's sigh ; And if you will it, I shall speak no word, But cull the primroses, and bind them up For pastime. Coragene. Thus, sweet woman-spider, thus Weave your soft web about me. . Cathleen. Coragene, How have I wronged you ? . . ah my own, my king. . . Coragene. Get hence, nor shape your face into that smile, That woman's love-smile — placid lips, and cheek Dimpled, and warm eyes widening — flinging out The soul abandoned for a man to clasp Or trample as he lists . . draw back your soul. . Go hence, take you your own way, I take mine ; My love is dead — you cannot love me more — And I am grown aweary of the world — 'Tis time this earthly game of ours had end. . . Now, slay me with your glance of scorn and pride, And virtuous calm of forehead and of lip. 60 coragene's temptation. Cathleen. I know not what you call an earthly game ; But if your love for me is dead indeed, I shall not seek to wake it into life. CORAGENE. Woe, woe, it is not dead, it is not dead, But ah, 'tis grown too sinful sweet. Great God, May I not tear the beauteous deadly coils Off from me here and tread them into dust ? . . The pure, the pure bright dream comes back even now Like summer breaking forth in autumn days, Rich in all loveliest colours, wafting out Gusts of delicious balm. Ah, get thee hence, Bright mockery, for every leaf is sere, The fruit is gathered in, the harvest fields Have nothing left but stubble and rank weeds, Rank poison-weeds that choke the dying flowers — The damps of winter and the nightly frosts Have blighted the fair land. Not dead indeed, But who may call it back to life again, And it so fast a-dying ? Kindly eyes, So filled with sacred scorn, so proudly sad, Turn, turn ; for though I dare not meet your gaze, I feel that it is on me, and it brands, coragene's temptation. 6i It sears, it slays ! . . Ah me, the love divine, Like a pure bubbling fount of water, springs Up through the frosty clodded earth again, And will not rest beneath in any bonds. Forgive me, Cathleen — dare I say forgive ? Yea, by your eyes I see my sin forgiven. Now for a moment, while my pulses beat To the irresistible music of old days, Lay your true hands in mine, and let me kiss, Ay, kiss your lips in earnest, sinless love, My Cathleen, my one friend, my sole sweet star Holding God's light reflected tender-pale, When His goes down and leaves me dark, as now. Cathleen. If I have tempted you from godly deeds, If I have caused you to break vows, or bent The green boughs of your grand aspiring life To trail on earth ignobly, out alas, May God have mercy on my sinful soul ! Love me no more, look not upon my face, Let loose my hands lest in them there is death, Touch not my lips lest there be poison there : For what availeth love that bears no more The fruit of holy thought, pure purposes, Heroic toil, the sacrifice of self ? Prune it away — it draws the goodly life 62 coragene's temptation. Out of the roots that feed it. Go, forget The tempter, leave me, sin not any more. CORAGENE. Forget ! — ha, ha ! have I not cried ' forget ' To this tempestuous soul a thousand times, Only to feel the irrepressible wave Flung back upon me with regathering might ? You bid me to forget ! alas, sweet face And love-deep eyes, when have I yet forgot ? What earnest prayer begun has run its length Unbroken by long silences of thought, Long spaces of deep calm wherein the mind Brooded upon ye, till the sense of want Was known no more, and God remembered not ? What wooded vale, what rocky peak, or hill Deep-clad in heath, or glimpse of far-off sea, Bears any meaning now save what is drawn Out of the memory of this love? . . Alas, It is my faith — my life's one helm that drags What way it listeth, whether tempest blow, Or summer sleep amid the starry heaven . . There — let it drift me wheresoe'er it will, Though I be ruined, though I die accursed ! Cathleen. O talk not thus — the wild and bitter speech So changes you, dear love, from your true self, coragene's temptation. 63 And makes me feel so very lone and drear, As though no friend I had, as though the face Of God were hidden from me ! And yet, yet, What pangs, what agony would I not bear To comfort you, to shield you from these doubts That pain you, that so wound you. Ah, my love. Be comforted — would I not die for you ? O, if my death could expiate your sin, If sin it be to love me as you love — And ah, I will not think that you have sinned — Then would I see your face no more, and die In seeing not, and take death's icy kiss As babes their mother's kisses ere they sleep. Coragene. Ah God ! when I behold your face as now So sad, so beautiful, with such a light Of nobleness and truth in the deep eyes, And on your lips and brow such firm resolve, Majestic self-devotion, tranquil love, What is there left but just to fling myself Upon your breast, and wind my arms about you, Lost in wild love, forgetful of all vows ? . . Dear, sit you here, and iet us talk awhile, Now, ere the sun has floated o'er the hills, Sit here and let us talk before we part. Ah lily hand, lie thou upon my knee 64 coragene's temptation. With slender fingers spread, yet not too frail For such a palm as this to smooth adown That never yet hath wielded any sword ; Poor pretty hand — ah me, how passing strange These hands of ours, so full of life in life, More fearful than dead eyes in death . . Nay, sweet, Draw it not thus away so suddenly — What, shuddering? ah, the early summer winds Breathe treacherously keen at times . . here, now, This cloak will cover you full well . . yea, so, Lie softly thus about the shoulders fair, And thus about the arms more dainty white Than whitest roses in sweet-scented June, And thus about the fairly-rounded waist, And thus, and thus, about the breast beloved, The warm true breast, where I in my great pangs Would fain lay down my head. And yet, me- seems, In all my care, the warmth of summer glows In every languid straying gust that wafts The hawthorn odours up the glen, and shakes The bells and lingering violets round our feet. Ah, my dark tresses, flowing down so free, So glossy-smooth, how have I dreamed of you A-nights, while ye have made the pillow sweet For one to dream of me . . is't so, my dove ? Nay, but I need no answer. Pretty lips, coragene's temptation. 65 Will ye be smiling thus for evermore ? Laugh, then, for am I not a sorry fool ? Nay, I will kiss you into rest again. There, not at peace yet? . . cannot ye be calm? . . Still smiling? . . then, one long, long kiss . . alas! Now are ye sadder than cloud-shadowed woods ! Must I kiss back the laughter and the smiles ? My Cathleen ! — Cathleen. Nay, I'll laugh without a kiss : I was but thinking of the strange wild day When your first kiss upon my cheek, alas, Seemed so to cling to it, and burn upon it, That when I met the glance of other eyes, Fain had I hid my face and passed unseen ; And when my father drew me to his heart I dared not meet his look, but hung my head Abashed, and then he kissed me on the brow, And like a guilty thing I slipt away, And felt as though I had stabbed him — strange that now I go home to him proudly. . . Well, but, love, If you look sad, how shall I make you smile ? Coragene. Press close your lips to mine, love, close and close ; 66 coragene's temptation. Press close your cheek, and look, love, in mine eyes . . Yea, I can feel the lashes move, yea, see You love me and will love me to the end. How can I get, sweet, nearer to your soul ? If mine arms clasp you, if mine arms are wound Close round your neck, if my lips cleave to yours, Ah dearest, 'tis to draw you near and near, Draw you to me that soul may lean on soul, Even as now. And we have gained indeed The dearest gift of earth, and vanquished fear That pushed the soul back in supreme desires And yearnings. — Speak, love . . . Nay, you would not speak ? Then shall I ask not any word of you, Knowing you, feeling with your soul, and felt By yours in very sooth. Ay, better far This love than any bliss my life hath drunk Under God's sun. Ah, lean thus on my breast, And let my hand thus wander o'er your hair; Keep the dear arm so, laid across my neck, That I may feel its pulses throb. Cathleen. say You have sinned not, and my sin you have forgiven. coragene's temptation. 67 coragene. Forgiven ? nay, I'll crush the bitter word To death upon your lips. Forgive you ? — ah, Lift up your eyes, and smile upon my face, Look up, dear love, and know my soul is yours. Cathleen. Let me begone : the sun is very low : The way is long : and I would go alone To-night : let me be going now, dear love. CORAGENE. Why do you lay your head thus on my neck Like one half-swooning, while I press my lips Only among your tresses ? Love, lift up Your face, and kiss my lips. — Your eyes are closed ; Your lips hang wide. — Sweet love, 'tis best to part, But kiss me once again before you go. . . . Gone — and I cannot choose but watch her pass Along the footpath by the torrent's brink, And swift across the torrent by the rocks, And up the hill, slow-climbing. How she moves ! O subtle grace of limb, O sweet repose Of beautiful proud head on rounded throat And queenly shoulder! How the hair flows back Upon the wind ! and ah, she waves her hands f 2 68 coragene's temptation. Out wildly now and strangely. The hill's brow Snatches her from me, and the floating hair Follows her down the slope . . . farewell, sweet soul ! . . . The calm deep peace of evening on my heart Lies like God's hand. The sun has left the heavens ; A faint star peers amid the lingering light ; The stream grows black beneath me ; and the breeze Of twilight steals adown the rocky slopes, And rustles through the topmost leaves and dies. . . I grovel to Thee, Lord, upon the earth : O God, be merciful, be merciful, Lay not Thy scourge too heavily upon me ; Draw back, O God, and leave me with my sin. Wrap Thyself, Lord, in darkness evermore ; Let not Thy light shine in upon my soul To show me my pollution. . . O my soul, How is it fallen, how is it cut down ! O my pure life, how has corruption spread, Within it, leaving all a hideous mass Of rottenness, like an unearthed corpse ! God, God, cannot I shake the tempter off? Wilt Thou not blot away that hovering face That will not cease to smile upon me thus coragene's temptation. 69 Though I should sear my eyes with fire ? . . . Sweet face — For thou art sweet — I would not have thee fade, Thou art so strangely, wonderfully fair. I feel her last long kiss upon my mouth Now, even now, and the soft loving arm Here, on my neck, and touch of finger-tips Straying about my forehead and my cheek, And all my blood is burning . . . ah, ah, ah, Back comes the dire enchantment once again Dragging me down to hell . . . the lily hands ! How the tongue ever frames sweet words to sting The satiated soul ! . . . the lily hands With their soft touches on the cheek and brow ! Why cannot I forget her loveliness, Not try the old temptation o'er again To yield with smiling lips . . . and yet, perchance, This is the olden habit of the brain Still working, not the newer impulses Baffled before they can fulfil themselves In outward act and growth of mind : for how Can the old ways of thought in a moment change, And would it not be strange indeed if I, Whose cheek is glowing with her latest kiss, Should quite forget the sweetness of her lips, And the light pressure of encircling arms When the face lifts in kissing ? . . Out upon me, 70 CORAGENE S TEMPTATION. Do I not know what this means ? Base, base heart, Foul hypocritic mouth, preacher of truth With lying lips, false breaker of pure vows, Deceiver of the world, who cannot yet, For all thy crafty wiles, deceive thyself ! What hope for him, who, in his strife with sin, So cheats himself with fancied nobleness That each temptation's triumph stirs his blood With ill-disguised rejoicings ? Can there come Anything noble, any vigour of heart, Or earnest self-rebuke from such an one ? I know my nature through — my sense of truth, My godlike instincts, and the purer dream, The child's gift to the man ; and close with these My self-deceiving good thoughts of myself Wherewith I deem that I may blind the sight Of all-beholding God, resting at peace, With scarce a sigh for Heaven, or fear of Hell. Yet O to gain Thy ways once more, and breathe The cool refreshful air of righteousness ! Is it not dearer than this withering love, This ever-burning and tumultuous joy, This rosy-sweet oblivion ? . . Get thee back Into eternal night, thou glorious form, Be thou once more as utterly nought to me As ere my life was kindled into flame At thy first dawning . . . yet it will not fade — CORAGENE S TEMPTATION. 7 I How all that marvellous beauty shines ! white arms, And beautiful, clear bosom ! O. Great Christ, With what a villain hunger have they cursed This grovelling flesh, beating me down to earth Remorseless, in exultant victory ! — Were this pervading image of the brain But the true body that one's hands might touch, Then might one, moved to terrible despair, Strike a fell stroke and rid his soul of it ; But who may crush the vision of the eye That mocks our anger with perpetual smiles, Fading, and flashing back 5 and flashing back, And clinging to the sight inseparably As clings the light or darkness ? O my God, When she is near me I am tempted sore With fierce upheaving passion, but ofttimes The memory of all that loveliness Of bodily form, while no rebuking soul Seems breathing in it, lashes me with power More awful than the hurricane with the boughs In the tumultuous woodland — every nerve Quivers within me, and the eager blood Catches the breath and shudders through the frame, And I am but a plaything in love's hand, — Love that exalts not, but is as a dream Of ravishing sweetness, of delicious pain, Of fierce, devouring joy. 72 C0RAGENE S TEMPTATION. Have I not sought Forgetfulness by many an earnest means ? — Dwelling apart from her for many days ; Preaching the truth of God to simple souls That yearn for it amid the ignorant lands ; Oft folding up my mind in alien thought, Reading hard books, and dwelling on the words Of noble hearts forgotten ; or myself Building great schemes, and showering on the page Far into night my own divinest dreams ; And in the midst of speech, or studious thought, Or strain of memory, back comes her voice, And nought is left, but suddenly to cease And pore upon the image of her face, Recall her words and ways, how she has smiled On such a day, with what a tone her voice Has fallen in speaking lovingly. And now^ On this last day, when I had risen strong Above temptation, and my soul was firm In sin's renunciation, soft she comes With her coy smiles, her deep and lovesome eyes, Her scorn of me, her pardon, and her tears, And flings me back to Hell with her dear love. . Better to strive no longer, better far To slay my conscience outright at a stroke, For all is vain, all vain, and I am lost — A desolate, hopeless, and wreck-ruined man. ( 73 ) POET AND MISTRESS. He speaks. Though I know that God in the framing of thee (Thou strange bright creature He loveth so), While over thy cheek to flash and to flee He bade the blood, and the great eyes glow Sudden with pain and sudden with pride ; Set the hair to ripple and roll In its golden streams on either side The pearl-pure brows ; and dowered thy soul With a dower of manifold changeful thought ; Gave thee to move with noiseless feet ; For diverse daintiest labours wrought Thy long white fingers fairily-sweet ; Formed thy mouth for the pout of fear, And the bitter curl of a high disdain ; Lent thee an artist's eye, an ear To revel in music's bliss, and a brain Swift to learn as the tongue to speak — Though I know that God with gifts on gifts Making thee blest, has made thee weak, And thy heart is a thing that slides and shifts, Finding never by eve or morn In the one love-mood an hour's repose, 74 POET AND MISTRESS. But flashing from pity to pitiless scorn, From love of the lily to love of the rose : Yet now that thine eyes have looked in mine And our souls have kissed in the kiss of the lip, I swear that never that heart of thine Out of my resolute hold shall slip. For I am a poet, all men say, I have writ through nigh a decad of years, Tragedy, comedy, lyric and lay, With my cries I have wrung the world to tears : I am a poet, a maker of men, I have wrought the dream to a thing of truth ; I have uttered all passions, traced with pen Griefs of age and blisses of youth ; And now I will write no more, but straight Turn my wit to a dearer use ; For hour by hour I will lie in wait, And watch thy face, and ponder and muse What is the thought and what the dream, And what the life that accordeth best With thy mood : then all at once I will seem To change as thou changest, come forth drest Now in despair and now in pride, Perchance with pomp of a tyrant king, Perchance like a lover wooing his bride ; And out of my mind's full store will bring POET AND MISTRESS. 75 All the fancies rich and rare, One after one as a host his wines, Bidding thee taste of a boundless fare ; All the passions my verse enshrines, All the souls I have put in my plays In a trice I will grow to ; now I will frown With a cynic hate of the world's weak ways ; Now I will live a light-heart clown ; And now a saint with fast-shut mouth And eye upturned under drooping lid ; Then, swift as the wind veers west or south, Turn to a reckless worldling, rid My soul of its truth for an hour or so, And laugh and jeer at all things high ; And last at a breath, as the white clouds grow All into flame in a sunset sky, Back I will come to my own true ways, Fling to the wind the guise of art, Sing as I sang in the olden days, Sing in the bliss of an earnest heart, Sit by thee, talk of the pure and good As thou lovest to talk when God in His power Lifts thee into thy noblest mood. And the world may cry to me hour by hour, ' Come, poet, sing to us one more song,' May laugh as at one who is simple and weak, And I will laugh back at the purblind throng, Turn in my pride and kiss thy cheek. 76 POET AND MISTRESS. For love is better than fame, I hold, And to gain one heart in God's wide world Better than all the wealth of gold That ever from earth's rich veins is hurled ; And I, while the years into darkness roll, Spurning all else for thy dear sake, I shall have gained thee, beautiful soul, Whom God hath lavished his power to make — While ever from under my false disguise Low with myself I will laugh to see The love looking out of thy great wide eyes, And lighting thy lips as thou watchest me. She answers. Must I then lock thy mouth thus with my hands, Thou babbler, ere thou givest me space to speak ? Hath God then left me with a soul so weak That, passing through the glories of His lands, I shall not find one thing to prize till death ? Nay, love, if, moving through His gardens rare, I pass the tulip opened by the breath Of dawn, to pluck the rose beside the rill, 'Tis not because the tulip is not fair, Be sure, but that the rose is fairer still : And if I find the fairest and the best I needs shall pause before it, bend my brow, And give God thanks, and take it to my breast, And clasp, and bless it, as I bless thee now ! ( 77 ) AMONG THE VIPERS. Then, let them babble while they list, And gulp their fill of lies ; There's one will look into thy face With trustful, cloudless eyes ; And here's a hand to help thee, And here's a heart to guide — My friend, my friend of olden days, Come closer to my side. They are gone through the dusk, and the laughter And prattle grow fainter and die ; They go to their homes making merry, And back to my sorrow go I. But sweeter to me than all joyance, And dearer than laughter and play, Is to sit thus alone with my sorrow While eve on the mountain is grey. ( 78 ) AN AVOWAL. Sweet, do we wrong one another, Being so eager and bold ? Touch of the hand and glance of the eye, What may not these unfold ? What has been left untold ? Love we dared not smother Hath spoken in signs full sure — Language of lip may flatter and lie, Wilfully framed to allure, In vows not meant to endure : Face to face cannot dissemble, Telling a sycophant's tale. Yea, by the crimson flush of the brow, Yea, by the cheek turned pale, Thoughts that in utterance fail, Hands that unheedingly tremble, Eyes that in ecstasy meet, Minds that each other newly endow, Hearts that in agony beat, Smiles that are playful and sweet, AN AVOWAL. 79 We are pledged with scarce an endeavour, Even to death, sweet dove ; I am thine, thou art mine, evermore. God on His throne above Witness our pledges of love ! Yet is there something to sever, Something to keep us aloof, Yet do our spirits a boon implore, Claiming an ampler proof Even in love's behoof — Claiming the dear embraces, Kiss of the lips and cheek, Solace of earnest mutual speech, Rendering of trust less weak, Telling of truths we seek, And love that nought effaces, Merits full freedom I trow ; So to draw closer the life of each, Sweet, I have spoken it now — Here on my bosom speak thou ! ( 8o ) A REMONSTRANCE. Ah dearest, art thou not aweary yet Of street and buzzing room and gaudy show, Of dance and shallow talk, and sickly wit, And laughter insincere, and eyes unlit By feelings deep or earnest ? Dost thou know How green the wheat now stands in dewy fields, And how the hawthorn hedges in the lanes Are whitened into bloom by April's rains, And every tree its leafy burthen yields ? Hearest thou the blackbirds piping in the dawn, 'Mid lightest slumber and delicious dreams ? Say, hast thou felt the cool fresh grass o' the lawn About thy feet awandering when, updrawn By the warm sun, the mist of morning gleams So downy-white in heaven, and the boughs Hang dewy-moistened through their clustering leaves, While the still air no sigh of sadness heaves Lest yet the brooding bird it might arouse ? Ah sweet, the woods are wild with melody, The very bees are out among the flowers, A REMONSTRANCE. 8l And yesternoon, beneath the sunny sky I saw indeed my first-seen butterfly On dappled winglet, fluttering 'tween the showers, And wished my wish in secret. All the air Is heavy with sweet primrose-perfumes, breathed From mossy banks with violets inwreathed And lightened 'neath the furze's ruddy glare. The mountains are all emerald, gold, and blue, So fresh and softly shadowed with stray clouds. Even where I sit I see the sea's deep hue, And silvery ships that cut the ripple through Slow moving to the south with swelling shrouds. The daintiest sea-weeds bloom about the rock, The wave makes summer music on the sands, And the stout fisher, plying toilsome hands, Flings forth a summer song amid his talk. Leave thou the city, sweet, to colder souls That drink not gladness in the leafy woods, That joy not for the ripple as it rolls Along the white sea-beach, that love not knolls Of wilding flowers, or mountain solitudes. Come thou, and wander by the gladsome brooks ; Come, breathe the mountain air, and read God's love Revealed in earth beneath and sky above In language plainer than the text of books. G ( 82 ) IN THE DANCE. He. It is bliss, it is bliss so to hold thee, my life, To keep whirling in time, to keep whirling in time To the violin's titter, the din of the fife, To the clash of the cymbals, in tumult sublime, In the beating of feet, in the waving of hair, In the babble and ripple of laughter and sighs, In the flashing of light, in the fanning of air, In the gleaming of arms, in the shining of eyes. She. It is bliss, it is bliss to be borne at thy breast Through the glimmer of pearl, through the glimmer of gold, And to feel that thou lovest me, lovest me best, Our vows have been spoken, our love has been told. He. I love thee, I love thee, my darling, my queen, I will love thee in life, I will love thee to death, While the sea-spray is white, while the olive is green, While the lip hath its redness, the body its breath ; IN THE DANCE. 83 And our years shall be ravishing sweet — divine As the murmur of music, the scent of the brine, As the flavours of fruit, as the glory of wine — Yea, shall they not, darling ? She. My love, it shall be ; For with thee will the gloom be illumined with stars, And a low-laughing wind will upleap from the sea, To dissever the cloud with violet bars, And to break up the heaven in islets of blue, And the peach-tree and rose-bush flame into flower Like a flame of the sun at the times of the dew, And the springs at thy bidding outburst in their power. He. And with thee at my side not a day will run drear But in clouds of torn fire, amid wells of gold- green, Light soft as the turquoise that swoons at your ear ; And the glow, as the night-wind its pinion out- wafts Will die not, will blend in the moon, in the sheen Of a silent aurora outshooting its shafts Far aloft in the blue ; and the bird of the night In the wood will be warbling and warbling till day ; G 2 84 IN THE DANCE. And the waves evermore will be lapt amid light, And the flowers amid light in their languor will sway. She. I will cleave to thee fast, I will stand at thy side, I will lie in thine arms like a bird in its nest. He. O lean but thy brow on my shoulder, my bride, There is none that will heed how-so-near it is pressed ; As they wheel in the noise and the light of the room, The rest they are dead, they are blind to our bliss. Here as we sweep in the canopy's gloom, Lift up thy lips for a kiss. Onward, and onward, my dove, let us speed, For loud is the clang of the trumpets clear, And wildering the note of the flute and the reed. She. O love, I can nought of their jubilee hear, But only the ring of thy voice in my mind. He. sweet, how the breath of the gardens anear Comes borne through the lattice on wings of the wind ! IN THE DANCE. 85 She. O darling, I know not of aught save the glow Of thine eyes looking down into mine, and the taste Of thy lips on my lip, and thy murmurings low, And the warmth of thine arm lying close on my waist. He. O soul of my soul, shall our lives not be blest, When I hold thee and fold thee so fast to my heart, That thou'lt lie like the shell on the rock in thy rest, And angel nor devil shall rend us apart ? And we'll fly to the lands of the palm and the pine, Where the eyes of the peoples are wild in their love, And the clusters are purple and black on the vine, And the heavens are lurid in splendours above ; And we'll sit in the cool of the branches by day, And we'll hide in the leaves from the wrath of the noon, And at night in a bark on the tides of the bay, Wander with melodies under the moon, While the months to eternity laughingly roll, And the fervour and fire of the heart is increased, And the love ever springs in the deeps of the soul . . . 'Sdeath, why has the music ceased ? ( 86 ) LOVE'S COWARDICE. Not courage to stop in the street and give A kindly glance or a kindly word ? And I that through love of you hope, breathe, live, Have passed like a stranger, unheeded, unheard. What do you fear, then ? — Friend and foe Gliding about in the shifting crowd, What if they knew (as I fain would know) — What if they whispered it, talked it aloud — That love had made brave the heart in your breast, That love had made stronger a soul not weak, And meeting the man you loved, you prest His hand, spoke to him, and heard him speak ? . . . To pass and feel the rippling air, Moved by us, kissing the lips, the eyes, And soul thrill soul, so light, so rare, And a gush of sweet joy in the heart uprise ! And then the sorrow, the pang, the shame ; The flush of pride that leaps to the face ; The low-tongued murmurs of mutual blame ; The doubts that torture us, render us base ; The long, long yearning unsatisfied ; The quenching of hopes that had flamed anew — love's cowardice. 87 And to you the remorse for a grace denied, And to me, ah God ! — the distrust of you ! Is it kind, is it just, to leave a sting In a heart that throbs for you ? . . Ah well, well, What strength can the glance of a moment bring To nourish a life in its toil ? What spell Can the flash of a ribbon, lilac or brown, The gleam of the hair of rippling gold, The rustle or touch of a silken gown, The waft of a mantle's velvet fold, Breathe o'er a soul that is sick to speak The thought that it lives with, sick to see The love-light dawn once more on your cheek, And to work as of old, with a love set free ? You do your love a grievous wrong Thus to belie it through shame or fear, Who have smiled ere this in the midmost throng, Looked in my eyes, and drawn anear, And told the truth with your whole free heart In love's clear language, felt no pain Nor trembled, nor shrank. Why stand apart Now, and fling down betwixt us twain A barrier not to be overpassed Till many a tear of sorrow be shed. Till the old love out of our lives is cast And a new love springs from a love that's dead ? 88 IN THE TEMPEST. What need to dread that any should learn The priceless truth you hide in your soul ? — You have won what the best have striven to earn, And which to lose is life's worst dole. We have cried to Heav'n with uplifted palms, That our love might grow more true, more deep ; Told it all out in its storms and calms ; Pray'd for long dreams of it blessing our sleep : And I ask, what cause for an hour's distress In a world by kindred footsteps trod If sister or brother should hear or guess The sweetest thing we have sigh'd to God ? IN THE TEMPEST. Stand by my side, Cleave to me fast (My love, my bride, Who art mine at last) — Cover thine eyes Close in my breast, Till the thunder dies, Till the wind 's at rest. THE CONFESSOR. 89 I have fought, I have won, I have trod on the world ; My task is done, My banner is furled. Hath Christ not spoken, Hath God not willed ? — Our bonds are broken, Our dream 's fulfilled ! THE CONFESSOR. (nineteenth century.) ' For he had power of confession, As said himselfe, more than a curat, For of his ordre he was licenciat.' Chaucer. Tina [at a window}. I cannot sing — I can but sigh, and sigh. What stays him ? I must needs look out once more . . . Not yet, nor yet . . . there is a soldier now Moving this way — pah, that Giovanni ! oh, Giovanni's taller by two inches : he Walks not so drake-like, I do rather think. go THE CONFESSOR. Now doth that fellow stop, and bend his neck To kiss the little maiden yonder — ha, That my Giovanni ! fie upon you, Tina ! Belike the fat priest coming up this way Is your Giovanni ! . . nay, but who is he ? Fra Stefano ? — too plump : 'tis — Padre — Padre — Nicolo . . Cristo, how I hate his eye, When he leers up into one's face, old pig, At the Confessional — ugh, see, now, see His twisted mouth and horrible turned brows As he goes by yon lady . . O, I hate him, I hate him . . . Holy Mother, pardon me, Here comes he . . . now I'll hide me from him — So. Nicolo [putting in his head]. Good even, Tina. O, I see you there ! Showing your pretty rose cheeks to the crowd ? What ? — and when Padre Nicolo comes by, Steal in behind the window ? eh ? Tina. No — no — No, Padre Nicolo ; I but looked out To see if one I knew came up the street ; And when none came I knew, I then drew back Thus. Nicolo. O ay, ay — if one I knew — ay, Whose lips I know the taste of — eh? — whose arms Know what the measure of my waist is — whose . . THE CONFESSOR. gi Ho, ho, you're weeping, pretty mistress Tina ! Now I know all . . . there, weep not, little chick : Fast — dry your eyes : these lovers like not much To kiss wet cheeks, you know — poor little pet ! Tina. I hate you, Padre Nicolo, I hate you. Nicolo. Is this the story? Padre Nicolo Must needs go in and chide you now for this. Tina. 0, I will run and hide me from him . . Nicolo [coming in at the door.] Ha ! Tina. O Padre, I have sinned ; forgive my sin. I'm but a headlong child. I'll tell you all : 'Tis no ill tale. Nicolo. 'Tis very ill in you So to have spoken : Tina, can you hope The holy Church's blessing, being thus Rebellious, Tina — so rebellious ? . . Here, Sit by my side, and tell your evil thought . . Tell it . . sit here . . nay, wherefore do you shrink ? Do you not trust me ? Tina. O I do indeed : Yea, yea, good Padre Nicolo, Nicolo. * Good Padre ' — Well, she is not the worst of maidens, Tina. Tina. O prythee loose me, take your arms away. Nicolo. Why do you cry out so? What a wild bird You've grown. Tina. O, I will cry aloud ; indeed, 92 THE CONFESSOR. Indeed I shall cry out. Nicolo. You little fool, What mean you now by this. Tina. O help, help. Nicolo. Peace : Did you not say that you would now confess Your whole sin, Tina ? Tina. Yea, I will, I will . . But . . take your hands away, I pray you. Nicolo. There : See with what willing ears I listen to you. Now, tell me, Tina, do you love ? Tina. I know not. Nicolo. You know not what is love ? Tina. I do, good Padre. Nicolo. Hide not your face ; you cannot hide your heart ; What need to curtain up the cheek, then ? — Well, What is this love ? Tina. O Padre, I know not. I cannot find me words to tell you that. It makes life happy like an endless dream ; It lifts me up into the blue, blue heaven . . . Like the winged angels in the pictures, Padre, That hang within the churches. Nicolo. Ha, ha, ha ! Who do you wait for ? THE CONFESSOR. 93 Tina. Padre, I would sit Yonder, if so you willed it ? Kicolo. Now, nay, nay : Who do you wait for ? Tina. Padre, I am ill. Nicolo. Who do you wait for ? Tina. Oh! Giovanni Salvi. Nicolo. How long, my little Tina, have you known him ? Tina. Padre, three months. Nicolo. He comes to see you, too, Ofttimes ? — to sit with you ? Tina. Yea, Padre. Nicolo. Ah ? And tells you that he loves you ? Tina. Yea, he doth. Nicolo. How doth he tell it ? Tina. O I know not, Padre. Nicolo. You know not ! Doth he lay his arms, perhaps, About you . . thus . . or thus . . or kiss your lips . . Press cheek to cheek . . hold you beside his heart Or . . Tina. No, no — loose me, Padre, loose me. . . Giovanni [suddenly entering]. How ! What means this ? Villain, lay your vile hands off. g4 THE CONFESSOR. What ? Padre Nicolo ? How came you here ? What are you doing ? . . . Speak, or by my soul I'll run you through the body, and think no sin oft. Nicolo. Eh, eh ? What's all this fume for? Giovanni. Do you scoff? You are of all base men the vilest . . You, You are more black than any devil in hell. I've marked you long, you Padre Nicolo : There's ne'er an honest thought in all your brain . . Ay, leer . . you cannot hide yourself from me By any look like that . . and, by my head, If you do leer at me, you damned priest, I'll shake your life out — Tina. Love, love, touch him not : He hath not done me any hurt. Giovanni. Speak then, What hath he done to you ? Nicolo. Yea, even so : You should have asked ere this, friend. Tina. O Giovanni, A little while since, as I waited for you, I loosed the window and looked down the street : Seeing you not, I drew back : then came by The Padre : then he stopt, and leaned his face In through the window, lightly jesting : I Grew vexed and spoke ill words ; and so he came To talk with me — to chide me for my sin ; THE CONFESSOR. 95 And moved me to confession. I liked not To tell all he would know of me and you — Could not tell all: so he to various means Resorted, saying, 'doth he speak like this ?' Or . . ' doth he lay his arms about you thus ' — And . . I, fool, grew affrighted and cried out. Nicolo. And now you have repented of your haste, Young Boanerges. Giovanni. Priest, I trust you not : That I have spoken words too high, too fierce, And with the occasion out of time, full freely I do confess ; and, pray you, pardon that ; And, pray you, go now hence. I trust in Heaven That your good deeds hereafter, and my heart Subdued to reverence, may move me yet To true repentance, sorrowful remorse. Nicolo. Youth, it is ill to cross the Church's servants In their most holy work. Be slow to judge . . You'll float the smoother for it. Here's my hand. Good even, little Tina. [Goes. Tina. Poor Padre Nicolo ! perchance indeed We do unfairly judge him. Giovanni. Tina, Tina, Be not too swift to trust : the whole earth's thick With snares for feet unwary. Nicolo g6 A DIFFICULTY. Is a false man : I read it in his eye, — A hard, small eye, that cowers even in frowning ; Dreadeth to meet the glance of honest eyes, Yet braves it ; and doth ever rest on you When otherwhere you gaze, most eagerly Questioning how much of the man is known. Tis the true priest's-eye, worthy of their Church. . Now, may the Good Christ rid us of all priests ! A DIFFICULTY. As in Heaven no hate can be, Or scorn that worketh dole, And my hate of thee and my scorn of thee Never can leave my soul, It followeth sure that one of us twain Into the flame must go ; And since thy conscience hath no stain And all thy face doth glow With a greasy gleaming righteousness And an archangelic dye, If either be damned, thou wilt confess, Belike it must be I : IN THE PASS. 97 So there cometh a question of interest, — Where were it good to dwell ? Which would the rest consider the best, Thy Heaven or my Hell ? IN THE PASS. Ay, night is coming down once more With ruin round my path ; The swollen torrents rave and roar, The lake's a foaming bath ; They turn me from the hostel-porch, And not a home is nigh, And wolves within the pinewood lurch, And eagles swoop on high ; Dear friends that with me gaily roved Have perished, and this morn The best, the trusted, the beloved, Slipt from my side in scorn ; There's danger in the wild, I know, And night is thickening fast ; More black the inky vapours grow Outswept before the blast ; H 98 IN MEDITATION. The rain spirts down as here I pause, And hist, the thunder's crash ! Ho, out of yonder cloud's grim jaws There leapeth flash on flash ! And echoes round the mountain's crest Roll forth a wild alarm : But I'll wrap my cloak about my breast, And walk into the storm. IN MEDITATION. This is the picture ? Then, I take The free-gift from the free. ' Like ?' — O most like : ' but flattering ?' — no, Too true for flattery. That hair is just such doubtful gold, Those eyes the same blue-grey, As that which round your forehead falls, As yours that shift and play ; That upper lip's faint, prideful curve ; That full lip's fire and fear ; That tightened nostril's lurking scorn — (How pitiless ! how drear!) — That fair smooth circle of the head ; That white, unwrinkled brow — A VALEDICTION. 99 (Just where the woven tresses part, A shade, perhaps, too low) — That languid eyelash ; that pale cheek, A trifle straight and thin, Strong in its coldness, strangely weak There sloping towards the chin ; Those eyelids lightly lined with thought But seldom worn with tears ; And those inexorable curls Behind the jewelled ears — They live — it breathes — your soul is here, Ay, madam, clear and plain ; And gaining from your slender hand This image bright, I gain Indeed your heart's true love ? . . clink ! clash ! Ah ! there amid my weal I have cast it from me — thus, thus, thus To grind it with my heel. A VALEDICTION. Then go — forsake me if thou wilt, I ask thee not to stay ; I would not vex thee with my love, Or thwart thee one brief day. H 2 IOO GAIN. I have sinned ; there's many a poison-thought That works within my breast ; With such high dreams as good men praise My life hath not been blest ; I have lived long years of doubt and hate, And scorn of ways divine, But Heaven ! — my heart is pure as dew Beside that heart of thine. GAIN. Ay, sooth thy sin hath saved me years Of bitterest blight and shame, Thy stained honour left indeed With me a stainless name. What is the triumph, what the bliss, And what the gain to me ? — I who had held it honour's crown Just to have died for thee ! ( ioi ) FOLLOW NOT— FOLLOW! Follow me not, thou blue-eyed child, For only a will-o'-the-wisp am I ; Go back, go back ; the night is wild ; Hide that sweet face from the stormful sky. I would lead thee far, I would lead thee far From the tracts where those who cherish thee are. Thou hast lived a life of simple days, Thou hast moved in populous easeful ways, Never hast loved the billows' clash, Nor sought in the rocks the thunder-crash. Poor little lamb of the world's true fold, Planting thy foot in the footprints old, Orthodox creeds were fair for thee, And a life that is neither strange nor free — Afternoon rides in park and in street ; Dances at night with careful feet ; A lord with gold in bank and in purse ; Babes that a hireling arm may nurse ; Calls at houses of rich and great . . And prayers in the Church of the State ! Follow me, follow me, follow me free — Ay, for, little one, so it were best ; 102 THREE SINNERS. I'll lead thee a chase in mirth and glee Far over moor and mountain-crest ; Thou shalt push through fern and scramble through brake, Hurry by shore of fen and of lake, Flounder in marsh and oozy loam, Dip thy feet in the rivulet's foam ; The brier will tear thy mantle's bands, And the bramble scratch thy lily-like hands ; The rain will beat on thy temples bare, The wind will tumble thy braided hair, Over thy brow will the lightnings whirl, And the torrents about thee sweep and swirl, And the eagle flap his wing at thine ear, And up in thy face the storm-sprite leer, Till we've come at the last to the ocean's brim, And thy strength is gone and thine eyes are dim ; Then I'll waft thee away in a magic bark To God, through the wind and the dark. THREE SINNERS. So soon as the breath of his godlike love Had fanned her life into flower, And her eyes in their lustrous depths 'gan rove With a magical winsome power; A DEMONSTRATION. IO3 When his grand love-gaze and his lips' low praise, In her memory lingering, breathed The sweet rose-hue ever new to her face And her mouth in a love-smile wreathed, And the dreams flowing out of his mind's full springs Filled her with ravishing bliss, And her step was soft as the waving of wings At the thought of his earnest kiss, She turned and flashed the borrowed light Of her glories manifold In the face of a Prince, and, blinding his sight, Snared him — him and his gold. For the sin of each I would name a word : — For one, love's lethargy ; For one, love's madness ; for the third — Simple adultery. A DEMONSTRATION. Fair lady in the satin suit, Step here with me, I pray, For I would speak a word with you This goodly gala-day. 104 A JILT. You have married your husband for his gold, You have loved him never a whit ; For the coin he gives and the food he brings You at his table sit. See you yonder thing that moves Stealthily through the street, With bloodshot eye and tangled hair, And tottering languid feet ? . . Why do you start, my lady fair ? Where is the need to shrink ? She has given her body night by night To gain but meat and drink : She is a harlot . . nay, but hear : The name is just and true . . She is a harlot — well, what then ? — You are a harlot too. A JILT. Once in lovesome mood he said, ' Ah love, thy face is fair, Pure thine eyes, and sweet thy mien, And bright thy golden hair.' A JILT. IO5 In a month or twain away she slipt Into the throngs of men : ' A loftier lover I'll bring,' thought she, ' When I come back again : 1 My face is fair, and bright my hair, And sweet and pure mine eyes ; Haply, then, in a world of men They'll gain me a goodly prize.' To and fro in the world she went — She followed the clink of gold — Lavishing smiles and weaving wiles, And showering glances bold. One drew nigh and kissed her mouth, And half a playful hour Sucked love-honey, and flitted away, To sip from a fuller flower. And one came buzzing down, of bees And wasps and flies a lord, Lit for a moment at her side, And boomed across the sward. Then moths with wings of gold and blue, Brushing her light dust off, Went whirling round in circlets gay, And made of her life a scoff. 106 AT THE DESK. She is drooping, drooping hour by hour, And the fresh young life is fled : None will come to woo her now, For none will care to wed ; And if back she fly to the one true friend And lover of olden days, Grovel before his feet in the dust, And curse her faithless ways, What will be laid on him to do, Finding her his once more ? Shall he make her a wife, a mother of souls — Or spurn her from his door ? AT THE DESK. (a dedication.) Since all the woe, and all the wrong These passionate lays enshrine, In one long bitter tide have rolled From that one crime of thine, I fling to thee what praise they'll earn, What curse, what blame they'll win, And dedicate my life's whole fruit To the memory of thy sin. ( io7 ) TRAPT. But what were you dreaming of, poor little bird, When I trapt you and caged you all at a breath ? You lay so still not a down was 3tirred. Was it fear of love, or terror of death ? I had baited my trap for none like you, Nay, but for men and the praise of men, And lay hard by in the grass and dew, A panther crouched in a lonely den, When down you came in a sudden flight, You coy bright thing with the mischievous eye; Poised your head to left and to right, And peeped and cheeped and strutted nigh. I knew your tribe and its tricks and ways, For you come to us flaunting bright blue wings, And curving sheeny necks for praise, You beautiful, paltry, traitorous things, And hover about us, and snare our loves, And draw us away in a wild pursuit, Through thicket and thorn and tangled groves, The lair of the lizard, the slime of the newt; I08 TRAPT. And we hold you never nor win your hearts ; For ye have no love for a lover's delight, But vain dead souls full of loveless arts, And claws that scratch like a cat's for spite. So I watched you half in disdain, and smiled, Nor cared to have you nor cared to lose — Let her rest or go ; the eyes are mild, But it is not a bird for a man to choose. And there you stay'd, and peer'd and spied, And drew anear and anear, and stopt, Like a weak starved thing in the winter-tide Seeking its food, and lightly hopt Right to the snares in your sight outspread, And sprang, and stood inside at last : Then a sudden resolve shot into my head — I drew my strings and I made you fast. For now that I hold you mine in sooth, My cageling caught by my noblest lures, You shall be my slave in deed and truth ; You shall serve my will while the freak endures; You shall come as I call ; you shall perch and stand On my finger's tip, and peck your grain One by one from your master's hand ; Your claws I'll clip that they give no pain ; A ' CITY IDYL.' IOg You shall pipe the set tune I whistle for you ; You shall give no sound till I bid you sing; And flaunt never more, for I'll cut clean through The bright blue feathers that fringe your wing. A ' CITY idyl: You remember, when dinner was over at last, And we — you and I and maidens two — Upstairs in staid procession past, I stopt at a landing, and asked of you, ' These are your flowers ?' and you bowed in bliss With a ' yes ' that showed me no pretence — (Ah the days that were, that were . . . but this Sigh is of little consequence) ; And as we stood in the window close, Suddenly lifting eyes, I saw Houses, chimneys, roofs, and rows Ragged and jagged like teeth in a jaw ; Attic-lattices leering wide Up in the face of a drizzling sky ; Weathercocks leaning all to one side ; Jumble and tumble below and on high ; 110 A ' CITY IDYL.' A pear-tree tricked in watery white ; A chestnut flaunting in grimy green; Smoke flying out to left and to right ; Stable and coach-house grand and mean ; A maid behind a casement dim, Dressing a lady's hair, beneath ; And up in a chamber above at his whim, A whiskered dandy dressing his teeth ; And a kite flying over a garden wall ; And the spikes of a paling, newly tarred ; Lads at a gable playing at ball ; Cocks and hens hopping up in a yard ; And a row of sparrows along the leads, Jabbering, out in the mist and rain, Pecking their bosoms and nodding their heads, In violent wrath at the dearth of grain ; A spout hung out with a watery mouth ; A gargoyle's head with a drivelling nose ; An arrow-head pointing west-by-south ; A waterman walking in waterproof clothes : A vista through a terrace's chink Of a square somewhere with budding trees ; And a thousand fiery dragons of zinc On chimneys wheeling about in the breeze ? And a tank of water over-full Up on the roof of a ' back return,' Slushy and frothy with feathers and wool, A ' CITY IDYL. Ill And thick like buttermilk splashed in a churn, And a sweeping-brush stuck out of it — which Would have enhanced my simile much If only a lass had been there to twitch And pitch and dash its head in the slush ; And a parapet-wall with weeds and moss, And stones that of old were grey, but then Were black as Mephistopheles was In the blissful days he visited men Not in the shape of sin as now, But a merry devil with tail and hoofs And a horn at either side of his brow : Then a mountain-land of stately roofs ; A lamplighter's hat running up a lamp, Dimly manifest through the fog ; And, whining out in the cold and damp, Blind Bartimeus and his dog ; And a flag-staff flying a Union Jack Triumphant over a patch of grass, Than the slates perhaps a little less black, However the difference came to pass ; And a fire-escape in a dark recess — An infinite ghost in waterproof coat ; And a factory-chimney in factory-dress, With a lightning-conductor stuck in its throat ; And a telegraph-wire high up in air, Running to France or America, 112 A ' CITY IDYL.' Poland and no land or Heaven-knows-where, With messages crossing it night and day; And, with messages crossing them day and night, A whole brigade of telegraph-wire, Curled and coiled and slackened and tight, Rushing about from a roof to a spire, And down to a post, and under the street — Twelve for Cologne and two for Cork, And a score for the Mediterranean Fleet, And one via Bagdad for New York, And all the rest for east and west, And west and east, and south and north, And nor'-nor'-west, and Boulogne and Brest, And Paris and Pesth, and the Nile and the Forth ; The which beholding, in my soul I sighed to myself to think, while I Went roaming all day where breakers roll, And under the leaves and under the sky, And up in the mountain's glory, she Whom I in my heart revered and — ah, well, Deemed so true and good — should be In Babylon ever induced to dwell ; And I turned the sigh to a dismal jest, Said, ' Lo, what a dreamy scene we've there Of river, and field, and mountain-crest,' And sent you laughing up the stair, A MISGIVING. II3 Only to turn with a cynical brow, And say, ' for that you must penance do : Write one of their " Idyls" upon it '7— which now, There, there I dedicate unto you. A MISGIVING. Your mother was false to her lord, they say, When you were a babe at the breast, Plucked sudden darkness over his day, To his heart a snake's fang prest. She was kissing his cheek one morn, they aver, Both arms his neck about, While she watched her gallant beckoning her From the shrubbery-walks without ; In half an hour she had fled and gone, With her smiles and light love-lures : I marvel if your mother, madam, Had just that face of yours ? ( H4 ) LOVE-LABOUR. Then, go I out at once, love, to the fight : Since God through that deep craving of our souls Hath spoken, and I read in thine eyes' light Trust in this love of mine, and in His might Sweet faith, I fear not how the battle rolls, But go forth dauntless in love's armour dight. For, in a brief space back I come once more, Laden with spoil of conquest, — ivory, Pearl, gems, and gold — and, entering at thy door, Down at thy feet my whole rich burthen pour, And claim thee wife, and crown and honour thee, Finding life blest upon this beaten shore. Else I fall slain ; and then I feel, I know Our God-awakened yearnings, dying not, In the free gardens of our God will grow Fulfilled, and life will need no more this woe Of battle to keep ours. Behold our lot Now, darling, kiss me once more, and I go. A VOUNG FUGITIVE. 115 Can the cankered bud blow ? Can the dead come to life ? Can time backward flow ? Canst thou be my wife ? Thou art lost, thou art slain, As a corpse thou art cold. May God pity us twain ! May He love as of old ! A YOUNG FUGITIVE. 'Twill be a lonely journey : no, not so, Not so ; it will be sweet to feel that never We shall part more. But oh, 'tis sad to leave All that I love in Padua : my kinsfolk Will grieve for me : not long, methinks : ah well, But they will grieve — heigho ! Now, if my father And my dear mother lived, would I thus fly To Ludovic? — 'tis too, too sad to think on : Yes, I might leave them to be made a bride, And they would weep some tears, and then grow gay Anon : and even so my kinsfolk will : Then, I shall not keep thinking of it more. 1 2 Il6 A YOUNG FUGITIVE. I must needs bind this hair up : see how thick It falls about me : which way best to bind it ? Thus ? — 'tis too clumsy : nay, I'll roll it close Like a ball — so ; nay, that is not it neither : Methinks I'll cut it off and fling't away Into the river — what would Ludovic Think of me then ? — I'll tie it in a knot Twisted and coiled thus : well, is that well, now? Now must I shape my mouth aright, that men May deem me a true pilgrim — ha, ha, ha ! . . Nay, child, you must not laugh so ; pilgrim maids Smile never . . there 'tis — down at either end — O you're a very pilgrim. Where's your staff? me, where is my staff, my staff . . here . . no . . Ah, there 'tis by the window. O indeed 'Tis very sad to fly away thus : who Will sit beside my window now ? Will any Dream my sweet dreams here, gazing out at night On the olue starlit heaven ? . . if Ludovic Should come . . ha, Ludovic will come not here, Be sure of that, my little maid : I go To Ludovic — yes, love, I come, I come. 1 think I may try now : ah, there are voices Down at the doorway : hist ! — gone now again : All silent. I may venture now : poor pilgrim, GAINED IN LOSING. 117 God keep me safe from hurt ! — Goodbye, sweet room, Goodbye, you dear old window — goodbye, all ; I'll never see you more : but I care not : I'll not weep after them : nay, that I will not : Indeed now not a tear: tush, little fool ! GAINED IN LOSING. Thou hast left me strong, in thy sin ; In thy pride thou hast left me proud ; Thou hast dower'd my being within With favour above the crowd ; With memories fresh as the morn, With doubts that are dim as the night, With treasure of love and of scorn, With treasure of bloom and of blight, With dreams from a mind that was great, With gleams from a soul that is cursed, With flashes of hope and of hate, With a heart for its God athirst, With a loathing of love-lit smiles, With contempt of the sighs of a maid, With disdain of womanly wiles, With joy in the low dust laid, Il8 IN THE STUDIO. With pangs at the dawn and even, With griefs for a broken spell, With a sweet foretasting of Heaven, A rich foreknowledge of Hell. IN THE STUDIO. Little maid, little maid, My bliss and my blight, Why will you keep hovering Thus in my sight By gloom and by glimmer, By noon and by night ? Fly away, fly away — I am lost in my art, I can paint but one saint (Ah light of my heart !) — Were it fair if the hair Of an angel were curled ? Eh, what would they say, The world, the world, If Madonna should laugh, And the Magdalen's cheek Be dimpled and pink Like yours when you speak, A LOVE S LOSS. Iig And the little winged cherubs Have mischievous eyes As they swoop in a troop Through the violet skies, And the red beard of Judas Hang down at its ease From tiny rose lips Such as these, such as these, And every nymph's mouth Be as tempting as this ? Kiss, love, and begone : Nay, come back, love, and kiss ! A LOVE'S LOSS. I had a friend, of women whom I knew The noblest — that is scarce a month ago — And it was sweet to speak with her, and grow Closer in friendship as time onward flew; And she had known high thoughts and golden dreams, Strayed where I too had wandered, in lone ways Wherethrough the mind goes journeying, drunk from streams 120 A LOVE S LOSS. That oft had quenched my thirst on weary days, And learned to praise the most what most I loved to praise. And I grew proud in trusting I indeed Might call her * friend ' through many years to come, ' For friends were few enough in life, and some — Ay, most — could give but little that we need ; But diverse notes that harmonize with one, Two billows bounding shoreward from the main, Two rills that through the selfsame valley run, Could move not more together than we twain : ' I sought her friendship, then, nor seemed to seek in vain. Whene'er we talked together, I would drink Her words in wonder, watch her earnest eyes Dilate, the tender passionate flush uprise In her fair face, and smilingly would think How great and true she was, in such a mood How grandly beautiful ; and wish her well ; And marvel that no man's soul, strong and good, Had drawn her life to it, nor yet love's spell Had changed her with that change of which her poets tell. A LOVE S LOSS. 121 But once, while thus I mused, her eyes met mine, And downward looked in doubt, then once again Met mine, with more of softness, more of pain ; And I who watched her thought, ' my soul and thine In love, wild love, could never meet, and I Am all unworthy of thee'; and that night We parted as of old : but why, O why Did her eyes, gazing thus so sad, so bright, Thrill, through the long dark hours, my life with such fierce might ? How have we come to love each other so, Thou dearest ? — How the world's renewed to me ! With how much larger hope, with heart how free Live I and work I now ! A month ago I was a weak thing, living without aim, And now there is no deed I would not dare, To clothe myself with honour, win bright fame, Snatch from the spoil of the world a victor's share, That through my life thine own might grow more blest and fair. And yet, in clasping what I dreamed not of, I have let slip what I had longed for most : 122 WORK-SONG. For where is she whose friendship was my boast ? Yea, I have lost sweet friendship, gained sweet love. I find her not, though seeking near and far : Fled is the face that gave me joy of yore, Gone, like a trackless ever-wandering star : A new soul's here, but she will come no more, Passed like the dear ones dead unto the unknown shore. WORK-SONG. Who murmurs that his heart is sick With toil from day to day, That brows are wrinkled ere their time, And locks of youth are grey ? 'Twas not in such a craven mood Our fathers won the lands, But by the might of toiling brain, The stroke of resolute hands : For hard work is strength, boy ; And, whether in house or field, Ho ! for the men that mind and arm In righteous labour wield ! WORK-SONG. 123 If trouble clings about thy path, Ere yet thy days are old ; If dear friends sink in death, and leave Thy world all void and cold ; Wilt thou lie down in aimless woe And waste thy life away ? Nay, grieving's but a sluggish game That coward spirits play ; But hard work is strength, boy, And when the stout heart bleeds, There's ne'er a balm that heals it Like the doing of great deeds. Ah ! — lovest thou a bonnie lass ? Then, scorn to dream and sigh, For true love's fruits are noble acts, And fruitless love must die ; And if thy fervency be spurned, Go, set to work again — 'Twill help to quench the burning woe, To ease the bitter pain ; For hard work is strength, boy, Whatever the fiend may say, And after storm and cloud and rain Comes up the cheerier day. And is a true, true wife thine own ? — Let never a murmur rise 124 WORK-SONG. To draw one doubt across her brow, Or a tear into her eyes : And if thy children round her knees Look up and cry for bread, O kiss their fears away, and turn And work with heart and head ; For hard work is strength, boy, And with the setting sun Come dearer peace and sweeter rest The more of it that's done. And if thou have nor child, nor wife, Nor bosom friend, what then ? Toil on with might through day, through night, To help thy fellow men ; And though thou earn but little thanks, Forbear to fret and pine ; There's One that drank of deadlier woes, And holds thee dear for thine : And hard work is strength, boy, And love is the end of life, Music that fires the blood of the brave In the midst of battle and strife. And when thy power is ebbed and gone, Lay down thy head to rest, And the great God will stretch His hands, And draw thee to His breast : ST. ANDRIAN ON THE ROCK. 125 Nay, talk no more of sickening heart, Grey hairs or wrinkled brow ; Up, up, and gird thy loins for toil ; There's good to do enow; And hard work is strength, boy, And life's a rapture still That loses no whit of its joyousness To the men of unwavering will. ST. ANDRIAN IN THE ROCK. Ay me, the little chapel in the rocky banks of Seine, Rudely hewn by hands that mouldering for many a year have lain, With its poor neglected altar and its pictures blurred and dim, Where seldom rolls the solemn chant or swells the joyful hymn. We came along the river beneath the orchard trees, And round us lightly floated snow and blossoms in the breeze, The snow like blossoms falling and the blossoms like the snow, While through the April woodlands the birds were warbling low. 126 a day's bliss. We entered in unheeded, and all at once his voice Rolled out in mournful cadence, and to me was left no choice But just to fling the deep notes in, while weird and wild the chant Rang round the rocky walls like wail of weary suppliant. Ah, silent is that voice to-day, and all that's left with me Is the life that with the nobler life made blissful harmony. What use is my low strain where breathes no melody sublime ? A broken sheath that hath no sword, a word that hath no rhyme. A DAY'S BLISS. Beautiful face, how comest thou here With timorous eye and earnest smile, Stirring the blood with blithesome cheer, And quelling all pain for a little while ? A DAYS BLISS. 127 Art thou brought from the world to me, Or born of the mystic inward mind, Or memory, o'er the troubled sea Wafted back by a wanton wind ? (Eyes of violet softly fringed, Dusk hair rippling left and right, And cheek with delicate rose-light tinged, And pensive brows of virgin white !) Ah ! to-day my heart is high ; Sweet flowers breathe their life in the breeze, Airs from under the fathomless sky Flutter and laugh in the leafy trees ; With gladsome song the rivulets run ; Music of birds is awake in the groves, Meadows toss in a kindly sun, White waves dance in the grey sea-coves ; And eyes of men have less of sin Lurking under the brows of care, And noise of toil is a cheerier din, And the ways of life are pleasant and fair. Go not hence, O beautiful face, Live thou still in my lonely soul ; Little is here of love or grace, Little is here but care and dole ; 128 A FALLEN LIFE. Smile thou thus nor fade away, Stirring the life with blithesome cheer ; Light and peace are mine to-day — Let not the dawn of the morrow be drear. A FALLEN LIFE. I would that the winter were back With the snow and the wind and the rain, With its fierce denials of God in the black Clouds that stifle and stain The sun and the sky ; with dearth And famine abroad in the world, And doubt and dread at the hearth, And death out of darkness hurled ; That the summer that's come were gone — Ay, never had dawned — and the sun Never had broken the fog, nor shone On the ice-bound streams that run Giddy and glad to-day, And the flowers were hid in the sleet I prayed might dwindle away For the coming of health and heat : o> A FALLEN LIFE. 120, For then did our loves upspring, And her eyes were earnest and true, And a sudden word or a look could bring A flush to her cheek, and we grew Nobler each through each, And pure of heart, and rose Closer to God in our speech, In despite of the rains and snows : And now with the roses of June, And the blowing gardens, and seas Calm under sun and stars and moon, And laughter in ripples and trees, And bliss with man and with child, And love let loose in the air — When her eyes are merry and mild, And her face tenfold more fair — She is changed, and is false and bold, And smiles to the base with the sweet Love smile I had deemed mine only of old, Mine when our lives would meet, Soul with soul in the gaze Of our eyes and the clasp of our hands, In the sorrowful sunless days, When pain was rife in the lands. K 130 EN VOYAGE. I would I were drowned in the deep, Or burnt to dust in the flame, If only her eyes for an hour might weep, And sorrow come, and shame ; And her false, false heart, with fears Smitten, break like a clod That is bruised, made meek through her tears, Thinking of death and of God ! O God, that the light and bliss Were gone, and I sat 'mid the roar Of wintry storms in the boughs, and the hiss Of hail at lattice and door, With her who made misery light, With her who made suffering blest, Ere I found her fickle and slight, And the love was accurst in her breast ! EN VOYAGE. I've met you east and met you west, By sands of breathing seas, By groves of odorous trees, Aloft on mountain's breast, EN VOYAGE. 131 By dales of pine, by leas Hung high in Alpine hollow; You seem to track my feet. And I your feet to follow, By bridle-path and street, By carven cloisters olden, By regal gallery golden, Two eyes by twain beholden, As round the world we fleet ; And yet we dare not speak, but shun All save the glance that lightens In — friendship, is it, little one, Across the face that brightens ? And must it bear you hence to-day, The skiff with shining oar, Along the mountain shore, And far and far away ? And I shall lose once more, Alone and sorrow-laden And under alien skies, My little English maiden, Her lips and laughing eyes, And look that love confesses, And brown abandoned tresses, And sunny smile that blesses The heart that in me dies k 2 132 EN VOYAGE. (Alack!) to see the ripple blue About the shallop breaking That bears you hence to regions new, The olive-lands forsaking. I've pushed aside the tendril-twines That hid me in their shade Lest joy should die betrayed — I've pushed aside the vines, And peering half-dismayed Above the lake enfolding All hues of earth and air, I scan you unbeholding And watch you unaware ; O bliss, to breathe anear you ! O light, to see and hear you ! O blight, that I should fear you Nor once my bliss declare, Nor press your hand, nor sigh adieu Before the mountains sever Your path from mine and me from you, Ah, shall it be for ever ? And whither, whither speeds she now ? And shall I straight pursue, Across the waters blue, With sail and prattling prow EN VOYAGE. I 33 Or stroke of oarsmen true, And wander where she wendeth, By lake, or lawn, or bay, Or wood, or stream that rendeth The splintered rocks away ? — Farewell, farewell a season ! To follow now were treason ; I'll trust in spite of reason There'll come indeed a day That I may hold your hand and tell How chilled of heart you left me When those light sails that nor'ward swell Of two brown eyes bereft me. Ah, where will that day dawn for me ? In tracts of northern ice, In lands of myrrh and spice, By stream or wold or sea — Or field of Paradise ? Will death come first or after? Will hair be dusk or white ? Will tears be sweet, or laughter ? Will love be wrong or right ? Will you be maid or mother ? Shall I be lord or brother ? Shall we be one another At all, or other quite ? 134 SUMMER RHYME. Will morning breaking blue and gay Bring in an age of sorrow ? — Or will our paths that part to-day Unite again to-morrow ? SUMMER RHYME. Leaf on the bough and fly on the wing, Birds that sing, winds that swing Roses thickly clustering, Woodbine-blooms that clamber and cling, Ferns that fresh in the woodland spring, Flowers that sweets to the breezes fling, Babble of streams and drip of wells, Golden gleams and balmy smells, Bees a-buzz in odorous bells, — What is the word their gladness tells, What the bliss they bring ? Summer is loose and Spring's away ; Hearts be gay ; pipe and play, Revel and laugh the livelong day, Bind the brow with bloom o'the May, Lave the limbs i'the foam and spray, Whirl i'the dance at evening grey, A MAN S DEVOTION. 1 35 Beat the moss with lightsome feet, Tumble and toss the hay in the heat, Stray in the grass, stray in the wheat — This the bliss of their burden sweet, These the words they say. A MAN'S DEVOTION. Thou dear, false-hearted, beautiful, frail child. Though when thine eyes go wandering o'er my face, Searching for true love-tokens, I can trace Sweet fraud in all their glances free and mild, And in thy lips' light smile I find not truth, Nor stedfast love in pressure of thy hand, Nor in thy love-words music meet to soothe A man's strong soul, clear as they run and bland ; Though I have read thy soul, child, through and through, And firm I am of will that no eye's glance Could lull me into any amorous trance ; Yet doth my love spring evermore anew ; I36 CHEMIN DETOURNE. I dare not cast thee from me — thou, so frail Who so hast trusted me, whom I so long Have wrought and toiled for — lest thy foot should fail, And thou be trodden by the brute-heart throng. God loves the worst of us, His book declares : Perchance 'tis godlike thus for men to cleave To weak things He hath fashioned, — not to leave The gem to perish for the crust it bears. Howe'er it be, come, dear one, to my arms : My summer glory in high Heaven is gained, If only through the rough seas and the storms Thou art borne back to God unscathed, unstained. CHEMIN DETOURNE. BRITTANY. Sweet was the little flowery lane, And planned to tempt away A wandering foot, by fields of grass, And rippling fields of ble : The honeysuckles through the hedge Made rich the air of e'en, The brier-rose snowed its blooms on banks Of ferns and mosses green. MISUNDERSTANDINGS. 137 It led me round the haymakers, And through the shining wheat, And all at once with woven leaves Screened out the light and heat, And winding on by gnarled roots Of oaks, o'ercrossed a rill, And swerved away, and curving clomb A tiny, bowery hill, And down a hollow dusk and cool Of orchard gardens fell, And lured me past a wayside cross, And past a wayside well, And right before a cottage door Beneath a chestnut tree, Into the light of two blue eyes God's love had framed for me. MISUNDERSTANDINGS. And you had wrongly read me, friend, And I had read you wrongly, And so the hearts grew cold, and dead The souls that loved so strongly. I38 MISUNDERSTANDINGS. How blest we lived in olden days ! How glad the moments flew ! One gush of merry laughter, friend, And life begins anew ! Old lad, old lad, thou art with me to-day As sure as the lark doth sing : Thine eyes are here, thy voice is near, Thine arm to mine doth cling. *&■ Let's wander out to the dear bright hills And gambol awhile and play; And watch the brooks in ferny nooks, And climb the clifBets grey ; And I'll tell thee, lad, a tale of love Will make thy glad eye shine, And thou'lt shape for me the youngest dream Of that wondrous brain of thine ; We'll talk, too, of many memories, Of boyhood bright of blee, And the half-forgotten fervid hopes That never fulfilled may be. THE SINGER. 139 Old lad, old lad . . nay, lift thy face, That I may learn indeed If thou hast ever left our Earth, Or / of Earth am freed. THE SINGER. Ah, my life has grown a song, a song, And the throat may not be still, It is music, music faint and strong, And God must have His will. Alack ! — the rest of His singers gay He hath given them wings for mirth, To soar and sing, to whirl and play, Over earth and the ways of earth. O to flit through leaves, to swing on the bough, To do as an eagle dare, To feel the cool flood catch the brow Diving adown the air, To leap from the nest in the crag's high crest, And drift through shower and shine, To make of the billow a moonlight pillow, To dance and duck in the brine, 140 a love's theology. In Autumn days through fathomless ways Fly to a sunbright south ! O to cross the plains of the ice and the rains And the realms of death and of drouth ; To beat the cloud with pinion proud High over the stormy lands ! — Is it meet to walk on bruised feet, To clamber with bleeding hands ? Alack, why cannot my soul made free To the fields of its God upclimb ? Rest thee, rest thee : shall it not be In a little, a little time ? A LOVE'S THEOLOGY. Is't well that I with such heart's-jubilee Should love thee, hold thy face before my sight Waking and sleeping, mould myself for thee, Thee only, searching for the truth and light Just to draw from them thoughts and impulses That may upraise my soul into a life More noble, lifting me by quick degrees Till I grow great enough to claim thee wife ? A LOVES THEOLOGY. 141 Well so to cloud my heavens with this care That God is all unsought full many a time, And quite forgot, and earth alone is fair, Nor dawns within me any dream sublime Of worlds far off, or purer life to come, But here I live a joyous life, and drink Deep draughts of love, and with free footsteps roam, Yet shirk no toil and from no danger shrink ? Well to forget God's love for thine alone ? I know what thou wouldst answer from thy soul Half-shuddering ; but I more bold have grown, For I have seen the narrowing mist uproll, And seen the smile of God, and learned this truth — Man working out his destiny on earth, Fulfils man's love to God in very sooth, Matched with which praise and prayer are little worth. And what is man's high destiny ? — nay, say, What, dearest, on this earth is thine and mine ? Not to sit sighing for new heavens, not pray With lips and hands, but let this love divine And heaven-born grow within us hour by hour, As God hath made our souls to love, and given High tasks to work out here — a glorious dower, The very foretaste of the wished-for heaven ! 142 THE RIDER. He would not have us stand with upward eyes, Gazing, with saddened souls, through night and day Searching for the Invisible in His skies, Disdainful of the mirth and innocent play Which He permits His children in His fields, Among the joyous flowers which He hath set — Nay, their shrill laughter to the Father yields A very bliss, be sure, and not regret. THE RIDER. I have been a bold rider my whole life through, By river, by mountain, by mead, — Foot fast in the stirrup, fist firm to the bit, And ever a gallant good steed ; Never last in the race, ever first in the chase, Undaunted by dike or by drain ; Taken leaps in the night o'er flood, o'er fell ; Ridden through tempest and rain ; Swum through torrents, trampled in foam, On the crust of a crater stept ; Traversed the desert in darkness drear ; Fleetly galloping slept ; A WAVERING. I43 Sped at the head of a troop to fight Through the guns of the foe updrawn, Riding out from the smoke in the end unscratched, With falchion red as the dawn ; And so sure is it now that a hand of love Ever about me is wound, I will plunge in the sea and dash into flame Lief as through open ground ; I will bound through the lair of the tiger free ; I will trample the battle-dust; To the volleying rifles bare my breast, And laugh at the sabre's thrust ; And when at the last to the utmost strait, The venturous life is driven, I'll slacken the bridle, bend to the steed, Clear death, and leap into heaven ! A WAVERING. Love, let loose ; Set me free : Ah, I choose Only thee, Only thee ; I 44 A WAVERING. Yet I wis It were meet Maiden feet, Light with bliss, Far should fleet, Maiden eyes Watch and wander, Under skies Alien ponder. I would, lonely, Yet one year Roam, — one only ; Loose me, dear. No, no, no — Take thy will ; Clasp me so ; Hold me still, Hold me still ; Be my king ; Make me blest ; On thy breast I will cling, I will rest ; Though 'twere sweet Many faces Fair to greet, A LATTER-DAY PSALM. Mystic places Tread, ah, dreary Mirth would be, Beauty weary, Save through thee. H5 A LATTER-DAY PSALM. Yea, we know Thou, Lord, hast created Earth and the stars and the sun, — A work, though a thought over-rated, A god might rejoice to have done : Ay, ay, but see in the doing Are manifold flaws and mistakes, For sorrow is ever renewing, And the whirlwind shatters and breaks The branches with endless breaking, Which things we should not allow Had we, Lord, the world's re-making, We who are wiser than Thou. L I46 A LATTER-DAY PSALM. Thou hast fashioned the bird and the flower And body of man and of beast : They are weak, and the lightning, the shower Of the dawn, or the sword of the east May touch like a light-flying finger, And lo, they are shrivelled and die : Why may they not flourish and linger ? Lord, we cannot descry. What joy is in giving and taking? We would claim not the life we endow Had we, Lord, the world's re-making, We who are wiser than Thou. Thou hast filled up a chalice with poison, And forbiddest the lips to drink, And if men in disdain of Thee moisten The mouth with the sweets of the brink, Lo, death leapeth down like an arrow ! Is it righteous the doing of this, Or to make full of darkness, and narrow And thorny the path to Thy bliss ? O, we would give poison for slaking Sweet, mild as the milk of the cow, Had we, Lord, the world's re-making, We who are wiser than Thou. The sins of the flesh are forbidden : Thou givest us eyes to see A LATTER-DAY PSALM. 147 The sin and the doom that is hidden : But why, if we will not to flee, Claiming the help Thou bestowest, Why wilt Thou slay us for sin ? Thou hast made for the highest and lowest Thy blessings too hard to win ! We would give men sleeping or waking Passions and pleasures enow, Had we, Lord, the world's re-making, We who are wiser than Thou. If Thou lovest man as Thou sayest. Why sins he, or why wilt Thou slay ? If Thy sword is unsheathed and Thou slayest, Why sorrowest Thou for Thy prey ? If Thou givest him thirst for a dower, Why lifteth he death to the lip ? If Thou girdest his feet with power, Why doth he falter and slip ? Thou art weak, and Thy tyranny shaking Tottereth : why shall we bow, We, at a throne that is quaking, We who are wiser than Thou ? Maim art Thou surely, and blinded, Yea, Thou art blinder than we — l 2 148 A LATTER-DAY PSALM. Yea, we are infinite-minded, Yea, we are whole and can see ; Thou art weak and Thy ways are a blunder, Folly the role of Thy deeds — Come down from Thy chariot of thunder, And fling us the rein of Thy steeds ! For we, we would teach Thee a fashion None should be found to distrust. In our hearts are love and compassion, We are pitiful, Lord, we are just ; We would grieve for all sorrow and sighing, And lament with the souls that lament; And the living should laugh, and the dying Go down to their darkness content ; And tears should be wiped from all faces, And pain should be painless, and sin Sinless, O Lord, and sad spaces Ring through the night with the din Of music and laughter and revel ; We would thirst not for tears or for blood ; We would right the opprest, and the Devil Should come back and stand as he stood Ere pride flung him down to abysses Of flame for his ruin — what crime Is in pride, O Thou weak one ? What bliss is In wrath ? He was true and sublime — A LATTER-DAY PSALM. 149 We would go to his lair and restore him, Our brother down-trod and opprest : We would drive all his torments before him (Poor Devil !) and fall on his breast, Bring forth the best robe for his raiment, And the fatted calf kill for his feast : We would give, and demand not repayment In love or in blood of slain beast ; We would stoop not to punish with scourges The sons and the daughters of earth ; We would stifle the wailing of dirges, We would stay all the havoc of dearth ; We would send down the rain in due season ; We would keep back the frost and the fly ; We would loose not the storm without reason ; We would temper the sun in the sky ; We would govern the thunders with system ; We would bind up the tides with a cord ; Foi we are the people, and wisdom — Wisdom will die with us, Lord. ( ISO ) THE MOST HIGHEST. What mean they standing aloof, the people who watch us and weep, Tearing the hair in sorrow, and wailing and beating the breast? Is it aught if the stream roll wide, is it aught if the waters leap Swollen by snows, by the storm lash'd white without pity or rest ? Have we not crossed many worse in our march, O God, as we follow Leader or lord who has led for a time and has fallen asleep, Seeking to see Thee and feel thee anear, going forth by the hollow White glens cut aloft in the hills, by the sands of the shores of the deep ? Would they bid us halt in our path ? would they turn and go back in the night, And abide with the beasts of the field and herd in the dens of the rocks ? Nay, for our hearts are strong to the end, and we fear no might THE MOST HIGHEST. 151 Of waters, or loud storm blowing, or horror of thunder-shocks. We will on through the night and the storm, we will march to the bountiful land. We laugh at the lightning's glare, we scoff at the torrent's roar, As we plunge in the hurrying tide, and beat with a buffeting hand Foam and eddying flood, and stem to the further shore. For, ever thou drawest us on in the track of invisible feet, Through the crisp white mountain snows, through the pathless desert ways, By the grisly wastes of wood, by the blossomy gardens sweet, By the dry sea-wolds of sand, by the curves of the tideless bays, High over the spears of crag a-drip with the sunset's blood, By the shores of the desolate lakes that slumber in tracts of death, 'Mid the flakes of splintering rock where the great snow-cataracts flood, In the fame of the watery flats, in the sulphurous craters' breath. 152 THE MOST HIGHEST. Through sorrowful spaces and sweet we march with resolute heart, Nearer and nearer to Thee as everthe years roll by; And more and more as we move in the wandering paths, outstart Signs that quicken the pulse, that brighten the languid eye : For lo, in the tremulous flowers we have found a shadow of Thee, In the purpled banners of day that flutter about the west, In the droves of the flaming clouds blown nor'ward over the sea, In the hues of shining plumes, in the gloss of the leopard's breast. We have wrung from the clenched crags the tale of Thy deeds of old, We have heard the hurrying spheres in music whisper praise, And the leaves of Thy love have prattled, the birds of Thy love have told, And the streams that flash, and the deer that leaps, and the lamb that plays. And we grow with the vision's growth, with the dawn of Thy love and power, Clearer of eye, and keener of ear, and stronger of soul, THE MOST HIGHEST. I53 And pain is lightlier borne, and light the driving shower As we push through storm and sun, and strain to the utmost goal. And sometimes, fair in sight, will flash in a tide of light A symbol of peace to be, a promise of power to attain ; For sometimes resting mute on a mountain's lonely height, Out of the stretching sea, behold, without shadow or stain, A thousand marble spires, a cluster of domes of gold, Will arise and fire our blood ; or a land of loveliest dyes, Bowery plots and streams and mountains fold on fold, In the sheen of the moon or sun, breaks sudden under the skies; Or a rushing >music sings from far through the waves and trees ; Or odour of mystic boundless gardens floats anear. Yea, we are strong in trust, we are strong in the faith that sees, 154 THE MOST HIGHEST. And the love that yearns and clings, and the hope that conquereth fear ; And dear, though rough, is the march, and sweet is the sound of our feet Treading in tune together, and gay are the voices blent, As we sing in the lonely ways, and a mirthful measure beat, Brethren marching foot to foot ever on with the one intent. O 'tis good to strive and strain, and pain but turns to mirth, And we hail the worst with smiling lips as we march along to Thee ; For doing the deeds of men, we taste of the blisses of earth, We attain to the ampler life, we grow as the angels free ; And ever Thou drawest us on, and ever we follow sure, And Thou waitest our coming, we know, afar in invisible lands, In the crowd of the spirits of light, in the realms that ever endure, To enrol us, born of Thee, at the last in the deathless bands. THE MOST HIGHEST. I55 To clothe us anew with strength and the fervour that shall not die, For the glorious deeds of gods, for the doing of works untold, So soon as the years have run their span, O God Most High, And the season of man is spent, and the cloud into darkness rolled. THE END. London : Swift & Co., King Street, Regent Street. Price Is Qd. EDMUND J. ARMSTRONG'S POEMS. EDITED BY HIS BROTHER. With a Memorial Sketch by the Rev. G. A. Chadwick, M.A. London : E. MOXON, SON, & CO., DOVER STREET. "The opening meeting of the Session 1864-65 of the Under- graduate Philosophical Society was held last evening in the dining-hall of the Dublin University, Mr. Whiteside, M.P., in the chair . . . [The] President paid a warm tribute to the memory of his predecessor, Mr. Edmund John Armstrong, now deceased, hoping that the spirit which animated him and lived in his poems might still guide and elevate members. Mr. Napier moved that the address be printed . . . He could not himself, without much emotion, listen to the affecting and beautiful tribute which the President had paid to the memory of his predecessor. He had had the privilege of moving a like resolution the previous year, when Edmund John Armstrong delivered that remarkable address to which the President alluded ... And he trusted that that beautiful volume which, through the exertions of the Under- graduate Philosophical Society and of the Historical Societv, had now been published, would adorn the literature of his country and tend to keep alive in their hearts the memory of one of model earnestness, <*f model sobriety, and of true genius. (Applause)." — Times, Nov. 18, 1865. "There is another gentleman, a member of this University. whose name should be maintained in eulogistic terms, and received with that profound respect which is due to his genius, his worth, and his virtues. I mean Edmund John Armstrong. (Applause). He was a man of uncommon ability and undoubted talent, which ( H ) gained for him the esteem, the respect, and the love of all who had the honour of knowing him. His brethren of the Historical Society have paid him the best tribute that could be paid to such an ornament of their College ; they have contributed to publish his writings to the world . . Who will not say that the poems of Edmund John Armstrong are characterised by merit and excellence? Critics have acknowledged this . . . Though his life was short, yet his time was so spent and his abilities were so distinguished that he has entitled himself to the respect and gratitude of posterity. (Applause)." — Speech of the Right Hon. James Whiteside, M.P., at the opening of the twenty-third Session of the Historical Society of Trinity College, Dublin. " At the opening of the Session of the Undergraduate Philoso- phical Society of Dublin University, the President pronounced a glowing panegyric on his lamented predecessor, Mr. Armstrong, whose early death has been a serious loss to literature . . . The volume of Mr. Armstrong's poems, just published by Messrs. Moxon, amply justifies the eulogium pronounced on that occasion. The brief memoir of a life full of promise gives us glimpses of an original and powerful character, and of very curious phases of mental struggles and discipline ... A few extracts from an Essay on Shelley afford tantalising evidences of his powers as a prose- writer . . . The memoir and the poems produce an impression of striking originality on the part, of the subject of the one and the writer of the others — true genius, and an earnest, candid, hard- working mind." — Star, Nov. zo, 1865. "A volume of the compositions of a lamented young man, Mr. Edmund J. Armstrong, has been recently given to the world by a friend who, in an interesting preface, sketches his brilliant college career, and the struggles of his spirit through scepticism to a con- firmed Christianity. His poems . . are full of the evidences of elevated thought and keen sensibility, and moreover exhibit a faculty of refined and forcible expression, and a feeling for poetic harmony, that breathe a prophecy (not here to be fulfilled) of maturer excellence. We believe our readers will thank us for quoting as a specimen the following description of the music of the Dead March in ' Saul ' . . With this mournful but elevating music ( Hi ) in our ears, we pass to two other memorial notices." — Contem- porary Review, March, 1866. " This posthumous book should be prized as a memorial of the earnest labours of a singularly able thinker and writer."— -Public Opinion. " Elegant and judicious poems . . . The preface is virtually an interesting biography of the author." — Athenjeum. " Such very early flowering does not look safe ; Keats was older when he began ' Endymion ;' Byron was only nineteen when he published his 'Hours of Idleness,' but then they are dreadfully stupid. Such verse as Armstrongs at twenty too much resembles Bidder's calculations and Master Betty's acting . . . The two principal poems in the volume are 'The Prisoner of Mount Saint Michael' and ' Ovoca.' In both the fluent music of the blank verse is marvellous for one so young . . . Some of the lyrical interludes in this poem ['Ovoca'] are very beautiful . . . The strongest poem which Mr. Armstrong has written is entitled 'By Gaslight.' It is too long to extract, and a few lines would give no idea of its power ... In lieu thereof we quote a trifle which shows that the young poet had some humour." — Press. " Throughout we can recognise the true spirit of poetry and the impress of a vivid imagination . . . The principal piece contains beautiful and even thrilling passages ... All are pervaded by the same vein of melancholy, here and there lightened by a stedfast faith in a higher power and another and a happier world." — Dublin Evening Mail. " Those who knew the man will find pleasure in his descriptions of struggles with infidelity ; and others, who knew him not, but who have had an experience similar to his own, may find a gratification in the poems in which he describes the happy faith to which, after hard contest, he at length attained."— Reader. "There is an originality' and a boldness about them which indicate that they are the work of one who, had he lived, would have occupied a high position . . . From the brief notice we have given of the mr.i, it may be supposed that his writings oftentimes gave evidence of the views he so strongly held from time to time upon questions of a religious character. But this is so faint a ( iv ) colouring that it imbues the poetry with a mystic spirit which much enhances its value, x^rmstrong was a true poet and forcible withal. His ' Prisoner of Mount Saint Michael ' is full of strong dramatic effect . . . Space will only permit us to make one other quotation .... While it seems likewise to evidence the power of the author, it points to a faculty of expression which is very marked throughout the entire volume." — Court Circular. *' The shorter poems . . . are of a varied character ; some light and sportive, some intellectual exercises, some the agonies of a struggling soul, poured from the very depths of the writer's nature. A large number of extracts would be necessary, to give by specimen any fair notion of the collection. It will be better to recommend the whole to the attention of intelligent readers." — Guardian. " Mr. Armstrong's posthumous poems, the works of a talented young Irishman who was cut off in the infancy of success, exhibit in places considerable powers of writing. 'The Prisoner of Mount Saint Michael,' with which the volume opens, is the passionate history of a Breton prisoner," &c, &c. — John Bull. " There are some sweet and pretty things in his poetry, and a general tone of elegance." — London Review. "The young poet's friends have done well in placing this wreath of immortelles on the tomb of the dead. It can scarcely fail to make known the name of Armstrong far and wide." — Art Journal. " There are abundant traces of careful polishing and repolish- ing. His poems, as to their manner, are finely modulated and truly melodious. They are also serious and earnest. He abhorred all persiflage, and looked upon his powers and profession as a sacred trust . . . Few men at so early an age attain a style at once so well-balanced, pungent, and elegant ; and the whole of his writings, whether poetical or prose, are inspired by a love of truth and a horror of wrong and wrong-doing, of a healthy and honest-hearted puritanical vehemence ... In such works one must generally be content if signs of promise rather than of per- formance are discovered. In this case we can testify to something more. These ' remains ' are on their own merits a sensible and substantial addition to the noble corpus of English poetic literature. ( v ) We are, on grounds identified with the interests of the common- wealth of letters, indebted to the pious care which dictated the posthumous publication of these remains of a worthy writer and a worthy man." — Atlas. " During the few months in which this volume has been before the public it has steadily advanced in the opinion of men of the finest culture and most educated taste. At first the great promise of its lamented author drew attention to the book. ; now it is the book which fully reveals the greatness of the author's promise. The story has become familiar to hundreds which records his college successes, his lingering illness, his long and successful struggle for spiritual enlightenment. But neither the interest of his noble life nor the sadness of his premature removal will explain the popularity which his posthumous poems have obtained . . Inex- haustible command of brilliant language ; boldness of metaphor, which was redeemed from extravagance by the vigilance of a fine taste ; quick and lively sympathy with many and various feelings ; an ear that was equally at home with the richest cadences of music and of verse ; an eye that rested with a lover's fervour on the shifting colours and changing shapes of beauty, alike on the face of nature and in the depths of the human soul ; and a lofty moral tone which never suffered the pure stream of meditation to be polluted — • are his claims to a place among the true poets of Great Britain." — Dailv Express. " The principal poem of the volume is ' The Prisoner of Mount Saint Michael.' We accept it rather as a psychological poem than one which for its plot or subject can command entire sympathy, or be considered a complete success ; but looking at it as an exposition of the workings of a human soul in all its deep, passionate thoughts — love, hate, anger, tenderness, despair, terror, and finally forgiveness, resignation, hope, and joy — it has high merit. Through- out there is a masterly appreciation of the heart of man— a fine analytical power of detecting and delineating the subtle influences that sway the v>ul from one feeling to another ; and the progress of the mind through its various emotions, during the three days that precede the execution of the autobiographer, is wrought out with a power that proves the writer was a profound moralist and M ( vi ) metaphysician. The poem abounds with fine passages, vigorous in thought, nervous in expression, and very finished in language and rhythm ... It would be difficult to find anything more affecting in pathos, more highly wrought in its expression of intense grief, more exquisite in poetic feeling, than the verses in which Blanch bewails the death of her lover . . . The shorter pieces . . are chiefly lyrics . . . Mr. Armstrong's genius was eminently lyrical, and in this species of composition he has been very successful." — Christian Examiner. " His poetry speaks to the hearts of all who read it. Tender, passionate, thoughtful, pious, these poems are destined to live, and to hold a very high place in the literature of the age." — Irish Times. " Armstrong's poems are among the best specimens of youthful genius that have appeared in our times, and had he lived until his thought became more compact, and time brought his exuberant imagination more under the control of reflection, there could be little doubt of his position . . . The story of the Prisoner's last three days is worked out with remarkable power in monologue, which would be tedious were it not for the affluence of thought and subtle knowledge of the human heart which everywhere pervade it . . . The two chief poems are in blank verse, of which there are few finer specimens in modern poetry. The minor poems in almost every page invite selection. They abound in lyrical beauty . . Nor was the young poet deficient in observation of character and humorous expression . . Though a ripe scholar, there is not the slightest trace of pedantry in his poetry." — Freeman's Journal. " If we were to express the chief characteristic of Mr. Armstrong's mind in a single word, we should choose the word ardour. In this ardour we think may be discovered the source of his strength and of his weakness. By virtue of it he was enabled to lay hold of a subject so passionately that the details could seldom fail to be worked out with vigour and sureness of touch, and we have no doubt frequently with great — perhaps too great — rapidity. By virtue of it he was borne over the formal and technical difficulties of poetry. The mastery over versification is remarkable throughout ( vii ) f he volume from first to last — especially remarkable in a writer m> young: there is no feebleness, no flatness here; the verse is alway- enero-etic and full, while at the same time there is little of that O subtle and inexplicable melody — not sweet to satiate, nor opiate to drowse — which makes some poems (as, for instance, many of Mr. Matthew Arnold's) more ' delicate to drink ' than • hidden well- water' . . Ardour, vigour of imagination, mastery over versification, considerable dramatic power, and sometimes a striking absence of that power ; some ability in representing and interpreting character : an earnest love of nature . . . much tumult of heart and deep longings for repose; a sense of weakness and human sinfulness before God, and always a loving yearning upwards towards Him and dependance on Him . . . These are what the reader will find in this volume . . . The arrangement of the shorter poems is much to be commended." — Contemporary Review, February, 186-. " J'ai pris un douloureux plaisir a. voir vivre di.-vant moi cette jeune figure de poete si delicate, si distinguee, si precocement dom'e en toutes choses ... II aura sa place a part, ce me semble, dans ce groupe immortel et touchant des Kirke White, des Keats; et son jeune astre continuera de briller aux yeux de quiconque etudiera la Poesie anglaise, cette Poesie (autant que j'en puis juger) la plus riche de l'Europe moderne." — Letter from M Ste-Beuve. This book is DUE on the last date stamped below Il0m-ll,'50(2555)470 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 383 455 3 PR 5299 S2 2A17 V.JkT. Evaks, ' itionere, 'ksellere, and its' Colour-men i'. St. i'.'it.ii. i-< t