By the same Author, Fcap. Suo., price 5s. 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 " There are elements of real poetry in this volume, which 
 cannot fail to insure it a favourable reception. The imagery 
 and diction are of a lofty order, combining much depth of 
 feeling with great, power of expression and refinement of 
 thought. Most of the passages indicate great facility of ex- 
 pression, and many of them much beauty and tenderness. 
 Mr. Ashe has certainly not mistaken his vocation, and we 
 unhesitatingly subscribe our testimony to the merits of his 
 production." St. James's Chronicle. 
 
 " He is a writer of undoubted power Read his 
 
 ' Acis,' and you become instantly aware of the presence of 
 grandeur and classic breadth : you see that the author is a 
 master of imagery." Critic. 
 
 " The best of our list is a volume of poetry written by 
 Thomas Ashe. There is no preface to tell us who or what 
 the author is ; but sweet music falls from his lips sad 
 enough sometimes, as in ' Night.' " John Bull. 
 
 " Not to be confounded with the herd." Athenaeum. 
 
 LONDON : BELL AND DALDY, 186, FLEET STREET.
 
 D R Y O P E ; 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS.
 
 D R Y O P E ; 
 
 AND O T II E K POEMS. 
 
 THOMAS ASHE. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 BELL AND DALDY, 180, FLEET STREET 
 
 1861.
 
 URL 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 DRYOPE ...... Pag i 
 
 Saint Guthlac oo 
 
 vr ' * "<J 
 
 JNanna ....... c. 
 
 An Idyll of Haddon 7f > 
 
 rn V * * " 
 
 Typhoeus 89 
 
 Judge Elston . lnQ 
 
 T xlL ~m " " ** 
 
 JLn tne Jrlague . , , , 
 
 rpi TT- -i - ill 
 
 The Vigil 121 
 
 The Lady Mary ..... 13, 
 
 The Myth of Prometheus i O R 
 
 A Til " 1OO 
 
 Ihantom j., 
 
 Avice Ethel . 7 - 7 
 
 The Chaffinch . . 
 
 Pall-bearing . 1KC 
 
 rp, . , fo 155 
 
 I he bisters ....... ]59 
 
 Strange, but True . 165 
 Unrest . 
 
 A T? TT ' ^"9 
 
 An livening Hymn ,, 
 
 Northen }'l 
 
 TheUnreached . \^ 
 
 With Ellen . ,1^ 
 
 Elegiacs. ..'.['. }S 
 Heart and Life 
 Beady .... 
 The Ballad of Alice Bairn 
 
 A A i * - . 1 OV> 
 
 An Apology j 
 
 -Dreams ..... lf) " 
 
 A Simile 
 
 Too Late . . . 
 
 Lying 111 
 
 The Pleiads ...'.' gOl 
 
 Speedwells .... <"r
 
 Contents. 
 
 Going Home . 
 Calm 
 
 Glimmerings . 
 A Visit . 
 May's Delaying 
 Refuge . 
 The Lady-bird 
 May 
 
 Bitterness 
 Autumn Song 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 i. 
 
 n. 
 
 in. 
 
 IV. 
 
 v. 
 
 VI. 
 
 VII. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 IX. 
 
 X. 
 
 XI. 
 
 XII. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 XV. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 XX. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 xxni. 
 
 XXIV. 
 XXV. 
 
 Three Years 
 
 Truth 
 
 The Watch-tower 
 
 Bai;e 
 
 Late Summer . 
 
 Nature 
 
 The Dead-house 
 
 Ladybrook 
 
 Vocation, i. . 
 
 Vocation, n. . 
 
 The Old Friend 
 
 Eros. i. 
 
 Eros. ii. 
 
 Beauty 
 
 An Adventure . 
 
 The Helpmeet, i. 
 
 The Helpmeet, n. 
 
 Philosophy 
 
 Perseverance 
 
 Change . 
 
 Sympathies 
 
 The Better Music. 
 
 The Better Music. 
 
 Now Year 
 
 The Weddinir Morn 
 
 Pnge 
 210 
 21-2 
 214 
 216 
 218 
 219 
 221 
 223 
 225 
 227 
 
 231 
 232 
 233 
 234 
 235 
 236 
 237 
 238 
 239 
 240 
 241 
 242 
 243 
 244 
 245 
 2415 
 247 
 248 
 249 
 250 
 251 
 252 
 253 
 254
 
 DRYOPE. 
 
 ~\7"E who would leave your cares and worldly toil, 
 
 And seek for solace in a poet's song ; 
 Ye who would make the leisure minutes sweet 
 With sweet refrain and music like the bird's ; 
 Come not to me for measures high and deep, 
 Or world-wise saws, or sage philosophy ; 
 Come not to me for moral threaded fine 
 About the conscious words and labour'd thoughts ; 
 But come with simple hearts and wishes tuned 
 To easy pleasure of a simple lay. 
 Come, happy to be soothed with anything, 
 If only it be sweet ; no matter if 
 Sorrow or love, of olden days or new. 
 Come to me so, and keep your souls unsoiPd 
 B
 
 2 Dryope. 
 
 With toucli of care ; take beauty as it is ; 
 
 And listen while I sing of Dryope. 
 
 Rivers and woods, rocks, trees, and sheep were 
 
 charm' d, 
 
 When tuneful Orpheus sang Eurydice : 
 But I would not disturb the peace that is, 
 And settled ways, and quiet of the hills ; 
 Nor birds nor brooks I ever would enchant 
 In such a mad disport to go with me ; 
 But human hearts, that laugh and weep as mine, 
 These with my singing I would charm to peace. 
 
 It fell upon a summer morn in June. 
 The fresh clouds sail'd in easy troop across 
 From Pindus' heights towards Arcadie the rich, 
 Upon the soft wings of a southern wind; 
 And in the upper region of the air, 
 Along the throbbing fields of amorous blue, 
 The fleecy mists lay like a Hock of sheep : 
 And all the world and summer life, that lay.
 
 Dryope. 3 
 
 After the setting of the western star, 
 
 Asleep amid the grasses and the dew, 
 
 Awoke to day and sport and wealth and joy. 
 
 White Dian's troop already wearied out 
 
 The golden hind, hid in a hollow dell 
 
 Of (Eta, from the baying of the hounds. 
 
 And Pan was piping to a sylvan rout 
 
 Of dancing satyrs, on a dewy slope 
 
 Deep in his shadowy woods. And many a nymph, 
 
 At fountain-heads of rills, in grottoes set 
 
 With chrysolite, or on the rocky ledge 
 
 Of sea-lull'd shores, sat happy, combing slow 
 
 The wavy, long, rich tresses of her locks. 
 
 All things awoke to catch the joys, and make 
 
 A sunny summer garland of their days. 
 
 The grasshoppers on lichen-cover'd stones 
 
 Sang hour by hour; the nightingales kept quire ; 
 
 The cuckoo's echo from the hollow hill 
 
 Came mix'd with cooing of the cushat-doves ; 
 
 The whirring pheasant ever now and then
 
 4 Dryope. 
 
 Flutter' d the green-wing' d woodpecker ; and all 
 Was summer bliss ; and amber-crown' d delight 
 Sat brooding ; with a spread of wings above 
 The gay, gold land ; o'er hill and dell and field, 
 And nymph, and lizard in the lazy morn. 
 
 And gay at heart the Hamadryads sweet, 
 Stealing at creeping dawn from sheltering trees, 
 Where they all night in leavy slumber slept, 
 Went revelling with happy laugh and shout 
 About the wooded slopes and dew-fresh dells 
 Of old Spercheius : on by turns and isles, 
 And grassy flats, and even poplar ranks ; 
 By goldcn-gravcll'd creeks, and prickly beds 
 Of wild sweet saffron-col our' d lotus fruit ; 
 On by the banks fringed with low lentisk thick, 
 Lily and arbute, aloe and saxifrage ; 
 Till on a sudden they were in the woods 
 That skirt the palace of the (Echalian king: 
 Where old Spercheius wanders, cool with pines,
 
 Dryope. 5 
 
 Or elms, or olives, or shadowy plane-trees broad 
 With branching boughs, close interwoven with green 
 Of ivy and wild wine ; while all beneath 
 Blooms with amaracus and hyacinth, 
 And agnus castus, and the sacred bay. 
 
 And prying all about the gloomy groves 
 Of olive, in his pleasant secrecies, 
 Far down a labyrinth matted thick with boughs, 
 And trailing creepers, and the entangled arms 
 Of roses pale and blossom'd clematis, 
 They came upon a little grassy plot 
 Hid in the olives ; summer-fresh and green 
 With cherishing dews ; and rippling in the wind 
 That stole sometimes ; though seldom, being so fond 
 To dally amid the tender-wooing leaves : 
 A grassy, shelter'd spot, untrodden as yet 
 By alien feet ; with flickering shades and light 
 Curtaining it to a cool summer couch ; 
 Hid in the leaves from all eyes but the sun's ;
 
 6 Dry ope. 
 
 Meet nursing cradle for the old king's child. 
 
 Sweet Dryope ! bright little Dry ope ! 
 So like a rose-leaf fallen on the grass ! 
 New, rounded, touch'd with summer tints of youth ; 
 Flush'd with the ruddy blood of opening life; 
 Suffused with soften'd colour, like a cloud 
 At sunset toward the zenith ! How could they 
 Flit on, nor stop with wonder-brightening eyes? 
 They, in among the shadows lingering, 
 With whispers quick and sudden joy, to catch 
 Unlock' d-for glimpse of thing so beautiful, 
 How should a longing strange not seize on them ? 
 And long they look'd, and look'd, and could not go. 
 And much they doubted, and could not decide. 
 And such a charm the little cherub thing 
 Had over them ; and such a merry laugh 
 Arid innocent glee rang up to heaven's blue dome ; 
 As it lay laughing at the sky, and tried 
 With tiny moving fingers to reach up,
 
 Dryope. 7 
 
 And catch the skimming clouds in its young hands ; 
 And such keen arrows of fond love shot out 
 From its bright eyes and rosy-tinted lips, 
 And rounded freshness in the pillowing grass ; 
 That while the old nurse gather'd yellow figs 
 Just out of sight behind the trees, they stole 
 Like soft sunbeams, and took the child away. 
 
 They took it to a shepherdess to keep, 
 In old Spercheius' woods ; a little hut 
 Hid from the heat, hemm'd with green thickets rich ; 
 Built low beneath a bank of hyacinth ; 
 Upon a swelling knoll of bare brown earth, 
 Where no sun pierced, thick-knotted with the roots 
 And crawling fibres of high sheltering elms. 
 And one leaf-scatter' d footway wander' d far 
 Deep into those still woods ; one climb'd the hill, 
 Up through the thickets and the hyacinth slope ; 
 And one went devious in and out to find 
 The pebbled shallows of the river-ford.
 
 8 Dryope. 
 
 And so long years in quiet pastoralness 
 The child grew up : nor ever greater care 
 Of any little helpless pretty one 
 Was taken, than the Hamadryads took 
 Of Dryope. Not Zeus in Dicte once, 
 When him with milk goat Amalthaea fed, 
 Was kindlier watch'd and nursed. They came at 
 
 morn, 
 
 When sunny globules of the dew hung sweet 
 Like pearls, and flash'd, and melted into mist ; 
 Or when the hot sun made the shade delight ; 
 And when the slanting arrows of the day 
 Fell very few about the trees, they came ; 
 To sport with it, and teach it better things, 
 And holier, than we are mostly taught. 
 They taught it secrets of the murmuring woods; 
 They fill'd it with the music of the brooks ; 
 Training it to an ever-subtle sense, 
 While it was little: and as it grew up 
 To musing, taught it to love everything ;
 
 Dryope. 
 
 And fill'd it with the grace of growing buds, 
 And sweetness rare, and beauty like the trees : 
 And set it like a forest queen, to rule 
 Its widening world, with lily sceptre fair, 
 And fruit for orb, and olive-wreath for crown. 
 And so the child went singing like a bird 
 Through easeful youth, and all its golden days, 
 To womanhood : and loved them most of all, 
 Of many things it learn' d to love, and watch 'd 
 With eager looks their coming morn by morn : 
 And saw no men or women all those years, 
 Save only them, and that old shepherdess. 
 
 But by-and-bye the subtle humanness, 
 Half buried in it, gain'd in strength, and made 
 The lone child sad : and better love, that is 
 The bond of men and women in this world, 
 Moved in its breast as in a chrysalis : 
 And grew to be a want and loneliness, 
 And longing, as of buds that swell to burst,
 
 10 Dry ope. 
 
 Or as a river overflows its banks. 
 
 And so she learn* d to wander in the woods, 
 
 As if in search, not knowing where she went. 
 
 And oftentimes the Hamadryads sought 
 
 In vain to find her, hunting half the morn. 
 
 And oftentimes they found her in the vales, 
 
 By old Spercheius ; going moody-eyed, 
 
 Unconscious ; wandering down the olive groves ; 
 
 Or under long-lined poplars by the stream ; 
 
 Or by the living, limpid, lisping springs 
 
 Of CEta ; in the hollows, up the dells 
 
 And slopes of Othrys. But she better loved 
 
 The silver-curved Spercheius than them all. 
 
 For not a fairer river in all those lands, 
 
 Or brighter paved with amber gravel-beds, 
 
 Or sunnier in its shallows, graeefuller 
 
 In winning curves and devious sweeps, flows on ; 
 
 Meandering in its valleys deep between 
 
 Othrys and (Eta ; past its populous towns; 
 
 Past hilly Trachys and Thermopylae,
 
 Dry ope. 1 1 
 
 And rocky headlands, to the Malian Bay. 
 
 And she put on a statelier beauty, grew 
 More beautiful through sadness, while the years 
 Led her to womanhood with persuasive hands. 
 And she grew up a perfect woman pure, 
 With passion in her, well subdued to truth : 
 Sadden'd at most things as she went by them : 
 And made the Dryads weep at her sad looks. 
 And all her heart and being yearn' d for love. 
 Like as a little haze breathes up about 
 A valley brook, and lightly sinks again, 
 And grows, and sinks, but by-and-bye takes form : 
 And fills the sunny valley presently 
 With living, throbbing clouds of golden mist ; 
 So all her soul was full of yearning doubt. 
 She peep'd into the leafy nests of birds, 
 And wonder'd what could make them twit and sing : 
 She watch'd all morn the river-fishes skim, 
 And chase each other in the gleaming reeds :
 
 1 2 Dry ope. 
 
 She saw the shepherdesses in the shades, 
 And piping shepherds smiling at their feet : 
 And almost wept ; and wonder' d what love was. 
 
 And she would lie and finger at the grass ; 
 Or sicken at the cooing of the doves ; 
 And touch the clinging leaves with questioning 
 
 eyes; 
 
 And strangely loved to play with the sunbeams ; 
 And loved them much, and knew not in her heart 
 Phoebus Apollo watch 'd her. 
 
 So at last 
 
 She gain'd full grace. Then often in the lull 
 Of noonday sleep prophetic visions came; 
 And strange, half-utter' d murmurs haunted her. 
 Mysterious whispers wild, oracular, 
 Moved in her much, ;is in the priestesses ; 
 And image of Apollo ciirne in dreams. 
 And as she went birds seem'd to sing " Apollo."
 
 Dry ope. 1 3 
 
 And echoes took his name continually. 
 And often down the woody avenues 
 A voice would call " Apollo/' thrilling sweet. 
 And at the last, when she could bear no more 
 The fear and hope, Apollo came himself. 
 
 'Twas on a waning summer afternoon ; 
 Deep in the sombre stillness of the wood ; 
 And only now and then a stealing beam 
 Could pierce the thickness of the matted boughs ; 
 Yet in the gloom the summer air was warm. 
 And long, luxurious, beauteous leaves of fern, 
 Like a still canopy of green, spread o'er 
 From red-ribb'd ledges of a dripping rock. 
 And from a little cleft, clear as a pearl 
 And cool, with merry bubble musical, 
 Ran out a gushing spring ; and made its way 
 Through grasses round a grassy slope, and join'd 
 The waters of a runnel half dried up. 
 And on the mound, with lazy laugh and sport,
 
 14 Dry ope. 
 
 The Hamadryads sweet and Dryope 
 Play'd with a spotted tortoise in the grass : 
 Till Dryope grew weary, and they saw 
 That she was weary ; so they rose and went. 
 And she sat on the mound, and wearily 
 Dream'd of Apollo ; till a thrilling sense 
 Of something not far distant, yet not seen, 
 Came over her, and she sat very still, 
 Her heart a-flutter, humming to itself, 
 As if it would disown the fear it had. 
 And then the still, unheeded tortoise crept 
 Steadily on : nor stopp'd, but came right on ; 
 And touch'd her foot. She knew not how it could 
 
 be; 
 
 But that deep yearning grew unutterable : 
 And witli the sudden flutter of her thought 
 Her bended face was crimson'd even to pain. 
 She watch'd the little creature, ;;11 on fire. 
 And while she watch M it it became a mist ; 
 And then the mist spread upward, rolling slow ;
 
 Dry ope. 15 
 
 Then melted from her like a hot noon cloud ; 
 
 And at her feet a serpent coil'd in pride. 
 
 And while she shudder'd, being riveted 
 
 To keep her brighten'd, wild eyes fix'd on it, 
 
 She could but see how beautiful it was, 
 
 With glistening, glazed, mild eyes ; and all its scales 
 
 Were gilded richer than the chestnut leaves 
 
 In autumn, flashing like the sun, or veins 
 
 Of diamond ores uncover'd in the mines. 
 
 And while she watch'd it it became a mist : 
 
 And dimly, beautifully in the mist 
 
 Uncoil'd from it white, fleshy, human limbs 
 
 Of manhood ; subtle-curved with cloudy joy 
 
 Of life and beauty; forming in the cloud. 
 
 And when it roll'd away, and show'd the bright 
 
 Full-written glory of his manliness, 
 
 And symmetry of perfect parts, and pride 
 
 Of graceful strength, and long strong arms, and 
 
 brows 
 Wide with much thought, and musical sad eyes,
 
 16 Dry ope. 
 
 Passionate sad, with too much knowledge sad, 
 Then she knew well, for something told her so, 
 The god Apollo lying at her feet. 
 And when she saw the deep-set, wondering eyes, 
 Eager with hope, and passionate with desire, 
 Yet sorrowful with melancholy things 
 Remember'd well, look at her with fix'd look, 
 She shudder' d, swooning in a sort of trance. 
 And when new sense came slowly back to her, 
 She knew Apollo's arms were round her then : 
 She knew her head lay on Apollo's breast, 
 And so felt happy ; feigning yet to swoon : 
 And open'd not the soft long-lidded eyes, 
 O'er which she felt the breathing of his lips 
 Come stealing ; knowing his eyes were near to hers ; 
 And would look into hers if hers unclosed : 
 Then open'd them at last, and so revived ; 
 And raised herself, and sat up on the mound. 
 
 And then she seem'd as beautiful a thing
 
 Dry ope. 17 
 
 As ever yet took life of men or gods. 
 Not Aphrodite, coming in her shell, 
 When those four seasons met her on the shore, 
 Was lovelier ; being in beauty more divine ; 
 But missing her sweet grace of humanness. 
 
 The noonday heat was waning:, and the liffht 
 
 O ' O 
 
 Came softer, soothing languid things to peace ; 
 
 With freshening calm of coolness after heat. 
 
 And she regain'd her wonted ease, and heard 
 
 Apollo trust his love to amorous words, 
 
 Not trivial ; but as if he yearn'd to find 
 
 Some better rest than he had found as yet, 
 
 Among his goddesses and nymphs ; as if 
 
 He found it now in woman Dryope. 
 
 She was more beautiful than Here then, 
 
 Not being so proud ; more beautiful than nymph, 
 
 Naiad, or Nereid, in her womanhood. 
 
 She listen'd, blushing, seated on the mound. 
 
 She had a soft, still face ; not sharp ; but smooth,
 
 1 8 Dry ope, 
 
 And round, and gentle ; quiet as the moon 
 
 On warm June nights ; with kindly warmth ; and 
 
 sweet 
 
 As full-blown sweetness of a pale, faint rose. 
 And gradual undulations rose and fell 
 About her neck and shoulders beautifully : 
 Hollow'd a little in the throat, not much ; 
 But as a dimple hollows in ripe fruit 
 Of apricot, more lovely for it : and then 
 Swell'd full to meet the swelling breasts, and sloped 
 Between their wealthy richness ; where it were 
 Most lulling to be lull'd awhile, when sick. 
 And one round milky arm lay curved in rest 
 On yielding cushion of her open side ; 
 Embracing half the left-side breast, which glcam'd 
 Uncover'd of the kirtle missing it. 
 For summer being hot in those hot lands, 
 She only wore a flowing kirtle white, 
 That lay about her in pure light and shade* ; 
 Loose-fitting to the softly-hinted limbs;
 
 Dry ope. 1 9 
 
 And falling fold on fold, and loop'd across 
 One shoulder ; leaving half the left breast bare, 
 And both the arms ; and flowing to her knees ; 
 Showing the dimpling ankles and the feet. 
 And ever and anon a little beam, 
 Fell on her rounded shoulder and her neck, 
 Like gold but paler ; stealing o'er the white 
 Full-heaving bosom ; rippled down the robes ; 
 And in the snowy hollow of her breasts 
 Lay lurking, softer than the down of doves. 
 So he found not so beautiful a thing 
 On all this earth, or in the happy fields 
 Elysian, whence he came ; and if he spake 
 This truth to her, he meant no flattery : 
 But telling all his love, said this besides, 
 Because he thought it ; and spake holier words 
 Than many lovers speak ; and pleaded for 
 Communion, even as true spirits may have, 
 If they keep pure, unspotted from the world. 
 And so he told his love ; and so she put
 
 20 Dryope. 
 
 Her arms about him, and the bond was seal'd. 
 
 O what swift flight the winged minutes have, 
 When love finds love, and takes no note of time ! 
 And yet a little hour will seem as years, 
 And in an hour sweet love live out a life. 
 And better so, joy being so perishable. 
 And by-and-bye the sombre gradual shades 
 Of dusky night came thick, and hid the trees ; 
 And then Apollo lingeringly unclasp'd 
 His arms ; and kiss'd her, till the tingling blood 
 Of that long, breathless, eager, passionate kiss 
 Left their lips white : with that he went his way. 
 And he was very glad at heart, and seem d 
 To find at last the gain of his long search. 
 His was a noble soul, and love was best 
 To give him that which he could not find else. 
 And secrn'd his rightful meed : for nobleness, 
 Though feeding much on sorrow, still should have 
 Some little joy to keep it in good hope.
 
 Dry ope. 2 1 
 
 He was not all so happy in his loves, 
 Though he loved nobly ; never causing pain 
 To any living thing ; and least of all 
 To things that love, and lightly give their love. 
 For Daphne cross'd him ; fleeing like the wind, 
 Or timid startled fawn, with foolish fear : 
 And pray'd unwitting to the yielding gods ; 
 And so became a silly laurel tree. 
 And hurt Apollo wore a wreath of it 
 In sadness. So Coronis fail'd him too. 
 For she was fickle as the fluttering seed, 
 With feather' d wing, unrestful. Artemis, 
 The huntress, anger'd at a brother's wrongs, 
 Slew her with winged arrow, like a stag 
 At dawning ; yet Apollo will'd it not. 
 And Chione loved herald Hermes, swift 
 As flying winds, wing-footed son of Zeus : 
 And being loved of two such gods grew vain. 
 And Here slew her out of jealousy. 
 And better still was maid Leucothoe,
 
 22 Dryope. 
 
 White-limb'd as lilies ; loving him till death ; 
 
 Till bitter death, that came too soon to her. 
 
 For she, by wrathful sire, who should have been 
 
 More pitiful, was buried ere she died; 
 
 And wasted in the noisome tomb, and came 
 
 No more to him and better-blessing light. 
 
 And there was nothing left him but to go 
 
 And scatter nectar and ambrosia. 
 
 And many others fail'd him : Issa sweet, 
 
 And Acacallis ; and Gyrene base ; 
 
 Arid Clymene, blue-eyed Oceanid ; 
 
 And chief of all the Muse Calliope, 
 
 That bore him Orpheus. And it seem'd to him 
 
 That Dryope would prove the best of all. 
 
 Unhappy he ! and unsuspecting fate ! 
 
 But now, full happy, singing to himself, 
 He went to Thebes to see his festival. 
 He took delight at all times seeing it, 
 With noble pride in worship nobly meant.
 
 Dry ope. 23 
 
 But greater now, when he was glad at heart. 
 Young, rich-dress' d boys, with loose, fair hair, and 
 
 crowns, 
 
 And carrying laurel, round the city went ; 
 And white-robed maidens follow'd two and two. 
 In front they bore an emblem olive-tree; 
 With bright fresh boughs, and intertwined with 
 
 wreaths 
 
 Of flowers and laurel ; hung with golden globes 
 Of varied size, to signify the stars 
 And starry planets of Apollo's realm. 
 Apollo watch'd them, following with his eyes, 
 Until they reach'd the temple. Then, well pleased, 
 He heard the flickering, colour'd altar-flame 
 Crack with the leaves ; and watch'd the incense rich 
 Curl upward, rolling into clouds ; and smiled ; 
 And revell'd in the music and the hymns. 
 
 Beautiful things grow dim, and glory wanes. 
 There never yet a sunset splendour was,
 
 24 Dryope. 
 
 With crimson flush, and streak' d with golden bars, 
 That in a brief hour did not change to grey. 
 And full-fed tides, that flood up in their strength, 
 Flow back betimes, and only leave bare sands. 
 And swelling waves roll on, and swell to might 
 Resistless, overwhelming, strong to bear 
 Great ships upon their summits up to heaven ; 
 Then make a little foam, and sink to nought. 
 And life knows death ; and summer blossoms droop ; 
 And autumn turns to winter. So it was 
 With this rich autumn. 
 
 Many a pleasant month 
 
 Drew out its days, and bless'd itself with love. 
 And they were happy lovers, with no pain 
 Or sorrow at all. And love made in itself 
 A rich Elysium : crown'd with sunny heights 
 Of fancy ; sloping into vales of bliss ; 
 With little brooks of longing, running down 
 To bays of calm, with changing gleams of hope.
 
 Dryope. 25 
 
 But being noble, they had better fruit 
 From their great love than lesser lovers have. 
 They did not miss the sweet delights that fill 
 The scented eves, and grassy woodpaths soft ; 
 Or kisses in the shadows ; or clasp'd arms 
 Of link'd delight j when two seem link'd in one, 
 As they should never unclasp any more ; 
 But ever cling, and cling as naturally 
 As ivy, or rose, or fruitful vine. And oft 
 The Hamadryads, stealing near, would weep 
 To see them both so happy; being glad, 
 Because they loved her kindly : following them 
 At distance, down thick plane-tree avenues, 
 By woodland walks, and lushful lotus beds. 
 But there was yet a holier communing, 
 They in their careless spirits could not read. 
 And often, in the mornings, he would teach 
 The white fine fingers subtle touches soft, 
 To move the lyre : and high harmonious hymns, 
 Sung of him in the eves, ennobled her,
 
 26 Dry ope. 
 
 And made her godlike. Many strains he sang, 
 
 The Muses taught him, legends and rich lore ; 
 
 Which make the gods godlike. He told her tales 
 
 Of Zeus and Saturn and the earlier world, 
 
 Before the Titans fell away from power. 
 
 He told her silver secrets of the sea : 
 
 Of Tethys and the Oceanides 
 
 And Nereids j and coral-paven floors 
 
 Of glimmering caves, lit with the green of spars. 
 
 And told her of his mother, how she bore 
 
 Twin babes in Delos ; what time Here made 
 
 Life bitter to her with such jealous hate. 
 
 And of his sister, when the crescent light 
 
 Of evening glimmer'd : and his loves, and woes, 
 
 And all his history. So they happy pass'd 
 
 The waning summer months till autumn came. 
 
 But at the last, ah, me ! there came the end ! 
 So sad an end ! how can we sing of it ? 
 She sat still on a hillock near the hut
 
 Dry ope. 27 
 
 Of that old shepherdess. She did not see 
 
 The mellow-throated thrushes in the grass ; 
 
 Or timorous fawn gleam through the gnarled oaks. 
 
 She did not hear the babble of the brook ; 
 
 Or humming of the bees about the hives. 
 
 And her wide eyes were wondering at the things 
 
 Apollo told her yestereve. Her hands 
 
 Cross'd in her lap. Her lips play'd innocently 
 
 With sweet-dream'd kisses god Apollo kiss'd. 
 
 Then hollow echoes distant, wild and new. 
 
 Then sudden tramp of thickening hoofs, and shouts. 
 
 Then hurried haste, and snort of steeds, arid dogs. 
 
 And in her breast a shrinking, nameless fear. 
 
 Men, rushing on her, seized her ; lifted her 
 
 Up from the flowery hillock as she sank ; 
 
 With hard, strong arms, not like Apollo's, soft 
 
 With rounded whiteness, blue-vein'd so, but thick 
 
 With knotted strength ; and set her on a steed, 
 
 Light as a leaf, but gently ; gave the reins 
 
 To one old man ; and lightly spurr'd away.
 
 28 Dryope. 
 
 And that white-headed stranger was the king : 
 Curses upon the wither' d shepherdess, 
 That told him all, for greed arid foolish gain. 
 
 O hurry, hurry, over all this woe, 
 In haste to end so sad a history ! 
 She wedded prince Androemon. She was fain 
 To shrink away, and shrivel up, and weep, 
 In gilded angles of his palaces. 
 She could not bear the human-builded rooms. 
 They were not like the foliage-fretted roofs 
 Of CEta ; and the air seem'd stilling her. 
 
 She could not touch the noisome food they gave 
 Though dainty dress'd, and served as daintily : 
 And only took the flushing fruits, and wrapp'd 
 The green fig-leaves about her arms and hands. 
 
 Her beauty wither' d in three days, and fell 
 Away like tinsel ; till the warm, soil ilcsh
 
 Dry ope. 29 
 
 Shrank into wither'd skinny wretchedness. 
 
 And so they, pitying, whisper'd, " She will die." 
 
 And then they made a fine conspiracy ; 
 And let her slip away, and find the woods. 
 But watch'd her: saying, " She will soon take heart, 
 And be as other women." 
 
 One there was, 
 
 Supreme in healing, that Apollo, now 
 Desolate, bitter in his soul to death : 
 Who would have heal'd her quickly, kissing back 
 Her bloom by morning. He came night and morn 
 Back to accustom'd places, seeking her : 
 About the dim fields, and the murky caves, 
 And river deeps, went following after her : 
 Beneath the steep rocks where she might have gone ; 
 Down into caves, and yellow gravel-pits 
 She might have stray'd to, after lamb or fawn, 
 And in the darkness of the doubtful search
 
 30 Dryope. 
 
 Have fallen, unhappy : by the river-brink, 
 
 Half dazed with pain, and blind with weeping, went 
 
 To catch a glimpse of her, if any chance 
 
 Had wash'd her down the flooding river-bed. 
 
 And then he changed to jealous passionateness ; 
 
 Being so bitter with his bitter loss. 
 
 He said, " She wearied of the woodland ways ; 
 
 And wearied of her loving and her god : 
 
 And so is gone to live with men in towns, 
 
 And love and wed as other women wed." 
 
 In this one doubt he wrong' d her. 
 
 So they seem'd 
 
 To leave her, letting her go as she would. 
 And she slipp'd fearful through the carved doors ; 
 And ran in haste, and found a little pool. 
 The banks were steep, and myrtle shadows hung 
 About the slopes, and purple blossoms flush'd 
 The water-lotus thick about her 1'eet. 
 
 And then it was the Hamadryads came
 
 Dry ope. 3 1 
 
 To bring the end. They lightly breathed on her : 
 And she became a lotus. 
 
 This was not 
 
 The utter end : they changed her womanhood. 
 They made her like a Dryad of the trees : 
 And gave her, meaning well, a little heart 
 To feel grief lightly. This was worse than all. 
 But she knew not, and grew to be like them. 
 And so she lived with them, and loved like them : 
 And yet not very like them : for she was 
 Timid, and much more shy, and sorrowful ; 
 As if her womanhood came back sometimes. 
 But mostly lived a Dryad merrily ; 
 And laugh'd, or wept with sunny April tears, 
 That stay'd no time ; and revell'd in the woods ; 
 And had that airy, happy health they had, 
 That came of living in the air and winds. 
 
 And once she met Apollo, lingering
 
 32 Dry ope. 
 
 About the old hut in the hyacinths ; 
 
 With eyes cast down, and sallow, thoughtful face, 
 
 As if no smile could ever change it now. 
 
 But he pass'd by her, scarcely looking up, 
 
 And did not know her. And a shudder came 
 
 Across her for a flitting minute's space : 
 
 And then the truth flash'd on her clear as day, 
 
 And she knew well she was not Dryope.
 
 33 
 
 SAINT GUTHLAC. 
 
 A FEN-IDYLL. 
 
 OT. GUTHLAC could not bear the city's din. 
 ^^^ The little children mock'd him in the streets, 
 And threw the filth upon his long grey beard. 
 But this he did not heed ; because his Lord 
 Was buffeted and mock'd and spat upon : 
 And how should he be better than his Lord ? 
 And so, for this, he rather gloried in it. 
 But all the worldly faces of the men, 
 And lovely women, tempting him to sin, 
 Though but in thought ; and cattle driving \vild 
 About the lanes j and noisy market cries ; 
 And laugh and chatter of the thoughtless world : 
 He could not bear them all : they were his bane. 
 For in his thoughts no little cares had place ; 
 D
 
 34 Saint Guthlac. 
 
 But all his soul went upward. He would fast 
 For weary weeks : till haze of glory loom'd 
 Athwart his eyes ; and in his brain a fire, 
 And trance of God, burn'd like a beacon light. 
 And then he would go weeping through the town ; 
 And hurting his weak feet along the stones ; 
 And moaning day and night, because his dream 
 Went from him. Till he could bear up no more : 
 But long'd to settle in some hermitage : 
 And long'd to have the quiet of the wilds ; 
 And miss the haunting fret of human feet. 
 And so at last he hired a boatman's boat ; 
 And two strong Saxons row'd him up the floods. 
 
 It was a sultry autumn afternoon, 
 When autumn meets the summer. Half the fens 
 Were flooded with unwonted autumn rains : 
 And all the year had been most wet and sick. 
 Black fever hovcr'd in the villages ; 
 And crept about the wretched huddled huts :
 
 Saint Guthlac. 35 
 
 And not a breath of wind stirr'd in the land. 
 And so they took a boat, and row'd right on, 
 Due southward, toward the marsh of Alderlound. 
 
 And evermore St. Guthlac pray'd and groan'd ; 
 Groaning and praying for his many sins. 
 And bitter drops ran down his beard, because 
 He was not pure : and visions haunted him, 
 Of devils leering at him on the banks 
 And in the reeds. He pick'd up broken stones, 
 And spread them in the rib-work of the boat ; 
 And kneeling hurt his knees, but did not heed. 
 And ever and anori you heard the black 
 Long-threaded beads drop on his rosary, 
 And moaning prayers come from his blue sick lips. 
 And still the brawny Saxons row'd him on, 
 All that long failing autumn afternoon : 
 And measured pulses of the oars kept time ; 
 Or draggled in the reeds sometimes ; or roused 
 The busy moor-hens in their rushy haunts ;
 
 36 Saint Guthlac. 
 
 Or scared the wild-swans, picking round the marge 
 Thistle and burnet and the arrowhead, 
 And scabious : and still a lisping broke 
 About the bows ; and many humming sounds 
 Mix'd with his prayers, and seem'd unnatural. 
 But, light of heart, the ruddy Saxons sang : 
 
 River Welland, river Welland, 
 
 In your rushes all day long 
 Little ripples curve and swell, and 
 
 Break to cadence of our song : 
 
 River Welland ! River Welland ! 
 
 Amber minnows, aye they shimmer, 
 O'er their shadows in your shallows : 
 
 Blue king-fishers dart and glimmer, 
 In the coolness by your sallows : 
 
 River Welluml ! River Welland ! 
 
 Yellow web-foot, silver feather, 
 Round your willow islands travel :
 
 Saint Guthlac. 37 
 
 Swan and heron hie together 
 
 To the red weeds and the gravel : 
 
 River Welland ! River Welland ! 
 
 So sang the hardy Saxons, rowing on. 
 But oftentimes the river in the floods 
 Was lost ; and then they row'd more leisurely ; 
 For fear of striking on the sunken mounds : 
 And steering cautious toward some poplar line, 
 Regain'd the current. Hour by hour the sun 
 Declined with coolness : till the setting came, 
 In time : and, flattening round the lower disk, 
 The golden orb dipp'd o'er the horizon rim, 
 With solemn glory, godlike ; where the floods 
 Spread placid in the distance, touch'd with rose ; 
 Studded with knolls, and little strips of fields 
 Outstanding, osier-fringed : till all the land 
 Was flush'd with sunset ; and the willowy green 
 Was changed to crimson : so the orb went down. 
 And then the flushing rose and crimson tints
 
 38 Saint Guthlac. 
 
 Faded to deeper: then a purple stain 
 
 Grew in the east, and spread from east to west ; 
 
 And died in beauty into dying grey. 
 
 And still the night wore on : and o'er the rim 
 Of misty woods, a yellow hazy moon 
 Hung like a sickle. Down the darkening bank? 
 The shadows deepen'd, and the water paled 
 To silver in the shining ; while the sedge 
 Shiver' d beneath a chilly wind, that came 
 Across the flats : and then they ncar'd a tOA\n. 
 The moon was blotted with the blearing mists : 
 The midnight came upon them. Not a sound 
 Broke on the ear ; that took a keener sense, 
 As when we listen in a still church-yard, 
 And look for white gleams past the graves ; assured 
 In our own minds ; yet troubled with the doubt, 
 Because of darkness. All the people slept. 
 The houses loom'd in blackness : like some dream 
 Of a dead city in a wilderness,
 
 Saint Gutlilac. 39 
 
 Found after ages by chance traveller. 
 No lights gleam'd in the windows. Doors were shut 
 And still. Along the solemn, deathlike wharfs, 
 Old listless barges, moor'd and motionless, 
 Mingled in blackness ; scarcely seen distinct 
 From what they clung to. Not a breath, or sound ; 
 But heavy dipping of the weary oars. 
 And then they pass'd into the meads again. 
 And while, a little space, the moon broke bright 
 Above the mists, and fill'd the land with haze 
 Of silver beams, the flagging oarsmen took 
 The ear of night with music ; singing low, 
 As when a mother rocks her babe to sleep : 
 
 River Welland, river Welland, 
 Past the bank-side cottage trees, 
 
 Past the happy aspens swell, and 
 Bear the cool night water-breeze : 
 
 River Welland ! River Welland !
 
 40 Saint Guthlac. 
 
 Silver-placid, moonbeam-dotted, 
 Sheeted with the sheen above us, 
 
 Linger in long hamlets, spotted 
 
 With black huts of those who love us : 
 
 River Welland ! River Welland ! 
 
 In bulrushes wander bedded, 
 With a musical sweet sighing ; 
 
 Where the happy, curly-headed, 
 Blue-eyed little ones are lying : 
 
 River Welland ! River Welland ! 
 
 And as the night grew blacker with the mist, 
 And misty setting of the languid moon ; 
 They being weary with the long day's toil, 
 And getting on the reed-beds in the gloom ; 
 Found out a little creek beside a ford, 
 And rowing up it ran the boat aground. 
 And happy sleep came to them soon, and made 
 The uncushion'd benches soft as eider down.
 
 Saint Guthlac. 41 
 
 And happy dreams came with the sleep ; and they, 
 In fancy, found the little huts with ease ; 
 And azure, wide eyes, that they sang about, 
 Came laughing up ; and women greeted them, 
 With tears. 
 
 But evermore St. Guthlac pray'd. 
 And now, because thick sleep hung round the lids 
 Of his great eyes ; and fleshly care for rest 
 DispelPd his trance ; he drew the hard ring tight 
 About his waist, and rack'd his flesh with nails 
 Press'd in it : till the blood crept down his thighs, 
 And trickled to his lame and bloodless feet. 
 And so the sleep went from him ; and his beads 
 Click'd thicker one by one along the string, 
 And echoed on the night, like some wild well, 
 Dropping a great height, slow, with one small drop. 
 
 " O gracious Lord," he pray'd, " O merciful, 
 Pitiful God, forgive me my great sin. 
 For now these many days I have not drunk
 
 42 Saint Gutklac. 
 
 The rain of heaven, nor tasted food, nor slept ; 
 And these dry lips crack wither' d with the dearth ; 
 And are not wet, save with the clinging 1 dews 
 That gather o'er them, lying in the damp 
 Of reeking meads, beneath the stars of gold. 
 And in this brain, brim full of evil schemes, 
 A smouldering flame of fever laps and crawls. 
 And busy demons flit up out of hell, 
 With bat wings flapping close against my eyes. 
 And not one drop of pity drops as yet 
 Upon this burning, from Thee, Blessed Lord ! 
 () four times happy, those of old, who made 
 Sure peace with Thee, by death and bitter pangs 
 Of cross or fire ! Avho would not live, for joy 
 Of Thy fair Cross ; but bore it willingly ; 
 Winning themselves a better world and crown ! 
 But I dwell in the darkness. I, Thy saint, 
 Come not before Thee with a martyr's blood 
 Wet on my brows ; and am too Aveak to bend 
 This body to Thy glory. I can catch
 
 Saint Guthlac. 43 
 
 No blessed light gleam in the clouds on me ; 
 
 Nor see Thee sitting, like a saint of old : 
 
 And hear no comfort whisper in the air, 
 
 Like him who toward Damascus' city went : 
 
 But draggle in the dust this wretched life ; 
 
 And am not worthy even to think on Thee : 
 
 And if sometimes a little mercy gleam, 
 
 Like flash far off along a rainy coast, 
 
 Most faint, it flickers, dies, and all is dark. 
 
 And now I will go into sanctuary ; 
 
 And build a little oratory, Lord, 
 
 In Croyland isle, amid Thy rivers four, 
 
 Thy rivers four, and make an Eden of it. 
 
 And ever in the morning, on till night, 
 
 And ever in the night, and on till morn, 
 
 These miserable hands shall writhe in prayer ; 
 
 And seem to hold Thy feet, and make Thee yield 
 
 This blessed boon of grace withholden long." 
 
 So pray'd he; praying, till a pallid streak
 
 44 Saint Guthlac. 
 
 Of glimmering morning harbour' d in the east ; 
 And, spreading south and north and upward, show'd 
 The white-grey water lying many a league. 
 And still the rowers slept : but in the dawn 
 A wind rose fresh ; and, rippling up the creek, 
 The lapping water woke them, braced for toil. 
 And so they launch' d the little boat with ease; 
 And paddling gain'd the stream, and pass'd the ford. 
 And for the river curved a wandering arm, 
 And all the floods lay deep along the flats, 
 They made a straighter cut across the land : 
 And sometimes lodging on a knot of grass, 
 Disturb'd his dreams : but mostly steer'd right on, 
 With brisk strokes, rousing paddling flocks awing, 
 In the fresh morning: threading past the isles 
 Of osiers ; skirting knotted clumps of ash ; 
 Or boat-huts lying flooded half their height. 
 And while the white light glitter'd on the leaves, 
 Heavy with night-mist ; and the curlew's cry 
 Came sweeter, hovering round them ; and the bow
 
 Saint Guthlac. 45 
 
 Leap'd merrily on ; and laughing ripples danced 
 About the blades ; his groaning seem'd to mock 
 The golden morn. He had no joy in all 
 The happy wild days God had made so sweet. 
 Only the solitary bittern seem'd 
 In league with him. The simple Saxons vex'd 
 His soul, unwitting, with their mellow song : 
 Singing, light-hearted, with a flush of bliss : 
 
 River Welland, river Welland, 
 Flooded wide o'er fields and fens, 
 
 Round your rushes flow and swell, and 
 Float your white-tail' d water-hens : 
 
 River Welland ! River Welland ! 
 
 Shore, or shallow, morning dye it 
 
 With bright greens and amber browns ; 
 
 With a wild sweet beauty quiet 
 
 Round your isles and round your towns : 
 River Welland ! River Welland !
 
 46 Saint Guthlac. 
 
 River, river, who will cherish 
 
 Your stream as the Saxons do ! 
 In the full floods may we perish 
 
 If we do not aye love you, 
 
 River Welland ! River Welland ! 
 
 So, singing in their simple Saxon hearts 
 The soothing music of their wild fen-song ; 
 And fondling inly with its old refrain 
 Of " Welland, river Welland !" passing sweet; 
 They came to Croyland. Half the isle was laid 
 Beneath the over-flooding river-drains. 
 But rowing up by northern Ascndyke ; 
 And skirting past the marsh of Alderlound ; 
 They landed on a sunny rising knoll, 
 Green-fringed with willows. Then he bade them go 
 Back to the noisy city whence they came, 
 And tell the people he should come no more. 
 " But in this desolated waste," he said, 
 u Praying continually for sinful men,
 
 Saint Guthlac. 47 
 
 St. Guthlac will win grace before he die." 
 
 And they were sorry for his wretched look, 
 
 And languid limbs : and would have willing stay'd, 
 
 To help him. But he pray'd them with imich tears 
 
 To go their way : and would not take the cloak 
 
 They press'd on him : but fell upon his knees ; 
 
 And in his trance forgot the world and them. 
 
 And so they built him up a little hut 
 
 For kindness ; on a yellow gravel mound ; 
 
 That when the floods rose full it might be dry. 
 
 But only thatch'd the top with osiers ; 
 
 Because his sins were grievous. He would not 
 
 Have all the rain and bitter wind kept out. 
 
 But rather chose to vex his body's lust 
 
 With cramps, and rotting rheum, and ague chills : 
 
 That so he might be purer-soul' d ? and gain 
 
 A little pity from his gracious Lord. 
 
 And building up a cross before his hut ; 
 
 And spreading him a couch with willow-withes 
 
 Within the hut ; and strewing all the floor
 
 48 Saint Guthlac. 
 
 With water-flags ; they look'd, and went their way. 
 
 And, rowing sadly, thought upon the days 
 
 Of their sweet youth ; and sang the wild fen-song 
 
 Of " Welland, river Welland ;" timing it 
 
 To sadder strokes ; and, thinking, so were soothed 
 
 With healthy sweetness of their simple life. 
 
 But day by day St. Guthlac pray'd and groan'd. 
 And creeping days made years. And many a year 
 The bitter rains beat on him, and the dews 
 Exhaled his life, and made him lean and weak. 
 The morning beams would steal athwart the gloom, 
 And find him sitting in his oratory ; 
 Or kneeling near a little crucifix 
 Of jasper, which the king had purchased for him, 
 When Guthlac was confessor. Oftentimes, 
 Kissing the scourge of St. Bartholomew, 
 St. Pega gave, his sister ; which was brought 
 Over the water from the Holy Land ; 
 Leaning his lips to it, and touching it
 
 Saint Guihlac. 49 
 
 With careful lips ; he had an ecstasy ; 
 
 And fell into a spiritual trance 
 
 Of soothing dreams. And, reading hour by hour 
 
 His blessed Psalter, crimson-letter' d, thick 
 
 With trailing gold and blue about the leaves, 
 
 Writ by the holy monks of Lebanon, 
 
 He sat till daylight fell, and often found 
 
 Much peace. But in the night his trouble came. 
 
 For lapping jets of flame shot in his face, 
 
 And clung about his hands, and lick'd about 
 
 The crazy walls ; and devils leer'd at him 
 
 In triumph : till his soul writhed like a leaf, 
 
 For fear. And he would sink upon weak knees, 
 
 And shrink from them ; but still they near'd him 
 
 more : 
 
 And, hanging from the osier-netted roof, 
 Pluck'd at his hair. And unclean things crept 
 
 out 
 
 From unseen lurking-places, dragon-scaled 
 And filthy ; lifting slow, wet, web-wing'd feet,
 
 50 Saint Guthlac. 
 
 And touching his bare limbs ; till putrid chills 
 Came on him. 
 
 So he rack'd himself the more 
 With tortures, thinking to be purer-soul'd. 
 And where the Saxons litter'd water-flags, 
 He spread a rugged heap of broken flints ; 
 And lay all night, and writhed about on them. 
 And in the day would take no wholesome food ; 
 But lived on garlic and the river-drains. 
 And when the heat smote fearful in the noons, 
 He bound his naked limbs against the cross 
 The Saxons raised ; till his deep wounds were 
 
 scorch'd, 
 
 As if with iron red-heated in the forge. 
 And it was wonder that he lived so long 
 To bear it ; but his youth had been robust. 
 And when the rumour of him restch'd the world, 
 And whisper'd wonder of his sanctity, 
 The people at the first came gradually.
 
 Saint Guthlac. 51 
 
 But by-and-bye they came in crowds, and brought 
 The sick continually : and built long rows 
 Of hovels on the banks, to have them near ; 
 Deeming they would be better for his prayers. 
 
 And at the last, about the blessed time 
 Of our Lord's Passion, he fell grievous sick. 
 And lying on his rushes damp and cold, 
 And like to die, St. Pega from the marsh 
 At Deeping came to see him ; healing him 
 With balsam, and the juice of river-weeds, 
 Distill'd in secret in her sanctuary ; 
 And often used in saintly charity, 
 To heal the sickly people in the fens. 
 Cissa and Bettelm, holy anchorites, 
 And many others of the brotherhood, 
 From hidden hermitages in the wastes, 
 Came day by day, and comforted the saint. 
 And thrice a day they wash'd his wounds, and bathed 
 His forehead, waiting on him reverently ;
 
 52 Saint Guthlac. 
 
 And striving for him day and night with God. 
 And if he would have let his sores be heal'd, 
 And taken food, he might have lived long time. 
 But ever in the dark he moan'd and groan'd. 
 And being holy, prick'd himself with spikes : 
 And made his sores and wounds gush out afresh. 
 Till all his body rotted, and his bones 
 Came through the skin ; and from his arms and hips 
 Vile matter broke, and curdled all his blood 
 To wretched venom : and at last he died. 
 
 And after he was buried reverently, 
 And many relics of him found and kept, 
 The holy brotherhood of anchorites 
 Took up their dwelling in the sacred isle. 
 And Ethelbald, the good king, hearing of it ; 
 Because his soul had need of many prayers 
 And deeds of grace, to save it in the end ; 
 Took it in mind to found a monastery. 
 And for the ground was marshy, brought new earth
 
 Saint Guthlac. 53 
 
 From Upland many miles in boats ; and sank 
 Huge piles of oak and beech innumerable. 
 And so built up a church ; and made it rich 
 With decorations, and great gifts of lands 
 By Nene and Welland and the Shepishee, 
 And Southee, and the northern Asendyke. 
 And kept the relics in it ; and the scourge 
 Of St. Bartholomew, and the crucifix 
 And Psalter : building up a marble shrine, 
 To guard the blessed relics of the saint. 
 And gave it to the holy anchorites ; 
 And cherish'd it and loved it all his days.
 
 54 
 
 NANNA. 
 
 O Nanna, spouse of Baldur, when she heard 
 
 How in his palace halls her lord lay dead, 
 Unheralded, came through the darken'd streets 
 To weep for Baldur. 
 
 Silence like the grave 
 Over the heaven-builded citadels ! 
 Over the beauteous haunts, and old Asgard, 
 And high Valhalla, with its golden roofs, 
 Builded of bright shields, flashing, multiform ! 
 
 Unutterable silence, echoless, 
 Over the beauty of the Heaven-Home ! 
 With sorrow black as Death, and fold on fold, 
 Gather'd about, and hovering like a mist !
 
 Nanna. 55 
 
 And Desolation, in a regal pomp, 
 
 Trailing his garments, that are cerements, 
 
 Over the desolated, lordless halls, 
 
 And emptied thrones, and sceptres laid in dust. 
 
 So, eyes half shut, from pain, with livid lips, 
 Unheralded along the darken'd streets, 
 She came to weep for Baldur. 
 
 What is this ? 
 
 Merriment is no more, and joy no more. 
 And stillness creeps about the cups of mead 
 Untasted, stillness in the lifeless seats. 
 O warriors, wide in soul, and made as gods, 
 Storm-batter'd, worsted in your mortal strife 
 Awhile, then lifted to Valhalla's heights, 
 You come not back to quaff the foaming joy. 
 They are gone forth into the solitudes, 
 Lurking beneath the shadows of great rocks, 
 By desolate far seas, they know not where.
 
 56 Nanna. 
 
 And those who tended them in othertime, 
 
 The beautiful, gold-hair' d Valkyrior, 
 
 In white robe, flowing, with a silver belt, 
 
 Hover no longer near heroic chiefs, 
 
 To fill the cups from that unfailing fount ; 
 
 But weep uncomforted, and roam the halls 
 
 Unquiet, with an intense bitterness ; 
 
 Or lie upon the marble palace steps 
 
 In strange fantastic grouping of despair. 
 
 So many fallen leaves of silver birch, 
 
 Set in a barren land, were like to them, 
 
 That all about its roots lie withering, 
 
 Smit with the rudeness of the autumn blasts. 
 
 For Heaven is like Hell if lorn of Gods. 
 They, with unfathom'd Godhead filling it, 
 Make it a heaven, breathing all about 
 Happiness, with their beauty and their speech. 
 Their grand, great words full-thoughtedj spiritual, 
 Over the palace roofs go echoing,
 
 Nanna. 57 
 
 Dying in music down the deeps of space. 
 So is Valhalla joyless lorn of Gods. 
 
 For Odin seeks far-off, where no light comes 
 Of sun or star, a desolate lone land 
 Chaotic, with grim masses, pile on pile, 
 Of silent rock, and gloom, and ridged slate. 
 Precipitous mountains, rude and bleak, go up 
 Into the sulphurous gloom and starless dark ; 
 And, crawling black about their shadowy feet, 
 Sea breaketh listless. On the lonely shores 
 That water, with unquiet monody, 
 And restless wailing of unhoused winds, 
 Moaneth for ever. No restoring light 
 Comes gladdening ; but a dull capricious cloud 
 Of dim blue flame draws out in livid length 
 From shore to shore, steady, not flickering, 
 Pale, fearful as it moves, it is so still. 
 Black-set against the glaring flame he stands, 
 Motionless in the gloom, and set distinct ;
 
 58 Nanna. 
 
 Majestic as some mighty column might be 
 
 Built for a god, grey with eternal storm ; 
 
 Silent as if some thunder-bearing hand 
 
 Had hewn it in the stillness of its strength, 
 
 Through many ages, from unyielding rock, 
 
 There on the shore. So calm and firm he stands ; 
 
 With such great eyes fix'd on the swaying mass 
 
 Of waters, with a vague intensity ; 
 
 Leaning upon his spear, a chief of gods. 
 
 In agony of bitter thought he left 
 
 The golden glories of his palaces. 
 
 To those grim ravens on his shoulder perclf d 
 
 That whisper to him of all things that be 
 
 In earth and heaven and hell, he listens not : 
 
 Leaning upon his spear in hushedness 
 
 Of clouded deity : with many a league 
 
 Of long black shadow over level sands. 
 
 Far in Fensalir palace, o'er the deeps, 
 Hid in the beauty of her old sea-halls,
 
 Nanna. 59 
 
 Sat Frigga, goddess, beautiful, white spouse 
 
 Of Odin, in prophetic vision rapt. 
 
 Awe-struck and still, under the wild black hair, 
 
 And beauty-ray' d black lashes, her shut eyes 
 
 Brooded upon dim pictures on the dark ; 
 
 Impress of chaos and primordial state, 
 
 When was not any sand, or any sea, 
 
 Or cooling wave. She, in her rich sea-halls, 
 
 Amid green marble columns, that rose up 
 
 Transparent from the deep ; about whose feet 
 
 Light lapse of water murmur'd through all time 
 
 Wild sweetness ; whose fair image trembled down 
 
 A thousand fathoms through the cherishing sea, 
 
 So brooded ; and of all the coming fates, 
 
 To her prophetic soul reveal'd and bare. 
 
 Thor sat upon his ebon throne of storm, 
 With blood-flush'd clouds a-roll in great unrest 
 About his feet, and throne, and crowned head ; 
 His weapons fallen out of aimless hands ;
 
 60 Nanna. 
 
 His many-joined gauntlets lightning-wrought, 
 His trusty mallet, and his belt of strength. 
 
 And Niord the rich forgot his fishermen ; 
 And Skadi her snow-skates and hunting-bow ; 
 And Frey sunshine, and rain, and harvestings ; 
 And Freya pity, and love-ditties sweet j 
 And Hodur blind, that slew unwittingly 
 The much-loved Baldur, hid himself somewhere, 
 Disconsolate ; Heimdallar left Bifrost 
 Unwatch'd ; and Lok, the Evil, roam'd at will. 
 
 So Nanna came along the darken'd streets, 
 Unheralded, to weep for Baldur dead. 
 
 But he lay white and silent, with shut eyes 
 Unwitting of her, on his golden couch, 
 Under the radiance of silver shields. 
 They with a pallid glow of hazy light 
 Lit up his placid face, and long white arms
 
 Nanna. 6 1 
 
 Laid out upon the fringed coverlet, 
 And all the curving beauty of his neck, 
 And veiny blueness of his snowy feet. 
 She stood awhile, mute-lipp'd and motionless, 
 Above his head ; clasping unconscious hands 
 A little from her breast, in attitude 
 As marble, just a little forward bent, 
 Staying the heavy throbbing pulse of pain ; 
 As she would catch the undulant slow breath 
 That might sway to her on the silver light. 
 Then she took up his hand, and fondled it, 
 Smoothing the chilly fingers in her own. 
 And she put back his golden-falling locks 
 From off his face, soft-laying her long hand 
 Upon the fearful coldness of his brow. 
 Then on a sudden she bent down to him, 
 As with a yearning she could not repress, 
 And kiss'd his closed eyes, and kiss'd his lips. 
 And so she fell upon her knees, and press'd 
 Her head upon his breast, and wrung her hands ;
 
 62 Nanna. 
 
 And with a sudden passion, burst at length 
 To unheard wailing in the desolate halls : 
 
 She said, " O Baldur, beautiful, my own 
 Beautiful Baldur, that art cold-dead now ! 
 A heavy, leaden body, on the couch, 
 That wilt not move ; with chilly lifeless limbs, 
 Muscles relax'd, and sinews strong unstrung ; 
 And bloodless veins ; and eyes without their light ! 
 Beautiful Baldur, wilt thou, then, forget 
 Nanna, thy loved one, in the far snow-home 
 To which thou goest ? Wilt thou not come back, 
 And watch me burning in the flame-lit ship, 
 With this cold corpse of thine ; till all the flame 
 Glimmer and flicker, then at last hiss out, 
 Touching the wave ? and catch my life and take 
 It to the snow-home quickly back with thec ; 
 To sit in Hela's realm, and each to each 
 Be H< aven down in Hell ; and rest in peace 
 In couch of care, with curtaining anguish hung,
 
 Nanna. 63 
 
 In vain about the couch, we happy yet ? 
 O Baldur mine, beautiful, cold-dead now ! 
 
 " Could any think a harmless misletoe, 
 Though sharpen'd to a winged stinging dart, 
 Would pierce to death whom sword and spear left 
 
 whole ? 
 
 Poor Hodur, blind old god ! to pity him 
 Is little meed, now he has wrought this woe. 
 
 " How still and desolate Valhalla is ! 
 No flashing lights, or shouts, or laughs, or song ! 
 Desolate all ! hush'd ! dead ! 
 
 " If I were made 
 
 A mortal, fashion'd of such flesh and blood 
 As they, weak-hearted, I would wail out fierce 
 To Heaven and the Gods, with fast-clench'd hands ; 
 And draw some peace, or little blessing, down 
 With reaching prayers ; but I am not born so :
 
 64 Nanna. 
 
 Shutting up in my bosom this pent grief; 
 No Gods to aid, or I might aid myself. 
 
 " And where are they, beautiful in their might, 
 And terrible in their eternalness ? 
 Terrific in all deeds and wonder-acts 
 Of deity ; the ancient GEsir Gods ? 
 Those OZsir that have built the old Asgard ? 
 Those CEsir that have fashion'd ranged halls 
 Of high Valhalla, for heroic men ; 
 Full of a rich and silent glory of light, 
 From flashing ranks of shields and flaming swords ? 
 Those CEsir that have built the tremulous bridge, 
 Over from Asgard to the land of Death, 
 Bifrost, so light, of many-blended tints, 
 Yet firm and strong, that white Heimdallar keeps ? 
 Where are they ? Shout ! and with unwavering 
 
 voice 
 
 Echo through all chaotic voids, that stretch 
 Ever and ever on, that they may speak !
 
 Nanna. 65 
 
 All fled ? Dismay'd ? Their glory all so dim ? 
 
 Not one to come forth in immortal strength, 
 
 And hurl through shrinking space a terror-spear ? 
 
 Not any now to hold the wolf in check, 
 
 And strike unfailing fear in Fenrir's brood ? 
 
 Not one to breathe upon the trembling stars, 
 
 Or touch the slacken'd reins, and guide the sun : 
 
 So nature fail not in allotted course 
 
 Of daily task and god-constrained toil ? 
 
 Not any to speak comfort to the moon, 
 
 Meek pilgrim, hid in mists, and faint with fear, 
 
 Gently persuading to accustom' d light ; 
 
 So mortal hearts, confident heretofore, 
 
 Fail not in prayer, and falter not in faith ? 
 
 How come they not, the strong, the eternal ones ? 
 
 How are they gone ? And what a woe is this, 
 
 That hath won habitude in the Heaven-Home ! 
 
 All things that they have made, and ruled, and led, 
 
 All mazy circlings of the whirling stars, 
 
 Are rushing into chaos' doom again. 
 
 F
 
 66 Nanna. 
 
 Odin, All-Father, them that madest them first 
 Beautiful out of chaos, bold to keep 
 An order' d music in their intricate ways, 
 Come back to guide them, Odin, wilt thou not ? 
 Come back to guide them, Thor, the Thunderer ! 
 And put the belt and knotted gauntlets on !" 
 
 She spake ; slow-rising from a m useful tone 
 Of muffled sorrow into passionate words. 
 She spake : a little while her wail was still. 
 She took his hand in hers, and press'd it close 
 To her pale lips a long time, kissing it ; 
 Then on a sudden she brake out again : 
 
 " O white Heimdallar wise, what matters it 
 For all thy wisdom now and watchful care ? 
 Stopper of giants, s;iy, why didst thou let 
 Grim Death come softly o'er the bright Bii'rost, 
 Beneath the arch, and up the ways of light, 
 And dim the sphered beauty of the Gods ?
 
 Nanna. 67 
 
 So quick to hear, didst thou not hear his feet ? 
 So keen to see, and didst thou fail to catch 
 His shadow flitting by thee on that morn ? 
 O what avails thy watchful wisdom now, 
 Deceived this once ? " 
 
 Again a little pause ; 
 Pathos of grief: a ripple- running calm : 
 Passion subduing passion : " Ah," she said, 
 " Beautiful God," she said, " rememberest thou, 
 When we so oft Fensalir visited 
 With Frigga, sitting on the steps at dusk, 
 Dipping in lapsing waters our bare feet ? 
 Dropping white pearls into the clear green deep ; 
 That slowly sank and sank, till lost to sight ? 
 Dost thou remember when the playing beams 
 Level across the sea came wondrously, 
 To die among the palace pillars fair ; 
 What time the sun far-off sank down to rest, 
 Weary, in many-colour' d, curtain' d couch ?
 
 68 Nanna. 
 
 It seems so long ago ! to think ! to think !" 
 
 And oftentimes she ceased, and wail'd afresh 
 In words like these ; and in the pauses kiss'd 
 Him on his couch of death, or smooth'd his hands ; 
 And often press'd her hollow eyes for pain ; 
 Or put her face to his, and look'd in his : 
 And by the blessed pity of the Fates, 
 Wailing all night, hurt heart, she died ere morn. 
 
 But Frigga, prophet-soul'd, and skill'd in fates, 
 Sent message swift ; and white Heimdallar took 
 The curving horn that hiinu about his neck, 
 The gift and fashioning of the Thunderer, 
 Took it in both his hands, and lifted it 
 Up to his lips, and blew a mighty blast. 
 
 So all the Gods came back. 
 
 Sullen and sick,
 
 Nanna. 69 
 
 They gather' d on the hollow-winding shore. 
 Then in a long procession sorrowful 
 They bore the corpse of Baldur, Nanna dead 
 Beside him, down the shore, and launch'dthe ship; 
 And burn'd it slowly to the seething sea.
 
 70 
 
 AN IDYLL OF HADDON. 
 
 T AST autumn, when the heavy-foliaged limes 
 
 Began to pale, and beech en trees to take 
 A tint of red, and wheat was garner'd up, 
 I stay'd at Buxton, nestled in content. 
 It lies about a valley quite shut in 
 With swelling hills ; and breezy heights wood- 
 
 crown'd 
 
 O'ertop the -vale ; and autumn makes it rich, 
 And musical with merry-running brooks. 
 
 One pleasant evening as I stroll'd at will 
 About the town, when all the scorching heat 
 Of day was gone, and humid balmy dews 
 Were falling thick, a hundred trifling things, 
 That happcn'd in my visit years before,
 
 71 
 
 Came back as fresh as it were yesterday 
 
 They happen'' d : simple things, that took the heart 
 
 With longing. I remember'd how, one night, 
 
 Leaning upon the little bridge at ease, 
 
 I heard the water leap, and some one came 
 
 And touch'd me on the arm ; and how we went 
 
 To hear the music playing in the town ; 
 
 And how she took a childish pleasure in it. 
 
 And then, again, how, all a summer day, 
 
 We, roving wild, and scatter' d on the hills, 
 
 All youug, some of us children as to age, 
 
 But all in heart, stroll' d off, a troop of us, 
 
 Down a green valley, to a nest of farms ; 
 
 And drank new milk, and play'd at hide and seek 
 
 About the orchard slopes. And not the least, 
 
 Not dimmest of those crowding memories, 
 
 Came back how we had gone to Haddon Hall : 
 
 My father, something of an artist, he ; 
 
 A skilful dabbler in it, out of love ; 
 
 And I, whom, early, he would teach to trace
 
 72 An Idyll of Haddon. 
 
 Shadows, and lights, and contrasts, and rare tints 
 And lines of landscape, with an artist's eye. 
 How, glad at heart, we kill'd the gliding hours : 
 Sat underneath the shadowy yews, and sketch'd 
 The oriel windows and old terraces : 
 Or climb'd the highest turret, for the view ; 
 Or watch'd the crested peacock's curving neck. 
 And such a yearning seized on me to tread 
 The moss-laid carpet of the desolate walks ; 
 And muse in rooms and olden galleries, 
 And grass-grown courts ; to visit fancifully 
 Gay scenes of knight and dame we fancied then, 
 In rippled silks and clanging steel, or dress'd 
 For dance or dream ; that all at once I said, 
 " To-morrow I will go to Haddon Hall." 
 
 So, ere the morning beams had melted half 
 The dull grey mists of morn, I g;iily rose; 
 Spurr'd in my fancy with the dear resolve. 
 The way led on beside a noisy brook,
 
 An Idyll of Haddon. 73 
 
 Out of the valley, down a deep ravine. 
 And sombre hollows hollow' d, as you went, 
 The rugged sides of perpendicular rock. 
 It made you dizzy to look up sometimes. 
 It seem'd as if some shudder of the earth 
 Had open'd out a yawning chasm of fear ; 
 And after-ages, stealing o'er, bestow'd 
 A natural look. The slopes of earth, that made 
 About the base a fringe of kinder soil, 
 Were cover'd thick with tangled hazel-trees. 
 The nuts were brown and ripe ; and tiny tracks, 
 Traced dimly in the trodden underwood, 
 Told tales of little feet that dared to make 
 A venturous climbing after cluster'd spoil. 
 And on the scars, far up, the mountain ash 
 Hung rooted in the clefts, with berries red, 
 That flash 'd and sparkled in the climbing sun. 
 
 So on I went, beside the babbling brook, 
 By silver birch, and gloomy belted firs :
 
 74 An Idyll of Haddon. 
 
 And evermore the gleaming landscape made 
 New pictures, changing with the winding road. 
 Guy brook ! wild crag ! the laughing heart leap'd up 
 With all the joy and freshness of the morn. 
 Suddenly should the dusty way sweep round 
 Some hill-base thick with larch and arrowy pine : 
 Arid I would seem shut in a sombre vale, 
 With no way in or out. At times a weir 
 Held back the water, roaring down its stones, 
 And white with foam. And once or twice the stream, 
 With eager, full-fed, reckless current went 
 Beneath a dark, low arch, and turn'd a wheel. 
 Unseen, it turn'd, and toil'd, and roar'd beneath. 
 Its heavy, constant rolling motion made 
 Some miller's music sweet: a gradual song: 
 A slow contented murmur of dull sound. 
 
 So on : so on. No speck of mist was left 
 In all the sky : tbe sun grew hot and full : 
 And coming on a spring amid the shade
 
 An Idyll of Haddon. 75 
 
 I rested. Pebbles white as alabaster 
 
 Shone up through green pale shadows of the fern. 
 
 A woman at an ivied cottage-door, 
 
 She lent a little cup : how dear it was ! 
 
 The long refreshing draught, unstain'd and cool ! 
 
 So on : so on. Awhile a reedy range 
 Of flat misleads our brook to lose itself, 
 And Aviden out, and part in little streams, 
 Around a willowy isle with pebbly shore. 
 But soon they meet : just where a rillet leaps 
 To lend its aid, loud-gushing from the cliff. 
 
 At last we part, sweet brook and dusty feet. 
 The heavy road winds up a steep- up hill ; 
 And duller grows the gliding water's noise. 
 A stillness strikes our fancy. Toiling on 
 Bend after bend, at last we gain the height. 
 And while we lean a little, out of breath, 
 Against the wall of loosen'd stones, that makes
 
 76 An Idyll of Haddon. 
 
 A barrier from the dangerous steep, we see 
 
 A silvery seeming braid of water lie 
 
 Beneath us, lined with woods of pine, and still 
 
 As if we saw a picture ; though it runs 
 
 Noisy enough, over its rocky bed, 
 
 If we were down to hear. It turns the hill 
 
 Suddenly, glances, and is lost to sight. 
 
 Then many a mile the road led labouring on 
 Over the high hill-tops, and left the brook 
 To purl and curve a long and tortuous course. 
 By many a scar and furzy vale you dipp'd. 
 And when at length once more it cross'd our way, 
 You scarcely knew your friend, grown wide and 
 
 / V / O 
 
 strong : 
 
 A glassy, sweeping stream, that wash VI the banks 
 Away with it, and bared and trail VI the boughs : 
 A haunt the trout and wily anglers love. 
 So on with it you went, so glad to meet, 
 And hear the sweet and earnest song again :
 
 An Idyll of ' Haddon. 77 
 
 By crcssy arch, and lowly cottage-doors 
 With trailing rose aglow. 
 
 The sun had pass'd 
 
 His noonday height, and slanted slowly down 
 To westward seas, when I with weary steps 
 Reach'd Bakewell village, Haddon two miles off. 
 
 I rested. In the homely chimney nook 
 And sanded parlour of a cleanly inn, 
 Safe from the heat, and shadow'd from the light, 
 I slept till sunset : only not before 
 Much piled-up product of our English hills, 
 A fit repast for traveller hungry grown, 
 Had vanish'd from the merry landlord's board. 
 There first a cloth of snowy white was spread, 
 Clean-wash'd and chaste, smooth'd out from edge 
 
 to edge ; 
 
 And then a wheaten loaf, scarce cool, and cheese 
 Of primest taste, that rotted here and there
 
 78 An Idyll ofHaddon. 
 
 To spots of blue ; and butter creamy-white, 
 
 Or with a faintest tint of buttercups ; 
 
 And cresses green and fresh, wet from the brooks 
 
 And froth of foaming ale, pour'd nigh a yard, 
 
 Through yielding air, from massy pitcher jug, 
 
 That sparkled o'er a pewter, crowning all : 
 
 A rare repast ! 
 
 So when the sun was set 
 Behind the hills, and half a pale fair moon 
 Rose edging up the sombre grey, and stars 
 Began to glimmer in the darkening East, 
 I went to Haddon. Hills on either hand 
 Slope gently from the valley, cluster' d thick 
 With sheltering wood : and threading through it 
 
 goes 
 
 Our brook, with many a wind and purling sweep, 
 Washing the brown ash-roots about the banks. 
 And anglers here and there were winding home 
 To neighbour villages with line and rod
 
 An Idyll of Haddon. 79 
 
 And basket. Sheep and cattle browsed in peace ; 
 Or lay in happy summer doze about 
 The fruitful meads. At last I reach 'd the bridge ; 
 And cross'd at once into the old grey place. 
 
 The steps are broken in the courts, and grass 
 Is growing in each crevice of the stones. 
 Of old they echoed with the horses' tread, 
 And busy din of hunt or festival : 
 And merry skipping pages in and out 
 Came flitting gay ; but these are like dreams now. 
 No ladies on white palfreys go to hawk, 
 On summer mornings, through the dew-fresh woods : 
 But only daws fly off and wheel at will, 
 And settle on the turret tops again. 
 No colours gay gleam in the avenues : 
 No soft-touch'd music on the terraces 
 Is playing now ; but yellow moonbeams fall 
 About the urns and ivy crawling cold. 
 And I, a stranger, in the yew-shade deep,
 
 80 An Idyll of Haddon. 
 
 Muse on the old dead ways, and look and look 
 On beauty time has made, and take my fill 
 Of oriels, and archways rude and sunk. 
 
 So mused I, thinking of old days and tales 
 Perused in rich romance, and books of song, 
 And legends told, and scraps of history, 
 Forgotten till that night, that came back new. 
 
 And most of all my brooding fancy thought 
 Of Dora Vernon : beautiful proud maid, 
 With long gold hair about her arch'd white neck, 
 And stately step, and summer-tinted cheek, 
 Heiress of Haddon. She, with wayward will.- 
 For young Sir John forsook his fathers' faith, 
 Arid took the new creed in his heart and lips ; 
 She, wanton girl, with heedless, wayward will, 
 Loved this Sir John, in spite of his new creed. 
 And so the staunch old lord forbade the match. 
 And yet he was a brave good youth, for all
 
 An Idyll ofHaddon. 81 
 
 The stern command ; and sweet love is not forced. 
 So when he came, on such a moonlight night 
 As this, but darker, perhaps, no wonder if 
 Some brave lights lighted him besides the stars : 
 A lamp ; or, dearer still, his lady's eyes ; 
 Or her white hand, put out for him to kiss. 
 And so night after night they plann'd and plann'd ; 
 And at the last they laid a hopeful scheme. 
 
 The long saloon where merry dancers kept 
 The revel of bright looks and flitting feet, 
 Till day put out the lamps, you see it now ; 
 A desolate relic of its former self: 
 Led at one end, beneath the arras rich, 
 Into a little ante-room, which had 
 A door to reach the terrace : six or eight 
 Stone steps, and so you reach'd it. Then a wall 
 Ran on a little way, and steps again 
 Led up, quite hidden from the view ; and down 
 An avenue of trees the way turn'd off; 
 G
 
 82 An Idyll of Haddon. 
 
 Where you could walk unseen. Here he will stay, 
 A guest unbidden, at the ball to-night. 
 
 The dance is at its giddiest height ; and she 
 Has, in a flutter of sweet thoughts and sad, 
 Gladden'd the old lord's hospitable eyes 
 With mazy sweeps of grace, all night ; but now 
 Grows tired, you know; and, fanning her flush'd 
 
 cheeks, 
 
 Under the arras slips away, to catch 
 A breath of cool air, so the old man thinks ; 
 And strolls away with happy step, to greet 
 His merry group'd retainers in the hall. 
 There on the dais seat he takes his place : 
 And laughs aloud, and warms his heart with wine. 
 
 !?o while the giddy mazes of the dance 
 Went to the music with accordant feet, 
 A minute in the ante-room she stay'd ; 
 On tip-toe paused, death-still, sweet lips apart ;
 
 An Idyll of Haddon. 83 
 
 And listen'd, out of breath, if some one came : 
 Then gather' d up her flowing silks, and pass'd 
 Through folding doors on tip-toe noiselessly, 
 With fairy-footed stress of slipper' d feet, 
 Into the stillness of the silent night. 
 Her long rich gown trails rustling as she treads 
 Stealthily down the steps ; the while her heart 
 Throbs wildly ; and she pauses at their foot, 
 In the old terrace walk, with fearful breath. 
 Her small gloved hand rests on the balustrade, 
 White in the moonlight : what a star is she ! 
 Shall such a star grow dim, yet not be miss'd ? 
 O Dora Vernon, pausing like a leaf, 
 That flutters in the wind and then is still, 
 How start you at the chiming turret clock ! 
 'Tis just the hour. The happy lover waits. 
 Was that his voice ? She steals along the wall ; 
 Hastily stepping down the gravell'd walk, 
 Under the ancient yews; then up the steps ; 
 Glances in doubt along the path, that leads
 
 84 An Idyll of Haddon. 
 
 Under the avenue of sycamores. 
 
 Over the little wall she sees his hand. 
 
 Over the little wall he lifts her light. 
 
 These are his arms ! O bliss ! across the 
 
 A few quick steps, the carriage waits not long. 
 
 O lover brave, this is thy bride ! she sinks 
 
 In welcome arms : the carriage rolls away. 
 
 And by-and-bye the gay old lord came up 
 Out of the hall, and miss'd her from the dance. 
 And half impatient grown he sent a maid, 
 To say, " Will Dora Vernon hide their light 
 From longing eyes so long ; nor fill the void 
 Her absence makes?" So then it all came out. 
 For when the maid came back, and told her tale; 
 The scatter' d rose-wreath, soil'd with haste and heat ; 
 The empty little room, the open door, 
 And on the terrace-walk a. light fan dropt; 
 The truth flash'd blinding in the old man's eyes. 
 " To horse!" he cried, " to horse ! quick as the wind,
 
 An Idyll of Haddon. 85 
 
 Gallants, ride after them, and bring them back ! " 
 And in a trice the ladies gay were left 
 To cool their cheeks at leisure, gather' d close 
 In little cluster'cl knots, with knowing eyes 
 And soften'd whispers low, the gallants gone. 
 
 It was a sight to see the grey-hair'd man 
 Pace in the hall, when they were in pursuit. 
 To see the anxious anguish in his face, 
 And sad reproachful sorrow of his eyes, 
 For her that wrong' d him so ! Some bitter thoughts 
 
 O o 
 
 Strove in his old heart, you might plainly see, 
 By his knit brow. One time he took quick strides, 
 In anger not his wont, with hurried looks, 
 About the hall : another time stopp'd short, 
 And stared, forgetful : or, another time, 
 Sore troubled to decide, yet sick to think, 
 He threw him restless in the dais seat. 
 But by-and-bye, you saw, things seem'd to grow 
 More hopeful. Then he took a calmer tone,
 
 86 An Idyll of Haddon. 
 
 And seem'd in doubt. Till slow, so slow, at last 
 A smile broke like the sun on April days. 
 And quick as thought his servants summoning, 
 He gave command ; and ill-conceal'd surprise 
 Lit up each face with joy, as out they went. 
 And busy murmurs rose about the courts : 
 And through the painted windows, dim with saints, 
 You saw the little chapel lighting up. 
 
 And when at length with haste and panting 
 
 breath 
 
 The hot pursuers came ; and Dora too, 
 And young Sir John ; who at his feet knelt down, 
 To say, " Forgive us ! O Sir, could we help?" 
 Without a single word the old man took 
 Their yielded hands in his ; and led them out 
 Across the great courtyard; and led them on ; 
 Follow'd by all the crowd of dames and knights 
 That flock'd to see ; and spake no word at all ; 
 But led them out ; and never paused one step,
 
 An Idyll of Haddon. 8 7 
 
 Till they beside the lighted altar stood. 
 
 And all that night the dance went merrier 
 Than it had gone before ; and all that night 
 They kept a marriage-feast ; and from that night 
 Lovers took hope. 
 
 And so the tale is done ; 
 A happy ending ! grant all lovers such ! 
 And this is what I went to Haddon for, 
 Or mostly for, this tale that I tell you. 
 And that sweet eve a rare delight it was 
 To note each spot, and lean upon the stone 
 Her fair hand press'd, or mossy steps her feet 
 Touch'd lightly once ; and ever and anon 
 Catch glimpses of her in the trees ; and see 
 The lights flash out upon the dark ; and see 
 The little chapel lighted up ; and hear 
 The music ring ! a rare delight it was ! 
 
 So at the last I tore myself away :
 
 88 An Idyll of Haddon. 
 
 Pass'd through the cold damp hall, whose night- 
 like gloom 
 
 And desolation seem'd to press and creep 
 About your face, and tingle in your ears. 
 Then o'er the bridge ; while under willows, wrapp'd 
 In clouded mist, that thicken'd in the vale, 
 The moonbeam-silver'd earnest water seem'd 
 Like fairy-land, with its enchanted sweep. 
 So on in haste ; so to the little inn 
 In haste ; all night to dream ; then home next morn.
 
 89 
 
 TYPHCEUS. 
 
 TYPHCEUS. 
 
 UN, moon, and stars, hid in a night of pain ; 
 Blacker than midnight here with rolling smoke, 
 And fume of pitch ; and livid-licking flame 
 About my eyes, that flashes in my face 
 With mocking laugh, as if my strength at last 
 Were shorn away, and I no Titan were ; 
 And this dead weight, Typhoeus, shake it off! 
 
 SPIRITS OF THE FLAMES. 
 
 Yes, shake it off, Typhoeus. 
 
 TYPHCEUS. 
 
 Who are ye ? 
 
 That keep a triumph in your laughing mock ; 
 And rail at me?
 
 90 Typhoeus. 
 
 SPIRITS OF THE FLAMES. 
 
 Typhoons, shake it off! 
 
 TYPHCEUS. 
 
 If I could catch you in these writhing hands, 
 Then I would stop your railing. Who are ye ? 
 I I've be spirits of Zeus, that think ye have 
 His might in you, come a minute close, 
 And let me feel you ! 1 would stop your mock, 
 If I could catch you creeping near me now. 
 J have a strength hid in this heart somewhere, 
 That will come soon. 
 
 SPIRITS OF PAIN. 
 
 We will subdue thy strength, 
 
 Typhcuus. 
 
 si- HUTS or THE FLAMES. 
 
 Hist ! If tliou couldst catch us now ? 
 Canst thou not feel us lifkinir in thine ears .'
 
 Typhaus. 9 1 
 
 And kissing thy large hands, as if we loved 
 To toy with strength ? Typhoous, shake it off, 
 If the weight press thce. 
 
 TYPHCEUS. 
 
 O ye eternal Fates ! 
 
 WATCHERS. 
 
 He will not say terrific Zeus does this ; 
 But only Fate. How horrible he is ! 
 
 TYPHCEUS. 
 
 If I could shake this horrid mountain off; 
 
 If I could but a little time grow calm, 
 
 And gather my cow'd strength ; or grasp the flames 
 
 Shrivelling in these hands, and put them out ; 
 
 If I could get a little my lost strength ; 
 
 Or turn upon my side, and roll away 
 
 The grinding rocks
 
 92 Typhaius. 
 
 WATCHERS. 
 
 See how he writhes in pain ! 
 If he can but do what he thinks, and turn 
 His weary side; if he roll off the mass 
 Of lava-livid mountain in the deep ; 
 Zeus in his citadel may shake for fear. 
 If he can open those shut eyes, and see 
 The blessed stars, and stand upon his feet, 
 And breathe himself, he will heap up again 
 Pelion upon Ossa. 
 
 SPIRITS. 
 Thou art bound 
 
 With subtle links of pain. The flame has thec. 
 It will not loose thee any more, Typhoons. 
 
 WATCHERS. 
 
 lie cannot shake it ofF ; the rock holds firm ; 
 Rolling on him again, to keep him down : 
 Though all the earth shudders to feel him move.
 
 Typhceus. 93 
 
 He lies quite still. The thing perplexes him. 
 His eyes fix vague, as if he mused in doubt. 
 
 TYPHCEUS. 
 
 It will come back again. It fails me now. 
 
 It grew upon me in my youth, this strength, 
 
 A mighty joy. Even a little child, 
 
 I tore the pines out of the rocks with ease. 
 
 It does forsake me now. It will come back. 
 
 SPIRITS. 
 It will come back, Typhoeus. 
 
 TYPHCEUS. 
 
 It was a sight 
 
 To make the Fates relent : Enceladus, 
 By terror-flashing bolt of Zeus struck dead, 
 A massy blacken'd corpse, stretch' d many a rood, 
 Along the wreck of lands where battle swept ! 
 And all the rest of them ! I hear the deep
 
 94 TyphcBus. 
 
 Rocking about the bases of the isle ; 
 And in its hollow caverns under me 
 Moaning for ruth, and hissing with the flame. 
 May be an age shall pass before this strength 
 Grow what it was. 
 
 SPIRITS OF THE FLAMES. 
 
 We will subdue thy strength 
 It is but weak already. We will scorch 
 Thy sinews into wires, and crack thy bones, 
 Thou trustcst in to help thee. We shall dry 
 The blood up in thy heart ere long, Typhu.'iis, 
 
 SPIRITS OF I'AI N. 
 
 We will subdue thee soon. 
 
 How gr< at lie is, 
 
 Making himself a greater than himself 
 With his proud calm. The gods get little praise
 
 . 95 
 
 He makes himself mightier than the gods. 
 
 TYPHOEUS. 
 
 If it be in the wisdom of the Fates 
 To make him stronger for a little time, 
 Let him not think I fear his puny pains. 
 Lashes of flames, and molten chains of rocks, 
 And liquid, livid flowing of these ores, 
 That melt about my limbs, and lick the flesh 
 To sores and boils, and run in little streams 
 Through cavern glooms, into the sea beneath, 
 It is not these Typhams fears to meet. 
 For I will lie beneath the weight and shut 
 My lids for calm ; and curse him in my heart : 
 Knowing the ancient strength will come sometime. 
 It may be days, or years, or ages hence : 
 But time is little to eternal life ; 
 And strength will come. I, lying here till then, 
 Will rest at ease, as on a meadow couch ; 
 Turning upon my side sometimes for change.
 
 96 Typhoeus. 
 
 WATCHERS. 
 
 How terrible he is ! The spirits cease 
 Their taunts, to wonder at him. 
 
 TYPHCEUS. 
 
 It is not 
 
 The writhing pain and flame that trouble me ; 
 And not so much my strength awhile subdued, 
 Or base defeat ; but in my clouded thought 
 A little doubt. 
 
 WATCHERS. 
 
 What can his doubt be, then .' 
 
 TYPIKEUS. 
 
 If it be writ in Fates that Zeus be king, 
 Is anv heart so bold, or hand so strong, 
 That it may cut it from the scroll of Fates .' 
 If it be so, who is Typhoeus then ?
 
 Typhceus. 97 
 
 If it be written, as I think it is, 
 
 What is it in the Future can bring help, 
 
 Though year by year the ages roll away ? 
 
 SPIRITS. 
 
 What is it in the Future can bring help ? 
 
 Tell us, Typhceus. It is little need 
 
 To wait for ages : why not burst free now ? 
 
 WATCHERS. 
 
 How his eyes stare into the hollow gloom ! 
 As if the dark were thick with beckoning hands ! 
 As if he saw the battle raging fierce 
 Again, and sudden terror of the gods ! 
 
 TYPHCEUS. 
 
 Then if Enceladus, a blasted trunk 
 Of Titan ruin and wreck, were no more so ; 
 And rose up strong, not rotting on the meads ; 
 H
 
 98 Typhceus. 
 
 And if the ancient strength grew up again 
 
 In all of us, and with it dire revenge ; 
 
 Cottus and Gyes and Briareus, 
 
 And I, Typhoeus, and Porphyrion ; 
 
 And if we gather'd in a brotherhood 
 
 About Olympus proud, and held close siege 
 
 To Zeus and all his brood of weakling girls ; 
 
 And all his nymphs, and goddesses of youth, 
 
 And petty queens of beauty died of fear ; 
 
 If we pluck'd up Olympus by the roots, 
 
 And if we huii'd his sun from his high scat, 
 
 And shrinking moon, arid pull'd his stars on him ; 
 
 And plotted for his hundred realms such dread, 
 
 And such confusion in his fastnesses, 
 
 With our mere force ; would it avail us much ? 
 
 If he be writ in Fates supreme, and be 
 
 For ever shielded of the Destinies ? 
 
 It would be little better in the end. 
 
 For somehow we should fail, and it would all 
 
 End in our ruin, as before it did.
 
 Typhceus. 99 
 
 WATCHERS. 
 
 Now he would seem to work it out in thought. 
 He shuts the sear'd lids over his fierce eyes. 
 The mocking spirits echo him : 
 
 SPIRITS. 
 
 -Would all 
 End in your ruin. 
 
 WATCHERS. 
 
 See, he has it now ! 
 
 TYPHCEUS. 
 
 This it is, then : what is 'twere best to bear. 
 
 It is not I would ever yield to Fate, 
 
 Because Fate strove to crush and make me yield : 
 
 It is not I would give Zeus place, because 
 
 This hand could not displace him : I would strive 
 
 Ever and ever through eternal time,
 
 100 Typhceus. 
 
 And thwart his aims and plague and trouble him ; 
 Till his god-life were mostly wretched made 
 With such continual terror of his foes. 
 But this it is, what is 'twere best to bear. 
 
 WATCHERS. 
 
 IIow leisurely he thinks, thought after thought, 
 His knotty problem out ! Look at his eyes ! 
 The visage of the dead were not more calm. 
 As if this were a meadow-couch indeed ! 
 As if the flame lick'd not his bare limbs now ! 
 
 TYPHO3US. 
 
 To bear it, not of terror, but of will. 
 
 If I for fear obey the Destinies ; 
 
 Then I no better were than unsoul'd clay, 
 
 Or sorry beast, or leopard of the hills. 
 
 If I for fear echo to his behest ; 
 
 And lay aside, but at the will of Zeus, 
 
 My unused strength ; I little better were
 
 Typluzus. 101 
 
 Than unskill'd slave, that supples at the whip, 
 And gets a slow reprieve by cringing prayers. 
 That were to make myself a less than he. 
 But if I bear that which there is to bear, 
 Not of constraint, but of my own proud will ; 
 If I put on an energy to keep 
 My heart content, and suffer willingly ; 
 Then I say not " I suffer " any more, 
 But call it triumph. It is victory. 
 Victory, not of Zeus, but I myself 
 Subdue myself. So then I am a god. 
 So then I am a greater than myself. 
 There is no greatness any greater left, 
 Than willingly to bear what must be borne. 
 And ever more the agony shall be 
 The sealing of my greatness : all the pain 
 Be changed from pain, and evermore be joy. 
 The running of the melted ores shall hiss, 
 As melody of triumph after fight : 
 The flaming flame be flag of victory,
 
 102 Typhceus. 
 
 Over my head waved after tug of strife : 
 
 And ever tinder-murmur of the sea 
 
 Be murmur' d sound of one that is content. 
 
 Ever I am a greater than Typhoeus. 
 
 He was a giant in those days of storm ; 
 
 And mighty in a meaner strength, that is 
 
 Put off from him. He has surpass'd himself. 
 
 And Zeus supreme over Typhoons is : 
 
 I greater am, o'er Zeus and him supreme. 
 
 WATCHERS. 
 
 This is a soul that is a king of soul. 
 This is a godhead o'er immortal thought. 
 This is a better kingdom than to sit 
 Throned on Olympus. This is greater far 
 Than any sceptre over kings and men.
 
 103 
 
 JUDGE ELSTON. 
 
 TUDGE ELSTON would not swerve to left or 
 J right; 
 
 And people sometimes call'd him stern and hard : 
 But had they known him well they had not said it. 
 These many years he was a widower. 
 But even when his grief and loss were new, 
 How often would he sit beside his fire, 
 And fondle with his little daughter's cheek ! 
 And leave the lamps unlit, and make the blaze 
 Flare up and flicker round the red warm room, 
 To play with shadows of the statuary ! 
 And still the great hand hold the little hand, 
 And smooth the locks spread on those failing knees ! 
 
 Now gliding years had made her womanly.
 
 104 Judge Elston. 
 
 And when the labour of the day was done, 
 
 He loved to teach her in the waning nights : 
 
 A sweeter duty, though not holier: 
 
 A task like reading in a valued book 
 
 A dear friend gives, or dead one leaves behind. 
 
 A quiet smile would play about his face, 
 Half shadow'd with a patient melancholy. 
 As when we gain a good with difficulty ; 
 Scarce good ; half sad ; as coming very late ; 
 So long delay'd, we scarcely look'd for it. 
 But still no doubt it was a blessing to him, 
 And made his daily duty pleasanter. 
 Whenever reckless guilt or vice he saw 
 Tended to make him hard, this soften'd him : 
 Till his one loss he did not lay to heart 
 So much for it. It pleased him year by year 
 To trace the growth of virtues, fit to claim 
 The homage of the best hearts in the land. 
 And when the grace of fullest woman-pride
 
 Judge Elston. 105 
 
 Shone in a face most beautiful as well, 
 He plann'd a scheme of wedded life for her 
 Equal to any : so contented pass'd 
 His days, and waited till the time was ripe. 
 
 And then it was there came a soldier down 
 To Elston Hall, to spend the summer months. 
 The judge had known him when a little boy ; 
 But having lost the youngster in the world, 
 He ask'd him down, to spend the summer months, 
 And burnish new the rusted intimacy. 
 All day they fish'd, or rode about the land. 
 And in the dying lustre of the eves 
 He often sang ; or join'd a sweet duet ; 
 Or deftly turn'd the unwilling music-leaves : 
 Or often some protracted game of chess 
 Beguiled the hours. 
 
 And so the judge was glad : 
 Well pleased to see a young man's gallantry.
 
 106 Judge Elston. 
 
 He did not guess a baser game was play'd. 
 
 It never cross'd him, in his open mind, 
 
 That guile may lurk with one that wears a sword. 
 
 He did not see another baser game 
 
 Was playing ever deeper morn by morn, 
 
 And night by night sure-closing towards the end. 
 
 When any voice dropp'd half a tone or so, 
 
 He did not mark it, feeling so content. 
 
 When unintending fingers overset 
 
 One half the board, and touch'd a snowy hand 
 
 And queenly, seeming to set right a queen ; 
 
 When any blush could scarcely be concealM, 
 
 Because one foot trod on another foot 
 
 By chance ; he did not see it : how should he ! 
 
 And yet we guess these guilty things so soon ! 
 
 Men ever selfish ; women over-weak ; 
 
 God keep us from temptation. 
 
 Ask me not. 
 In part because it is too sad to tell :
 
 Judge Elston. 107 
 
 In part because I do not mean to tell it. 
 
 No matter if we miss a curse or so, 
 
 And leave it to some other arbiter. 
 
 And yet one thing I say, and I will say, 
 
 Because one somewhere knows this tale is true : 
 
 A soldier should have been more honourable ; 
 
 And not have let his little lusts beguile 
 
 A simple soul, and break an old man's heart. 
 
 The summer closed ; the soldier went his way : 
 The lady took a settled melancholy. 
 And when the old judge mark'd her wayward fits, 
 He thought him of the gilded epaulets ; 
 Saying within his mind, " I see it all : 
 A maiden's whim : a little change will heal it." 
 So took her with him to the city's whirl. 
 But when she slipp'd away, and came no more, 
 He doubted : saying, " She has fled with him : 
 For yesternight he sail'd." 
 
 He wept at it.
 
 108 Judge JEIston. 
 
 The old man wept. Because it was unkind 
 To leave him so. His heart was greatly hurt. 
 But by-and-bye he made a fond excuse, 
 With some device of" wayward woman" in it: 
 And mix'd her pardon with no thought of sin. 
 
 How many people call'd him stern and hard, 
 When he would do his duty eagerly ! 
 Had they but seen the grief he strove to drown 
 In busy days and law's perplexities ; 
 Or seen him in the vacant after-hours, 
 Or by the fireside more than desolate ; 
 They might have call'd him just, but deem'd him 
 kind. 
 
 But all his labour was an effort to him. 
 And any practiced eye that wutch'd him close 
 Saw touch of fever in his eagerness. 
 And evermore he did not seem the same : 
 But aged apace; and all his hair grew grey.
 
 Judge Elston. 109 
 
 One morning, sitting in the open court, 
 A wretched woman stood before his bar, 
 For murder. She had hid a little one 
 Deep in some pit, and drown'd it like a dog. 
 She would not speak : but spread her net of hair 
 Thick o'er the forehead ; cover'd with one hand 
 Her eyes ; and sobb'd. There was no doubt to raise. 
 She would not even plead her guiltlessness. 
 But when the judge-rose up to read her doom, 
 She threw the black hair back, and raised her eyes, 
 And shriek'd " My father." 
 
 Then the old man paled 
 To such a livid paleness. In his grasp 
 You heard the papers rustle. Looking on her 
 His eyes grew dizzy. Then he stretch'd a hand 
 To one that stood beside him : held the arm 
 To lean upon : and read it calm and slow, 
 The righteous sentence of a righteous doom. 
 
 A scene those seeing it will not forget.
 
 110 Judge Elston. 
 
 But he, the hand of God took pity on him, 
 And took him. 
 
 Do you shrink ? The tale is true. 
 O in this world is not a sweeter thing 
 Than sacred love : and duty is but cold. 
 But as the snow-cold alpine summit keeps 
 In summer heat the highest beauty pure ; 
 So simple duty is more beautiful 
 Than private love, and is the best of all.
 
 Ill 
 
 w 
 
 IN THE PLAGUE. 
 
 ITALY. NOON. Two NOBLES. 
 
 FIRST NOBLE. 
 
 HAT think you of it? 
 
 SECOND NOBLE. 
 
 How ? are you afraid ? 
 
 FIRST NOBLE. 
 
 Why, no ; not that : and yet it made me creep 
 To pass those wretched, huddled women there. 
 
 SECOND NOBLE. 
 
 They take that slip for shadow : so they crouch 
 Along it, breathing one another's eyes 
 Half blind. I hate them.
 
 112 In the Plague. 
 
 FIRST NOBLE. 
 
 Well, I know you do. 
 I should not care to touch them ; any more 
 Than I should care to touch a newt or toad. 
 They come of noble stock, though : how their sires 
 Blaze out like comets in our calendars ! 
 You catch a little glimmer of it yet 
 In those proud eyes. 
 
 That woman loved her lad. 
 Her breasts were dry as hay. 
 
 SECOND NOBLE. 
 
 And yet she sat 
 Hugging him that way. Man, the lad was dead. 
 
 FIRST NOBLE. 
 
 I knew it. 
 
 SECOND NOBLE. 
 
 Trust me, if this cursed heat
 
 In the Plague. 113 
 
 Were not so fierce, he would have been by this 
 As cold as clay. 
 
 FIRST NOBLE. 
 
 I saw it in his eyes. 
 What think you of this plague ? 
 
 SECOND NOBLE. 
 
 Tut, man ! for death, 
 
 It comes : I care not for it. I am scorch'd 
 To parchment. Come on past the fountain there. 
 My tongue twists like a sea-shell. 
 
 FIRST NOBLE. 
 
 Little good, 
 
 I tell you. Not a drop to drink you'll find. 
 I pass'd the basin scarce an hour ago, 
 Before I met you : it is dry as salt. 
 
 SECOND NOBLE. 
 
 You mean it ?
 
 1 14 In the Plague. 
 
 FIRST NOBLE. 
 
 That I do. 
 
 SECOND NOBLE. 
 
 Well, come this way 
 I hate the square : they let the bodies lie 
 Till worms creep in and out about the eyes. 
 When do the men go round ? 
 
 FIRST NOBLE. 
 
 At three, 1 think. 
 
 This morning, as I near'd the city gate, 
 A woman rush'd close past, and sliriek'd, " the 
 
 Plague!" 
 
 And fell beside the little water-jet. 
 Ere you could take your cap oft' she was dead: 
 But no one stirr'd. 
 
 SEC'OM) NOBLE. 
 
 A trifle makes them base.
 
 In the Plague. 115 
 
 This heat, though, look up at the villas there ! 
 They shine like spars. 
 
 FIRST NOBLE. 
 
 I cross'd the bridge to-day. 
 The stream is filthy. Such a stench came up 
 Along the air, you almost choked. The noon 
 Was still as midnight. Not a gondola 
 Or fishing craft stirr'd on the sunken tide. 
 The river with its seven broad arches there 
 Had shrunk to four. 
 
 SECOND NOBLE. 
 
 I wish I had not left 
 
 My palace. So I wish'd this morning, too ; 
 When I saw ten men digging in a field, 
 As I guess, pits. If they had finish'd them, 
 And then got into them, by their wild eyes, 
 They had served the State. Man, this is horrid work, 
 For all that.
 
 116 In the Plague. 
 
 FIRST NOBLE. 
 
 Heard you what the madman said ? 
 
 SECOND NOBLE. 
 
 Heard what he said ? 
 
 FIRST NOBLE. 
 
 Yes ; that mad tale he told 
 Last night, to scare the women. 
 
 SECOND NOBLK. 
 
 No ; what was it? 
 
 FIRST NOBLE. 
 
 As he was skulking by San Stefuno's, 
 
 He seeni'd caught up in a wind. lie kept his feet : 
 
 And. turning sudden, slipp'd inside the porch. 
 
 He did not say what led him lurking there 
 
 At that late hour ; but it was nigh mid night.
 
 In the Plague. 117 
 
 And muffling up his eyes for fear at first, 
 
 And squeezing close behind the arch, he heard 
 
 A mighty noise of wheels dash round the square. 
 
 Then, eager to find out the cause, he stirr'd 
 
 His valour up, and peeping round a saint, 
 
 Saw all the space lit up, he says, with wild, 
 
 Sick, lurid glare, such as you see sometimes 
 
 Across a cloud, when half a villa bursts 
 
 In flame at night, conceal'd behind some hill. 
 
 Then came a muffled, wailing undersound : 
 
 And right athwart the steps a chariot 
 
 Flash'd like an arrow. All the wheels shot fire 
 
 About the axles. They were black as death : 
 
 The chariot black. And four white horses whirl'd 
 
 The wonder ; flying, as he says, with wings 
 
 That flared like torches, winnowing all the air, 
 
 And driving it against his face like flame. 
 
 And in the chariot, more than human size, 
 
 Gigantic, stood erect it seem'd a king ; 
 
 Ay, more. And round him flow'd a mystic cloak,
 
 113 In the Plague. 
 
 Flame-blue, lit up with yellow, sickly spots 
 That glared like eyes : and on his head a crown 
 Of gold rose solemn over long white hail- 
 About his shoulders. All his face was dark, 
 But noble, with a terror of resolve 
 Around the eyes, beneath a broad great brow, 
 Half hidden in the crown. He look'd right on, 
 Eager and stern ; and thick beside his car 
 Ran black, swift slaves. It flash'd so full on him, 
 The madman tells, he fell down in the porch ; 
 And when his sense came back the night was still. 
 
 SECOND NOBLE. 
 
 So this he told the women. Were they scared .' 
 
 FIRST NOBLE. 
 
 Ay, that they were. They sat as still as death ; 
 Pale cheeks, wild eyes : while he threw up his arms 
 
 So.
 
 In the Plague. 119 
 
 SECOND NOBLE. 
 
 So ! I think you half believe it, now. 
 
 FIRST NOBLE. 
 
 He said it was the Demon of the Plague, 
 Or Death himself. 
 
 SECOND NOBLE. 
 
 Why, now, you half believe it : 
 You look so serious. Which way do you go ? 
 
 FIRST NOBLE. 
 
 This. 
 
 Look here ! women ! dead as fish ! a man 
 Dead, too ! no, dying ! watch his eyes. 
 
 SECOND NOBLE. 
 
 Well! Well! 
 
 This death is somewhat gloomy. I go this way. 
 We meet to-rnorrow at Count Otto's.
 
 120 In the Plague. 
 
 FIRST NOBLE. 
 
 SECOND NOBLE. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 By then you must forget the madman's dream.
 
 121 
 
 THE VIGIL. 
 
 r I ^HE morning light comes dim and thick 
 
 Through dark of clouded ways ; 
 Slow drawing upwards pale and sick, 
 
 And dull with lurid haze ; 
 A heavy dampness hangs about 
 
 This little chapel's crumbled wall ; 
 And shrill bleak wind blows in and out 
 
 Its arches soon to fall. 
 
 And yet the stars they made all night 
 
 A holy temple-roof; 
 With blessed beams and sacred light 
 
 A silent- woven woof: 
 A ceiling clear of seraphim, 
 
 Unmatch'd of art or painter's skill,
 
 122 The Vigil. 
 
 From rim to rim of ivy dim, 
 
 With beauty framed at will. 
 
 All night the moon-made shadows lay 
 
 Along the roofless Avails ; 
 And lichen'd ash-trees, green by day, 
 
 Were black as funeral palls. 
 The shadow of the crucifix 
 
 Fell on the snow-spread altar-place ; 
 And traced the hours from six to six 
 
 Across the chancel space. 
 
 And all the floor was crumbled stones, 
 
 And clinging ash-tree roots ; 
 And broken tombs, and moulder'd bones, 
 
 And lichen emerald shoots. 
 The scatter'd bones lay there I know ; 
 
 The lichen shoots were fresh and green 
 But snow lay still, or drifting blew 
 
 In heaps, they were not seen.
 
 The Vigil 123 
 
 Within the chancel kneeling low, 
 
 The moon shone full on me. 
 Her glassy beams lit up the snow. 
 
 She seem'd a saint to be. 
 Such halo round her radiant hair 
 
 Was spread, my soul her influence felt : 
 And I breath'd there a holier prayer, 
 
 Within the chancel knelt. 
 
 From night till morn in trance I pray'd, 
 
 In trance of guilt and fear ; 
 In trance of bliss for my sin laid 
 
 On One with strength to bear ; 
 In struggle with the bitter throes 
 
 Of sin, the passions striving keen ; 
 Till my tears rose and slowly froze 
 
 On my cheeks seam'd and lean. 
 
 The frosty wind blew sharp and cold, 
 And whistled in the aisles ;
 
 124 The Vigil 
 
 Came up across the lonely wold, 
 To help the tempter's wiles. 
 
 I have not such hard vigil kept, 
 
 I think, through all the gliding year 
 
 The still chills crept ; I nigh hud slept ; 
 But angels chanted near. 
 
 At first I could not see the star 
 
 Of heavenly mercy beam 
 Upon me, in the heavens afar; 
 
 I could not hear the stream 
 Of Life flow near me ; I would fain 
 
 Have felt the founts of being cease ; 
 So long in pain I strove in vain 
 
 To touch the skirts of peace. 
 
 The sin I felt kcen-tooth'd and strong; 
 
 The good shone dim to me ; 
 Like little streaks of light along 
 
 The far-off eastern sea :
 
 The Vigil 125 
 
 And all my heart seem'd foul with sin ; 
 
 A guilty thing, and all unfit 
 For God's pure peace to enter in, 
 
 Or make a home in it. 
 
 And hour by hour I strove to beat 
 
 The hellish whispers down ; 
 With rigid knees and freezing feet 
 
 Half to the marble grown. 
 I strove, the Spirit strove in me, 
 
 My hands the cold snow clenching fast, 
 Strove hard in me, till I was free, 
 
 And love shone plain at last. 
 
 The little imps slid off the tombs; 
 
 No hell-eyes gleam'd about ; 
 The grinning fiends from aisled glooms 
 
 And angles faded out : 
 And all the loathsome devil-leer, 
 
 And all the harshness of the place,
 
 126 The Vigil 
 
 And all the fear and horror near, 
 Were scatter'd, by God's grace. 
 
 The leering lights, with looks of Hell, 
 
 Grew angels' eyes to see : 
 AVitli wordless smile, too sweet to tell, 
 
 And fnces turn'd on me. 
 And angel shapes, with raiment white, 
 
 And soothing voices sweet to hear, 
 Rose on my sight, and glided light, 
 
 Or touch'd me, leaning near. 
 
 A dreamy splendour seem'd to rise, 
 
 And round the chancel spread ; 
 And fill my face, and blind my fycs, 
 
 And gather o'er my head : 
 And on the letters of the Lord 
 
 Upon the altar-cloth I laid, 
 Like Hash of sword flung heaven- ward, 
 
 The silver radiance play'd.
 
 The Vigil 127 
 
 And then a vision came from God, 
 
 Of sainted lustre clear ; 
 And feet, that heavenly pavements trod, 
 
 Stood white and noiseless near. 
 A sainted show ! a mystic sight ! 
 
 O wonder, iny eyes look'd upon ! 
 Slow-shaped in light, till perfect quite ! 
 
 The blessed saint St. John ! 
 
 He stood beside the chancel-cross, 
 
 Erect in spirit-sheen : 
 The shadow smote his robes across, 
 
 Clear-cast, but was not seen. 
 He, being spirit, could not take 
 
 A shade, or feel the keen wind's breath. 
 His robes no shake or wave did make : 
 
 His bright feet shone beneath. 
 
 And he had on a silver band, 
 
 High-clasp'd across the breast;
 
 128 The Vigil. 
 
 A reed of gold was in his hand ; 
 
 A pierced lamb on the chest : 
 An eagle keen, for centre-piece, 
 
 Upon his golden crown was fix'd ; 
 And to his knees, gold-roll' d at ease, 
 
 His hair with white robes mix'd. 
 
 The eagle-wings spread out in flame ; 
 
 The eagle-eyes look'd up : 
 And round the crown was graved a name. 
 
 His right hand held a cup. 
 And in the cup a scorpion. 
 
 But clear through all the pure face glow'd ; 
 The deep-loved one, the saint St. John, 
 
 From mansion-homes with God. 
 
 He was not like that fisher Jew, 
 
 By old Lake Cinnereth ; 
 That lightning-flames in spirit drew, 
 
 To blast profaning breath :
 
 The Vigil. 129 
 
 Nor him who writ in Patmos' isle 
 
 The awful-worded prophet-dream : 
 
 Nor him whose smile, God-lit the while, 
 A sun of love did seem. 
 
 The graven name I could not read. 
 
 He did not speak to me. 
 Yet warning voice I did not need : 
 
 I knew that this was he. 
 I knew him by the holy flame 
 
 Of earnest fervour in the face ; 
 That went and came, and told his name, 
 
 The chosen child of Grace. 
 
 I fell upon my face in fear ; 
 
 Sore dazzled at the sight : 
 To have God's holy saint so near, 
 
 With sainted blaze of light. 
 But all his smile grew deep in me ; 
 
 And I am calm with heavenly peace : 
 K
 
 130 The Vigil 
 
 The end I see; the joys to be : 
 In love God's wrath will cease. 
 
 And when at length my sense came back, 
 
 And I took heart to look, 
 The saintly shape had left no track; 
 
 God him to heaven took. 
 There was no footprint left of him 
 
 Along the snow ; the light was sick ; 
 The stranded moon was faint and dim ; 
 
 The eastern clouds roll'd thick. 
 
 But I in heart am comforted 
 
 With trust ; my soul is glad. 
 I do not feel my aching head, 
 
 For vision that I had. 
 Only my flesh a little creeps, 
 
 And my teeth chatter as 1 go ; 
 My numb heart sleeps, and still joy keeps 
 
 I do not feel the snow.
 
 131 
 
 w 
 
 THE LADY MARY. 
 
 ITH taper white-gloved hands a-play 
 
 Along the bright reins, loosely thrown 
 O'er her steed's neck of dapple grey, 
 The Lady Mary, light and gay, 
 Rode by me toward the town. 
 
 Her chesnut hair fell loose and full, 
 
 Under a little gipsy hat ; 
 And sunny gleams, right glad to cull 
 Kisses from her eyes beautiful, 
 Play'd on her as she sat. 
 
 So joyous-fresh the morning was, 
 Sun-chequer'd leaves so rich to see ;
 
 132 The Lady Mary. 
 
 So glad it made her heart to pass, 
 Seeing the thrushes in the grass ; 
 And such a blissful glee 
 
 Echoed along the avenue, 
 
 High-roof d with boughs, and beechen-aisled 
 And buoyant airs and deeps of blue, 
 The fretted roof-arch leaning through, 
 So much her heart beguiled ; 
 
 That as she bent, its neck to pat, 
 
 Over the proud steed airily ; 
 Under the little gipsy hat, 
 With merry eyes, to wonder at, 
 I thought she smiled on me. 
 
 And I all day a childish-hearted 
 
 And dreamy rhymer, fancy-full ; 
 With filmy threads of passion, darted 
 From sprays of hope, and wide disparted, 
 As fancy's airs might pull
 
 The Lady Mary. 133 
 
 This way or that ; a gossamer 
 
 Frail web of airy love went weaving ; 
 Lay thrilling underneath the stir 
 Of netted smiles that flew from her, 
 Made of my own believing. 
 
 I thought, how shall we scheme to meet, 
 Hid in the hidden copses somewhere ? 
 And put our loves in words as sweet 
 As sweet love's self; nor fear the feet 
 Of any sly chance-comer 
 
 Shall basely track us where we sit ; 
 
 A hated minute look upon us ; 
 Then light away on tip-toe flit, 
 And with unkind tongue whisper it; 
 And bring the Marquis on us ? 
 
 O then, how shall it be? Some night 
 Shall I beneath her lattice fasten
 
 134 The Lady Mary. 
 
 A ladder firm ; and set her light 
 Down on the lawn, close-wrapt for flight ? 
 Then we our hid flight hasten 
 
 Over the sea, before the day 
 
 Shall on the straining white sails glisten ? 
 Over the fresh foam offaAvay, 
 To Greece or sun-kiss'd Italy ? 
 And smile, nor care to listen 
 
 To whisper'd words of travellers, 
 
 When we wed in the cabin there ? 
 Then, heeding not sly looks of theirs, 
 Stroll upon deck to catch the airs 
 Of morning breaking fair : 
 
 Our glad hearts all a-flutter yet, 
 
 With hurry of the secret flight? 
 But sad to think in one hall, set 
 Among green hills, chocks will be wet 
 With teai-s ere moriiinir lijrht?
 
 The Lady Mary. 135 
 
 Or can I think O better still ! 
 
 If ever such good star might shine ! 
 The old kind-hearted Marquis will 
 Give heed to prayers, nor take it ill 
 To place her hand in mine ? 
 
 Seeing he is so poor, and I 
 
 As rich as any Jew, would he 
 Do well to let the chance slip by ? 
 Perhaps the girl might pine and die ! 
 Well, no ! it seem'd to me. 
 
 So, day by day, in my conceit, 
 
 I walk'd the beech-lined avenue ; 
 And listen'd for the grey steed's feet ; 
 And sighing long'd that I might meet 
 My Lady riding through. 
 
 Long time I sigh'd, and sighing waited ; 
 And now it is the eventful dav !
 
 136 The Lady Mary. 
 
 To-day, O day, unhappy-fated ! 
 
 Never to be forgot, and hated ! 
 
 My Lady rode my way. 
 
 At highest noon-heat, sultry flame 
 
 Fanning her royal cheeks to fever ; 
 With busy teasing gnats, that came 
 Buzzing about her eyes, those same 
 Sweet eyes,- intent to grieve her ; 
 
 The Lady Mary rode by me ; 
 
 And I, to meet her all a-flutter, 
 Looking in her face, sweet to see, 
 With steady gaze, raised blushingly 
 My face, love-looks to utter. 
 
 And while I thought, O Lady best, 
 
 No one is near us, she will stop ; 
 Lean down a little, her lips press'd 
 Upon my forehead hot ; or, least 
 Of all, a letter drop.
 
 The Lady Mary. 137 
 
 A letter just to say, " To-night, 
 
 In such a wood beside the park, 
 A little moss mound hidden quite 
 There is, to whisper our delight, 
 So soon as day grows dark." 
 
 While I thought such things foolishly, 
 
 Mad anger in her eyes was born : 
 Curving a proud neck haughtily, 
 With sudden glance she flash'd on me 
 Her look of blinding scorn. 
 
 O silly dreams ! I haste to seek 
 
 Some grassy spot, where I may cool 
 The blushing shame that burns my cheek. 
 My heart sinks in me while I speak. 
 I feel myself a fool.
 
 138 
 
 THE MYTH OF PROMETHEUS. 
 
 A VOICE out of the hollow distances; 
 
 "" A shudder through the darkness, and a cry 
 Across the pressing midnight, now and then : 
 Prometheus bound. 
 
 Wild bases of his crag 
 Set in the deep ; a sullen heavy wash 
 Of restless water dash'd eternally 
 Into the sea-scoop'd caves; a barren front 
 Of unseen granite lifted half a league, 
 And bleak with storm, the summit in a haze 
 Of misty stars, and midnight thick as lock 
 Of thunder-clouds ; and ever and anon 
 A cry, a groan, unecho'd, ebbing down
 
 The Myth of Prometheus. 139 
 
 Over the hidden dulness of the land : 
 Prometheus chain'd. 
 
 Limbs netted, all a-writhe 
 With galling links, and all the Gods' revenge, 
 There on the jagged summit of the crag, 
 Unseen ; the vulture preying ceaselessly ; 
 The open side ; the bleeding heart ; the growth 
 Of precious carrion for the bird and Gods ; 
 Because he took that little subtle flame 
 Of fire, that spark, that makes the clay godlike. 
 
 Immortal, being mortal ; made a God 
 Unwitting; having in him seed of years 
 That baffle time ; yet in the place of calm, 
 And blissful ease of immortality, 
 And ease of lilies and the asphodel, 
 And ease of strife sheathed in a conscious strength, 
 Instead of these, O in the place of these, 
 A vulture.
 
 140 The Myth of Prometheus. 
 
 Is it some old poet-dream, 
 Some nervous fancy of a simmering brain, 
 Some wayward myth, some legend of the Greek ? 
 Or living, real, unfathom'd, here, in me ?
 
 141 
 
 w 
 
 A PHANTOM. 
 
 HAT is it in me making dim 
 
 The daily ways and forms of things ? 
 That makes a mist before me swim ; 
 Or in the fire-flame sings ? 
 
 That makes the ground seem soft to tread, 
 
 The grass to rustle as I go ; 
 The curling smoke seem vague and dead ; 
 The gliding moments slow ? 
 
 It stays with me in all my moods. 
 
 It makes the lamp burn strange and weak. 
 It fills my brain with winds and woods. 
 It touches hands and cheek.
 
 142 A Phantom. 
 
 It creeps across my musing brow. 
 
 It wafts my face. It moves my hair. 
 It comes and goes, I know not how. 
 It goes, but lingers near. 
 
 Sometimes in melancholy fit 
 
 I weary lean, and close my eyes. 
 And that is favour'd time for it ; 
 It wanes ; it grows ; it dies. 
 
 Sometimes an old tune in my head 
 
 Sings hilling-low, and rocks, and creeps. / 
 But all the words are lost and dead : 
 
 \ 
 
 The song one meaning keeps. 
 
 Sometimes I think I am a man ; 
 
 And I must rise to work and will. 
 I do my work as best I can. 
 
 The dream moves in me still.
 
 A Phantom. 143 
 
 Sometimes I catch a glimpse of God, 
 
 And holy spiritual sights ; 
 And prayers, and ways that saints have trod ; 
 And truth, and stars, and lights. 
 
 And then a little while it goes ; 
 
 Seems lost and gone ; but soon comes back : 
 Before my vision moves and grows ; 
 And makes a shining track. 
 
 I cannot work my work to-day. 
 
 In wonder I lay down my pen. 
 For thought has stray'd, and fancies play ; 
 And it comes clear again. 
 
 Sometimes it wraps me like a mist, 
 
 And creeps about me as I sit. 
 Sometimes a face, that might be kiss'd, 
 If I could reach to it,
 
 144 A Phantom. 
 
 Looks on me, like a face I know ; 
 
 With blessed eyes, that smile most sweet. 
 Then it to arms will slowly grow, 
 
 That round my neck would meet. 
 
 And oft it sits beside my hearth, 
 
 A homely grace, a woman meek : 
 And oft a little child puts forth 
 Its hand to touch my cheek. 
 
 And oft it will wave off and be 
 
 A hand I never clasp'd, I know : 
 And some one wailing long for me ; 
 To whom 1 may not go. 
 
 I wish it would take shape and stay ; 
 
 That I could learn it what it is; 
 And not be shadow night and day, 
 With neither pain nor bliss.
 
 A Phantom. 145 
 
 And if it proved a baleful ghost, 
 
 Then I could face it and have rest. 
 If it were something I love most, 
 Then would my heart feel blest. 
 
 I do not think that it would prove 
 A baleful thing unbless'd to be : 
 But, as I think, a thing to love ; 
 Sweet-fashion' d ; made for me. 
 
 Perchance a woman, heaven-sent ; 
 
 A homely woman, calm and good ; 
 Of subtle brain and pure intent : 
 I almost think it would. 
 
 I even fancy it would seem 
 
 That rounded homely face I know ; 
 Those grey wet eyes that look and gleam 
 About me as I go. 
 L
 
 146 A Phantom. 
 
 Yet would it would take shape and stay ; 
 
 And not a ghostly phantom move. 
 O heart of mine, O lone heart, say, 
 Is this the ghost of love ?
 
 147 
 
 AVICE ETHEL. 
 
 A VICE Ethel's face of calm, 
 
 Though a village girl she be, 
 Is a blessed thing to keep 
 
 In your fancy, seems to me. 
 Often it before me slips, 
 
 Coming like a sweet surprise ; 
 With its grace about the lips, 
 
 And its sweetness round the eyes. 
 
 Though she often finds the world 
 
 Not so kind and somewhat hard, 
 
 Twenty summers leave a grace 
 
 Twenty winters have not marr'd. 
 
 Avice Ethel has not seen 
 
 Twenty years without their pain ;
 
 148 Avice Ethel 
 
 Yet whatever grief has been, 
 
 Surely grief has turn'd to gain. 
 
 Such a gulf between us yawns, 
 
 Though an idle fear it be, 
 Somehow I feel half afraid, 
 
 When you look and smile on me. 
 Kindness is so catching, too : 
 
 Avice Ethel, how is this ? 
 That I cannot look at you, 
 
 But I long to steal a kiss ? 
 
 This world it is selfish grown. 
 
 We must covet all the flowers. 
 Now r we cannot like a thing, 
 
 But we long to make it ours. 
 Why should we go plucking so 
 
 Every pretty flower we see ? 
 Why can I not let you grow, 
 
 Like a rosebud, on the tree?
 
 Avice Ethel. 149 
 
 Am I, now, the only one 
 
 Fitted to delight in you ? 
 God has made your sweetness for 
 
 Every simple soul and true. 
 Yea, I think, God does not want 
 
 Any one to claim you, child : 
 But would keep you, quite content, 
 
 Like a cowslip, growing wild. 
 
 You live in a village, hid 
 
 Sweetly out of thought and sight. 
 Any stranger passing by 
 
 Sees your beauty with delight. 
 So, when through a wood we pass, 
 
 We may see a wild-flower grow. 
 We might miss it in the grass : 
 
 Yet God set it there, we know. 
 
 God will never care to look 
 
 On the rich before the poor.
 
 150 Avice Ethel 
 
 He would not a palace love 
 Better than a cottage-door. 
 
 What He makes, He makes it well 
 Means it for all human-kind. 
 
 Is it lilies in a dell ? 
 
 Any one who goes may find. 
 
 So may any villager, 
 
 Look on Avice Ethel's face, 
 Thinking it was made for him, 
 
 With its ruddy, simple grace. 
 It is very happy, too ! 
 
 Bless God that He made it so. 
 Bless Him that He gave it you 
 
 Past the cottages to go.
 
 151 
 
 THE CHAFFINCH. 
 
 r I ^HE winter wind howls back to Northern seas ; 
 And in his stead comes up the Western 
 
 breeze ; 
 And budded leaves break freshly on the trees ; 
 
 So, chaffinch, sing : 
 
 A happy piping pipe, the world to please ; 
 For this is Spring. 
 
 The youngling birds new in the nest are born ; 
 And fresh with April rain springs up the corn ; 
 White-breasted clouds skim swift to greet the 
 morn ; 
 
 So, chaffinch, sing; 
 And pipe thy song, and sit no more forlorn ; 
 
 For this is Spring.
 
 152 The Chaffinch. 
 
 We cannot sing in Winter, if we would : 
 As if the frosty time were fair and good ! 
 But Winter wind blows bleak by Northern flood ;- 
 
 So, chaffinch, sing : 
 Blue-bells are on the hills, the may's abud ; 
 
 For this is Spring. 
 
 The Summer cuckoo comes to sing his best ; 
 The swallow twits to find the ancient nest; 
 Black buds break on the ash, the beech is drest 
 
 With green ; so, sing. 
 Bitter is turn'd to sweet, our hearts to rest ; 
 
 For this is Spring. 
 
 The cressy brooks are purling in the meads ; 
 The plover skims across the crested reeds; 
 The morning melts the amber-tinted beads 
 
 Of dew ; so, sing : 
 And say, the world no wrecks of winter heeds ; 
 
 For this is Spring.
 
 The Chaffinch. 153 
 
 A sunny welcome o'er the land is sent; 
 The honey-flowers with early bees are bent ; 
 The redwing goes ; the bitter winds are spent 
 
 Awhile ; so, sing. 
 Sunny the sunshine is, O rest content ; 
 
 For this is Spring. 
 
 Take, chaffinch, take a novel plume, to keep 
 The festive season ; plumage brown and deep, 
 With tips of blue ; the morning air to sweep 
 
 More gay ; so, sing : 
 And quickly wake the woods from winter sleep ; 
 
 For this is Spring. 
 
 Spring, skipping gaily trim by dike and beck, 
 With wreathed wreaths of flowers herself to deck, 
 With lilies fresh hung round her crystal neck, 
 
 Comes quick : so, sing. 
 Thy glossy throat no taints of winter speck ; 
 
 For this is Spring.
 
 1/54 The Chaffinch. 
 
 So pipe, so sing sweet lays, and let the note 
 
 Trill richly up the ruddy, speckless throat, 
 
 From hedgerows green, and fill the fields, and float 
 
 All day ; so, sing : 
 And heal us, heal us all, whom Winter smote 
 
 With grief, ere Spring.
 
 155 
 
 PALL-BEARING, 
 
 T REMEMBER they sent 
 
 Some one to me, who said, 
 " You were his friend while he lived : 
 Be so now he is dead." 
 
 So I went next day to the house ; 
 
 And a woman nodded to me, 
 As I sat alone in thought : 
 
 Said, " Sir, would you like to see 
 
 " The poor dead body upstairs, 
 Before we rivet the lid ?" 
 
 But I said, " I would rather not : 
 For the look would never be hid
 
 156 Pall-Bearing. 
 
 " From my sight, day after day, 
 From my soul, year after year. 
 
 Enough to look on the pall ; 
 
 Enough to follow the bier." 
 
 So the mourners gather'd at last ; 
 
 And the poor dead body was put 
 In a hearse with mournful plumes ; 
 
 And the door of the hearse was shut. 
 
 And when the mourners were all 
 In the coaches, ready to start, 
 
 The sorrowing parent came 
 
 To me, and whisper'd apart. 
 
 He smiled as well as he could ; 
 
 And the import of what he said 
 Was, that I should bear at the feet, 
 
 And his son would bear at the head.
 
 Pall-Bearing. 157 
 
 He was ever my friend ; 
 
 And I was happy to be 
 Of ever so little use 
 
 To one who had so loved me. 
 
 But what a weight, O God ! 
 
 Was that one coffin to bear ! 
 Like a coffin of lead ! 
 
 And I carry it everywhere 
 
 About, wherever I go ! 
 
 If I lift the slightest thing, 
 That requires an effort to lift, 
 
 The effort at once will bring 
 
 The whole weight into my hands, 
 
 And I carry the corpse at the feet ; 
 
 And feel as if it would drop, 
 
 And slip out of its winding-sheet.
 
 158 Pall-Bearing. 
 
 I have made a vow in my heart, 
 Whatever the friends may say, 
 
 Never to carry a corpse 
 
 Again, to my dying day.
 
 159 
 
 THE SISTERS. 
 
 f I ^WO sisters sit by the embers, 
 Watching the tire burn low 
 It is of me they are thinking 
 In their hearts, I know. 
 
 And scarce a word is spoken, 
 As side by side they sit ; 
 
 And if they speak there is little 
 Of what they think in it. 
 
 For they love me both past telling ; 
 
 And that they think upon. 
 Pity they both should love me, 
 
 Who can love but one.
 
 160 The Sisters. 
 
 Love is a blessing, surely. 
 
 It should make us glad. 
 Pity, with so much loving, 
 
 Three should be so sad. 
 
 The little heart is breaking 
 To lean upon my breast. 
 
 She is but a child, the youngest : 
 I love the eldest best. 
 
 But if she love me strongly, 
 She cannot bear to see 
 
 The life of her sweet sister 
 Pining away for me. 
 
 She with her noble nature, 
 Ever in fear am I, 
 
 Lest she should forsake me, 
 
 That the other rnav not die.
 
 The Sisters. 161 
 
 None can love like we do. 
 
 Gladness were most fit. 
 But ever so little gladness 
 
 We win out of it. 
 
 For I cannot speak of loving, 
 
 Or look her in the face ; 
 Lest I should cause heart-sorrow 
 
 In the fireside place. 
 
 And if the child die sudden, 
 
 And only leave us two ; 
 And learn to love in heaven 
 
 As the angels do ; 
 
 Sicken and die quite sudden, 
 
 And lie in a winding-sheet ; 
 And I to the grave, chief-mourner, 
 
 Carry the cold corpse feet ;
 
 162 The Sisters. 
 
 How should I make the living 
 
 o 
 
 Ever be comforted, 
 If for her the sister 
 
 Lie with homeless head ? 
 
 Never the light shine on me, 
 If I know what to do ! 
 
 This is a sad affair, love. 
 God help me arid you !
 
 163 
 
 STRANGE, BUT TRUE. 
 
 r WAS sitting in my room, 
 
 In the waning of the day ; 
 Making curls of smoke for ease ; 
 Busy with a kitten's play : 
 
 When a sudden hasty knock 
 
 Somewhat vex'd and startled me. 
 
 It was late : how should I guess 
 
 Who the stranger guest might he .' 
 
 Then an old man, much distress'd, 
 I remember'd \vell his face, 
 
 Enter'd, and at my request 
 
 Willing took the fireside place.
 
 164 Strange, but True. 
 
 Many fancies flutter'd up 
 At the visit of the man. 
 
 Not a little, I confess, 
 
 I was puzzled. He began : 
 
 " I believe you know me not. 
 
 Little matter if you do. 
 O forgive me, if I make, 
 
 Sir, a strange request of you." 
 
 Then T said I should be glad. 
 
 Still he seem'd afraid to speak. 
 " Sir," I said, " I shall delight 
 
 To be yours in what you seek." 
 
 Then lie spake, " Though it be stnmge, 
 My sweet girl for love of you 
 
 Will to-night die, as I think. 
 
 Come and see her, O Sir, do ! "
 
 Strange, but True. 165 
 
 " But," I stammer'd, blushing, " if" 
 All in vain : he would not hear 
 
 Any word at all ; but took 
 
 Both my hands : " Sir, Sir, I fear, 
 
 " If you do not come at once, 
 
 Ere we reach she will be dead. 
 
 Say you love her : that will heal. 
 Any kind word, easy said, 
 
 " That will do : but come at once." 
 And his old hands trembled so, 
 
 And his eyes so bitter look'd 
 
 With their grief, I could but go. 
 
 I said, " If I heal her, then, 
 
 When I say it, though I doubt 
 As I do not love her, Sir, 
 
 Duly you will help me out."
 
 166 Strange, but True. 
 
 Then his old eyes glisten'd up 
 Into gladness and content. 
 
 Nothing only " bless you" he 
 Kept repeating as we went. 
 
 So at last we reach'd the house. 
 
 On the door I read his name. 
 Such a man of note, I guess, 
 
 Never yet to my home came. 
 
 In a room chaste, cool, and still, 
 
 She lay on a little bed. 
 Lights were kept unseen and dim. 
 
 Curtains hung around her head. 
 
 Her face, I remember' d it, 
 
 Was so pale ; save in her cheeks 
 
 Little red spots two, that said 
 
 Saddest things. No fear who speaks
 
 Strange, but True. 167 
 
 " I love you," I saw, to her. 
 
 So with step as light as bird, 
 I drew near, and whisper' d soft. 
 
 She was sleeping : yet she heard. 
 
 Never such a look as that, 
 
 As that look she gave me then, 
 
 Lonely eyes of mine, will you 
 
 Drink up on this earth again. 
 
 What I said, why, let it pass : 
 
 Let the words be holy still. 
 No one heard but she that night : 
 
 No one : no one ever will. 
 
 What I said, so low, so kind, 
 
 I ? I never could have thought ! 
 
 Made the red spots wide and bright ; 
 Secret ease to her heart brought.
 
 168 Strange, but True. 
 
 Very soon she fell asleep, 
 
 With her thin hand clasp'd in mine. 
 Long we wept, we watch'd ; her eyes 
 
 Open'd not at morning shine. 
 
 There was sorrow in that house. 
 
 I was very sad : I doubt, 
 Had she lived, I had not press'd 
 
 The old man to help me out.
 
 169 
 
 B 
 
 UNREST. 
 
 EYOND the river willows low and old 
 The sunset makes a golden bar. 
 The rain-fed river keeps 
 Its glassy curves and sweeps 
 
 To-night, to-night. 
 Above the flull-flush'd fleeces and the gold 
 
 Glimmers the evening star. 
 And ever on the west wind, weak and cold, 
 With airy-webbed feet, 
 Tremulous echoes sweet, 
 
 To-night, to-night, 
 Come from far seas where sunset glories are. 
 
 And all the world fades from me : I am gone 
 In spirit away.
 
 170 Unrest. 
 
 I am not sick : I am not lone : 
 But with the sunset and the glimmering day 
 I feel, I feel, as though I were 
 A portion of the glory there : 
 Fused in the beauty, not confused ; 
 As though we in -spirit were one. 
 
 And yet the west winds coldly blow 
 
 Over river and over reed. 
 And I must launch my boat, and go, 
 With unwilling oar and slow, 
 
 To the city where sad men sin. 
 And I would that I were mingled 
 
 The golden sunset in.
 
 171 
 
 AN EVENING HYMN. 
 
 r I CHOUGH the wandering wind is still 
 
 As the shadows on the hill ; 
 Though the birds are in the nest, 
 And the cattle doze at rest ; 
 Though the meadows happy seem 
 With the dewy evening gleam ; 
 In the closing of the day 
 We are stricken : let us pray. 
 
 Help us, Lord ! what have we found ? 
 
 We were better underground. 
 
 Is it so? Lord, earnest give 
 
 It is better we should live. 
 
 Help us, O Lord, in distress ! 
 
 Be with us in bitterness !
 
 172 An Evening Hymn. 
 
 In the closing of the day 
 We are stricken : so we pray. 
 
 Something restless in the heart, 
 And a bitter, bitter smart ; 
 As of something, scarce begun, 
 Growing hopeless, all undone ; 
 Something far, we cannot reach : 
 ( ) be with us, we beseech 
 
 Thee, now it is closing day ! 
 
 We are stricken : hear us pray
 
 173 
 
 NORTHEN. 
 
 the water-mills of Northen, 
 Along the willow walk, 
 In the hubbub of the river-weir, 
 We held pleasant talk. 
 
 It was a sunny afternoon. 
 
 It was in the summer weather. 
 We came a merry party gay ; 
 
 And we two stroll'd together. 
 
 O we two stroll'd together ! 
 
 And many a word had we 
 To speak at ease light-heartedly, 
 
 Bv the mills where none could see.
 
 174 Northen. 
 
 The merry party follow'd close. 
 
 We thought they would discover. 
 So an honest man, the ferryman, 
 
 Kind-hearted, row'd us over. 
 
 We took a boat. She steer' d the helm. 
 
 We two alone went rowing: 
 With easy mind, and a summer wind, 
 
 And the river slowly flowing : 
 
 Running into creeks to get 
 The yellow iris in the reeds ; 
 
 And paddling round green rushy isles, 
 Where many a moor-hen feeds. 
 
 And dabbling o'er the old boat-side, 
 And singing soft a summer tune, 
 
 With poet's love, in a little cove, 
 
 We watch'd the rising harvest moon.
 
 Northen. 175 
 
 The moon grew bright. The even fell. 
 
 Far off we heard the water's fall. 
 And in the distance now and then 
 
 We heard our baffled sisters call. 
 
 And with the stream we floated back 
 To the willow walk, with little rowing : 
 
 And sang a quiet evensong 
 As we were homeward going. 
 
 O Northen mills ! O happy mills ! 
 
 O the pleasant meeting then ! 
 That summer, it will come no more ! 
 
 We shall not meet a<rain !
 
 176 
 
 THE UNREACHED. 
 
 TS it anything;? Is it 
 Only fancy's fever fit ? 
 That I see it moving through 
 
 Gloomy vistas of my mind ? 
 Is it something I would do ? 
 
 Is it something I would find ? 
 But I long for it, I long for it, 
 
 And still it seems unkind. 
 
 Is it love for which I wait 
 At my airy wishing-gate ? 
 
 Is it sweetness which I long 
 
 To entrap with lyric sound ? 
 Is it music ? Is it, song? 
 
 Is it case I have not found ?
 
 The Unreached. 177 
 
 But my brain with it, my brain with it, 
 Is swimming round and round. 
 
 Is it truth, I cannot see ; 
 That is beautiful to be, 
 
 As I image in my dream, 
 
 The unreach'd for which I pine ? 
 Does it live ? Does it but seem ? 
 
 Is it human, or divine ? 
 That I feed on it, I feed on it, 
 
 In this dull heart of mine ? 
 
 Is it precious ? Is it worth 
 All the riches of the earth ? 
 Is it cruel ? Is it kind ? 
 
 Is it phantom of the brain ? 
 Is it balance of the mind 
 
 That I cannot more regain ? 
 But I long for it, I long for it, 
 
 Ever day and night with pain. 
 N
 
 178 
 
 WITH ELLEN. 
 
 T"N the wood with Ellen, 
 
 All this afternoon, 
 The thrushes and blackbirds 
 Sang a glorious tune. 
 
 The wood was thick with cowslips, 
 With blue-bells and with daisies ; 
 
 Full of yellow celandine, 
 
 And stately lords-and-ladies. 
 
 And in the pauses of the song 
 
 A cuckoo's note came swelling 
 
 Over the pleasant valleys : 
 In the wood with Ellen.
 
 179 
 
 ELEGIACS. 
 
 [)ITTER it is to be bound, when the hurt wings 
 
 struggle to hurry 
 Up from the toil and whirl, up to the beautiful 
 
 heights. 
 Bitter it is to be worn with the wretched wear and 
 
 the worry, 
 Here in a selfish world, little regarding our rights. 
 
 Pity, the soul that seeks to be single, true to its 
 
 duty : 
 
 Netted about its feet draggle the coils of distrust. 
 Pity, the spirit that pines to walk in a garment of 
 
 beauty : 
 
 Mournfully mix'd with sin ; bitterly soil'd with 
 the dust.
 
 180 Elegiacs. 
 
 Blest, if spared at last becoming the slave of 
 
 convention, 
 Strong as a god to crash, subtle and sly as a 
 
 fiend. 
 Blest, if it carry clear through one wish or godlike 
 
 intention. 
 
 Blest, if, though but a film, gossamer beauty be 
 glean'd. 
 
 I was proud as a king, and strong as an eagle to 
 
 hover 
 
 Over the gulfing storm, over the mist in the glen. 
 Now I go humbled and weak, and skulking wounded 
 
 to cover : 
 Sinning a little sin : held in the clutches of men. 
 
 Long I stood high on my hill, and boasted of noble 
 
 endeavour ; 
 
 Speaking of better things, over the pit of their 
 fall:
 
 Elegiacs. 181 
 
 Fretting the feeble hearts, bitter-jealous, besotted 
 
 for ever : 
 
 Then, the bitter slip ! slipp'd in the sight of 
 them all. 
 
 They, with a fiend's delight ; with a sneer and 
 
 mock at the prophet, 
 Speaking the speech of God, lipping the words 
 
 of the saint ; 
 " Was it his word rang great ? And is this all that 
 
 comes of it ? 
 
 Better for pride to fall ! " O in my climbing I 
 faint. 
 
 God, I am dizzy and weak : with a little hope ! O 
 
 I shudder 
 Climbing the weary heights, hovering over the 
 
 brink ! 
 
 Sailing a rainy sea, in the dark, no canvas or rudder ! 
 Be thou the Pilot, God ! I shall endure, as I 
 think.
 
 182 
 
 HEART AND LIFE. 
 
 f SAID, " I will sit in my garden, 
 
 Under my poplar trees ; 
 In the wild bee's hum no sorrow will come. 
 Then I said, " So I am at ease." 
 
 But a whisper came over the wall ; 
 
 A sob on the wind, and a sound ; 
 
 As of weeping, out of the ground ; 
 As of strife, in the poplars tall. 
 
 Tragical omens again, 
 
 Out of the heart of the years, 
 Back to the battle of men, 
 
 Bidding me, begging with tears.
 
 Heart and Life. 183 
 
 So I cannot sit still in my garden ; 
 
 But I must away : 
 Letting the leisure lie by 
 
 Till I am laid in the clay.
 
 184 
 
 BEADY. 
 
 P) EADY, Beady, bright as noon ! 
 
 Little head, with golden locks 
 Loving down your neck to run ! 
 Have you learn'd to flirt so soon ? 
 Life is scarce begun. 
 
 Running fast, but letting me 
 
 Catch you just as you slip by : 
 I declare, this wicked is. 
 
 Lift your eyes, now : let me see 
 There ! I have my kiss. 
 
 All pretence to seem so shy. 
 
 I believe you tried to blush.
 
 Beady. 185 
 
 But you will not cheat me so. 
 Just to get it you came by : 
 Wanted it, I know. 
 
 Else your little wicked lip 
 
 Would not curl so, nor your eyes 
 
 Break out in a merry laugh. 
 One more I'll not let you slip. 
 
 You're too sly by half. 
 
 What will you be when you are 
 
 Sweet sixteen instead of six ? 
 
 I daren't think it, little Miss. 
 We must teach you better far : 
 
 Tell mamma of this.
 
 186 
 
 THE BALLAD OF ALICE BANN. 
 
 VO, Back Alley, by Hardy's Mill, 
 
 Is the house of Simon Bann ; 
 And there never was a harder heart, 
 Either of woman or man. 
 
 What with oaths, and what with drink, 
 Quarrel and dirt as well, 
 
 Beating his girls and beating his lads, 
 He made Back Alley a hell. 
 
 Alice Bann was a girl as good 
 
 As ever you need to seek. 
 Still she lived in her father's house : 
 
 For women are lone and weak.
 
 The Ballad of Alice Bann. 187 
 
 The lads grew up, and away they went ; 
 
 They went with an easy mind : 
 But Alice stay'd with the little things 
 
 The mother had left behind. 
 
 Much she bore, and little she said : 
 Her heart was meek and still. 
 
 Before the light, till after the light, 
 She work'd in Hardy's mill. 
 
 Weaving, weaving away at her loom ; 
 
 Keeping the shuttle right : 
 One week the work was horribly bad, 
 
 And the weekly wages light. 
 
 Simon Bann, he utter'd an oath, 
 A terrible oath he swore ; 
 
 Said, if it ever happen'd again, 
 Alice should work no more.
 
 188 The Ballad of Alice Bonn. 
 
 And then, ill luck would have it, she did 
 
 111 luck would have it befall, 
 What with the warp, and what with the weft,- 
 
 Little or nothing at all. 
 
 Slow of foot, and heavy at heart, 
 The little wages in hand, 
 
 Why should she see in Back Alley 
 Her lover before her stand ? 
 
 Seldom it is, if a trouble come, 
 
 But another is hard behind : 
 
 The only friend she had in the world, 
 He spake her words unkind. 
 
 All she bore, and little she said : 
 They quarrell'd over a word. 
 
 Down in the gloomy alley 
 
 The oaths of Simon were heard.
 
 The Ballad of Alice Bann. 189 
 
 Home she came. The money he took. 
 
 He took a lusty stick : 
 Blow by blow the woman he struck, 
 
 Till the simple heart was sick. 
 
 There came a burning over the brain, 
 
 Over the heart a chill ; 
 And a shudder quick, and tremor sick : 
 
 And the fiend had had his will. 
 
 She put her oily bonnet on : 
 She drew the dingy shawl 
 
 Over the back, and over the blood : 
 And crept by the alley wall. 
 
 On by the wall, and into the street ; 
 
 Under the blinking light, 
 Leering out from the hazy lamps, 
 
 Into the murky night.
 
 1 90 The Ballad of Alice Barm. 
 
 Slowly something drew her along, 
 And on before her swam ; 
 
 It led her on, and it led her on, 
 Deep into Hardy's dam. 
 
 Heavy head, O little she said, 
 When after a day or more 
 
 They bore her on, a quiet corpse, 
 To the step of Simon's door. 
 
 Came a crowd that hooted and howl'd, 
 Resistless down the lanes. 
 
 Came a rabble to Two, Back Alloy, 
 And smash'd the window panes. 
 
 Boys and men, and women and men, 
 Rabble of old and young, 
 
 Yelling hiss'd ; gave a savage twist 
 
 To the sticks and stones they flung.
 
 The Ballad of Alice Bann. 191 
 
 Up the house, and down the house, 
 
 Under the stairs, and on 
 Into the cellar, for Simon Bann : 
 
 But Simon Bann was gone. 
 
 Half the night they hung about, 
 
 And eager hooted and hiss'd : 
 Came a young man up to the door, 
 
 And wildly shook his fist. 
 
 By day they watch'd ; by night they watch'd : 
 
 They ask'd for Simon Bann : 
 He never came back to Back Alley. 
 
 He lives an alter'd man.
 
 192 
 
 AN APOLOGY. 
 
 IF I have a little thought, 
 I in weak words put it : 
 In a careless nest 
 
 Of sweet rhymes I shut it. 
 Simple little thought ! 
 
 Little sense it has ; 
 
 In the brain begot : 
 Little meaning in it. 
 Little wisdom it will hold. 
 
 Shall it live ? Why not ? 
 
 So in song-words I, 
 Lest the frail thing die,
 
 An Apology. 193 
 
 Platting straws of rhyme 
 Into nest betime, 
 In which it may lie ; 
 
 Fluting of my best 
 
 Round the youngling's nest, 
 
 That way it to keep 
 In a happy rest, 
 
 And lull it to sleep ; 
 
 Keeping off sun-heat 
 
 With green leaves of sound : 
 Gossamer to cover 
 Its nest silking over ; 
 Treading with bell-feet 
 Its nest round and round; 
 
 Grow to love it dearly, 
 
 Though it be worth nought : 
 o
 
 194 An Apology. 
 
 Though it be scarce lit 
 To see daylight clearly ; 
 
 Simple little thought ! 
 And when I feel longing 
 
 Take a peep at it.
 
 195 
 
 DREAMS. 
 
 T" TEART within me, laugh and leap ! 
 Happy dreams, come in my sleep ! 
 
 Fresh lips, touch me, leaning sweet ! 
 Round my neck, warm fingers, meet ! 
 
 Arms to cling, soft eyes to soothe, 
 Bring me back my bloom of youth ! 
 
 Is this love ? Does one love me ? 
 Ah, lips, looks, if dreams ye be !
 
 196 
 
 A SIMILE. 
 
 TTAPPY, happy hope, 
 
 In my heart to-night ! 
 Like a sunny isle 
 In a sea of light ! 
 
 Like an islet airy 
 
 In a sunny sea, 
 Hound the sister islets 
 
 Roaming calm and free ; 
 Nor bound to rocks or mainland, 
 
 As other islets be ! 
 
 But floating and gloating 
 In the gleaming sun ;
 
 A Simile. 197 
 
 And flashing and dashing 
 The clinging waves away ; 
 
 Blowing and going 
 As the wind may run ; 
 
 Breathing sweet with spices 
 Ever night and day ! 
 
 Happy, happy hope, 
 In my heart to-night ! 
 
 Like a sunny isle 
 In a sea of light !
 
 198 
 
 TOO LATE. 
 
 ~~ OOK at me not : let your faint sighs 
 ^~^ Hide what I do not ask to know. 
 Look at me not with those sweet eyes, 
 That used to move and rule me so, 
 Long, long ago. 
 
 Look at me not : lest I should pine 
 To think upon my alter'd fate. 
 
 Purse up those ruddy lips of thine, 
 
 That did not once bid hope or wait. 
 Too late ! too late ! 
 
 O, when, long since, but, leave me ; go ! 
 
 Draw not unworthy words between 
 These traitor lips of mine. Love, no ! 
 
 One waits me. It shall not be seen 
 
 What might have been.
 
 199 
 
 LYING ILL. 
 
 T~ OVE, kiss me, kiss me on the lips, 
 ~^~^* And kiss me on the cheek. 
 
 And I would that I could speak. 
 My heart, my heart so happy pants ; 
 
 But I feel lost and weak. 
 
 This cup of pain so bitter is, 
 
 And I grow dull with woe : 
 And my tears are falling slow. 
 
 But I touch your neck, your rosy neck : 
 So I am blest, I know. 
 
 O love, we wedded years agone ! 
 A blessed bliss for me !
 
 200 Lying III 
 
 Love, let me, let me see 
 Your blest soft eyes burn into mine ! 
 Dear eyes, how kind they be ! 
 
 I touch your neck : my tears flow down 
 They soothe me while I speak. 
 O love, I feel so weak. 
 
 But kiss me, kiss me on the lips, 
 And kiss me on the cheek.
 
 201 
 
 THE PLEIADS. 
 
 T" IVING in a little chamber, 
 
 In the silent Minster Close, 
 Little wonder I grow tainted 
 
 With the moody gloom it throws. 
 
 So when week-day work is ended, 
 And the night is growing late, 
 
 I go stealing, just for lightness, 
 
 Through the gloomy Minster gate : 
 
 Strolling through the buzzing market, 
 Watch the faces, hear the shouts ; 
 
 Hubbub of the cries, and laughter ; 
 Crowded stalls, and noisy routs :
 
 202 The Pleiads. 
 
 Through the narrow streets, dim-lighted ; 
 
 Under hanging gables black ; 
 Past the shops, and wicked women, 
 
 Two by two, that call you back : 
 
 Through the lampless gloom, or flashes 
 Of the windy naphtha lights : 
 
 With a creeping shudder sometimes 
 
 At the wicked, strange goodnights : 
 
 Till the noisy streets grow stiller, 
 And the market glare is past : 
 
 Till unheeded I am standing 
 On the crazy bridge at last. 
 
 Then I dull my heart with sadness 
 At the sinful things there be 
 
 In this worldly world ; with thinking 
 Of the taint that clings to me :
 
 The Pleiads. 203 
 
 Thinking, " how shall one grow better 
 In this tainted world ? " and sick 
 
 For the world that it were mended : 
 Shades of night about me thick : 
 
 Growing bitter-soul'd and hopeless 
 
 At the madness I have seen : 
 Musing o'er the sleeping barges, 
 
 And the blacken'd waves between. 
 
 There, the morrow being holy, 
 
 All the lazy barges rest 
 Black, upon their blacker shadows, 
 
 On the blacken'd water's breast. 
 
 There the slow fen-river slowly 
 
 Underneath the arches goes : 
 Past the wharfs and steps and barges ; 
 
 Past the houses, joys, and woes.
 
 204 The Pleiads. 
 
 Osier-beds and pollard willows, 
 River-reeds and bulrushes, 
 
 Line the lowly banks, and shudder 
 In the chilly river-breeze : 
 
 As it wanders, lonely, ghostlike, 
 In a sluggish dreamy sleep, 
 
 Through the low, flat, gloomy fen-lands, 
 Onward to the outer deep. 
 
 And, to-night, as I was leaning 
 In a troubled mood, and vex'd 
 
 With distrustful sighs, impatient ; 
 Half in anger ; sore perplex'd ; 
 
 Humming in my brain for solace 
 
 Sad refrains and scraps of rhyme ; 
 
 More than half enraged to listen 
 To the listless minster chime ;
 
 The Pleiads. 205 
 
 Leaning, lone, a little sadder, 
 
 Perhaps, than is my wont to be, 
 
 On the wooden bridge, I fancied 
 That the stars upbraided me. 
 
 Not that those fair sister Pleiads 
 
 In their look seem'd not to bear 
 
 Touch of sadness, but in sadness 
 
 Seem'd they hid a hope somewhere. 
 
 Blessed group, and Sisters seven ! 
 
 They, so pallid-sweet to see ; 
 Seem'd an image of God's pity 
 
 Hung above the world and me. 
 
 I, dim-sighted, saw them glimmer 
 In the night, and on the deep 
 
 River glimmer ; shiver'd often 
 By some little fish's leap.
 
 206 The Pleiads. 
 
 Saw them gather, sweetly, slowly, 
 Their old shape and image back ; 
 
 As the river-ripple's motion 
 
 Died about the barges black. 
 
 And within my heart, as slowly, 
 
 This truth gather'd, clear as they, 
 
 " Must be hope hid in God's pity : 
 Cast the trustless pain away." 
 
 Back I went through wicked whisper, 
 Naphtha glare, and noisy cry ; 
 
 Busy crowd, and market hubbub ; 
 In my lonely couch to lie. 
 
 But an hour sat happy, musing, 
 
 By the cheerful fire I found : 
 
 " Must be hope hid in God's pity : 
 
 Still His sabbath morn conies round.
 
 207 
 
 SPEEDWELLS. 
 
 the hill there stands a house, 
 With a dainty room in it ; 
 And in the dainty room a gem. 
 These are secrets. O come near ! 
 The little birds will overhear ; 
 And will whisper them. 
 
 Simple braided hair she has, 
 And a neck as white as milk, 
 
 Or a lily on its stem. 
 These are secrets. O come near ! 
 The little birds will overhear ; 
 And will whisper them.
 
 208 Speedwells. 
 
 Brown, sweet eyes, and little lips 
 Quaint to kiss, and tiny feet 
 
 That slip beneath her garment's hem. 
 These are secrets. O come near ! 
 The little birds will overhear ; 
 And will whisper them. 
 
 I am going to her now ; 
 Plucking speedwells in the grass, 
 
 For a fragile anadem. 
 These are secrets. O come near ! 
 The little birds will overhear; 
 And will whisper them. 
 
 O me, I shall meet her soon ! 
 Clasp it on her neck, her neck, 
 
 White as lily on its stem. 
 These are secrets. O come near ! 
 The little birds will overhear ; 
 And will whisper them.
 
 Speedwells. 209 
 
 She will kiss me at the gate ; 
 In the garden with me walk 
 
 So late, so late : and be my gem. 
 These are secrets. O come near ! 
 The little birds will overhear ; 
 And will whisper them.
 
 210 
 
 GOING HOME. 
 
 DAY of joy, that out of sorrow 
 
 And sorrowing days art seen afar ! 
 And shinest like a guiding-star ! 
 And dost from hope sweet lustre borrow 
 
 How wilt thou bring to me the bliss 
 Of friendly eyes and voices sweet ! 
 
 And my own borne, that waiting is ! 
 Arid merry faces me to meet ! 
 
 And touches soft of hands that give, 
 
 Of lips that speak, a welcome true ! 
 
 That will go ringing while you live 
 
 For aye, for aye, sweet tunes in you !
 
 Going Home. 211 
 
 O day of joy ! O light that beamest 
 Across the mist of sorrowing days ! 
 That leadest me through gloomiest ways ! 
 
 And ever more a haven seemest !
 
 212 
 
 CALM. 
 
 C^J O still a calm is on the deep ; 
 
 So light a ripple on the shore ; 
 So slow the moving shadows creep 
 Along the wave; and cloudlets keep 
 
 So white a flight the warm cliffs o'er ; 
 Why so sad am I ? 
 What could I wish more ? 
 
 Calm is the wave, and blue serene ; 
 
 And summer brooding overhead. 
 And happy is the shining sheen, 
 Along the gleaming ocean seen, 
 Or in the upper ether spread. 
 Why so s;nl ;im I ? 
 What have I to dread ?
 
 Calm. 213 
 
 See, yonder white-sail'd skiffs, that lie 
 
 To westward in the amorous breeze ! 
 See, yonder white-wing'd birds that fly, 
 In peaceful circles, round the sky; 
 
 Or dip the wing, or skim the seas ! 
 Why so sad am I ? 
 Why not have sweet peace ? 
 
 Fair peace, and trust, and happy gleams 
 Of hope, to gladness gain me o'er ! 
 So full a flood of summer streams 
 Along the air ! so hopeful seems 
 
 The noon ! such music charms the shore ! 
 Why so sad am I ? 
 What could I wish more ?
 
 214 
 
 GLIMMERINGS. 
 
 IT^L UTTER of something in the past, that made 
 A light of white across the flickering shade ; 
 That pass'd us near, but will come back no 
 more. 
 
 Shudder of something in the days that are : 
 Possible music in sweet notes that jar : 
 
 And not unlike some notes we heard before. 
 
 Visible glimpses of old robes again : 
 Audible echoes of old sounds ; with pain 
 
 And distance touch M ; but playing o'er and 
 o'er.
 
 Glimmerings. 215 
 
 As if love might have been, and has not been : 
 As if love yet, though faint, in hope were seen : 
 A far, faint flicker, down a lonely shore. 
 
 O follow, follow, and find it ! o'er the slope 
 Of matted sands, before the time come up ! 
 
 Ere night close soon, and it be seen no more !
 
 216 
 
 A VISIT. 
 
 /^^\ ECHOED sweetness, like to evening chime! 
 
 O green oasis in the wastes of time ! 
 Dear light, that will with pleasant memories blend ! 
 Unsullied visit which I paid my friend ! 
 How oft shall I, to ease my languid sight, 
 How oft shall I, when cares beset my way, 
 In wistful fancy paint the old delight, 
 Till grief and chiding leave the lingering day ! 
 They come, the shining hills, the bracing dawn ! 
 The laurel fresh, the dewy glimmering lawn ! 
 The rural seats, the shady orchard trees ! 
 The noonday lounging, and the evening breeze ! 
 
 ( ) heart, go back to find his woods and dells ! 
 And sit by him, and hear the village bells !
 
 A Visit. 217 
 
 And track the copse his childish feet have known ! 
 
 And keep his secrets by the wandering Drone ! 
 
 He told me all his love, a usual tale : 
 
 He led me gladly through the amorous haunts : 
 
 By quarried slope, and brook, and willowy dale ; 
 
 And sunny elm-woods where the ring-dove chaunts. 
 
 It was delight to roam the hills with him : 
 
 To breathe the morn : to feel the evening dim. 
 
 O kindly love, that did its youth renew ! 
 
 O friendship tried, that will not prove untrue !
 
 218 
 
 MAY'S DELAYING. 
 
 /^V FIRST of May, so bleak a day, 
 
 So gloomy, should you be ? 
 No meadows thick with daisies ! 
 
 No May-bloom on the tree ! 
 No sunny ray to mark your way 
 Across the land, O First of May ! 
 
 But bitter east wind blowing 
 
 Across the eastern sea ; 
 That nips the apple-blossom, 
 
 The rose-bud on the tree. 
 O merry May, quick ! chase away 
 From off the land so bleak a day !
 
 219 
 
 REFUGE. 
 
 /^VFTEN doubts arise in me. 
 I my way but dimly see. 
 
 In a desert place I seem. 
 
 Weary sands around me gleam. 
 
 Something sad hangs o'er my head : 
 
 Makes me wish that I were dead. 
 Then I love about me wrap : 
 I lie hid from such mishap, 
 With my head in my love's lap. 
 
 Many dreams have not come true. 
 Day is closing, work to do. 
 Scarcely have I gain'd at all 
 What to me seem'd all in all.
 
 220 Refuge. 
 
 Show me harvest, waning years ! 
 
 See, I cannot keep from tears. 
 
 Wherefore weep ? I will not speak 
 My despair, but comfort seek ; 
 My love's lip upon my cheek.
 
 221 
 
 THE LADY-BIRD. 
 
 LADY-BIRD, O lady-bird, 
 
 Witli the summer coming fresh ! 
 And the April hopes and buttercups, 
 Knitting finely, in a mesh 
 Of sunny-shining rays, 
 For the samite-robed days, 
 For my heart with all your beauty stirr'd, 
 O lady-bird, my lady-bird ! 
 
 O lady-bird, O lady-bird, 
 
 With your red coat spotted black ! 
 And your flutterings of gauzy wings, 
 
 Bringing the summer back !
 
 222 The Lady-bird. 
 
 And a better hope to me 
 Of a summer I shall see 
 
 In this heart, with all your beauty stirr'd, 
 
 O lady-bird, my lady-bird !
 
 223 
 
 MAY. 
 
 r I ^HEY have a grassy lawnet sweet 
 
 No meadows smoother be. 
 Would I were on the garden-seat, 
 With one to sit by me ! 
 
 There is a laurel, thick and green : 
 Two seats behind it stand. 
 
 We sit on one : we are not seen : 
 So we clasp hand in hand. 
 
 The nightingale sings in the tree. 
 
 The laurel-leaves sigh on. 
 The daylight wanes : high up we see 
 
 The stars come one by one.
 
 224 May. 
 
 The dusk falls calm : the new moon smiles : 
 The \vind is scarce a breath : 
 
 Our love is simple, like a child's : 
 Our love is strong as death.
 
 225 
 
 BITTERNESS. 
 
 ~\~\ 7"E sat among the ripe wheat-sheaves. 
 
 The western skies were golden-red. 
 We had a book : we turn'd the leaves : 
 
 But not a word we said. 
 
 A sudden lull : a thrilling pause : 
 
 We seem'd at once one thought to have. 
 We little could divine the cause 
 
 That such a moment gave. 
 
 A minute that comes once and goes : 
 
 That must be snatch'd at once or lost. 
 O foolish heart ! But something rose 
 In me : our fate was cross'd.
 
 226 Bitterness. 
 
 We rose up from the shining sheaf. 
 
 We look'd back at the setting sun. 
 We scarcely spoke : we seem'd to grieve 
 The golden day was done. 
 
 And on the morrow I was gone, 
 
 Who could not speak for paltry fear. 
 The morrows will go gliding on, 
 And we find each a bitter one ; 
 
 Nor meet for many a rear.
 
 227 
 
 AUTUMN SONG. 
 
 r I ^HERE is a drizzle of rain, 
 
 That is neither rain nor mist ; 
 And a sound as if winds hiss'd 
 
 At the old year laid in pain. 
 
 The wheat is black in the sheaf j 
 Arid the apricots untouch'd ; 
 And the creeper's crimson smutch'd 
 
 And the China aster leaf. 
 
 There is a lull in the wind ; 
 
 And the leaves fall in the lull : 
 The skies are faded and dull ; 
 
 And love is grown unkind.
 
 SONNETS.
 
 Sonnets. 231 
 
 THREE YEARS. 
 
 /^\ PRICELESS pearls, entrusted to my 
 
 keeping ! 
 
 Rich gems of time, regretted with vain tears ! 
 O'er you the impenetrable waves go sweeping, 
 () lost, O coveted, O rare three years ! 
 All that untouched store of gain and treasure, 
 And ripening promise of fair things and true, 
 Beauty, and bliss, and knowledge without measure, 
 Utterly gone ah, gone ! three years, with you ! 
 Utterly lost ! O waves ! ye roll on ever ! 
 Ye will not ebb, and throw my rare pearls back ! 
 Your doomful monody is " O never, never !" 
 Ye mock me in your onward-hasting track ! 
 And I shall never, never more regain 
 My rich lost treasure from the moaning main !
 
 232 Sonnets. 
 
 n. 
 TRUTH. 
 
 TF I were pure and mostly spiritual, 
 
 With less of earthly mould and base in me, 
 I might a little find out truth, and fall 
 A-musing nobly, and just dimly see, 
 Though it were very dimly. If truth lay 
 Like coral in the deep, I would dive down 
 Somehow, and bring it up ; or if the brown 
 Wet sea-weed hid it, on some bank away 
 To sea, I would swim out : or if the spray 
 Of rude waves lash'd it on the cliffs, right soon 
 I would slide soft, to grasp the dangerous boon ; 
 And pick it from the rock-ledge hard and grey. 
 But truth is hid, O truth is hid somewhere ; 
 Hid up with God, and I may not reach there.
 
 Sonnets. 233 
 
 in. 
 THE WATCH-TOWER. 
 
 "S this the summit I so long'd to climb, 
 
 And here have reach'd at last with daylight's 
 
 close ? 
 
 Is this the sun-tipp'd snowy peak sublime, 
 That in its might and gleaming beauty rose, 
 When I was in the vale ? Is this the peak 
 That pierced the ether pure, and seem'd to be 
 A watch-tower proud, to sweep the land and sea ? 
 Is this the height ? O heart, what didst thou seek ? 
 For black clouds hang about it, and thick mist 
 Rolls up before mine eyes ; and I can catch 
 No glimpse of those rare sights, the airiest 
 Hope torturing made : and I can keep the watch 
 No longer now, nor climb, so weary grown ! 
 And night falls thick and dark, and night winds 
 
 moan.
 
 234 Sonnets. 
 
 IV. 
 
 T STOOD upon the shore of Baiae's bay, 
 
 And listen'd to that song, bewildering sweet, 
 The sunny-crested curving waters say 
 To Baiae's shore, about the lingering feet. 
 There on the beach I took a little skiff, 
 And full at heart went skimming o'er the wave ; 
 Round fruitful, happy isles, by beetling cliff, 
 Where all day long the joyous waters lave 
 Thy rocky-rising shores, Inarime, 
 With mellow music, in the cloudless noon ; 
 Sweet as thy name, that evermore shall be 
 The echo of a siren-chanted tune. 
 It was a dream. O would that I might see 
 The beauty of the sun-robed Italy !
 
 Sonnets. 235 
 
 v. 
 LATE SUMMER. 
 
 /^\ SUMMER, the bright summer, will it come 
 
 Quickly upon the earth to me who wait ? 
 The spirit of the primrose is gone home, 
 That greeted us at first, the delicate 
 Wind-flowers droop, and blue-bells keep their state. 
 Smile, summer, smile, and bless the buds of May. 
 Summer, sweet summer, come, why will you stay 
 In southern isles ? why do you come so late ? 
 Come to the weakness of the chesnut leaves, 
 That droop as yet ; come to the doubting lime : 
 Say nothing should be coy, say nothing grieves, 
 Or droops, or faints, in happy summer-time. 
 Come, summer, come ; I hear the glad cuckoo ; 
 And out of tall elms doves are calling you.
 
 236 Sonnets. 
 
 VI. 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 OOMETIMES I seem a growth of Nature's 
 
 ^ kind ; 
 
 And in some lighter moods can feel the stir 
 
 Of summer in my blood, and storm, and spring : 
 
 And glad, or sad, make common cause with her 
 
 In sunny mornings on the hill to sing : 
 
 Or sadden in the sunset : feel my mind 
 
 Dull with the mist. But not so always ; no ! 
 
 These fevers ! these distempers ! Gleaming rill 
 
 Of April, budding freshness of new wood, 
 
 Full river, glassy, mirroring the glow 
 
 Of lady-smock and lusty daffodil, 
 
 Why will you leave me with a pressing ill 
 
 And dull confusion, weak divided mood, 
 
 The soul's despair, the very core of woe ?
 
 Sonnets. 237 
 
 VII. 
 
 THE DEAD-HOUSE. 
 
 ^ 1 ^HIS is the house : come, claim relationship. 
 
 Here you may enter in : there is no bar. 
 Be not too coy, but through the doorway slip ; 
 For here, no doubt, brothers and sisters are. 
 An old man with a beard, and hair as grey 
 As any old man's, if you could but see : 
 If you could only wash the slime away, 
 This woman's eyes as blue as eyes could be. 
 This youth, with age's furrow in the brow ; 
 This mother, with a sad gash on the head ; 
 This, well ; you see : these were pick'd up just now 
 Under the black arch, by the river bed. 
 What ! you not know them ! Does the sight appal ? 
 Yet, as I think, one God has made you all.
 
 238 Sonnets. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 LADYBROOK. 
 
 TT" O W heavily my lingering footsteps go ! 
 I cannot bear to see you, gentle brook ! 
 O Lady brook, we used to love you so, 
 When we of old young boyish pleasure took 
 By your sweet side ! and dabbled in your wave ! 
 Or lured the minnows feeding round your banks ! 
 Hung in the trees, and leap'd the fords, and gav< 
 A mazy chace about your alder ranks ! 
 But now the alder trees are stolen away, 
 And shady lines of sallow saplings cut : 
 Your banks are bare : your beauty is to-day 
 A wither'd trench, a lonely meadow-rut. 
 So blessed beauty dies, in years too few ! 
 O Ladybrook, I well could weep for you !
 
 Sonnets. 239 
 
 IX. 
 
 VOCATION. 
 
 i. 
 
 TS any melody that I have writ, 
 "^ Or any tuneful rhyme my lips have sung, 
 Sweet-toned so that men will hark to it, 
 And keep it gladly their delights among ? 
 By my weak songs will any heart be brought 
 To truth, and link'd with airy golden chain ? 
 Till holy hopes grow in their inward thought, 
 And beauty live, and all the world be gain ? 
 Not any fame or wealth or life I would ; 
 Not any boon that other souls may seek : 
 But only this, to chant of fair and good, 
 And poet to be, and poet- words to speak : 
 To weave a wreath of song that will not fade : 
 If I sing well, so happy, happy made.
 
 240 Sonnets. 
 
 x. 
 VOCATION. 
 
 ii. 
 
 "V TO prophet's mantle from the skies will fall, 
 
 As on a prophet in the old days fell ; 
 There is no graving hand along the Avail 
 Will symbols make, and me the secret tell : 
 There is no priest in vested white to take 
 Note of the incense-cloud or oracle : 
 But I must yearning hope, and strive to make 
 A truce with pain, though I in darkness dwell. 
 In happiest moods at times I seem to feel 
 An angel-touch that makes my heart glow light ; 
 Doubt skulk away, and sweet peace o'er me steal ; 
 And " Poet of God" is breathed across the night. 
 I am impure and weak : doubt comes again. 
 God, make me strong and pure, and heal this pain.
 
 Sonnets. 241 
 
 THE OLD FRIEND. 
 
 /^ AN it be Love, that comes so soft to me ; 
 
 Touching me on the shoulder, as it were ? 
 Like some dear friend, grown strange, you start to 
 
 see, 
 
 Coming back on a sudden, smiling there ? 
 Can it be Love, saying " Be friends again, 
 You and I, now, that were such good friends once ?" 
 Can it be Love, whose dew-fresh eyes remain 
 Fix'd on me winningly with their old glance ? 
 Can it be Love ? O Love, come near, and kiss 
 Your long-lost, lonesome one with those warm lips ! 
 Lean on my own breast, shade me with the bliss 
 Of your broad wings, that have such purple tips, 
 With dipping in the sunset and the east ! 
 O most blest bliss of all, that Hope shew'd least ! 
 R
 
 242 Sonnets. 
 
 XII. 
 
 EROS. 
 
 i. 
 
 T~N youth Love comes, and flutters down by us 
 
 Out of the sky, and is a blissful thing. 
 Then his young smile, refreshful, looking close 
 Into our eyes, sets our hearts fluttering. 
 With wings fresh-tinted like a new spring rose, 
 So fanciful, so airy-light he seems, 
 And his warm beauty is more glorious, 
 Than anything that we have dream'd in dreams. 
 But soon clouds cross us ; we are sinful grown ; 
 Light turns to dark : and when the rose is burst, 
 We slight it as a sered rose overblown ; 
 Missing the beauty that we loved at first. 
 " O wither' d thing ! " we say, grown blind and dull ; 
 Knelling a death-dirge o'er the beautiful.
 
 Sonnets. 243 
 
 XIII. 
 
 EROS. 
 
 n. 
 
 IT^OR, yet, Love is as beautiful a thing 
 
 As ever set white feet on our dull land ; 
 And flits down kind to earth with heavenly wing, 
 And welcome smiles, and takes us by the hand. 
 And when the days of unskill'd youth are fled, 
 And faded with the sunset clouds away, 
 If we forsake not Love he soon will shed 
 A holier light, and leave his youthful play. 
 And he will soon put off his witching charms, 
 And drop his quiver'd arrows in the sea ; 
 And clasp us close, with earnest-clinging arms, 
 And tell us all> and like a true god be : 
 And make us his, as he made Psyche his ; 
 And bear us far to pure Idalian bliss.
 
 244 Sonnets. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 BEAUTY. 
 
 /^\ IF a face be chisell'd marble cold, 
 
 Or touch'cl and tinted like a gay rose leaf, 
 It will not bear to wither and grow old, 
 It must not know the taint and touch of grief. 
 But if the face be pure, and not so fair, 
 And lined with thought, and lit with beauteous mind, 
 And full of strength the cross of life to bear, 
 And brave to strive, and apt to bend most kind ; 
 And if it be with heavenly radiance lit, 
 To heal sad wounds, and pitying thoughts to think ; 
 Then it for me seems welcome face and fit, 
 That will remain, though soon the fair flesh shrink. 
 For it reveals true marks to judge it by, 
 With God's hand drawn, that will not lightly die.
 
 Sonnets. 245 
 
 xv. 
 AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 TT^ VER upon a dark night did you go, 
 
 -* * With yearning keen, that would not let you 
 
 rest; 
 
 In museful mood ; with step scarce-heard and slow ; 
 By that dear house that holds what you love best? 
 And did you see faint shadows nearing you ; 
 And guess the shapes, and feel your heart throb so ? 
 And in a minute find your bold guess true ; 
 And brush close past the one you so well know ? 
 And did you, trusting to the dark's disguise, 
 Press to her closer than in day you might ? 
 And catch a little whisper of surprise 
 Say that was you, and thrill with wild delight ? 
 This is in love's book writ, a thing to keep 
 In memory long; and it will bless my sleep.
 
 246 Sonnets. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 THE HELPMEET. 
 
 i. 
 
 r~ I ^HERE is no hope or help in hard men found ; 
 
 -*- But in a woman's whisper soft and low : 
 And comfort lives in words of gentle sound : 
 God in his pity fashion'd poor man so. 
 For selfish care eats out the hearts of men ; 
 And cursed suspicion makes their fair looks cold : 
 And love, wreck' d once, fears much to launch again ; 
 And broken trust will not be overbold. 
 But if a woman loves you she loves you, 
 And not herself, or you for selfish gain : 
 In doubt or guilt she will not prove untrue ; 
 But loves on firm, meet help, and balm for pain. 
 And little he need heed, though rude winds rave, 
 Whom restful haven of her love keeps safe.
 
 Sonnets, 247 
 
 XVII. 
 
 THE HELPMEET. 
 
 n. 
 O till the whole of love's sweet debt be paid, 
 
 Think not the crown of hope and life to know. 
 God man and w r oman each imperfect made, 
 That they twain, one, a perfect whole might grow. 
 The trailing vines their tendrils interknit, 
 Before their boughs a shady arbour make ; 
 And key-stone love must in the centre fit, 
 Before life's arch the strain of life can take. 
 So with unweary feet search near and far, 
 O man, to find her, blissful hope, somewhere ! 
 Till ye be like twin lips that clasped are, 
 And unbreathed words, whose meaning goes in 
 
 prayer. 
 
 So, double stars, fair-set in mortal night, 
 Ye each round each moving shall make one light.
 
 248 Sonnets. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 A S in a sunny tiny globe of dew, 
 
 Seen thousand times more large through optic 
 
 glass, 
 
 That with the unhelp'd eye seera'd blank to you, 
 A thousand shapes and creeping wonders pass ; 
 So in the fine analysis of love, 
 Watching the moist look in a maiden's eye, 
 A thousand thoughts, loves, wishes, meanings move, 
 A thousand hints and passion- wonders lie. 
 And love in you a beauteous lizard is ; 
 Feeds on the air, and changes with the light : 
 And sudden runs to all extremes of bliss ; 
 Green melancholy, silver-scaled delight : 
 A gilded summer fly, warm-hatch' d at noon ; 
 That sudden springs to life, and dies as soon.
 
 Sonnets. 249 
 
 PERSEVERANCE. 
 
 I" F any sweet flower in your garden grew, 
 
 Or fruiting tree, you would not let it die : 
 But let it catch the morn and even dew 
 And warm sunbeams ; and thus to save it try. 
 You would not wish the look of it to lose, 
 Or joyful bloom, you would not lose the fruit : 
 But tend it much with care, and rather choose 
 To let it grow, if it anew might shoot. 
 So I this failing flower of love would tend ; 
 This wither'd tree, whose bloom such promise gave 
 Hoping to see it healthful in the end ; 
 That I the joy and gainful fruit may have. 
 For if it fade, O if the frail thing fade, 
 How lonesome sad is my loved garden made !
 
 250 Sonnets. 
 
 xx. 
 CHANGE. 
 
 /^V FITFUL life, and fickle human breath ! 
 
 Ere we can pause familiar things grow strange. 
 Life is not one but many lives : dull death 
 Touches the mayfly minutes as they change. 
 What is to-day was not so yesterday ; 
 What is to-day to-morrow will not be : 
 And weak thought changes so, we scarce can say 
 The things we think, or see the things we see. 
 And what last night was full of clear-seen bliss, 
 And seem'd with all our ways and welfare blent, 
 By morn a dream or fruitless fancy is, 
 And stolen from us like a pilgrim's tent. 
 What was is not ; what is will not be so : 
 We walk in doubt ; we know not where we go.
 
 Sonnets. 251 
 
 XXI. 
 
 SYMPATHIES. 
 
 ^ I ^HE herald lark, day's trumpeter, sings clear 
 
 His song for praise and pleasure of the spring ; 
 The sunnj-feather'd, shining spring flies near, 
 And shakes the freshness from her amorous wing : 
 With kindly blessing for the watchful lands, 
 Yet wet and drear with melted, shivering snow ; 
 For bleak, black trees, that stretch their suppliant 
 
 hands 
 
 For emerald buds, because spring comes so slow. 
 The chaffinch notes are not so shrill, his pipe 
 More musical ; one swallow blue flits past : 
 The strutting thrushes sing ; my heart is ripe 
 For blossoms of love ; and hope is calm at last. 
 Spring, spring, grow strong, with warmth of April 
 
 days ! 
 Hope, hope, in me, bud into love's sweet ways !
 
 252 Sonnets. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 THE BETTER MUSIC. 
 
 i. 
 
 T~F music charms, it will not make me love 
 The tuneful charmer, though the sounds ring 
 
 sweet. 
 
 There is a better music ; even above 
 The spheral echoes, heard in soft and fleet 
 Subtleties of the wind-fann'd clouds ; or sounds 
 That throb and die in summer leaves ; or run 
 In windy whistlings down the tuneful bounds 
 Of tidc-lapp'd rocks, at setting of the sun. 
 There is a music of the soul, that sings 
 Spiritual ; a strain of God ; a strain 
 Like seraph clarions heard in us ; that brings 
 Hope out of human sobs, and trust from pain : 
 A better, better music, spiritual ! 
 If I find this, love, I will yield you all.
 
 Sonnets. 253 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 THE BETTER MUSIC. 
 
 ii. 
 A SUBTLE music, fine as air, more still 
 
 Than summer singing of the soft-shed dew ; 
 Holier than of hidden lutes, which will 
 Come mellow-melted on the dusk past you. 
 A rainbow music, round the heart, sad wet 
 With sinful rains, and tears of glimmering grief. 
 A human music, given of God, to set 
 Jarr'd notes atune, with heavenly rich relief. 
 Heard oft in dells of truth ; seen much to flit 
 About the trust and grace of homely things : 
 Set much in eyes of sweet dreams poet may fit 
 To rhythm of words ; breathed in the song he sings 
 Woven of twinn'd souls that can linked live 
 By those fine yearnings God to poets will give.
 
 254 Sojmets. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 NEW YEAR. 
 
 T OOK out, O watchman, look, and mark the 
 
 *~* night. 
 
 Not all so dark, but glimmer in the east. 
 
 The morning breaketh faintly. Heart, be light ! 
 
 The doubt dead cold ; the bitter anguish ceased. 
 
 For now I know she is not cold, but true : 
 
 And, weal or woe, she is mine own for ever : 
 
 And hopes must not, as fickle hopes will do, 
 
 Grow weak and trustless. Girl, why should we 
 
 sever ? 
 
 Why should tilings fit be kept apart ? and so 
 We will not breathe unkindly doubts again ; 
 But keep the right, and ever trust to grow 
 To better state. Let us be patient, then. 
 Hope glimmers in the secret of the dawn : 
 You mine, I thine ; let us be closer drawn.
 
 Sonnets. 255 
 
 xxv. 
 THE WEDDING MORN. 
 
 on the cushion'd altar-step she knelt ; 
 And I, the elected lover, knelt beside. 
 She in her heart a little flutter felt ; 
 Knowing so many eyes fix'd on the bride. 
 Embroidery fell loose o'er her flower-crown'd head, 
 And shew'd the cheeks a little white and pale ; 
 Yet sweetly touch'd with blush of lingering red, 
 Like new rose leaves. Her courage did not fail. 
 " I will ;" and then " I will ;" and so we seal'd 
 The sacred bond, and we shall grow one heart ; 
 And truth to two twin spirits shine reveal'd, 
 That baffled one. So on the road we start. 
 God help us onward. Let us hold on strong. 
 It is keen fight. The coming years loom long.
 
 CHISWICK PRESS: PRINTED BY \THITTI.\OHAAI AND WILKIMS. 
 TOOKS COfRT, CHANCERY LASE.