^ CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRAR^Y THE MR. AND MRS. WILLIAM F. E. GURLEY BOOK FUND Cornell University Library PR 5550.E78 The complete works of Alfred Tennyson 3 1924 013 558 493 I Cornell University §/ Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/cletails/cu31924013558493 THE OMPLETE WOEKS OF ALFRED TENNYSON, POBT LAUKKATB. ALDWORTH.— Mr. Tennyson's Residence. ILLUSTRATED EDITION. NEW YORK: E. WORTHINGTON, 750 Beoadwat. 1878. £ If /\(^iisj ij r. 1' N^>^'" ^>' CONTENTS. FAOB. TotheQneen yii Clarlbel , 1 I/ilian ; 1 Isabel 1 Mariana 2 To 2 Madaline 3 Song — The Owl 3 Second Song 3 BecoHection of the Arabian Nights 4 ' Ode to Memory 6 Song 6 Adeline 6 A Character 7 The Poet "i ThePoet'sMind 8 The Sea-fairies 8 The Deserted House 9 TheDyingSwan 9 A Dirge 9 Ijove and Death 10 The Ballad of Oriana 10 Circumstance 11 TheMerman .- 11 TheMermaid 11 Sonnet to J. M. K...) 12 iThe Lady of Shalott 12 Mariana in the South 14 Pleanore 15 Xhe Miller's Daughter 16 Patlma 18 *tEnone 18 'Xhe Sifters 22 a. Ed 22 TS-^The Palace of Art 22 |jady Clara Vere de Tere 26 Xhe May Queen 26 JSew-year's Eve 27 Conclusion 28 /nkXhe LotoB-Eaters 29 , Choric Song 29 A Dream of Eiur Women. 31 Margaret 34 IThe Blackbird 35 The Death of the Old Year 35 ToJ.S. 36 Song : " You ask me, why tho' ill at ease," 36 " "Of old sat freedom on the heights," 37 " "Love thou thy land, with love far-brought " 37 The Goose 33 The Epic 38 - ^Morte d' Arthur 39 The Gardener's Daughter ; or the Pictures 43 Dora 47 Andley Court , 49 iWalkingtotheMail BO Edwin Morris ; or the Lake B2 St. Simeon Stylites 64 The Talking Oak B6 LoveaudDuty 59 The Golden Year 60 •TJlysses 61 Loeksley Hall, .1. 62 Godlva . . .■ 66 TheTwo Voices 67 The Daydream : — Prologue 71 l^ The Sleeping Palace 71 The Sleaping Beauty 72 TheArriyal 72 The Revival 72 The Departure 72 Moral 73 L'Envoi 73 Epilogue 73 Amphion 74 \^ St. Agnes Eve 74 4»Slr Galahad 75 Edward Gray 75 Will Waterproof's Lyrical Mono- logue 76 To , after reading a Life and Letters 78 To E. L., on his travels in Greece 78 Lady Clare 78 The Lord of Burleigh 79 I^Sir Lancelot and Queen Guine- vere 80 AFarewell 80 Tl CONTENTS. The Beggar Maid 81 The Viflon of Sin 81 Song : "Come not when I am dead," 83 TheEagle 83 Ode. — International Exhibition 83 Maud 84 The Brook : an Idyl 99 The Letters 102 Ode on the Death of the Duie of Wellington 102 The Daisy 105 TotheRev.F.D. Maurice 106 WIU 107 -Tlie Charge of the Light Brigade 107 V In Memoriam 108 *The Princess : a Medley 135 Enoch Arden 179 Aylmer'B Field 19l< Sea Dreams 202 • The Grandmother 206 Northern Farmer, Old style 208 ,0«ithonus 209 l^he Voyage 210 In the v aUey of Cauteretz 211 The Flower.. 211 Eequiescat ., 211 TheSailor Boy 212 Thelslet 212 TheEinglet 212 A Welcome to Alexandra 213 A Dedication 213 Experiments Boadio^a 213 In Quantity 215 Specimen of a Translation of the Iliad in hlank verse 215 1865—1866 , 216 The Old Seat 216 The Victim 216 Lucretius 217 Song : " My life is full of weary days,'* 221 The Captain 221 Tliree Sonnets to a Coquette .... 221 Song: " Lady, let the rolling drums," 222 Song : " Home they brought him slain with spears,"... 222 Song : " Move eastward, happy earth, and leave " 222 Song : '' Break, hreak, break," . . 222 The Poet's Song .' 222 On a Mourner 223 Northern Parmer. New style 223 The Golden Supper 224 Wages 229 The Higher Pantheism 229 ~ Song: "Flower in the crannied wall," 230 lySterary Squabbles 230 i(^ls of the King Vbedication,. , 239 The Coming of Arthur 231 Gareth and Lynette 237 —Geraont and Enid 266 Merlin and Vivien 280 *"~iLancelot and Elaine 291 ->The Holy Grail 310 PelleaaanjlEttarre 323 The Last Tournament 331 Guinevere 341 The Passing of Arthur 350 In the Garden at Swainston 356 The Voice and the Peak 366 To tlie Queen 357 A Welcome to the Duke and Duchess of Edinburgh 358 Queen Mary 359 Harold ' 405 TO THE QUEEN. \ Beyebed, teloved — you that hold A nobler office upon earth Than arms, or power of brain, or birth Could 'give the warrior kings of old, Victoria, — since your Royal grace To one of less desert allows This laurel greener from the brows ' Of him that utter'd nothing base ; And should your greatness, and the care That yokes with empire, yield you tim» To make demand of modern rhyme If aught of ancient worth be there ; Then — while n sweeter music wakes, And thro' wild March the throstle calls, "Where all about your palace-walls The sun-lit almond-blossom shakes — Take, Madam, this poor book of song ; For tho' the faults were thick as dust In vacant chambers, I could trust Your kindness. May you rule us long, TO THE QUEEN. And leave us ruleis of your blood As noble till tbe latest da; I May children of our children say, ' She wrought her people lasting good, * Her court was pure ; her life serene ; God gave her peace ; her land reposed ; A thousand claims to reverence closed In her as Mother, Wife and Queen ; 'And statesmen at her council met Who knew the seasons when to take Occasion by the hand, and make Ibe bounds of freedom wider yet 'By shaping some august decree, Which kept her throne unshaken still, Broad-based upon her people's will j And compass'd by the Inviolate sea.' ^■^^^^^aS^^I^3^<- POEMS. CLABIBEL. A MELODY. I. ■Where Claribel low-Ueth The breezes pause and die. Letting the rose-leaves fall : But the solemn oak-tree sigheth. Thick-leaved, ambrosial, "With an ancient melody Of an inward agony, Where Claribel low-lieth. II. At eve the beetle boometh. Athwart the thicket lone : At noon the wild bee hummeth About the moss'd headstone : At midnight the moon cometh, And looketh down alone. Her song the lintwhite Bwelleth, The clear-voiced mavis dwelletl^ The callow throstle lispeth, The slumbrous wave outwelleth. The babbling runnel crispeth. The hollow grot replieth Where Claribel low-lieth. LILIAN. I. Airy, fairy Lilian, Flitting, f aiiy Lilian, When I ask her if she love me, Claps her tiny hands above me, Laughing all she can ; She'll not tell me if she love me, Cruel little Lilian. II. "When my ;passion seeks Pleasance in love-sighs. She, looking thro* and tnro^ me Thoroughly to undo me. Smiling, never speaks : So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple, From beneat^i her gather'd wimple Glancing with black-beaded eyes, Till the lightning laughters dimple The baby-Toses inlier cheeks ; Then'away she flies. Prythee weep, May Lilian ! Gayety without eclipse "Wearieth me, May Lilian : Tlu-o' my very heart it thrilleth When from crimson-threaded lips -"Silver-treble laughter trilleth : prythee weep, May Lilian. IT. Praying all I can, If prayers will not hush thee, Airy Lilian, Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, Fairy Lilian. ISABEL. I. Eyes not down-dropt nor over bright, but fed * With the clear-pointed flame of chastity. Clear, without heat, undying, tended by ' Pure vestal thoughts in the translucent fane Of her still spirit; locks not wide- dispread, Madonnarwise on either side her head - Sweet lips whereon perpetually did r§ign ' The summer calm of golden charity. Were fixed shadows of thy fixed mood, Severed Isabel, the crown and head. The stately flflwer of female fortitude, Of perfect wifehood and pure low- lihead. n. The intuitive decision of a bright And thorough-edged intellect to part Error from crime ; a prudence to withhold ; The laws of marriage character*d in gold Upon me blanched tablets of her heart ; A love still burning upward, giving light To read those laws ; an accent very low In blandishment, but a most silver flow Of subtle-paced counsel in dis- Bight to the heart and br^n, the' undescried. Winning its way with extreme gentleness Thro' all the outworks of suspicious pride ; A courage to endure and to obey ; A hate of gossip parlance, and of sway. ! TO Crown'd Isabel, thro' all Ixer placid life, The queen of marriage, a most per- fect wife. The mellow'd reflex of a winter moon ; A clear stream flowing with, a muddy one, Till in its onward current it absorbs With ST^dfter movement and in purer light Tlie vexed eddies of its wayward brother : A leaning and upbearing parasite, Clothing the stem, wluch else had fallen quite. With cluster 'd nower-bells and am- brosial orbs Of rich 'fruit-bunches leaning on each other- Shadow fortli thee: — tlie world hath not another (The* all her fairest forma are types of thee, And thou of God in thy great charity) Of such a finish'd chasten'd purity, MARIAtfA. *' Mariana in ike moated grange." Measure for Measure. With blackest moss the flower-plote Were thickly crusted, one and«,U : The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the pear to the gable-walj. The broken sheds look'd sad and strange ; Unlifted was the clinking latch ; Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange. She only said, " My life is dreary, He Cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead I " Her tears fell with the dews at even ; Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide. After the flitting of the bats. When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement-curtain by, And glanced athwart the glooming flats. She only said, "The night is dreary, He cometh not,'* she said ; She said, " I am aweaiy, aweary, I would that I were dead." Upon the middle of the night, Waking she heard the night-fowl crow : The cock sung out an hour ere light : From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her : without hope of change, In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn, Till cold winds woke the grey-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange. She only said, " The day is dreary, He cometh not," she said ; She said, " I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were (fead ! " About a stone-cast from the wall A sluice with blackened waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small. The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway, AH silver-green with gnarled bark : For leagues no other tree did mark The level waste, the rounding gray. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said ; She said, " I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead ! " And ever when the moon was low, And the shrill winds were up and away, In the white curtain, to and fro, She saw the gusty, shadow sway- But when the moon was very low, And wild winds bound within their cell, The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow. She only said, ' ' The night is dreary. He cometh not," she said ; She said, " I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead ! " All day within the dreamy house, The doors upon their hinges c^reafc'd ; Tlie blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd, Or from the crevice peer'd about. Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors. Old footsteps trod the upper floors, Old voices called her from without. She only said, " My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said ; She said, " I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead ! " The sparrow's chirrup on the roof The slow clock ticking, and ' the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof The poplar made, did all confound Her sense ; but most she loathed the hour When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day Was sloping toward his western bower Then, said she, " I am very dreary He will not come," she said : ' She wept, " I am aweary, awearv O God, that I were dead ! » ^^» TO . I. Cleak-headed friend, whose iovful scorn, J J '^ Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atwain -^^-^m SONG.— THE OWL. The knots that tangle hnmaji creeds, The> womiding cords that bind and strain The heart until it bleeds, Eay-fringed eyelids of the mom Koof not' a glance so keen as thine : If aught of prophecy be mine, Thou -wilt not live in vain. n. Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit : Falsehood shall bare her plaited brow : Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not now "With shrilling shafts of subtle wit, Nor martyr-flames, nor trenchant swords Can do away that ancient lie ; A gentler death shall Falsehood die, Shot thro' and thro' with cunning words. ni. "Weak Truth ar-leaning on her crutch, "Wan, wasted TrulL. in her utmost need, Thy kingly intellect shall feed, Until she be an athlete bold, And weary with a finger's touch Those writhed limbs of lightning speed ; Like that strange angel which of old. Until the breaking of the light, "Wrestled with wandering Israel, Past Yabbok brook the livelong night, And heaven's mazed signs stood still In the dim tract of Penuel. MADELINE I. Thou art not steep'd in golden languors. No tranced summer calm is thine, Ever varying Madeline. Thro' light and shadow thou dost range. Sudden glances, sweet and strange, Delicious spites and darling angers, And airy forms of flitting change. II. Smiling, frowning, evermore, Thou art perfect m love-lore. Eevealings deep and clear are thine Of wealthy smiles : but who may know Whether smile or frown be fleeter? Whether smile or frown be sweeter, Who may know ? Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow Light-glooming over eyes divine, Like little clouds sun-fringed, are . thine, Ever varying Madeline. Thy smile and frown are not aloof From one another. Each to each is dearest brother ; Hues of the silken sheeny woof Momently shot into each other. All the mystery is thine ; Smiling, frowning, evermore, Thou art perfect m love-lore, Ever varying Madeline. III. A subtle, sudden-flame. By veering passion fann'd, About thee breaks and dances ; When I would kiss thy hand. The flush of anger'd shame O'erflows thy calmer glances, And o'er black brows drops down A sudden-curved frown : But when I turn away. Thou, willing me to stay, Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest ; But, looking fixedly the while. All my bounding heart entanglest In a golden-netted smile ; Then in madness and in bliss. If my lips should dare to kiss Thy taper fingers amorously, Again thou blushest Rngerly : And o'er black brows drops down, A sudden-curved frown. SONG.— THE OWL. I. When cats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground. And the far-off stream is dumb, And the whirring sail goes round ; And the whirring sail goes round : Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits. II When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay. And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay, Twice or thrice his roundelay ; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits. SECOND SONG. TO THE SAME. I. Thy tuwhits are luH'd, I wot. Thy tuwhoos of yesternight. Which upon the dark afioat. So took echo with delight. So took echo with delight, That her voice untunef ul grown, Wears all day a fainter tone. T would mock thy chant anew ; But I cannot mimic it ; Not a whit of thy tuwhoo. Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, With a lengthen'd loud Italloo, Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, ta- whoo-o-o. THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. "When the T>reeze of a joyful dawn blew free In the silken sail of infancy. The tide of time flow'd back with me, The forward-flowing tide of time ; And many a sheeny summer-morn, Adown the Tigria I was borne, By Bagdat's shrines of fretted cold, High- walled gardens green and old ; True Mussulman was I and sworn, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Anight my shallop, rustling Ihro' Thelow and bloomed foliage, drove The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove The citron-shadows in the blue : By garden porches on the brim, The costly doors flung open wide. Gold glittering thro' lamplight dim, And broider'd sofas on each side : In sooth it was a goodly time, ■ For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Often, where clear-stemm*d platans guard The outlet, did I turn away The boat-head down a broad canal From the main river sluiced, where all The sloping of the moon-lit sward "Was damask-work, and deep inlay Of braided blooms unmowu, which crept Adownto where the water slept. A goodly place, a goodly time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. A motion from the river won Kidged the smooth level, bearing on My shallop thro' the star-strowu calm, Until another night in night I enter'd, from the clearer light, Imbower'd vauUs of pillar'd palm, Imprisoning sweets, ■which, aa they clomb Heavenward, were Btay'd beneath the dome Of hollow bouehs.— A goodly time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Still onward ; ^nd the clear canal Is rounded to as .clear a lake. From the greeii rivage many a fall Of diamond rillets musical. Thro' little crystal arches low Down from the central fountain's flow Fall'n silver-chiming, seem'd to shake The sparkling flints beneath the prow. A goodly place, a goodly time. For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Above thro' many a bowery turn A walk with vary-color*d shells "Wander*d engrain'd. On either side All round about the fragrant marge From fluted vase, and brazen urn In order, eastern flowers large. Some dropping low their crimson bell8 Half-closed, and others studded wide With disks and tiars, fed the time With odor in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Far off, and where the lemon groye In closest coverture ^upsprung. The living airs of middle night Died roup.d the bulbul as he sung ; Not he : but something which pos- sess' d The darkness of the world, delight. Life, anguish, death, immortal love, Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'dj Apart from place, withholding time, But flattering the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Black the garden-bowers and grots Slumber'd : the solemn palms were ranged Above, unwoo'd of summer wind : A sudden splendor from behind Flush'd all the leaves with rich gold- freen, , owing rapidly between Their interspaces, counterchanged The level lake with diamond-plots Of dark and bright. A lovely time, For it was in the golden prime , Of good Haroun Alraschid, Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead, Distinct with vivid stars inlaid, Grew darker from that under-flame : So, leaping lightly from the boat, With silver anchor left afloat. In marvel whence that glory came Upon me, as in sleep I sank In cool soft turf upon the bank, Entranced with that place and time So worthy of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Thence thro' the garden I wi^ drawn A realm of pleasance, many a mound. And many a shadow-chequer'd lawn Full of the city's stilly sound. And deep myrrh-thicketa blowina round * The stately cedar, tamarisks, Thick rosaries of scented thorn, Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks Graven with emblems of the time In honor of the golden prime ' Of good Haroun Alraschid. With dazed vision unawares From the long alley's latticed Bhade Emerged, I came upon the great Pavihon of the Caliphat. Kight to the carven cedarn doors Flung inward over spangled floors Broad-bastSd flights of marble staira Kan up with golden balustrade After the fashion of the time' And humor of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. ODE T@ The fourscore windows all alight As with the quintessence of flame, A million tapers flaring bright From twisted silvers look'd to shame The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd Upon the mooned domes aloof In inmost Bagdat, till there seem*d Hundreds of crescents on the roof Of night new-risen, that marvellous ■ time To celebrate the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Then stole I up. and trancedly Gazed on the Persian girl alone, Serene with argent-li(fied eyes Amorous, and lashes like to rays Of darkness, and a brow of pearl Tressed with redolent ebony, In many a dark delicious curl, Plowing beneath her rose-hued zone ; The sweetest lady of the time, "Well worthy of the golden prime Of good Haroun AJraschid. Six columns, three on either side, Pure silver, underpropt a rich Throne of the massive ore, from which Down-droop'd, in many a floating fold, Engarlanded and diaper'd With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold. Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr'd "Witii merriment of kingly pride, Sole .star of all that place and time, I saw him — in his golden prime, The Good Haboun Aleaschid ! ODE TO MEMORY. I. Thott who Btealest fire. From the fountains of the past. To glorify the present; O, haste, Visit my low desire ! Stren^hen me, enlighten me I I faint in this obscurity, Thou dewy dawn of memory. Come not as thou earnest of late. Flinging the gloom of yesternight On t£e white day ; but robed in soft- en' d ligfit Of orient state. Whilome thou camest with the morn- ing mist, Even as a maid, whose stately brow The dew-impearled winds of dawn have kiss'd. When she, as thou, Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight Of overflowing blooms, and earliest shoots Of orient green, giving safe pledge of fruits, "Which in wintertide shall star The black earth with brilliance rare. MEMORY, 5 in, Whilome thou camest with the morn- ing mist. And with the evening cloud. Showering thy gleaned wealth into my open breast (Those peerless flowers which in the rudest wind Never grow sere, When rooted iu the garden of the mind. Because they are the earliest of the year). Nor was the night thy shroud. In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest Thou leddest by the hand thine infant Hope. The eddying of her garments caught from thee The light of thy great presence ; and the cope Of the half -attain' d futurity, Tho' deep not fathomless. Was cloven with the million stara which tremble O'er the deep mind of dauntless in- fancy. Small thought was there of life's dis- tress ; For sure she deem'd no mist of earth could dull Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and ' beautiful : Sure she was nigher to heaven's spheres, Listening the lordly music flowing from The illimitable years. strengthen me, enlighten me ! 1 faint m this obscurity. Thou dewy dawn of memory. Come forth, I charge thee, arise, Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes ! Thou comest not with shows of flaunt- ing vines Unto mine inner eye, Divinest Memoiy ! Thouwert not nursed by the water- fall Which ever sounds and shines A pillar of white light upon the wall Of purple cliffs, aloof descried : Come from the woods that belt the gray hillside, The seveii elms, the poplars four That stand beside my father's door, And chiefly from the brook that loves To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand; Or dimple m the dark of rushy coves, Drawing into his narrow earthen um, In every elbow and turn, The filter'd tribute of the rough wood- land, O I hither lead thy feet t 6 ADELINE. Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wat- tled folds, Upon the ridged wolds, "When the first matin-Song hath wak- en'd loud Over the dark dewy earth forlorn, What time the amber morn Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung cloud. V. Large dowries doth the raptured eye To the young spirit present When first she is wed ; And like a bride of old In triumph led, With music and sweet showers Of festal flowers, TTnto the dwelling she must sway. Well hast thou done, great artist Mem- ory, In setting round thy first experiment With royal frame-work of wrought gold; Needs mu&t thou dearly love thy first essay, And foremost in thy various gallery Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls tJpon the storied walls ; For the discovery And newness of thine art eo pleased thee, That all which thou hast drawn of fairest Or boldest since, but lightly weighs With thee unto the love thou bearest The first-born of thy genius. Artist- like, Ever retiring thou dost gaze On the prime labor of thine early days : No matter what the sketch might he ; Whether the high field on the bush- less Pike, Or even a sand-built ridge Of heaped hills that mound the sea, Overblown with murmurs harsh. Or even a lowly pottage whence we see Stretch'd wide and wild the waste enormous marsh, Where from the frequent bridge, Like emblems of infinity, The trenched waters run. from sky to sky ; Or a garden bower'd close With plaited alleys of the trailing rose. Long alleys falling down totwilighf grots, Or opening upon level plots Of crowned lilies, standing near Purple-spiked lavender : Whither in after life retired From brawling storms, From weaiy wind, With youthful fancy relnspired. Wo may hold converse with all forms Of the many-sided mind. And those whom passion hath not blinded, Subtle-thoughted, myriad-minded. My friend, with you to live alone. Were how much better than to own A crown, a sceptre, and a throne ! strengthen me, enlighten me ! 1 faint m this obscurity, Thou dewy dawn of memory. SONG. I. A SPIRIT haunts the year*a last hours Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers: To himself he talks ; For at eventide, listening earnestly, At his work you may hear him sob and sigh In the walks ; Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks Of the mouldering flowers : Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock. Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. II. The air is damp, and hush'd, and close, As a sick man's room when he taketh repose An hour before death : My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves, And the breath Of the fading edges of box beneath, And the year's last rose. Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. ADELINE. I. Mystery of mysteries. Faintly smiling Adelinej Scarce of earth nor all divine, Nor unhappy, nor at rest. But beyond expression fair With thy floating flaxen hair ; Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes Take the heart from out my breast. Wherefore those dim looks of thine, Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? II. Whence that aery bloom of thine, Like a lily which the sun Looks thro' in his sad decline, And a rose-bush leans upon, Thou that faintly smilest still, As a Naiad in a well, Looking at the set of day, Or a phantom two hours old Of a maiden past away, Ere the placid lips be cold ? Wherefore those faint smiles of thine. Spiritual Adeline ? THE POET, "What hope or fear or joy la thine ? Who talketh with thee, Adeline ?■ For sure thou art not all alone : Do heating hearts oi! salient springs Keep measure ■with thine own ? Hast thou heard ^q butterflies "What they say hetwixt their wings ? Or in stillest evenings With what voice the violet wooes To his heart the silver dews ? Or when little airs arise, How the merry hluehell rings To the mosses underneath ? Hast thou look'd upon the hreath Of the lilies at sunrise ? Wherefore that faint smile of thine, Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? rv. Some honey-converse feeds thy mind, Some spirit of a crimson rose In love with thee forgets to close His curtains, wasting odorous sighs All night long on darkness blind. What aileth thee ? whom waitest thou With thy soften'd, shadow'd. brow, And those dew-lit eyes of thine. Thou faint smiler, Adeline ? V. Lovest thou the doleful wind When thou gazest at the skies ? Doth tlie low-tongued Orient Wander from the side of the mom, Dripping with Sabaean spice On thy pillow, lowl^ bent With melodious airs lovelorn. Breathing Light against thy face, While his locks a-drooping twined Bound thy neck m subtle ring Make a carcanet of rays. And ye talk together still. In the language wherewith Spring Letters cowslips on the hill? Hence that look and smile of thine, Spiritual Adeline. A CHARACTER. With a half-glance upon the sky At night he said, ** The wanderings Of this most intricate Universe Teach me the nothingness of things." Yet could not all creation pierce Beyond the bottom of his eye. He spake of beauty : that the dull Saw no divinity in grass, Life in dead stones, or spirit in air ; Then looking as 'twere in a glass, He smoothed his chin and sleek'd his hair, And said the earth was beautiful. He spake of virtue : not the gods More purely, when they wish to charm Pallas and Juno sitting by : And mth a sweeping oi the. arm, And a lack-lustre dead-blue eye, Devolved his rounded periods. Most delicately hour by hour He canvass'd human mysteries, And ti'od on silk, as if the winds Blew his own praises in his eyes, And stood aloof from other minda In impotence of fancied power. With lips depress'd as he were meek, Himself unto himself he sold : Upon himself himself did feed : Quiet, dispassionate, and cold. And other than his form of creed. With chisell' d features clear and THE POET. The poet in a golden clime was bom, With golden stars above ; Dower' d with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn. The love of love. He saw thro' life and death; thro* good and ill. He saw thro' his own soul. The marvel of the everlasting will, An open scroll, Before him lay : with echoing feet he threaded The secretest walks of fame : The viewless arrows of his thoughia were headed And wing'd with flame, Like Indiaii reeds blown from his sil- ver tongue, And of so, fierce a flight, From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung. Filling with light And vagrant melodies the winds which bore Them earthward till they lit : Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower, The fruitful wit Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew Where'er they fell, behold, Like to the mother plant in semblancei grew A flower all gold, And bravely furnish'S all abroad to fling The winged shafts of truth. To throng with stately blooms the breathing spring Of Hope and Youth. So many minds did gird their orbs with beams, Tho' one did fling the fire. Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many dreams Of high desire. Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world Like one great garden show'd, And thro' the wreaths of floating dark upcurl'd, Rare sunrise flow'd. 8 THE SEA- And Freedom rear*d in that august fiunrifie Her beautiful bold brow, "When rites aud forms before his burn- ing eyes Melted like snow. There was no blood upon her maiden robes Sunn'd by those orient skies ; But round about the circles of the globes Of her keen eyes. And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame Wisdom, a name to shake All evil dreams of power — a sacred name. And when she spake, Her words did gather thunder as they ran, And as the lightning to the thun- der Which follows it, riving the spirit of man, Making earth wonder, So was their meaning to her words. No sword Of wratti her right arm whirl'd, But onepoorpoet's scroll, and with his word She shook the world. THE POET'S MIND. I. Vex not thou the poet's mind With thy shallow wit : Vex not thou the poet's mind ; For thou canst not fathom it. Clear and bright it should be ever, Flowing like a crystal river ; Bright as light, and clear as wind. n. Dark-brow*d sophist, come not anear ; All the place is holy grotind ; Hollow smile and frozen sneer Come not here. Holy water will I pour Into every spicy flower Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around. The flowers would fMnt at your cruel cheer. In your eye there is death. There is frost in your breath Which would blight the plants. Where you stand you cannot hear From the groves within The wild-bird's din. In the heart of the garden the merry bird chanls. It would fall to the ground if you came in. In the middle leaps a fountain Like sheet lightning, Ever brightening With a low melodious thunder s FAIRIES. All day and all night it is ever drawn. From the brain of the purple moun tain Which stands in the distance yonder : It springs on a level of bowery lawn, An d the mountain draws it from Heaven above, And It sings a song of undying love ; And yet, tho' its voice be so clear and full, Tou never would hear it; your ears are so dull ; So keep where you are : you are foul with sin ; It would shrink to the earth if you came in. THE SEA-FAIEIES. Slow sail'd the weary mariners and saw. Betwixt the green brink and the run- ning foam, Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest To little harps of gold ; and while they mused, Whispering to each other half in fear. Shrill music reach'd them on the mid- dle sea. Whither away, whither away, whither away ? fly no more. Whither away from the high green field, and the happy blossoming shore ? Day and night to the billow the foun- tain calls ; Down shower the gambolling water- falls From wandering over the lea : Out of the live-green heart of the dells They freshen the silvery-crimson shells, And thick with white bells ttie clover- hill swells High over the full-toned sea : O hither, come hither and furl your sails, Come hither to me and to me : Hither, come hither and frolic and play; Here it is only the mew that wails ; V/e will sing to you all the day : Mariner, mariner, furl your sails. For here are the blissful downs and dales, And merrily, merrily carol the gales, And the spangle dances in bight and bay, And the rainbow forms and flies on the land Over the islands free ; And the rainbow lives in the curve of the sand ; Hither, come hither and see ; And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave, And sweet is the color of cove and cave, A DIRGE. 9 And sweet sliall your welcome be : O Mther, come hither, and be our lords, For merry brides are we : We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet words : O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten With pleasure and love and jubilee : O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten When the sharp clear twang of the golden chords Buns up the ridged sea. Who can light on as happy a shore All the wond o'er, all the world o'er ? Whither away 7 listen and stay ; mar- iner, manner, fly no more. THE DESERTED HOUSE. I. Life and Thought have gone away Side by side, Leaving door and windows wide : Careless tenants they ! II. All within is dark as night : In the windows is no light ; And no murmur at the door. So frequent on its hinge before. III. Close the door, the shutters close. Or thro' the windows we shall see The nakedness and vacancy Of the dark deserted house. IV. Come away : no more of mirth Is here or merry-making sound. The house was builded of, the earth, And shall fall again to ground. V. Come away : for Life and Thought Here no longer dwell ; But in a city glorious — A great and distant city — have bought A mansion incorruptible. Would they could have stayed with usl THE DYING SWAN. I. The plain was grassy, wild and bare. Wide, wild, and open to the air. Which had built up everywhere An under-roof of doleful gray. With an inner voice the river ran, Adown it floated a dying swan, And loudly did lament. It was the middle of the day. £ver the weary wind went on. And took the reed-tops as it went. II. Some blue peaks in the distance rose. And white against the cold-white sky, Shone out their crowning snows. One willow over the river wept, And shook the wave as the wind did - sigh ;■ Above in the wind was the swallow. Chasing itself at its own wild will. And far thro' the marish green and Btill The tangled water-courses slept. Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow. The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy Hidden in sorrow : at first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear ; And floating about the under-sky. Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear; But anon her awful jubilant voice. With a music strange and manifold, Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold ; As when a mighty people rejoice With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold. And the tumult of their acclaim is roU'd Thro' the open gates of the city afar. To the shepherd who watcheth the eve- ning star. And the creeping mosses and clamber- ing weeds. And the willow-branches hoar and dank. And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds, And the wave-worn horns of the echo- ing bank, And the silvery marish-flowers that throng The desolate creeks and pools among. Were flooded over with eddying song. A DIRGE. I. Now is done thy long day's work ; Fold thy palms across thy breast. Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. Let them rave. Shadows of the silver birk Sweep the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. II. Thee nor carketh care nor slander ; Nothing but the small cold worm Fretteth thine enslirouded form. Let them rave. light and shadow ever wander O'er the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. III. Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed ; Chanteth not the brooding bee Sweeter tones than calumny ? Let them rave. Thou wilt never raise thine head From the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. IV. Crocodiles wept tears for thee ; The woodbine and e^latere Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear. Let them rave. 10 THE BALLAD OF ORIANA, E-ain makes music in the tree O'er tlie green tliat foliis thy grave. Let them rave. Bound thee blow, self -pleached deep, Bramble roses, faint and pale, And long purples of the dale. LeC them. rave. These in every shower creep Thro' the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. Ti. The gold-eyed kingcups fine ; The frail bluebell peereih over Bare broidry of the purple clover. Let them rave. Kings have no such couch as thine, As the green that folds thy grave. Xetthem rave. TII. "Wild words wander here and there ; God's great gift of speech abused Makes thy memory confused : But let them rave. The balm.-cricket carols clear In the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. LOVE AND DEATH. "What time tbe mighty moon was gathering light Love paced the thymy plots of Para- dise, And all about him roU'd his lustrous eyes ; "When, turning round a. cassia, full in view Death, walking all alone beneath a yew, And talking to himself, first met his sight : " You must begone,'* said Death, *' these walks are mine." Love wept and spread his sheeny vans for fiight ; Yet ore he parted said, " This hour is thine : Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree Stands in the sun and shadows all beneath, So in the light of great eternity Life eminent creates the shade of death ; The shidow passeth when the tree shall fall, But I shall reign for ever over all." THE BALLAD OF OBIANA. My heart is wasted with my woe, Oriana. ' There is no rest for me below, Oriana. "When the long dun wolds are ribb'd with snow. And loud the Norland whixlwindfl blow, Oriana, Alone I wander to and fro, Oriana. Ere the li^ht on dark was growing, Onana, At midnight the cock was crowing, Oriana : Winds were blowing, waters flowing, "We heard the steeds to battle going, Oriana ; Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, Oriana. ,In the yew-wood black as night, Oriana, Ere I rode into the fight, Oriana, "While blissful tears blinded my sight By star-shine and by moonlight, Oriana, I to thee my troth did plight, Oriana. She stood upon the castle wall, Oriana ; She watch'd my crest among them all, Oiiana : She saw me fight, she heard me call, "When forth there stept a f oeman tall, Oriana, Atween ibe and the castle wall, Oriana. The bitter arrow went aside, Oriana : The false, false arrow went aside, Oriana : The damned arrow glanced aside, And pierced thy heart, my love, my bride, Oriana ! Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, Oriana ! Oh ! narrow, narrow was the space, Oriana. Loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, Oriana. Oh ! deathf ul stabs were dealt apace, The battle deepen' d in its place, Oriana ; But I was down upon my face, Oriana. They should have stabb'd me where I ^^^'^ . Oriana ! How could I rise and come away, Oriana ? How oould I look upon the day ? They should have stabb'd me where I lay, Oriana — They should have trod me into clay, Oriana. O breaking heart that will not break, Oriana I O pale, pale face bo sweet and mesk* Oriana ! THE MERMAID. 11 Then smilest, but thou dost not speak, Aad then the tears run down my cheek, Oriana : 'What wantest thou ? whom dost thou seek, priana? I cry aloud : none hear my cries, Oriana. Thou comest atween me and the skies, Oriana. I feel the tears ol hlood arise TJp from my heart unto my eyes, Oriana. Within thy heart my arrow lies, Oriana. O cursed hand I O cuised blow ! Oriana ! happy thou that liestlow, Oriana ! AU night the silence seems to flow Beside me in my utter woe, Oriana. A weary, weary way I go, Oriana. When Norland winds pipe down the sea, Oriana, 1 walk, I dare not think of thee, Oriana. Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, I dare not die and come to thee, Orianal X hear the roaring of the sea, Oriana. CmCtJMSTANCE. Two children in two neighbor villages Playing mad pranks along the heafliy leas , Two strangers meeting at a festival ; Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall ; Two lives bound fast in one with gold- en ease ; Two graves grass-green beside a gray church-tower, Wash'd with still rains and daisy-blos- somed ; Two children in one hamlet bom and bred ; So runs the round of life from hour to hour. THE MERMAN. I. Who would be, A merman bold, Sitting alone. Singing alone. Under the sea, With a crown of gold, On a throne 7 II. I would be a merman bold ; I would sit and sing the whole of the day; I would fill the searhalls with a voice of power : But at night I would roam abroad and play With the mermaids in and out of the rocks. Dressing their hair with the white sea' flower ; And holding them back by their flow- ing locks I would kiss them often imder the sea. And kiss them again till they kiss'd me Laughingly ,laughingly ; i And then we would wander away, away To the pale-green sea-groves straight and high, Chasing each other merrily. III. There would be neither moon nor star; But the wave would make music above us afar — Low thunder and light in the magic night — Neittier moon nor star. We would call aloud in the dreamy dells. Call to each other and whoop and cry All night, merrily, merrily ; They would pelt me with starry span- gles and shells. Laughing and clapping their hands between. All night, merrily, merrily : But I would throw to them back in mine Turkis and agate and almondine : Then leaping out upon them unseen I would kiss them often under the sea. And kiss them again till they kiss'd me Laughingly, laughingly. O, what a happy life were mine Under the hollow-hung ocean green ! Soft are the moss-beds under the sea ; We would live merrily, merrily. THE MEKMAID. Who would be A mermaid fair. Singing alone. Combing her hair Under the sea, In a golden curl With a comb of pearl, On a throne ? II. I would be a mermaid fair ; I would sing to myself the whole of the day; With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair; And still as I comb'd I would sing and say, " Who is it loves me 7 who loves not me?" 12 THE LADY OF SHALOTT. I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall Low adown, low adown, From under my starry searbuH crown Low adown and around, And I stiould look like a fountain of gold Springing alone With a snrill inner sound, Over the throne In the midst of the hall ; Till that great sea-snake under the sea From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps "Would slowly trail himself sevenfold Bound the hall where 1 sate, and look in at the gate With his large calm eyes for the love of me. And all the mermen under the sea "Would feel their immortality Die in their hearts for the love of me. But at night I would wander away, away, I would ning on each side my low-flow- ing locks, And lightly vault from the throne and ntS tL "With the mermen in and out of the rocks ; "We would run to and fro, and hide and seek. On the broad searwolds in the crimson sheUs, "Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea. But if any came near I would call, and shriek, And adown the steep like a wave I would leap From the diamond-ledges that jut from the dells ) For I would not he Idss'd by all who would list, Of the hold merry mermen under the sea ; They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me. In the purple twilights under the sea ; But the king of them all would carry me, "Woo me, and win me, and marry me, In the branching jaspers under the sea ; Then all the dry pied things that be In the hueless mosses under the sea "Would curl round my silver feet silently. All looking up for the love of me. And if I should carol aloud, from aloft All things that are forked, and homed, and soft Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea All looking down for the love of me. SONNET TO J. M. K. My hope and heart is with thee— thou wilt be A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest To scare church-harpies from tiie mas- ter's feast ; Our dusted velvets have much need of thee : Thou art no eabbath-drawler of old saws, Distill' d from some worm-canker'd homily ; But spurr'd at heart with fieriest en- ergy To embattail and to wall about thy cause With iron-worded proof, hating to hark The humming of the drowsy pulpit- drone Half God's good sabbath, while the worn-out clerk Brow-heats his desk below. Thou from a throne Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the dark Arrows of lightnings. I will stfuad and znai'k. THE luAHY OF SHALOTT. PAKT I. Ox either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky ; And thro' the field the road runs by To many-tower'd Camelot ; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the Ulies blow Bound an island there below The island of Shalott. Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Thro' the wave that runs for ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four gra ,y walls, and four gmy.towergt Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isleimbowera ThTIady of sKaloW. By the margin, willow-veil*d. Slide the heavy barges trail'd By slow horses ; and unhail'd The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd Skimming down to Camelot : But who hath seen her wave her hand ? Or at the casement seen her stand ? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott? Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly Fromthe nver winding, claariy, ^D^wiiloTower'd Camelot : And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy. Listening, whispers '* 'Tis the fairy Lady of Shalott." THE LADY OF SHALOIT. 13 There Bhe weaves by night and day A magic web witb colors gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camfclot. She knows not what the curse may be, And 60 she weaveth steadily. And little other care hath she. The Lady of Shalott. And moving thro' a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot : There the river eddy whirls. And there the surly village-churls, And the red cloaks of market-girls. Pass onward from Shalott. Sometimes a troop of damsels glad. An abbot on an ambling pad. Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad. Goes by to tower'd Camelot ; And sometimes thro' the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two : She hath n oJavaJ-knig bt and true, — fKelSdyofSESIott But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's ma^c sights, For often thro' the silent nights A funeral, with plumes anoT^lights, And music, went to Camelot : Or when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed ; " I am half sick of shadows," said The Lady of Shalott. A BOTT-SHOT from her bower-eaves. He rode between the barley-sheaves. The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves. And flamed upon the brazen greaves . Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd To a lady in his shield. That sparkled on the yellow field. Beside remote Shalott. The gemmy bridle glitter'd free. Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down to Camelot And from his blazon'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung. And as he rode his armor rung. Beside remote Shalott. All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leath- er, The helmet and the helmet feather Burned like one burning flame to- gether. As he rode down to Camelot. A> often thro' the purple night. Below the starry clusters bright^ Some bearded meteor, trailing hght, Moves over still Shalott. His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd ; On Durnish'd hooves his war-horse trode ; !From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as "on he rode. As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flash'd into the crystal mirror, "Tirra lirra," by the river Sang Sir Lancelot. She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces thro' the room, She 6aw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume. She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide : The mirror crack' d from side to side j " The curse is come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott. In the stormy east-wind straining. The pale yellow woods were waning. The broad stream in his banks com- plaining, Heavily the low sky raining Over tower'd Camelot ; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat. And round about the prow she wrote TJie Lady of Shalott. And down the river's dim expanse — Like some bold seer in a trance. Seeing all his own mischance— With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay ; The broad stream bore her far away. The Lady of Shalott. Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right — The leaves upon her falling light — Thro' the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot : And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among. They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott. Heard a carol, mournful, holy. Chanted loudly, chanted lowly. Till lier blood was frozen slowly. And her eyes were darken'd whoUy, Tum'd to tower'd Camelot ; For ere she reach'd upon the tide The first house by the water-side. Singing in her song she died. The Lady of Shalott Under tower and balcony. By garden-wall and gallery, 14 MARIANA IN THE SOUTH, A gleaming'shape she floated by, Dead-pale Detween the houses highy Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came. Knight and burgher, lord and dame, Ana round the prow they read her name, The Lady of Skalott. Who is this ? and what is here ? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer ; And they cross'd themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot ; But Lancelot mused a little space j He said, " She has a lovely face j God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott." MABLAJ^A IN THE SOUTH. "With one black shadow at its feet, The house thro' all the level shines, Close-latticed to the brooding heat, And silent in its dusty vines : A faint-blue ridge upon the right, An empty river-bed before, And shallows on a distant shore, In glaring sand and inlets bright. But "Ave Mary," made she moan, And "Ave Mary," night ana morn. And "Ah," she sang, "to be all alone. To live forgotten, and love for- lorn." She, as her carol sadder grew. From brow and bosom slowly down Thro' rosy taper fingers drew Her streaming curls of deepest brown To left and right, and made appear. Still-lighted in a secret shrine, Her melancholy eyes divine. The home of woe without a tear. And ** Ave Mary," was her moan, " Madonna, sad is night and mom ; " And "Ah," she sang, "to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love for- lorn." Till all the crimson changed, and past Into deep orange o'er the sea, Jjow on her knees herself she cast, Before Our Lady murmur'd she ; Complaining, " Mother, give me grace To help me of my weary load." And on the liquid mirror glow*d The clear perfection of her face; "Is this the form," she made her moan, "That won his praises night and mom ? " And "Ah," she said, "but I wake alone, I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn." Nor bird would sing, nor lalnb would bleat. Nor any cloud would cross the yault, But day increased from heat to heat. On STOny drought and steaming salt ; Till now at noon she slept again. And seem'd knee-deep in mountain grass, And lieard her native breezes pass, And runlets babbling down the glen. She breathed in sleep a lower moan, And murmuring, as at night and mom, She thought, "My spirit is here alone, "Walks forgotten, and is forlorn." Dreaming, she knew it was a dream : She felt he was and was not there. She woke : the babble of the stream Fell, and, without, the steady glare Shrank one sick willow sere and small. The river-bed was dusty-white ; And all the furnace of the light Struck up against the blinding wall. She whisper'd, wdth a stifled moan More inward than at night or morn, "Sweet Mother, let me not here alone Live forgotten and die forlorn." And, rising, from her bosom drew Old letterSj breathing of her worth, For " Love," they said, "must needs be true, To what is loveliest upon earth." An image seem'd to pass the door, To look at her with slight, and say, " But now thy beauty flows away, So be alone for evermore." " O cruel heart," she changed her tone, "And cruel love, whose end is scorn. Is this the end to be left alone. To live forgotten, and die for- lorn ! " But sometimes in the falling day An image seem'd to pass the door,^ To look into her eyes and say, " But thou Shalt be alone no more," And flaming downward over all From beat to heat the day decreased, And slowly rounded to the east The one black shadow from the wall. '* The day to-night," she made her moan, . " The day to-night, the night to mom. And day and night I am left alon« To live forgotten, and love for- lorn." At eve a dry cicala sung, There came a sound as of the sea ; Backward the lattice-blind she flung, And lean'd upon the balcony. There all in spaces rosy-bright Large Hesper glitterd on her tears, And deepening thro' the silent spheres, ELEANORE. 15 HeaTen over Heaven rose the night. And weeping then she made her moan, " The night comes on that knows not morn, "When I shall cease to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love for- lorn." ELEANOEB. I. Thy dark eyes open'd not, Nor first reveal'd themselves to Eng- lish air, For there is nothing here. Which, from the outward to we inward brought, Moulded thy baby thought.- Far off from human neighborhood, Thou wert bom, on a summer mom, A mile beneath the cedar-wood. Thy bounteous forehead was not f ann*d With breezes from our oaken glades, But thou wert nursed in some delicious land Of lavish lights, and floating shades: And flattering thy childish thought The oriental fairy brought. At the moment of thy birth. From old well-hea""d8 of haunted rills. And the hearts of -purple hills, And shadowed coves on a sunny shore. The choicest wealth of all the earth,- Jewel or ghell, or starry ore. To deck thy cradle, Ele^ncre. Or the yellow-banded bees, Thro' half-open lattices Coming in ]the scented breeze. Fed thee, a child, lying alone. With whitest honey in fairy gardens cuU'd— A glorious child, dreaming alone, In silk-soft folds, upon yielding down. With the hum of swarming bees Into dreamful slumber luU'd. Who may minister to thee ? Summer herself should minister To ttiee, with fruitage golden- rinded On golden salvers, or it may be. Youngest Autumn, in a bower Grape-thicken'd from the light, and blinded With, many a deep-hued bell-like flower Of fragrant trailers, when the air Sleepeth over all the heaven, And the crag that fronts the Even, All along the shadowy shore, Cnmsons over an inland mere, .Eleanore 1 How may fuU-sail'd verse express. How may measured words adore The full-flowing harmony Of thy ewaii-like stateliness, Eleanore ? The luxuriant symmetry Of thy floating gracefulness, Eleanore ? Every turn and glance* of thine, Every lineament divine, Eleanore, And the steady sunset glow. That stays upon thee 2 For in thee Is nothing sudden, nothing single : Like two streams of incense free From one censer, in one slirine, . Thought and motion mingle. Mingle ever. Motions flow To one another, eyen as tho* They were modulated so To an unheard melody. Which lives about thee, and a sweep Of richest pauses, evermore Drawn from ea my sight. But am as nothing in its light : As tho' a star, in inmost heaven set, Ev'n while we gaze on it, Should slowly round his orb, and slowly grow To a full face, there like a sun remain Fix'd— then as slowly fade again, And draw itself to what it was be- fore; So full, so deep, so slow. Thought seems to come and go In thy large eyes, imperial Elea- nore. VII. As thunder-clouds that, hung on high, Koof d the world with doubt and fear. Floating thro' an evening atmosphere. Grow golden all about the sky ; 16 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. In thee all passion becomes passionless, Touch'd by tby spirit's mellowness, In a silent meditation, Falling into a still delight, And luxury of contemplation : As waves that up a quiet cove Rolling slide, and lying still Shadow forth the banks at will : Or sometimes they swell and move, Pressing up against the land, With motions of the outer sea : And the self-same influence ControUeth all the soul and sense Of Passion gazing upon thee. Hifl bow-string slacken'd, languid Love, Leaning his cheek upon his hand. Droops both his wings, regarding thee, And so would languish evermore, Serene, imperial Eleanore. Tin. But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconfined, While the amorous, odorous wind Breathes low between the sunset and the moon Or, in a shadowy saloon, On silken cushions half reclined ; I watch thy grace ; and in its place My heart a charmed slumber keeps, While I muae upon thy face ; And a languid fire creeps Thro' my veins to all my frame, Bissolviugly and slowly : soon Prom thy rose-red lips my name Floweth : and then, as in a swoon. With dinning sound my ears are rife. My tremulous tongue faltereth, I lose my color, I lose my breath, I drink the cup of a costly death, Brimm'd with delirious draugbts of warmest life. ' I die with my delight, before I hear what I would hear from thee; Tet tell my name again to me, I would be dying evermore. So dying ever, Eleanore. THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. I SEE the wealthy miller yet. His double chin, his portly size, And who that knew him could forget The busy wrinkles round his eyes? The slow wise smile that, roundabout His dusty forehead dryly curl'd, Seem'd half-within and half -without. And f uU of dealings with the world ? Jja yonder chair I see him sit. Three fingers round the old silver cup — I see his gray eyes twinkle yet At his own jest— gray eyes lit up With summer lightnings of a soul So full of summer warmth, so glad So healthy, sound, and clear and whole, Mis memory scarce can make me sad. Tet fill my glass : give me one kiss : My own sweet Alice, we must die. There's somewhat in this world amifia Shall be unriddled by and by. There's somewhat flows to us in life, But more is taken quite away. Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife. That we may die the self-same day. Have I not found a happy earth? I least should breathe a thought of pain. Would God renew me from my birth I'd almost live my life again. So sweet it seems with thee to walk, And once a^ain to woo thee mine — It seems* in after-dinner talk Across the walnuts and the wine — To be the long and listless boy Late-left an orphan of the sqiiire, Where this old mansion mounted lugh Looks down upon the village spire : For even here, where I and you Have lived and loved alone so long. Each mom my sleep was broken thro* By some wild skylai'k's matin song. And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan ; But ere I saw your eyes, my love, I had no motion of my own. For scarce my life with fancy play*d Before I dream'd that pleasant dream- Still hither thither idly sway'd Like those long mosses in the stream. Or from the bridge I leaned to hear The milldam rushing down with noise. And see the minnows everywhere In crystal eddies glance and poise, The tall flag-flowers when they sprung Below the range of stepping stones, Or those three chestnuts near, that hung In masses thick with milky cones. But, Alice, what an hour was that, when after roving in the woods ('Twas April then), I came and sat Belowthe chestnuts, when their buds Were glistening to the breezy blue ; And on the slope, an absent fool, I cast me down; nor thought of you, But angled in the higher pool. A love-song I had somewhere read, An echo from a measured strain, Beat time to nothing in my head From some odd comer of the brain. It haunted me, the morning long, With weary sameness in the rny The phantom of a silent song. That went and came a thousand times. Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood I watch'd the little circles uie : They past into the level flood. And there a vision caught my eye ; The reflex of a beauteous form, A glowing arm, a gleaming neck, As when a sunbeam wavers warm Within the dark and dimpled beck. ■=^'»^ THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 17 Por you remember, you had set, That morning, on the casement-edge A long green box of mignonette, And you were leaning from the ledge: . And when I raised my eyes, above They met with two so f uil and bright- Such eyes ! I swear to you, my love, That these have never lost their light. I loved, and love dispell'dthe fear That I should die an early deatii : For love possess'd the atmosphere. And fiird the breast with purer breath. My mother thought, "What ails the boy? For I was altered and began To move about the house witli joy, And with the certain step of man. I loved the biimming wave that swam 'Tiu:o' quiet meadows round the mill. The sleepy pool above the dam. The pool beneath it never still, The meal-sacks on the whiteu'd floor. The dark round of the dripping wheel, The very air about the door Made misty with the floating meal. And oft in ramblings on the wold, • When April nights began to blow. And April's crescent glimraer'd cold, I saw the village lights below ; I knew your taper far away. And full at heart of trembling hope, From off the wold I came, andlay Upon the freshly-flower'd slope. The deep brook groan'd beneath the mill : And "by that lamp," Ithought, "she sits ! " The white chalk-quarry from the hill Gleam'd to the flying moon by fits. *' O that I were beside her now ! O, will she answer if I call ? O, would she give me vow for vow, Sweet Alice, B I told her all ? " Sometimes I saw you sit and spin ; And, in the pauses of the wind. Sometimes J heard you sing within : Sometimes your shadow cross'd the blind. At last you rose and moved the light. And the long shadow of the chair Flitted across into the night. And all the casement darkened there. But when at last I dared to speak, The lanes, you know, were white with May, Tour ripe lips moved not, but your cheek Flush'd like the coming of the day ; And so it was— half -sly, half-shy. Tou would and would not, little one ! Although I pleaded tenderly. And you and I.were all alone. And slowly was my mother brought To yield consent to my desire : She wish'd me happy, but she thought I might have look'd a little higher ; And I was young~too young to wed : " Yet must I love her for your sake ; Go letch your Alice here," she said : Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake. And down I went to fetch my bride : But, Alice, you were ill at ease ; This dress and that by turns you tried, Too fearful that you should not I loved you better for your fears, I knew you could not look but well ; And dews, that would );>ave faU'n in tears, I kiss'd away before they fell. I watoh'd the little flutterings. The doubt my mother would not see; She spoke at large of many things. And at the last she spoke of me ; And turning look'd upon your face. As near this door you sat apart, And rose, and, with a silent grace App'L'oaching, press'd you neart to heart. Ah, well— but sing the foolish song I gave you, Alice, on the day When, arm in arm, we went along, A pensive paii> and you were gay With bridal flowers — that I mayseem, As in the nights of old, to lie Beside the mill-wheel in the strfeam, While those full chestnuts whisper by. It is the miller's daughter. And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel That trembles at her ear. For hid in ringlets day and night, I'd touch her neck so warm amd white. And I would be the girdle About her dainty dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me. In sorrow and in rest. And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight. And I would be the necklace. And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom. With her laughter or her sighs. And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be uuclasp'd at night* A trifle, sweet ! which true love spells — True love interprets — right alone. His light upon the letter dwells. For all the spirit is his own. So if I waste words now, in truth You must blame Love. His early rage Had force to make me rhyme in youfli And makes me talk too much in age. And now those vivid hours are gone. Like my own life to me thou art, Where Past and Present, wound in one Do make a garland for the heart : So sing that other song I made, 18 (ENONE, Half-amger'd -witli my happy lot. The day, wlieii in the wiesnut shade I found the blue Forget-me-not. liOve that hath us in the net Can he pass, and we forget ? Many suns arise and set. Many a chance the years beget. Love the gift is Love the debt. Ever so. Love is hurt with jar and fret. Love is ni!ade a vague regret. Eyes with idle tears are wet. Idle habit links us yet. "What is love ? for we forget : Ah, no I no ! Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife. Bound my true heart thine arms entwine ; My other dearer life in life. Look thro' my very soul with thine I Untouch'd with any shade of years. May those kind eyes forever dwell I They have not shed a many tears, Dear eyes, since first I knew them well. Tet tears they shed : they had their part Of sorrow : for when time was ripe. The still afEection of the heart Became an outward breathing type, That into stillness past again. And ]ef t a want unknown before ; Although the loss that brought us pain, That loss but made us love the more. With farther lockings on. The kiss, The woven arms, seem but to be Weak symbols of the settled bliss. The corof ort, I have found in. thee : But that God bless thee, dear— who wrought Two spirits to one equal mind— With blessings beyond hope or thought, With blessings which no words can find. Arise, and let us wander forth, To yon old mill across the wolds ; For look, the sunset, south and north, Winds all the vale in rosy folds, And fires your narrow casement glass, Touching the sullen pool below : On the chalk-hill the bearded grass Is dry and dewless. Let us go. FATIMA. O Love, Love, Love ! O withering might ! O sun, that from thy noonday height Shudderest when I strain my sight, Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light, Lo, falling from my constant mind, Lo, parch'd and wither'd, deaf and blmd, I whirl like leaves in roaring wind, i Last night I wasted hateful hours Below the city's eastern towers ; I thirsted for the brooks, the showers ; I roU'd auLong the tender flowers : I crush'd ULem on my breast, my mouth : I look'd athwart the burning drouth Of that long desert to the south. Last night when some one spoke his name. From my swift blood that went and came A thousand little shafts of flame Were shiver'd in my narrow frame. Love, O fire ! once he drew With one long kiss my whole soul thro* My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew. Before he mounts the hill, I know He cometh quickly : from below Sweet gales, as firom deep gardens, blow Before him, striking on my brow. In my dry brain my spirit soon, Down-deepening from swoon to swoon, Faints liie a dazzled moaning moon. The wind sounds like a silver wire. And from beyond the noo^i a fire Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher The skies stoop down in their desire. And, isled in sudden seas of light. My heart, pierced tt^o' with fierce delight, Bursts into blossom in his sight My whole soul waiting silently, ' All naked in a sultry sky. Droops blinded with his sldning eye : I win possess him or will die. 1 win CTow round him in his place. Grow, live, die looking on his face. Die, dying, clasp'd inhis embrace. CENONE. Theke lies a vale in Ida, lovelier Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. The swimming vapor slopes athwart the glen. Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine. And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine In cataract after cataract to the sea. Behind the valley topmost Gargarus Stands up and takes the morning : but in front The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal Troas and Ilion's column'd citadel, The crown of Troas. Hither came at noon Mournful (Enone, wandering forlorn (ENONE. 19 Of Paris, once her plavmate on the hills. Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest. She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine, Sang to the stillness, till the mountain- shade Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff. " O mother Ida, many-f onntain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. For now the noonday quiet holds the hill: The grasshopper is silent in the grass : The lizard, witii his shadow on the stone, Bests like a shadow, and the cicala The purple flowers droop : the golden bee Is lily-cradled ; I alone awake. My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, My heait is breaking, and my eyes are dim, And I am all aweary of my life. *' O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Hear me, O Earth, hear me, O Hills, O Caves That house the cold crown'd snake ! O mountain brooks, I am the daughter of a River-God, Hear Ue, for i will speak, and build up all My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls Bose slowly to a music slowly breathed, A cloud that gather'd shape : for it maybe That, while I speak of it, a little while My heart may wander from its deeper woe. " O mother Ida, many-f ountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. I waited underneath the dawning hills, Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy- dark. And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine ; Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, Leading a iet-black goat white-horn'd, white-hooved, Came up from reedy Simois all alone. •* O mother Ida, harken ere I die. Far-off the torrent call'd me from the cleft ; Far up the solitary morning smote The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes I sat alone : white-breasted like a star Fi'onting the dawn he moved : a leop- ard skin Droop'd from his ehoulder, but his sunny hair Cluster'd about his temples like a Grod's ; And his cheek brighten'd as the foam- bow brightens "Wlien the wind blows the foam, and all my heai-t "Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came. ** Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. He smiled, and opening out his milk- white palm Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold. That smelt ambrosially, and while I look'd And listen'd, the full-flowing river of speech Came down upon my heart. '* ( ]y£y o^^rn CEnone, Beautiful-brow' d OEnone, my own soul, Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingrav'n **For the most fair," would seem to award it thine, As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace Of movement, and the charm of mar- ried brows.' " Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. He prest the blossom of his lips to mine, And added, ' This was cast upon the board, "When all«the full-faced presence of the Gods Banged in the halls of Peleus ; where- upon Bose feud, with question unto whom 'twere due : But light-foot Iris brought ityester- eve", Delivering, that to me, by common voice Elected umpire, Herfe comes to-day, Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each This meed of fairest. Thou, wiUiin the cave Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, Maystwell behold them, unbeheld, un- heard Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.' , ** Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die, It was the deep midnoon ; one silvery cloud Had lost his way between the piney sides Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came. Naked they came to that smooth-sward- ed bower. And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, "Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, Lotos and lilies : and a wind arose, And overhead the wandering ivy and vine, 20 (ENONE. This way and that, in many a wild fes- toon Ean riot, garlanding the gnarled' boughs With hunch and herry and flower thro' and thro'. *' O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. On iiie tree-tops a crested peacock lit, And o*er him flbw'd a golden cloud, and lean'd Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew, Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that grows Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made Proffer of royal power, ample rule Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue Wherewith to embellish state, ' from many a vale And river-sunder' d champaign clothed with corn, Or labor'd mines undrainable of ore. Honor,* she said, ' and homage, tax and toll, From many an inland town and* haven large, Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing citadel. In glassy bays among her tallest towers.* *' O mother Ida, harken ere I die. Still she spake on and still she spake of power, * Which in all action is the end of all ; Power fitted to the season ; wisdom- bred And throned of wisdom— from all neighbor crowns Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon from me, From me, Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee king-born, A shepherd all thy life but yet king- born. Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power. Only, are likest gods, who have at- tain'd Best in a happy place and quiet seats Above the thimder, with undying bliss In knowledge of their own suprem- acy.' " Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. She ceased, and Pans held the costly fruit ■' Out at arm's-length, so much the thought of power Flatter'd his spirit ; but Pallas where she stood Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, The while, above, her full and earnest eye Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply. " Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, These three alone lead life to sovereign power. Yet not for power, (power of herself Would come uncall'd for) but to live by law. Acting the law we live by without fear ; And, because right is right, to follow right Were wisdom in the scorn of conse- quence,' " Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Again she said : ' I woo thee not with gifts. Sequel of guerdon could not alter me To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am. So Shalt thou find me fairest. Yet, indeed, If gazing on divinity disrobed Thy mortal eyes jare frail to judge of fair, Unbiass'd by self-profit, oh ! rest thee sure That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee. So that my vigor, wedded to thy blood. Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God's, To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks. Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow Sinew'd with action, and the fnll- erown will. Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, Commeasure perfect freedom.' . ^ " Here she ceased And Pans ponder'd, and I cried, *0 Paris, Give it to Pallas,' but he heard me not. Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me ! " O mother Ida, many-fonntain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Idalian Aphrodite beautiful. Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in ^ Paphian wells. With rosy slender fingers backward drew From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat And shoulder : from the violets her light foot Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rcmnd- edform (ENONE. the vine- 21 Between the shadows of bunches Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved. « Dear mother Ida,harlcenerel die. She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh Half-whisper'd in his ear, * I promise thee The fairest and most loving wife in Greece.' She spoke and laugh'd: I shut my sight for fear : But when I look'd, Paris had raised his arm And I beheld great Herfe's angry eyes. As she withdrewinto the golden cloud, And I was left alone within the bower ; And from that time to this I am alone. And I shall be alune until I die. ** Tet, mother Ida, harken ere I die. Fairest — why fairest wife ? am I not fair? My love hath told me so a thousand times. Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday, "When I past by, a wild and wanton pard. Eyed like the evening st^, with play- ful tail Crouch'd fawning in- the weed. Most loving is she ? Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms "Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest Close, close to thine in that quick-fall- ing dew Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. " O mother, hear me yet before I die. They came, they cut away my tallest pines, My dark tall pines, that plumed the craggy ledge. High over the blue gorge, and all be- tween The snowy peak and snow-white cata- ract Foster'd the callow eaglet— from be- neath "Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark morn The panther's roar came muffled, while I sat Low in the valley. Never, never more Shall lone CEnone see the morning mist Sweep thro' them ; never see them overlaid "With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud, Between the loud stream and tbe trem- bling stars. " O mother, hear me yet before I die. I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds. Among the fragments tumbled from the glens, Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her, The Abominable, that uninvited came Into the fair Pelei'an banquet-hall. And east the golden fruit upon the board. And bred this change ; that I might speak my mind. And tell her to her face how much I hate Her presence, hated both of Gods and men. "O mother, hear me yet before T die. Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times, In this green valley, under this green hill, Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone ? Seal'd it with kisses ? water'd it with tears ? O happy tears, and how unlike to these ! O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face ? O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight ? death, death, death, thou ever float- ing cloud. There are enough unhappy on this earth, Pass^ by the happy souls, that love to live : 1 pray thee, pass before my light of life, And shadow all my soul, that I may die. Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, "Weigh heavy on my eyelids : let me Bigh die " O mother, hear me yet before I die. I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts Bo shape themselves within me, more and more, "Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear JDead sounds at night come from the inmost hills, Like footstep^ upon wool. I dimly see My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother Conjectures of the features of her child Ere it is bom : her child ! — a shudder comes Across me : never child be bom of me, Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes ! " O mother, hear me yet before I die. Hear me,0 earth. Twill not die alone, Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me "Walking^ the cold and starless road of Death 22 Uncomf orted, leaving my ancient love "With the Greek woman. I will rise and go Down into Troy, and ere tlie stars come forth Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says A fire dances before her, and a sound Rings ever in her ears of armed men. What this maybe I know not, but I know That, wheresoe'er I am by nigbt and day, All earth and air seem only burning fire." THE SISTERS. "We were two daughters of one race: She was the fairest in the face: The wind is blowing in turret and tree. They were together, and she fell: Therefore revenge became me well, O the Earl was fair to see ! She died: s^e went to burning flame : She mix'd her ancient blood with ghame. The wind is bowling in turret and tree. "Whole weeks and months, and early and late, To win his love I lay in wait: O the Earl was lair to see ! I made a feast ; I bade him come ; I won his love, I brought him home. The wind is roaiingin turret and tree. And after supper, on a bed. Upon my lap he laid his head : O the Earl was fair to see I I kiss'd his eyelids into rest: His ruddy cheek upon my breast. The wind is raging in turret and tree. I hated him with the hate of bell, But 1 loved his beauty passing well. O the Earl was fair to see I I rose up in the silent night: I made my dagger sharp and bright. The wind is raving in turret and tT-ee. As half-asleep his breath he drew, Three times I stabb'd him thro' and thro'. O the Earl was fair to see! I curl'd and comb'd his comely head, He look'd so grand when he was dead. The wind is blowing in turret and tree. X wrapt his body in the sheet, And laid him at his mother's feet. O the Earl was fair to seel TO WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM. T SEND you here a sort of allegory, (For you will understand it) of a soul. TEE PALACE OF ART, A sinful soul possees'd of many gifts, A spacious garden full of flowering weeds, A glorious Devil, large in heart and brain, That did love Beauty only, (Beauty seen In all varieties of mould and mind) And Knowledge for its beauty; or if Good, Good only for its beauty, seeing not That Beaut:^, Good, and Knowledge, are three sisters That doat upon each other, friends to man, Living together under the san^e roof, And never can be suiider'd without tears. And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall be Shut out from Love, and on her thresh- old lie Howling in outer darkness. Not for this "Was common clay ta' en from the com- mon earth. Moulded by God, and tempered with the tears Of angels to the perfect shape of man. THE PALACE OF ART. I BtriLT my soul <* lordly pleasure- house, "Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. I said, "O Soul, make merry and ca- rouse, Dear soul, for all is well." A huge crag-platform, smooth as bur- msh'd brass, I chose. The ranged ramparts bright From level meadow-bates of deep grass Suddenly scaled the light. Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf The rock rose clear, or winding stair. My soul would live alone unto herself In her high palace there. And " while the world runs round and round," I said, " Reign thou apart, a quiet king, Still as, while Saturn whirls, his sted- f ast shade Sleeps on his luminous ring." To which my soul made answer read- ily : " Trust me, in bliss I shall abide In this great mansion, that is built foi me, So royal-rich and wide." # * # 4k Four courts I made, East, "West and South and North, In each a squared lawn, wherefrom The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth A flood of fountain foam. THE PALACE OF ART. 23 And round the cool green courts there ran a row Of cloisters, brancli'd like miglity woods, Echoing all night to that sonorous flow Of spouted fountain-floods. And round the roofs a gilded gallery That lent broad verge to distant lands, Far as the wild swan wings, to where the Bi:y Dipt down to sea and sands. From those four jets four currents in one swell Across the mountain stream'd helow In misty folds, that floating as they fell Lit up a torrent-bow. Andhigh on eveiy peak a statue seem'd To hang on tiptoe, tossing up A cloud of incense of all odor steam'd From' out a golden cup. So that she thought, " And who shall gaze upon My palace with unblinded eyes, "While this great bow will waver in the sun. And ihat sweet incense rise ? " For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd, And, while day sank or mounted higher, The light aerial gallery^ golden-raird. Burnt like a fringe oi tire. Likewise the deep-set windows, stain*d and traced, "Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires From shadow'd grots of arches inter- And tipt with frost-like spires. # * # # Full of long-sounding corridors it was. That over-vaulted grateful gloom, Thro' which the livelong day my soul did pass, "Well-pleased, from room to room. Full of great rooms and small the pal- ace stood, AH various, each a perfect whole From living Nature, fit for every mood And change of my still soul. For some were hung with arras green and blue, Showing a gaudy summer-mom. Where with pufc'd cheek the belted - himterhlew His wreathed bugle-horn. One seem'd all dark and red— a tract of sand, And some one pacing there alone, Who paced for ever m a glimmering land, Lit with a low large moon. One show'd an iron coast and angry waves. Tou seem'd to hear them climb and fall And roar rock-thwarted under bellow- ing caves. Beneath the windy wall. And one, a full-fed river winding slow By herds upon an endless plain, The ragged rims of thunder brooding low. With shadow-streaks of rain. And one, the reapers at their sultry toil. In front they bound the sheaves- Behind Were realms of upland, prodigal inoU And hoary to the wind. And one, a foreground black with stones and slags. Beyond, a line of heights, and higher . AH harr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags, And highest, suow and fira. And one, an English home — gray twi- light pour'd On dewy pastures, dewy trees. Softer than sleep— all ttungs in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace. Nor these alone, but every landscape fair As fit for every mood of mind, Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, waa there Not less than truth design'd, N # # # * Or the maid-mother by a cmcifix, In tracts of pasture sunny warm. Beneath branch-work of costly sar- donyx Sat smiling, babe in arm- Or in a clear-waird city on the sea. Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair Wound with white roses, slept St. Cecily : An angel look'd at her. Or thronging all one porch of Paradise, A group of Houris bow'd to see The dying Islamite, "with hands and eyes That said. We wait for thee. Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son In some fair space of sloping greens Lay, dozing in liie vale of Avalon, And watch'd by weeping queens. Or hollowing one hand against his ear, To list a foot-fall, ere he saw The' wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian king to hear Of wisdom and of law. Or over hills with peaky tops engrail*d, And many a tract of palm and rice, The throne of Indian Cama slowly sail'd A summer fann*d,with spifle. 24 THE PALACE OF ART. Or sweet Europa's mantle blew un- clasp'd, From off her shoulder backward borue : From one hand droop'd a crocus : one band grayp'd The mild bull's golden horn. Or else flushed Ganymede, his "rosy thigh Half -buried in the Eagle's down, Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky Above the pillar'd town. Nor these alone : but every legend fair Which the supreme Caucasian mind Carved out of Nature for itself, was there, Not less than life, design'd- # * * * Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung, Moved of themselves,, with silver sound : And with choice paintings of wise men I hung The royal dais round. For there was Milton like a seraph strong, Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild; And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd his song_, And somewhat grimly smiled. And there the Ionian father of the rest; A million wrinkles carved his skin, A hunda-ed winters snow'd upon has breast From cheek and throat and chin. Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately^set Many an arch high up did lift, And angels rising and descending met With interchange of gift. Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd With cycles of the human tale Of this wide world, the times of every land So wrought, they will not fail. The people here, a beast of burden slow, Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads and stings ; Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro The heads and crowns ofkings ; Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind All force in bonds that might endure, And here once more like some sick man declined, And trusted any cure. But over these she trod : and those great bells Began to chime. She took her throne: She sat betwixt the shining Oriels, To sing her songs alone. And thro' the topmost Oriels' colored flame Two godlike faces g^zed below ; Plato the wise, and large-brow'd Ver- ulam, The Urst of those who know. And all those names, that in their m,otion were Full-welling fountain-heads of change, Betwixt the slender shafts were blaf zon'd fair In diverse raiment strange : Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blue, Flush'd in her temples and her eyes, And from her lips, as mom from Mem- non, drew Eivers of melodies. No nightingale delighteth to prolong Her low preamble all alone, More than my soul to hear her echp'd song *" Throb thro' the ribbed stone ; Singing and murmuring in her f eastful mirth. Joying to feel herself alive. Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth, Lord of the senses five ; Communing with herself : " All these are mine, , And let the worldhave peace or wars, 'T is one to me." She— when young night divine Crown'd dying day with stars, Making sweet close of his delicious toils- Lit light in wreaths and anadems, And pure quintessences of precious oils In hoUow'd moons of gems, To mimic heaven ; and clapt her hands and cried, " I marvel if my still delight In this great house so royal-rich, and wide, Be flatter'd to the height. " O all things fair to sate my various eyes ! • shapes and hues that please me well ! O silent faces of the Great and Wise, My Gods, with whom I dwell ! *' O God-like isolation which art mine, 1 can but count thee perfect gain, What time I watch the darkening droves of swine That range on yonder plain. In filthy sloughs they roU a prurient skin, They graze and wallow, breed and sleep ; And oft some brainless devil enters in, And drives them to the deep." Then of the moral instinct would she prate. And of the rising from the dead, THE PALACE OF ART. 2e> Ab hers by right of full-aocomplish'd Fate ; And at the last she said : "1 take possession of man's mind and deed. 1 care not what the sects may Drawl, I Bit as God holding no f oim of creed, But contemplating all." Full oft the riddle of the painful earth Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone, Tot not the less held she her solemn mirth, And intellectual throne. And so she throve and prosper'd: so three years She prosper'd : on the fourth she fell Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears, Struclc thro' with pangs of hell. Lest she should fail and perish utterly, God, before whom ever lie bare The abysmal deeps of Personality, Plagued her wit^^ sore despair. When she would think, where'er she turn'd her sight. The airy hand confusion wrought. Wrote " Mene, mene," and divided quite The kingdom of her thought. Deep dread and loathing of her soli- tude Fell on her, from which mood was bom Scorn of herself ; again, from out that mood Laughter at her self -scorn. " What ! is not this my place of strength?" she said. " My spacious mansion built for me. Whereof the strong foundation-stones ' were laid Since my first memory ? " But in dark corners of her palace stood Uncertain shapes : and unawares On white -eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood' And horrible nightmares. And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame. And, with dim fretted foreheads all. On corpses three-months-old at noon she came, That stood against the wall. A spot of duU stagnation, without light Or power of movement, seem'd my soul, Mid onward-sloping motions infinite Making for one sure goal. A still salt pool, look'd in with bars of sand ; Left on the shore; that hears all night The plunging seas draw backward from the land Their moon-led waters white. A star that, with the choral starry dance Joiu'd not, but stood, and standing saw The hollow orb of moving Circumstance Koll'd round by one fi#d law. Back on herself her serpent pride had curl'd. " So voice," she shriek'd in that lone hall, '* No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this world : One deep, deep silence all 1 " She, mouldering with the dull earth's mouldering sod, Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame. ' Lay there exiled from eternal God, Lost to her place and name ; And death and life she hated equally. And nothing saw, for her despair. But dreadful time, dreadful eiernity, Ho comfort anywhere. Semaining utterly confused with f ears. And ever worse with growing time. And ever unrelieved by dismal tears, And all alone in crime : Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round With blackness as a solid wall, Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound Of human footsteps fall. As in strange lands a traveller wstlking slow, In doubt and great perplexity, A little before moon-rise hears the low Moan of an unknown sea ; And knows not if it be thunder or a sound Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry Of great wild beasts ; then thinketh, " I have found A new land, but I die." She howl'd aloud, " J am on fire within. There comes no murmur of reply. What is it that will take away my sin, And save me lest I die ? " So when four years were wholly fin- ished, She threw her royal robes away. " Make me a cottage in the vale," she said, *' Where I may mourn and pray." " Tet pull not down my palace towers, ttiat are So lightly, beautifully built : Perchance I may return with otheis there When I have purged my gmlt." . 20 THE MAY QUEEN. LADT CLAEA TEKE DE VERE. I,Ai>Y Clara Vere de Vere, Of me you shall not win reaOTni : Tou thought to break a couBtiy heart For pastime, ere you went to town. At me you smiled, but unbegulled I saw the snare, and 1 retired : The daughter of a hundred Earls, You are not one to be desired. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Iknow you proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for mine, Too proud to care from whence I came. Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that doats on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Some meeker pupil you must find. For were you queen oi all that is, I could not stoop to such a mind. Tou sought to prove how I could love, And my disdain is my reply. The lion on your old stone gates Is not more cold to you than I. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, You put strange memories in my head. Not thrice your branching limes have blown Since I beheld young Laurence dead. O, your sweet eyes, your low replies : A great enchantress you may be ; But there was that across his throat Which you had hardly cared to see. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, When thus he met his mother's vieW| She had the passions of her kind, She spake some certain truths of you- Indeed I heard one bitter word That scarce is fit for you to hear ; Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, There stands a spectre in your hall: The guilt of blood is at your door : You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse. To make him trust hia modest worth, And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare. And slew him with your noble birth. Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent. The gardener Adam and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent, Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood. I know you, Clara Vere de Vere. You pine among your halls and towers : The languid light of your proud eyes Is wearied of the roUlng hours. In glowing health, with boundless wealth, But sickening of a vague disease. You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must pliiy such pranfes as these. Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, If l^me be heavy on your hands. Are there no beggars at your gate. Nor any poor about your lauds ? Oh ! teach the orphan-boy to read. Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, Pray Heaven for a hiunan heart, And let the foolish yeoman go. THE MAY QUEEN, Tou must wake and call me early, call me earlyj mother dear. To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year ; Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest, merriest day ; For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. There's many a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine ; There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline : But none so fair as little Alice In all the land they say. So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 1 sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake. If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break ; But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, For I'm to oe Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May. As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see, But Robin leaning on the bridge be- neath the haz^-tree ? He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday, — But r m to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm tobe Queen o' the May. He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white. And I ran by him without speaking, like aflasn of light. They call me cruel^earted, but I care not what they say. For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be : They say his heart is breaking, mother, — what is that to me ? There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day. And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother I'mtobeQueeno'thoMay. NEW YEAR'S SVE, 27 Little EfBe shall go with me to-morrow to the green, And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen : For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away, And I'm to be Queen o'the May,mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavyboweis, And bj the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers ; And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray, AnaI'm to be Queen o' the May,raother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. The night- winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow grass ; , And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass, There will not he a drop of rain the viihole. of the livelong day. AndI'mtobeQueeno' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' tiie iviay. All the valley, mother, *iU be f reah and green aud stilly And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play. For I'm to be Queen o' the May,mother, I'm to be Queen o* the May. So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year : To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day, For I'm to be Queen o' the May , mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. . NEW-TEAE'S EVE. If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear. For I would see the sun rise' upon the glad New-year. It isthelastNew-yefr that I shall ever see, Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me. To-night I saw the sun set : he set and left behind The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind ; And the New-year's coming up,mother, but I shall'never ^ee The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. Last May we made a crown of flowers ; we had a merry day ; Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May : And ^e danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse, Till Charles's Wain caiue out above the tail white chimney tops. ^^^I^'^.^*'* ^ flower on all the hills • the frost is on the pane • I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high : I long to see a flower so before the dav Idle. ^ The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree, And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea. And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave. But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine. In tbe early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine. Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, "When you are wann-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. "When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning hght, You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night : "When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. I shall not forget ,you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass, -With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now ; You'll kiss me, my own mother, and , forgive me ere I go ; Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild, You should not fret for me, mother, you have anottier child. If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place ; Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face ; Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall harken what you say, And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away. Good-night, good-night, when I have said gooo-night for ever more, And you see me carried out from the threshold of tho door ; Don'tlet Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green : She'll be a better ^Id to you than ever I have been. -28 CO-^CLUSION. She'll ^nd my garden-tools upon tlie granary floor : Let iier take 'em : they are hers : I shall never garden more : But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set About the parlor-window and thehox of mignonette. Good-night, sweet mother : call me before the day is horn. All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. CONCLUSION. I THOUGHT to pass away before, and yet alive I am ; And in the fields all round I hear the' bleating of the lamb. How sadly, I remember, rose the morn- ing of the year ! To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here. O sweet is the new violet, that cornea beneath the skies. And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise, And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to - leave the blessed sun. And now it seems as hard, to stay, and yet His will be done ! But still I think it can't be long before I find release, And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair ! And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there ! blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head ! A thousand limes I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin. Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in : Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be, For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. 1 did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death- wateh beat. There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet : But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine. And Eflae on the other side, and I will tell the sign. All in the wild March-moming I heard the angels call. It was when the moon was settings and the dark was over all ; The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. For lying broad awake I thought of yon and Eflfie dear ; I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; With all my strength I pray'd for both and so I felt resigned And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. I thought that it was fancy, and I lis- ten'd in my bed, And then did something speak to me — I know not what was said ; , For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind. And up the valley came again the music on the wind. But you were sleeping and I said, " It's not for them : it's mine." And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. And once again it came, and close beside the Window-bars, Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars.' So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away. And say to Bobin a kind word, and teU him not to fret ; There's many a worthier than I, would make him happy yet. If I had lived — I cannot tell— I might have been his wife ; But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. O look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow ; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I fenow. And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine — "Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. O sweet and strange it seems to me, that eve this day is done, The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun — For ever and for ever with those just souls and true— And what is life, that we should moan ? why malce we such ado ? For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home — And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come — To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast — And tlie wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. THE LOTOS-EATEES. ** CouKAGE ! he said, and pointed to- ward the land, "This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." In the afternoon they came unto a land. In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon. Breathing like one that haf^ a weary dream. Full-faced above the valley stood the moon ; And like a downward smoke, the slen- der stream Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. A land of streams ! some like a down- ward smoke. Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go ; And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke, Eolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. They saw the gleaming river seaward flow From the inner land : far off, three mountain-tops. Three silent pinnacles of aged snow^ Stood sunset-flash'd : and, dew'd with showery drops, Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. The charmed sunset linger'd low adown In the red West : thro' mountain clefts the dale Was seen far inland, and the yellow down Border'd vdth palm, and many a wind- ing vale And meadow, set with slender gaJin- A land where all things always seem d the same ! And round about the keel with faces pale, Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaii- ers cam*. Branches they bore of that enchanted stem. Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave To each, but whoso did receive of them. And taste, to him the gushing of the wave Far far away did seem to mourn and rave, CHOEIG SONG. 29 On alien shores ; and if bis fellow His voice was thin, as voices from the grave ; And deep-asleep he seem'd yet all awake. And music in his ears his heating heart- did make. They sat them down upon -the yellow sand Between the sun and moon upon the shore ; And sweet it was to dream of Father- land, Of child, and wife, and slave ; but evermore Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar. Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. Then some one said, " We will return no more ; " And all at once they sang, " Our island home Is far beyond the wave ; we will no longer roam. " CHOKIC SONG. I. There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass. Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass ; Music that gentler on the spirit hes, Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes: Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep. And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. II. Why are we weigh'd upon with heavi- And utterly consumed with sharp dis- While ail things else have rest from weariness? All things have rest : why should we toimone, ^^ ^ ^ ^ We only toil, who are the lirst ot things, And make perpetual moan. Still from one sorrow to another. thrown ; Nor ever fold our jrings^ And cease from wanderings. Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm; . ... ■ „ Nor barken what the inner sijint sings, " There is no joy but calm ! ' Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things ? 30 CHOmC SONG. m. Lo ! in tlie middle of the wood, The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud "With winds upon the branch, and there Grows green and broad, and takes no care, Sun-steep*d at noon, and in the moon Kightly dew-fed ; and turning yellow Falls, and floats adown the air. Lo ! sweeten'd with the summer light. The full-juiced apple, waxing over- mellow, Drops ill a silent autumn night. All its allotted length of days, The flower ripens in its place, Bipens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil. Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. IV. Hateful is the dark-blue sky, Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea- Death is the end of life : ah, why Should life all labor be ? Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, And in a little while our lips are dumb. Let us alone. What is it that will last ? All things are taken from us^ and be- come Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. Let us alone. "What pleasure can we have To war with evil ? Is there any peace In ever climbing up the cElmbing wave? All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence ; ripen, fall and cease ; Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease, v. How sweet it were, hearing the down- ward stream, With half -shut eyes ever to seem Pallhig asleep in a half dream ! To dream and dream, like yonder am- ber light. Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height ; To hear each other's whiBper'd speech: Eating the Lotos day by day. To watch the crisping ripples on the beach. And tender curving lines of creamy spray ; To lend our hearts and spirits wholly To the influence of mild-mindedmelan- choly ; To muse and brood and live again in memory, With those old faces of our infancy Heap'd over with a mound of grass Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass 1 vx. Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, And dear the last embraces of our wives And their warm tears : but all hath suffered change , For surely now our household hearthi are cold : Our sons inherit us: our looks are . strange ; And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. Or else the island princes over-bold Have eat our substance, and the min- strel sings Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, And our great deeds, as half-forgotten * things, Is there confusion in the little isle ? Let what is broken so remain. The Gods are hard to reconcile : 'Tis hard to settle order once again. There is confusion worse than death, Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, Long labor unto aged breath. Sore task to hearts worn out with many wars And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars. VII. But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) With half-dropt eyelids still, Beneath a heaven dark and holy, To watch the long bright river draw- ing slowly His waters from the purple hill — To hear the dewy echoes calling From cave to cave thro' the thick- twined vine — To watch the emerald-color'd water falling Thro' many a wov*n acanthus-wreath divine! Only to hear and see the far-off spark- <^ ling brine, Only to hear were sweet, 6tretch*d out oeneath the pine- VIII. The Lotos blooms below the barren peak: The Lotos blows by every winding creek : All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone: Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown. We have had enough of action, and of motion we, EoU'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was seething free, Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea. Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 31 On the hills like Gods together, care- less of mankind. For they lie, beside their neetar, and the bolts are hurl'd Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd Bound their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world: Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, BUght and famine, plague and earth- quake, roaring deeps and fiery Cl^i^n^ fights, and ilaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands. But they smile, thev find a music cen- tred in a doleful song Steaming up, a lamen^tion and an ancient tale of wrong, Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong , Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toll, Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil; Till they perish and they suffer— some 'tis whisper'd— down in, hell Suffer endless anguish, others in Ely- sian valleys dwell, Bestiug weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar ; O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more. A DREAM OF FAIR "WOMEN. I BEAD, before my eyelids dxopt their shade, " The Legend qf Good Women," long ago Sung by the morning star of song, who made His music heard below ; Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath Preluded tbose melodious bursts, that fiU The spacious times of great Elizabeth Wim sounds that echo still. And, for d while, the knowledge of his art Held me above the subject, as strong fales swollen clouds from raining, tho' my heart. Brimful of those wild tales, Charged both mine eyes with tears. In every land I saw, wherever light illumineth, Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand The downward slope to death. Those far-renowned brides of ancient song Peopled the hollow dark, like burn- ing stars, And fheard sounds of insult, shame, and wrong. And trumpets blown for wars ; And clattering flints batter*d with clanging hoofs: And I saw crowds in column'd sanc- tuaries ; And forms that pass'd at windows and on roofs Of marble palaces ; Corpses across the threshold : heroes tall Dislodging pinnacle and parapet Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall; Lances in ambush set ; And high shrine-doors burst thro' with heated blasts That run before the fluttering tongues of fire ; White surf wind-scatter'd over sails and masts, And ever climbing higher ; Squadrons and squares of men in ' brazen plates ; ■ Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers woes. Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron grates. And hush'd seraglios. So shape chased shape as swift as, when to land . Bluster the vnnds and tides the self- same, way, Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level sand, Tom from the fringe of spray. I started once, or seem'd to start in pain, Resolved on noble things, and strove • tospeak, As when a ^reat thought strikes. along the brain. And flushes all the cheek. And once my arm was lifted to hew down A cavalier from off his saddle-bow, That bore a lady from a leaguer'd town ; And then, I know not how. All those sharp fancies, by down-laps- ing thought Streamed onward, lost their edges, and did creep Roird on each other, rounded, smooth'd, and brought Into the gulfs of sleep. . At last methought that I had wander*d far In an old wood : f resh-wash'd in cool- est dew, The maiden splendors of the morning Shook in the stedfast blue. A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN, 32 Enormous elmtree-boles did stoop and lean Upon the dusky brushiwood nnaer- neath. Their broad curved branches, fledged with clearest green, New from its silken aheath. The dim red morn had died, her jour- ney done, And with dead lips smiled at the twilight plain, Half-f all'n across the threshold of the sun, Never to rise again. There was no motion in the dumb dead air, Not any song of bird or sound of Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre Is not so deadly still. As that wide forest. Growths of jas- mine turn'd Their humid arms festooning tree to And at the root thro' lush green grasses burn'd The red anemone. I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I knew The tearful glimmer of the languid dawn On those lon^, rank, dark wood-walks drench'd in dew. Leading from lawn to lawn. The smell of viole'te, hidden In the green, Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame .The times when I remember to have been Joyful and free from blame. And from within me a clear imder- tone Thrill'd thro' mine ears in that un- blissf ul clime, ** Pass freely thro* : the wood is all thine own. Until the end of time." At length I saw a lady within call. Stiller than chiseli'd marble, stand- ing there ; A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely fair. Her loveliness with shame and with surprise Froze my swift speech : she turning- on my face The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes, Spoke slowly in her place. ** I had great beauty : ask thou not my name : No one can be more wise than des- tiny. Many drew swords and died. Where'er I came I brought calamity." *'No marvel, sovereign lady : in fair field. Myself for such a face had boldly died," I answer'df ree ; and turning I appeal'd To one that stood beside. But she, with sick and scornful looks averse. To her full height her stately stature draws ; "My youth," she said, "was blasted with a curse : This woman was the cause. I was cut off from hope in that sad place. Which yet to name my spirit loathes and fears : My father held his hand upon his face ; I, blinded with my tears, "Still strove to speak : my voice was thick with sighs As in a dream. Dimly I could desciy The stern black-bearaed kings with wolfish eyes. Waiting to see me die. ** The high masts flicker'd as they lay afloat ; The crowds, the temples, waver'd, and the shore ; The bright death quiver'd at the vic- tim's throat, Touched ; and I knew no more." Whereto the other with a downward brow : **I would the white cold heavy- plunging foam, Whirl'd by the wind, had roll'd me deep below. Then when I left my home." Her slow full words sank thro* the silence drear, As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping sea; Sudden I heard a voice that cried, " Come here, That I may look on liiee." I turning saw, throned on a flowery rise, One sitting on a crimson scarf un- roll'd : A queen, with swarthy cheeks and bold black eyes, Brow-bound with burning gold. She, flashing forth a, tiaughty smile, began : " I govem'd men by change, and sol sway'd All moods. *Tis long since I have seen a man. Once, like the moon, I made " The ever-shifting currents of the blood According to my humor ebb and flow. I have no men to govern in tMs wood • That makes my only woe. A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 33 "Nay— yet It chafes me that I could not bend One will ; nor tame and tutor with mine eye That dull cold-blooded Gssar. Pry- thee, friend, Where is Mark Antony ? •• The man, my lover, with whom I rode sublime On fortune's neck ; we sat as God by God: The Hilus would have risen before his time And flooded at our nod. " We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, ' and lit Lamps \#hich outbum'd Canopus> O my life In Egypt ! O the dalliance and the wit. The flattery and the strife. And the wild kiss, when fresh from ■war's alarms, My Hercules, my Soman Antony, My mailed Bacchus leapt into my arms. Contented there to die ! And there he died : and when 1 heard my name Sigh'd forth with life I would not brook my fear Of the other : with a worm I balk'd his fame. What else was left? look here I " (With that she tore her robe apart, and half The polish'd argent of her breast to sight . Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a laugh. Showing the aspick's bite.) •'I died a Queen. The Koman soldier found Me lying dead, my crown about my brows, ^ A name for ever I — lying robed and crown'd. Worthy a Boman spouse." Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest range Struck hy all passion, did fall down and glance S'lom tone to tone, and glided thro' aU change ' Of liveliest utterance. When she made pause I knew not for delight: Because with sudden motion from the ground She raised her piercing orbs, and flll'd with light The interval of sound. Still with their fires Love tipthis keen- est darts : As once they drew into two burning rings All beams of Love, melting the mighty hearts . Of captains and of kings. Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I heard A noise of some one coming thro' the lawn. And singing clearer than the crested bird. That claps his wings at dawn. " The torrent brooks of hallow'd Israel From craggy hollows pouring, late and soon, Sound aU night long, in fallina thro' the dell, • ^ Far-heard beneath the moon. *' The balmy moon of blessed Israel Floods all the deep-blue gloom with beams divirie : All night the spUnter'd crags that wall flie dell With spires of silver shine." As one that museth where broad sun- shine laves The lawn by some cathedral, thro* the door Hearing the holy organ rolling waves Of sound on roof and floor Within, and anthem sung, is charm'd. and tied To where be stands, — so stood I, when that flow Of music left the lips of her that died To save her father's vow ; The daughter of the warrior Gileadite^ A maiden pure ; as when she went along From Mizpeh's tower'd gate with welcome light. With timbrel and with song. My words leapt forth : "Heavenheads the count of crimes With that wild oath." She render'd answer high : " Not so, nor once alone : a thousand times I would be born and die. "Single I grew, like some green plant, whose root Creeps to the garden water-pipes be- neath. Feeding the flower ; but ere my flower to fruit Changed, I was ripe for death. " My God, my land, my father— these did move Me from my bliss of life, that Nature gave, Lower'd softly with a threefold cord of love Down to a silent grave. "And I went mourning, 'No fair Hebrew boy 34 MARGARET. Shalt smile away my maiden blame among ^, , . .. The Hebrew mothers'— emptied of aU joy, Leaving the dauoe and song. « Leaving the olive-gardens far below. Leaving the promise of my bridal hower, , , . 4.,, ^ The valleys of grape-loaded vines that glow Beneath the battled tower. '* The light white cloud swam over us. Anon . , . We heard the lion roaring from his den : We saw the large vfhite stars rise one by one, Or, from the darkeu'd glen, " Saw God divide the night with flying flame, , ^. ,.„ And thunder on the everlasting hiUs. I heard Him, for He spake, and grief became A solemn scorn of ills. " When the next moon was roll'd into the sky, ., ^ „,, Strength came to me that equall d my desire. How beautiful a thing it was to die For God and for my sire ! >' It comforts me in this one thoiight to dwell, . ^ „ , That I subdued me to my father s will ; ^ , „ Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell Sweetens the spirit still. Moreover, it is written that my race, Hew'd Ammon, hip and thigh, from Aroer On Amon unto Minneth." Here her Glow'd, as I look'd at her. She look'd her lips ; she left me where I stood ; " Glory to God," she sang, and past afar, Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood. Toward the morning-star. Losing her carol I stood pensively, As one that from a casement leans his head. When midnight bells cease ringing suddenly, And the old year is dead. **Alas! alas!" alowvoice, full of care, Murmur'd beside me ; ** Turn and look on me : I am that Bosamond, whom men call fair, If what I was I be. « Would I had been some maiden coarse and poor ! O me, that I should ever see the Ughtl Those dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor Do hunt me, day and night." She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and trust : „ „ To whom the Egyptian : O, you tamely died 1 ■„ , ■ , Tou should have clung to Fulviaa waist, and thrust The dagger thro' her side." With that sharp Bound the white dawn's creeping beams, Stol'n to my brain, dissolved the mystery , . ,. Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams Euled in the eastern sky. Mom broaden'd on the borders of the dark, ,j . ,. Ere I saw her, who clasp'd in her last trance , ■, ^ Her murder'd father's head, or Joan 01 A light of ancient Jfrance ; Or her, who knew that Love can van- quish Death, Who kneeling, with one arm about her king, Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath, . Sweet as new buds in Spnng. No memory labors longer from the deep Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep To gather and tell o'er Each little sound and sight. With what dull paiib Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to strike Into that wondrous track of dreams again 1 But no two dreams are like. As when a soul laments, which hath been blest, Desiring what is mingled with past years. In yearnings that can never be exprest By signs or groans or tears ; Because all words, tho' cuU'd with choicest art, Failing to give the bitter of the Wither beneath the palate, and the heart Faints, faded by its heat. MAEGAKET. I. O SWEET pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, What lit your eyes with tearful power, Like moonlight on a falling shower? Who lent you, love, your mortal dower Of pensive tliougut and aspect pale, THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. 35 Tour melancholy sweet and frail As perf vinie of the cuckoo-flower ? From the westward-winding flood, From the evening-lighted wood, From all things outward, you have won A tearful grace, as tho' yon stood Between the rainbow and the sun. The very smile before you speak, That dimples your transparent cheek. Encircles all the heart, and f eedeth The senses with a still delight Of dainty sorrow without sound, Like the tender amber round. Which the moon about her spread- eth, Moving thro' a fleecy night. II. > Tou love, remaining peacefully, To hear the murmur of the strife But enter not the toil of life. Tour spirit is the calmed sea. Laid by the tumult of the fight, Tou are the evening star, alway Remaining betwixt dark and bright : LuU'd echoes of laborious day Come to you, gleams of mellow light Float by you on the verge of night, III.. What can it matter, Margaret, What songs below the waning stars ; The lion-heart, Plantagenet, Sang looking thro' his prison bars? Exquisite Margaret, who can tell The last wild thought of Chatelet, Just ere the falling axe did part The burning brain from the true heart. Even in her sight he loved so well 7 IV. A fairy shield your Genius made; And.gave you on your natal day. Tour sorrow, only porrow's shade, Keeps real sorrow far away. Tou move not in such solitudes, Tou are not less divine. But more human in your moods. Than your twin-sister, Adelinfi. Tour hair is darker, and your eyes ■ Touch'd with a somewhat darker hue. And less aerially blue. But ever trembling thro' the dew Of dainty-wof ul sympathies. V. O sweet pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret^ Come down, come down, and hear me speak : Tie up the ringlets on your cheek : The sun is iust about to set, The arching limes are tall and shady. And faint, rainy lights are seen,. Moving ill the leavy beech. Kise from' the feast of sorrow, lady. Where all day long you sit between Joy and woe, and whisper each. Or only look across the lawn. Look out below your bower-eaves, Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves. THE BLACKBIRD. O BLAOKBIKD ! sing me somelihing well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground. Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell. The espaliers and the standards all Are thine ; the range of lawn and park ; The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark. All thine, against the garden waD. Tet, tho' I spared thee all the spring. Thy sole delight is, sitting still, With that cold dagger of thy bill. To fret the summer jenneting. A golden bill ! the silver tongue. Cold February loved, is dry : Plenty corrupts the melody That made thee famous once, when young : And in the sultry garden-squares. Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarse, I hear thee not at all, or hoarse As when a hawker hawks his wares. Take warning ! he that will not sing While yon sun prospers in the blue. Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new. Caught in the frozen palms of Spring, THE DEATH OF THE OLD TEAR, rni.1, knee-deep lies the winter snow. And the winter winds are wearily sighing : ToU ye the church-bell sad and slow. And tread softly and speak low ' For the old year lies a-dying. Old year, you must not die ; Tou came to us so readily. Ton lived with us so steadily. Old year, you shall not die. He lieth still : he doth not move : He will not see the dawn of day. He hath no other life above. He gave me a friend, and a true true- love. And the New-year will take 'em away. Old year, you must not go ; So long as you have been with us, Such joy as you have seen with us. Old year, you shall not go. He f roth'd his bumpers to the brim ; A jollier year we shall not see. But tho' his eyes are waxing dim. And tho' his foes speak ill of him. He was a friend to me. Old year, you shall not die ; TO J. S. "We did so laugh and cry with you, I've half a mind to die with you, Old year, if you must die. He was full of joke and jest, But all his meri7 quips are o'er. To see him die, across the waste His son and heir doth ride post-haste, But he'll be dead before. Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend, , , , , And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend. Comes up to take his own. How hard he breathes ! over the snow I heard just now the crowing cock. The shadows flicker to and fro : The cricket chirps: the light burns low : 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. Shake hands, before you die. Old year, we'll deqrly rue for you : What is it we can do for you ? Speak out before you die. His face is growing sharp and thin. Alack ! our friend is gone. Close up hia eyes : tie up his chin : Step from the corpse, and let him in That atandeth there alone. And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, And a new face at the door, my friend, A new face at the door. TO J. S. The wind, that beats the mountain, blows More softly round the open wold, And gently comes tbe world to those That are cast in gentle mould. And me this knowledge bolder made. Or else I had not dared to flow In these words toward you, and invade Even with a verse your holy woe. 'Tis strange that those we lean on most, Those in whose laps our limbs are nursed. Fall into shadow, soonest lost : Those we love first are taken first. God gives us love. Something to love Helendsus ; but, when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone. Tliis is the curse of time. Alas ! In grief I am not all unlearn'd ; Once thro' mine own doors Death did pass; One went, who never hath return*d. He will not smile— not speak to me Once more. Two years his ch^ is seen Empty before us. That was he Without whose life I had not been. Tour loss is rarer ; for this star Kose with you thro' a little arc Of heaven, nor having wander'd far Shot on the sudden into dark. I knew your brother : his mute dust I honor and his living worth : A man more pure and bold and just "Was never bom into the earth. I have not look'd upon you nigh, Since that dear soul hath fall'n asleep. Great Nature is more wise than I : I will not tell you not to weep. And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew, Drawn from the spirit thro' the brain, I will not even preach to you, "Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain." Let Grief be her own mistress still. She loveth her own anguish deep More than much pleasure. Let herwill Be done— to weep or not to weep. I will not say " God's ordinance Of Death is blown in every wind ; " For that is not a common chance That takes away a noble mind. His memory long will live alone In all our hearts, as mournful light . That broods above the fallen sun, And dwells in heaven half the^'night. Vain solace ! Memory standing near Cast down her eyes, and in her throat Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear Dropt on the letters as I wrote. I wrote I know not what. In truth, How shmtld I soothe you anyway, Who miss the brother of your youth? Yet something I did wish to say : For he too was a friend to me : Both are my friends, and my true breast Bleedeth for both ; yet it may be That only silence suiteth best. Words weaker than your grief would, make Grief more. 'Twere better I should cease Although myself could almost take The place of him that sleeps in peace. Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace : Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, While the stars burn, the moons in- crease. And the great ages onward roU. Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. Nothing comes to thee new or strange. Sleep f uK of rest from head to feet ; Lie still, dry dust, secure of change. TOTJ ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, Within this region I subsist, Whoso spirits falter in the mist, , And languish for the purple seas ? TO J. S, S7 It is the land that freemen till, That sober-suited Freedom chose, The hmd, where girt with friends or foes A man may speak the thing he will ; A land of settled government, A land of just and old renown, Where Freedom broadens slowly down From precedent to precedent : "Where faction seldom gathers head, But by degrees to f uhiess wrought, The strength of some diffusive thought [spread. Hath time and space to work and Should banded unions persecute Opinion, and induce a time When single thought is civil crime. And Individual freedom mute ; Tho' Power should make from land to land The name of Britain trebly great — Tho* every channel of the State Should almost choke witb goldeji sand- Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth, Wild wind ! X seek a warmer sky, And I will see before I die The palms and temples of the South. 6f old sat Freedom on the heights, Tlie thunders breaking at her feet : Above her shook the stan-y lights : She heard the torrents meet. There in her place she did rejoice, Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind, But fragments of her mighty voice' Game rolling on the wind. Then stept she down thro* town and field To mingle with the human race. Arid part oy part to men reveal'd The fullness of her face— . Grave mother of majestic works, From her isle-altar gazing down. Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, And King-like, wears the crown : Her open eyes desire the truth. The wisdom of a thousand years Is in them. May |)erpetual youth Keep dry their light from tears ; That her fair form may stand and shine, Make bright our days and light our dreams, Tumine to scorn with lips divine The mlsehood of extremes ! Love thou thy land, with love .far- brought From out the storied Past, and used Within the Present, but transfused. Thro' future time by power of thouglit. True love tum'd round on fixed poles, Love, that endures not sordid ends, For English natures, freemen, friends Thy brothers and immortal souls. But pamper not a hasty time. Nor feed with crude imaginings The herd, wild hearts and feeble wings, That every sophister can lime. Deliver not the tasks of might To weakness, neither hide the ray From those, not blind, who wait for Tho' sittmg girt with doubtful light. Make knowledge circle with the winds; But let her herald, Reverence, fiy Before her to whatever sky Bear seed of men and growth of minds. Watch what main-cuirents draw the years : Cut Prejudice against the grain : But gentle wor(te are always gain ; Eegard the weakness of thy peers : Nor toil for title, place, or touch Of pension, neither comit on praise : It grows to guerdon after-days : Nor deal in watch-words over much : Not clinging to some ancient saw ; Not master'd by some modern term : Not swift nor slow to change, but firm : And in its season bring the law ; That from Discussion's lip may fall With Life, that, working strongly, binds — Set in all lights by many mludSf To close the interests of all. For Nature also, cold and warm, And moist and dry, devising long, Thro' many agents making strong, Matures the in(uvidual form. Meet is it changes should control , Our "being, lest we rust in ease, We all are changed by still degprees. All but the basis of the soul. So let the change which comes be free To ingroove itself with that, which flies. And work, a joint of state, that piles Its office, moved with sympathy. A saying, hard to shape in act ; For all the past of Time reveals A bridal dawn of thunder-peals. Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact Ev^n now we hear with inward strife A motion toiling in the gloom— The Spirit of the years to come Teaming to mix himself with Life A slow-develop'd strength awaits Completion in a painful school Phantoms of other forms of rule, NewMajesties of mighty States — The warders of the growing hour, But vague in vapor, hard to mark ; And round them sea and air are dark With great contrivances of Power, THE EPIC. ■ Of many, changes, aptly join' d. Is bodied foi-tli the second whole. Kegard gradation, lest the soul Ot Discord race tbe rising wind ; A wind to puffl your idol-flres. And heap their ashes on the head ; To shame the boast so often made, That we are wiser than our sires. Oh yet, if Nature's evil star Drive men in manhood, as m youth, To follow flying steps of Tmth Across the brazen bridge of war — If New and Old, disastrous feud. Must ever shook, like armed foes. And this be true, till Time shall That Principles are rain'd in blood ; Not yet the wise of heart would cease To hold his hope thro' shame and guilt. But wilh his hand against the hilt. Would pace the troubled land, like Peace ; Not less, tho'.dogs of Faction bay, "Would serve his kind in deed and word. Certain, If knowledge bring the sword, That knowledge takes the sword away — Would love the gleams of good that broke From either side, nor veil his eyes : And if some dreadful need should rise Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke : To-morrow yet would reap to-day. As we bear blossoms of the dejid ; Earn well the thrifty months, nor. wed Eaw Haste, half-sister to Delay. THE GOOSE. I KNEW an old wife lean and poor. Her rags scarce held together ; There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather. He held a goose upon his arm. He utter'd rhyme and reason, *« Here, take the goose, and keep you warm. It is a stormy season." She caught the white goose by the leg, A goose— 'twas no great matter. The goose let fall a golden egg With cackle and with clatter, She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf. And ran to tell her neighbors ; And bless'd herself, and cursed herself And rested from ner labors. And feeding high, and living soft. Grew plump and able-bodied : Until the grave churchwarden dofE'd, The parson smirk'd and nodded. So sitting, served by man and maid, . She felt her heart grow prouder : But ah ! the more the white goose laid It clack'd and cackled louder. It clutter'd here, it chuckled there ; It stiirr'd the old wife's mettle : She shifted in her elbow-chair. And hurl'd the pan and kettle. "A quinsy choke thy cursed note ! " Then wax'd her anger stronger. " Go, take the goose, and wring her throat, I will not bear it longer." Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat J Kan Gaffer, stumbled Gammer. The goose flew this way and flew that. And fiU'd the house with clamor. As head and heels upon the floor They flounder'd all together. There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather : He took the goose upon his arm. He utter'd words of scorning ; "So keep you cold, or keep you warm, > It is a stormy morning." The wild wind rang from park and plain. And round the attics rumbled, Till all the tables danced again. And half the chimneys tumbled. The glass blew in, the fire blew out. The blast was hard and harder. Her cap blew off, her gown blew up, And a whirlwind clear'd the larder: And while on all sides breaking loope Her household fled the danger, Quoth she, " The Devil take the goose, And God forget the stranger ! " THE EPIC. At Francis Allen's on the Chtistmas- eve, — The rame of forfeits done— the girls all kiss'd Beneath the sacred bush and past away — The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall, The host, and I sat round the wassail- bowl, Then half-way ebb'd : and there we held a talk. How all the old honor had from Christmas gone. Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd games In some old nooks like this ; till I, tired out With cutting eights that day upon the pond, MORTE lyARTHUB, ■Where, three times slipping from the outer edge. I bump'd the Ice into three several stars, Fell in a doze ; and half-awake I heard The parson tsiking wide and wider sweeps, Nowharpmg on the church-commis- eioners^, Now hawking at Geology and schism : Until I woke, and found him settled down Upon the general decay of faith Bight thro* the world, " at home was little left, And none abroad: there was no an- chor, none. To hold by." Francis, laughing, clapt his hand On Everard'B shoulder, with, " I hold by him." "And I il," quoth Everard, "by the was- sail-bowl." "Why yea," I said, "we knew your gift that way At college: but another which you had, I mean of verse (for so we held it then,) What came of that ? " " You know," said Frank, " he burnt His epic, his Bang Arthur, some twelve books" — And then to me demanding why ? "Oh, sir. He thought that nothing new was said, or else Something so said 'twas nothing — that a truth Looks freshest in the fashion of the day: God knows : he has a mint of reasons : ask. It pleased m^ well enough." " Nay, nay," said Hall, " "Why 1 ake the style of those heroic times? For nature brings not back the Masto- don, Nor we tho^ times ; and why should any man ■ Bemodel models ? these twelve books of mine Were faint -Homeric echoes, nothing- worth, Mere chaff and draff, much better burnt." "But I," Said Francb, " pick'd the eleventh from this hearth. And have it : keep a thing, its use will come. I hoard it as a sugar-plumf or Holmes. ' ' He laugh'd, and I, though sleepy, like ahorse That hears the corn-bin open, prick'd my ears ; For I remember'd Everaxd's college fame When we were Freshmen : then at my request He brought it; and the poet little urged. But with some prelude of disparage- ment. Bead, mouthing out his hollow oes and aes, Deep-cnested music, and to this re- sult. MOETE D'AETHUE. So all day long the noise of battle roll'd Among the mountains by the winter sea; Until King Arthur's table, man by >Dian, Had fall'n in Lyonness about their Lord, King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep, The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, • Sir Bedivere , the last of all his knights. And bore himtoa chapel nigh the iield, A broken chancel witJi a broken cross. That stood on a dark strait of barren land. On one side lay the Ocean, and on one Lay a great water, and the moon was full. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedi- vere : **Th6 sequel of to-day unsolders all The goodliest fellowship of famous knights Whereof this world holds record. Such They sleep — the men I loved. I think . that we Shall never more, at any future time. Delight our soulswithtalk of knightly deeds, Walking about the gardens and the halls Of Camelot, as in the days tliat were. I perish by this people which I made, — Tho' Merlin sware that I Ehould come again To rule once more — ^but let what will be, be, I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm That without help I cannot last till morn. Thou therefore take my brand Excali- bur, Which was my pride : for thou remem- berest how In those old days, one Bdmmer noon, an arm Eose up from out the bosom of the lake, Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- derful. Holding the sword — and how I row'd across And took it, and have worn it, like a king: And, wheresoever I am suns or told In aftertime, this also shall be Icnown: But now delay not : take Excalibur, 40 MORTE V ARTHUR. And fling him far into the middle mere: "Watch what thou seest, and lightly hring me word." To him replied the hold Sir Bedi- vere: " It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm. A little thing may harm a wounded man. • Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee \yord." So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, Old knights, and over them the sea^ wind sang Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock, Came on the shining levels of the lake. There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon^ Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran f oi'tn And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt : For all the haft twinkled with' dia- mond sparks. Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth- work Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long That both his eyes were dazzled, as he slood, This way and that dividing the swift mind. In act to throw hut at the last it seem'd Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd There in the many-knotted waterflags, That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. ^ So strode he back slowto the wounded King. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere': " Hast thou perfonn'd my mission which I gave ? What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast heard ? " ' And answer made the hold Sir Bedivere : " I heard the ripple washing in the reeds. And the wild water' lapping on the crag." To whom replied King Arthur, faint ^idpale : " Thou hast hetray'd thy nature and thy name, Not rendering true answer, as heseem'd Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : For surer sign had follow'd, either hand, Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. This is a shameful thing for men to lie. Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing I bade mee, watch, and lightly bring me word." Then went Sir Bedivere the second time Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere ; Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought ; But, when he saw the wonder of the hilt. How curiously and strangely chased, he smoie His palms together, and he cried / aloud. / " And if indeed I cast the brand t away, Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, Should thus be lost forever from the earth. Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. What good should follow this, if this were done ? Wh*t harm, undone ? deep harm to disobey. Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. Were it well to obey then, if a king demand An act unprofitable, against himself ? The King is sick j and knows not what he does. What record, or "what relic of my lord Should be to aftertime, but empty breath And rumors of a doubt 7 but were this kept, Stored in some treasiire-house of mighty kings, Some one might show it at a joust of arms, Saying, ' King Arthur's s\yord, Excali- bur, Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps Upon the hiddeu bases of the hills-.* So might some old man speak in the after time To all the people, winning reverence. Butnow much honor and much fame were lost." So spake he, clouded with -his own conceit, And hid Excalibur the second time. And BO strode back slow to the wound- ed King. Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavilj^ : « Wliat is it thou hast seen ? or what hast heard?" And answer made the hold Sir Bedivere : ** I heard the water lapping on the crag, And the long ripple washing in the reeds." To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath " Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is me ! Authority forgets a dying king, Laid widow'd of the power in nis eye That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art. For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, In whom should meet tbe oiBces of all, Thou wouldst betray me for the pre- cious hilt ; Either from lust of gold, or like a girl Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. Tet.ior a man may fail in duty twice, And the third time may prosper, get thee hence : But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, I will arise and slay thee with my hands." Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the sword, And strongly wheeVd and threw it. The great brand Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon. And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch, Shot like a streamer of the northern mom, -. Seen where the moving isles of winter shock By night, with noises of the northern sea. So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur: But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- derful, And caught him by the hilt, and bran- djsh'dhim. Three times, and drew him under in the mere. And lightly went the other to the King. Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath : " Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. Speak out : what is it thou hast heard or seen ? " And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- vere : "Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems MORTE D'ARTHUR. 41 Should blind my purpose, for I never Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die. Not tho* I live three lives of mortal men. So great a miracle as yonder hilt. Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him ; But when I look'd again, behold an aim, Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him : Three limes, and di-ew him under in the mere." And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard : *' My end draws nigh ; 'tis time that I were gone. Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, And bear me to the margin; yet I fear My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." So saying, from the pavement he half rose, Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm. And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears. And would have spoken, but he found not words, Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, O'er both his shoulders drew the lan- guid hands, And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard, Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed "When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King, Muttering and murmuring at his ear, " Quick, quick ! I fear it is too late, and I shall die." But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd, Larger than human on the frozen hills. He heard the deep behind him, and a cry Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. Dry clash'dhisharnessin the icy caves And barren chasms, and all to left and right The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels — 42 MORTE D' ARTHUR. And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake. And the long glories of the winter moon. ■Then Baw they how there hove a dusky barge, Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stem, ' Beneath them ; and descending they were ware That all the decks were dense with stately forms Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these Three Queens ' with crowns of gold— and from them rose A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars. And, as it were one voice, an agony Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills All night in a waste land, where no one comes. Or hath come, since the making of the world. Then murmur'd Arthur, " Place me in the barge," And to the barge they came. There those three Queens Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. But she, that rose the tallest of them all And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands, And call'd him by his name, complain- ing loud. And dropping bitter tears against his brow Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white And colorless, and like the wither'd moon Smote _ by the fresh beam of the springing east And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops Of onset ; and the light and lustrous curls — That made his forehead like a rising sun High from the dais-throne — were pareh'd with dust : Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. So like a shatter'd column lay the King; Not lilce that Arthur who, with lance in rest, . Prom spur to plume a star of tourna- ment, Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bed- ivere, " Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes ? For now I see the true old times are dead, Wheu every morning brought a noble chance. And every chance brought out a noble knight. Such times have been not since the liglit that led The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. But now the whole rouxd table is dissolved Wliich was an image of the mighty world ; And I , the last, go forth companionless, ^nd the days, darken round me, and the years, Amoujg ]iew men, strange faces, other minds." And slowly answered Arthur from barge : "The older order changeth, yielding place to new, And God fulfils himself in many ways. Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. Comfort thyself : what comfort is in me? I have lived my life, and that which I have done Hay He within himself make pure ! but thou. If thou shouldst never see my face again. Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wlieref ore, let thy voice Bise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better tian sheep or foats nourish a blind life within the braiUj If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend ? For so the whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. ■ But now farewell. I am going a long way With these thou seBst— if indeed I go— (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) To the island-vaUey of Avilion ; Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow. Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with oi^ chard-lawns And bowery hollows orown'd with summer sea. Where I willheal me of my grievous wound." gl'®s*-@=- THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER 4S So said he, and tbe barge with oar and sail Moved from the brink, like some full- breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Euffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swar.hy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere Bevolving many memories, till the hull Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn. And on the mere the wailing died away Here ended Hall, and our last light, that long Had wink'd and threaten'd darkness, flared and fell : At which the Parson, sent to sleep with sound, And waked with silence, grunted " Good ! " but we Sat rapt : it was the tone with which he read- Perhaps some modern touches here and there Kedeem'dit from the charge of noth- ingness— Or else we loved the man, and prized his work : I know not : but we sitting, as I said, The cock crew loud ; as at that time of year The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn: Th&n Francis, muttering, like a man ill-used, " There now— that's nothing ! " drew a little back. And drove his heel into the smoulder'd log. That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue : And BO to bed ; where yet in sleep I seem'd To sail with Arthur under looming shores, Point after point ; till on to dawn, when dreams Begin to feel the truth and stir of day, To me, methought, who waited with a crowd, There came a bark that, blowing for- ward, bore King Arthur, like a modem gentleman Of stateliest poit ; and £U.l Uie people cried, " Arthur is come again : he cannot die." Then those that stbod upon the hills behind Repeated—" Come again, and thrice as fair ; " And, further inland, voices echoed— " Come With all good things, and war shall be no more." At this a hundred bells began to peal. That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas mom. THE GABDENER'S DAUGHTER ; OR, THE PICTURES. This morning is the morning of the day, When I and Eustace from the city went To see the Gardener's Daughter; land he. Brothers in Art : a friendship so com- plete Portioned in halves between us, that we grew The fable of the city where we dwelt. My Eustace might have sat for Her- cules ; So muscnlat he spread, so broad of breast. C He, by some law that holds in lore, and draws The greater to the lesser, long desired A certain miracle of symmetry, A miniature of loveliness, all grace Summ'd up and closed in little ; — Juli- et, she So light of foot, 80 light of spirit,— O, she To me myself, for some three careless moons. The summer pilot of an empty heart Unto the shores of nothing ! luiow you not Such touches are but embassies of love. To tamper with the feelings, ere he found Empire for life ? but Eustace painted her, And said to me, she sitting with us then, "When will you paint lik^ this ? " and I replied, (My words were half in earnest, half in jest,) ' ' *Tis not your work, but Love*s. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all. Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March." And Juliet answer*d laughing, " Go and see The Gardener's daughter : trust me, after that, You scarce can fail to match his mas- terpiece." And up we rose, and on the spur we went. Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love- News from the humjning city cornea to it 44 THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. In sound of funeral or of marriage bells ; , , , And, Bitting muflaed m dark leaves, you hear . The windy clanging of the minster clock ; -, X, J Although between it and the garden lies , . , 1 , A league of grass, wash'd Dy a slow broad stream, That, stirr'd with languid pujses of the oar, Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on. Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge Crown'd with the minster-towers. The fields between Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-ud- der'dkine, And all about the large lime feathers low, The lime a summer home of murmur- ous wings- J ■, . -In that still place she, hoarded m herself, Grew, seldom seen : not less among us li™ Then the old man ^ Was wroth, and doubled up bis hands, and said ; " You will not, boy ! you dare to an- swer thus ! But in my time a father's word was law, 47 Look And so it shall be now for me. to it; Consider, William : take a month to think, And let me have an answer to my wish Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack. And never more darken my doors again." But William answer'd madly ; bit his lips, And broke away. The more he look'd at her The less he liked her ; and his ways were harsh ; But Dora bore them meekly. Then before • The month was out he left his father's house. And hired himself to work within the fields / And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd His niece and said: "My girl, I love you well ; ' But if you speak with him that was my son. Or change a word with her he calls his wife, My home is none of yours. My will is law." And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, *' It cannot be : my uncle's mind will change ! " And days went on, and there was born a boy . To William ; then distresses came on him- And day by day he pass'd his father's gate. Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not. But Dora stored what little she could save, And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest time he died. Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said; ** I h^ve obey'd my uncle until now, Andlhavesinn'd, ioritwas all thro' me ' This evil came on William at the first. But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, And for your sake, the woman that ho chose. And for this orphan, I am come to you: 48 DORA, You know there haa not Tjeen for these fiye years So full a haxYest: let me take l^e boy, And I will set him in mv uncle's eye Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone.'* And Dora took the child, and went her way Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many pop- pies grew. Far off the farmer came into the field And spied her not ; for none of all his men Dare tell him Dora waited with the child ; And Dora would have risen and gone to him, But her heart fail'd her ; and the reap- ers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. But when the morrow came she rose and took The child once more, and sat upon the mound : And made a liitle wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it round his hat To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. Then when the farmer pasa'd into the field He spied her, and he' left his men at work, And came and said : " Where were you yesterday ? "Whose child is that ? "What "are you doing here ? " So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground. And answer'd softly, "This is Wil- liam's child ! " "And did I not," said Allan, "did I not Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again: ** Do with me as you will, but taike the child And bless him for the sake of bi-m that's gone ! " And Allan said, " I see it is a trick Got up betwixt you and the woman there. I must be taught my duty, and by you I Tou knew my word was law, and yet you dared To slight it. Well— for I will take the boy; But go you hence, and never see me more." So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell At Dora's feet. She bow*d upon ha* hands, And the boy's cry came to her from the field, More and more distant. She bow'a down her head, Eemembering the day •when first she came. And all the things that had been. She bow'd down And wept in secret ; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood ppon the threshold. Mary saw the boy was not with Dora. She broke out in praise To God, that help'd her in her widow- hood. And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy ; But, Mary, let me live and work with you: He says ttiat he will never see me more." Then answer'd Mary, " This shall never be, That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself : And, now I think, he shall not have tiie boy, For he will teach blnn hardness, and to slight His mother ; therefore thou and I will And I will have my boy, and bring him home^ And I will beg of bim to take thee back : But if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one house, And work for William's child, until he grows Of age to help us." So the women kiss'd Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm. The door was off the latch: theypeep'd, and saw The boy set up "betwixt his grandsire's knees, Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks. Like one that loved him : and the lad stretch'd out And babbled for the golden seal, that hung From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. Then they came in : but when the boy beheld His mother, he cried out to come to her : And Allan set him down, and Maiy said: AUDLEY COURT. 49 "0 Father!— if you let me call you so — I never came arbe^ging for myself, Or William, or this child ; but now I come !F'Or Dora : take her hack ; she loves you well. Sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men ; for I ask'd him, and he said, He could not ever rue his marrying me— 1 had been a patient wife : but, Sir, he said That he was wrong to cross his father thus : * God bless him ! * he said, * and may he never know The troubles I have gone thro' I * Then he turn'd His face and pass'd — unhappy that I am! But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight His father's memory ; and take Dora back. And let all this be as it was before." So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room; And all at once the old man burst in sobs :— " I have been to blame— to blame, I ^ have kill'd my son. I have kill'd him — but I loved him — my dear son . May God forgive me ! — I have been to blame. Kiss me, my children." Then they clung about The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times. And all the man was broken with re- morse ; And all his love came back a hundred fold; And for three hours he Bobb'd o'er William's child. Thinking of William. So those four abode Within one house together; and as " years Went forward, Mary took another mate ; But Dora lived unmarried till her death. AUDLEY COURT. " The Bull, the Fleece are cramm*d, and not a room For love or money Let us picnic there At Audley Court." I spoke, while Audley feast Humm'd like a hive all round the nar- row quay, To Francis, with a basket on his arm. To Francis just alighted from tlie boat. And breathing of the sea. " With aU my heart," Said Francis. Then we shoulder'd thro' the swarm, And rounded by the stillness of the beach To where the bay runs up its latest horn. We left the dying ebb that faintly lipp'd The flat red granite ; so by many a sweep Of meadow smooth from aftermath we reach'd The griffin-guarded gates, and pass'd thro' all The pillar'd dusk of sounding sycar mores, And"cross'd the garden to the garden- er's lodge, With all its casements bedded, and its walls And chimneys muffled in the leafy vine. There, on a slope of orchard, Fran- cis laid A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound, Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home, And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly made, Where quail and pigeon, lark and lev- eret lay, Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks Imbedded and injellied; last, with these, A flask of cider from his f ather*s vats, Prime, which I knew ; and so we sat and eat And talk'd old matters over ; who was dead. Who mairied, who was like to be, and how The races went, and who would rent the hall : Then touch'd upon the game, how scarce it was This season ; glancing thence, dis- cuss'd the farm, The fourfield system, and the price of grain ; And struck upon the corn-laws, where we split, And came again together on the king With heated faces ; till he laugh'd aloud ; And, while the blackbird on the pip- pin hung To hear him, clapt bis hand in mine and sang — *' Oh ! who would fight and march and countermarch, Be shot for sixpence in a battle-fleld, And shovell*d up into a bloody trench 50 WALKING TO THE MAIL. Where no one knowB ? but let me live my life. *' Oil ! wlio would cast and b^ance at . a desk, Percli'd like a crow upon a three-legg'd stool, Till all his juice is dried, and all his joints Are full of chalk ? hut let me live my life. *' Who'd serve the state ? for if I carved my name Upon the cliffs that guard my native land, I might as well have traced it in the sands ; The sea wastes all : hut let me live my life. « Oh ! who would love ? I woo'd a woman once, But she was sharper than an eastern wind, And all my heart tuni'd from her, as a thorn Turns from the sea : hut let me live my life." He sang his song, and I replied with mine : I found it in a volume, all of songs, Knock'd down to me, when old Sir Robert's pride, His books -^ the more the pity, so I said — Came to the hammer here in March — and this — I set the wordSf and added names I knew. " Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and dream of me : Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister's arm, And sleeping, haply dream her arm is mine. " Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia's arm ; Emilia, fairer than all else but thou. For thou art fairer than all else that is. "Sleep, breathing health and peace upon her breast : Sleep, breathing love and trust against her lip : I go to-night : I come to-morrow mom. '* I go, but I return : I would I were The pilot of the darkness and the dream. Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream of me." So sang we each to either, Francis Hale, The farmer's son, who lived across the bay. My friend ; and I, that having where- withal, And in the fallow leisure of my life A rolling stone of here and every- wbere, Bid what I would ; but ere the night we rose And saunter'd home beneath a moon, that, just In crescent, dimly rain'd about the leaf Twilights of airy silver, till we reach'd The limit of the hills ; and as we sank From rock to rock, upon the blooming quay. The town was hush'd beneath us: lower down The bay was oily calm ; the harbor- buoy. Sole star of phosphorescence in the calm. With one green sparkle ever and anon Dipt by itself, and we were glad at heart. WALKING TO THE MAIL. John. Vtq. glad I walk'd. How fresh the meadows look Above the river, and, but a month ago, The whole hill-side was redder than a fox. Is yon plantation where this byway joins The turnpike ? ' James. Yes. John. And when does this come by? James, The mail? At oneo'cloek. John, What is it now ? James. A quarter to, John. Whose house is that I see ? No, not the County Member's with the vane : Up higher with the yewtree by it, and half A score of gables. James. That? Sir Edward Head*s: But he's abroad : the place is to be sold. John, O, his. He was not broken. James. No, sir, he, Vex'd with » morbid devil in his blood That veil'd the -world with jaundice, hid his face From all men, and commercing with himself, He lost the sense that handles daily life — That keeps us all in otder more or less — And sick of home went overseas for change. John. And whither ? James. Nay, who knows ? he's here and there. , But let him go ; his devil goes with him. As well as with his tenant, Jocky Dawes. John. What's that ? James. You saw the man — on Monday, was it ? — There by the humpback*d willow ; half stands up WALKING TO THE MAIL. And bristles ; half has fall'n and made a hrldge ; And there he caught the younker tick- ling trout — Caught \a. flagrante — what's the Latin word? Delicto : but his house, for so they say, Was haunted with a joUy ghost, that shook The curtains, whined in lobbies, tapt at doors, And rummaged like a rat : no servant stay'd : The farmer Text packs up his beds and chairs, And all his household stufE ; and with his boy Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the tilt, Sets out, and meets a friend who hails him. " What ! You're. flitting!" "Yes, we're flit- ting," says the ghcst, (For they had pack'd the thing among the beds,) ^ " O well," says he, " you flitting with us too — Jack, turn the horses' heads and home again." John. He left his wife behind ; for so I heard. James. He left her, yes, I met my lady once : A woman like a butt, and harsh as crabs. John, O yet but I remember, ten _ years hack — 'Tig now at least ten years — and then she was — You could not light upon a sweeter thing ; A body slight and round, and like a pear In growing, modest eyes, a hand, n, loot Lessening in perfect cadence, and a skin As clean and white as privet when it flowers. James,. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, and they that loved At first like dove and dove were oat and dog. She was the daughter of a cottager. Out of her sphere. What betwixt shame and pride. New things and old, himself and her, she sour'd To what she is : a nature never kind ! Like men, like manners: like breeds like, they say. Kind nature is the best : those man- ners next That flt us like a nature second-hand ; Which are indeed the manners of the great. John. But I had heard it was this bill that past. And fear of change at home, that drove him hence. 51 James. That was the last drop in the cup of gall. I once was near him, when his bailifE brought A Chartist pike. You should have seen him wince As from a venomous thing : he thought himself A mark for all, and shudder'd, lest a cry Should break his sleep by night, and his nice eyes Should see the raw mechanic's bloody thumbs Sweat on his blazon'd chairs ; but, sir, you know That these two parties still divide the world — Of those that want, and those that have : and still The same old sore breaks out from age to age With much the same result. Now I myself, A Tory to the quick, was as a boy Destructive, when I had not what I would. I was at school — a college in the South : There lived a flayflint near ; we stole his fruit. His hens, his eggs ; but there was law for us : We paid in person. He had a sow, sir. She, With meditative grunts of much con- tent, Lay great with pig, wallowing In sun and mud. By night we dragg'd her to the college tower From her warm bed, and up the cork- screw stair With hand and rope we haled the groaning sow. And on the leads we kept her till Ehe ^ Pigg'd. Large range of prospect had the mother sow. And but for daily loss of one she loved. As one by one we took them — but for this — As never sow was higher in this world — Might have been happy : but what lot is pure ? We took them all, till she was left alone Upon her tower, the Niobe of swine. And so retum'd unf arrow'd to her sty. John. They found you out ? James. Not they. John. Well — after all — What know we of the secret of a man? His nerves were wrong. What ails us, who are sound, That we should mimic this raw fool the world. Which charts us all in its coarse blacks or whites, 62 EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE, As ruthless as a baby with a worm, As cruel as a schoolboy^ ere' he grows To Pity — more from ignorance than will. But put your best foot forward, or I fear That we shall miss the mail : and here it comes "With five at top : as quaint a four-in- hand As you shall see — three pyebalds and a roan. EDWIN MORKIS ; OR, THE LAKE. O ME, my pleasant rambles by the lake, My sweet, wild, fresh three quarters of a year, My one Oasis in the dust and drouth ' Of city life ! I was a eketcher then: See here, my doing : curves of moun- tain, bridge^ Boat, island, rums of a castle, built "When men knew how to build, upon a rock, "With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock: And here, new-comers in an ancient hold, New-comers from the Mersey, million- aires, Here lived the Hills — a Tudor-chim nied bulk Of mellow brickwork on an isle of bowers. O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake With Edwin Morris and with Edward Bull The curate ; he was fatter than his cure. But Edwin Morris, he that knew the names. Long learned names of agaric, moss and fern, Who forged a thousand theories of the rocks, Who taught me how to skate, to row, to swim, Who read me rhymes elaborately good. His own — Icall'd him Crichton, for he seera'd All-perfect, finish'd to the finger nail. And once I ask'd him of his early life, And his first passion ; and he answerM me ; And well his Words became him : was he not A full-cell'd honeycomb of eloquence Stored from all flowers ? Poet-like he spoke. " My love for Nature is as old as I ; But thirty moons, oue honeymoon to that, And three rich sennights more, my love for her. My love for Nature and my love for her. Of different ages, like twin-sisters grew, Twin-sisters differently beautiful. To some full music rose and sank the sun. And some full music seem'd to move and change With all the varied changes of the dark, And either twilight and the day be- tween For daily hope f ulfilPd, to rise again Revolving toward fulfilment, made it sweet To walk, to sit, to sleep, to wake, to breathe." Or this or something like to this he spoke. Then said the fat-faced curate, Ed- ward Bull, *'I take it, God made the woman for the man. And for the good and increase of the world. A pretty face is well, and this is well, To have a dame indoors, that trims us up, And keeps via tight ; but these unreal ways Seem but the theme of writers, and in- deed Worn threadbare. Man is made of solid stuff. I say, God made the woman for the man, And for the good and increase of the world." "Parson," said I, '*you pitch the pipe too low : But I have sudden touches, and can run My faith beyond my practice into his : Tho' if, in dancing after Letty Hill, I do not hear the bells upon my cap, I scarce have other music; yet say on. What should one give to light on such a dream?" I ask'd him half-sardonically. "Give? Give all thou art," he answer'd, and a light Of laughter dimpled in his swarthy cheek ; " I would have hid her needle in my heart, To save her little finger from a scratch No deeper than the skin : my ears could hear * ' Her lightest breaths : her least remark was worth The experience of the wise. I went ana came ; Her voice fied always thro' the sum- mer land J I spoke her name alone. Thrice-happy days I The flower of each, those moments when we met, EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. 63 The crown* of all, we met to part no more." "Were not Ma words delicious, I a l)east To take them as I did ? but something jarr'd : "Whether he spoke too largely j that there seem'd A touch of something false, some self- conceit, Or over-smoothness : howsoe*er it was, He scarcely hit my humor, and I said: " Friend Edwin, do not think your- self alone Of all men happy. Shall not Love to me. As in the Latin song I learnt at school. Sneeze out a full God-bless-you right and left? But you can talk: yours is a kindly TCin: I have, I think, — Heaven knows — as much within ; Have, or should have, hut for a thought or two, That like a purple beech among the greens Looks out of place : 'tis from no want in her : It is my shyness, or my self Or sometlung of a wayward modem mind iPissecting passion. Time will set me right." So spoke I knowing not the things that were. Then said the fat-faced curate, Ed- ward Bull : ** God made the woman for the use of man, And for the good and increase of the world-'* And I and Edwin laugh' d ; and now we paused About the windings of the marge to hear The soft wind blowing over meadowy holms And alders, garden-isles ; and now we left The clerk behind us, I and he, and ran By ripply shallows of the lisping lake, Delighted with the freshness and the sound. But, when the bracken rusted on their crags, My suit had vrither'd, nipt to death by him That was a God, and is a lawyer's clerk, The rentroll Cupid of our rainy isles. "lis true, we met ; one hour I had, no more : She sent a note, the seal an Mile vous The close ** Tour Letty, only yours ; " and this Thrice underscored. The friendly mist of morn Clung to the lake. I boated over, ran My crafb aground, and heard with beating heart The Sweet-Gale rustle roxmd the shelT- ing keel ; And out I stept, and up I crept : she moved. Like Proserpine in Enna, gathering flowers : Then low and sweet I whistled thrice ; and she. She turn'd, we closed, we kiss'd^ swore faith, I breathed JjD. some new planet : a silent cousin stole Upon us and departed : " Leave," she cried, " O leave me ! " " Never, dearest, never : here I brave the worst : " and while we stood like fools Embracing, all at once a score of pugs And poodles yell'd within, and out they came Trustees and Aunts and Uncles. " What, with him ! Go " (shrill'd the cotton - spinning chorus ;) ** him ! " I choked. Again they shriek'd the burden — *'Him !" Again with hands of wild rejection " Go !- Girl, get you in ! " She went— and in one mouth They wedded her to sixty thousand pounds. To lands in Kent and messuages in York, And slight Sir Kobert with his watery smile And educated whisker. But for me. They set an ancient crediLor to work : It seems I broke a close with force and arms : There came a mystic token from the king To greet the sheriff, needless courtesy ! I read, and fled by night, and flying turn'd : Her taper glimmer'd in the lake below: I turn'd once more, close-button' d to the storm ; So left the place, left Edwin, nor have seen Him since, nor heard of her, nor cared to hear. Nor cared to hear ? perhaps : yet . long ago I have pardon'd little Letty ; not indeed, [this, It may be, for her own dear sake bu* She seems a part of those fresh days to me ; For in the dust and drouth of London life She moves among my visions of the lake. While the prime swallow dips his wing, or then 54 While 'tte gold-lily blows, and over- head The light cloud smoulders on the sum- mer crag. ST. SIMEON STYLITES.- Altho' I he the basest of mankind. From scalp to sole one slough and crust of sin, Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meet For troops of devils, mad with blas- phemy, I will not (jease to grasp the hope I hold Of saintdom, and to clamor, mourn and sob, Batterirg the gates of heaven with ■ Btormd of prayer, Have mercy, Lord, and take away my sin. Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty God, This not be all in vain, that thrice ten years, Xhnce multiplied by superhuman pangs, In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold, to. coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes and cramps, A sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud. Patient on this tall pillar I have borne Bain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, and snow ; And I had hoped that ere this period closed Thou wouldst have caught me up into thy rest, Denying not these weather-beaten limbs The meed of saints, the white robe and the palm. O take the meaning, Lord : I do not breathe, Not whisper,any murmur of complaint. Pain heap'd ten-hundred-fold, to this, were still Less burden, by ten-hundred-fold, to bear, Thau were those lead-like tons of sin, that crush' d My spirit flat before thee. O Lord, Lord, Thou knowest I bore this better at the first. Fori wasstrongandhaleof bodythen; And tho' my teeth, which now are dropt away, "Would chatter with the cold, and all my beard Was tagg'd with icy fringes in the moon, I drown'd the whoopings of the owl with sound Of pious hymns and psalms, and some- times saw An angel stand and watch me, as I sang. ST, SIMEON STYLITES. Now am I feeble grown ; my end draws nigh ; ( I hope my end draws nigh : half deaf I am. So that I scarce can hear the people hum About the column's base, and almost blind, And scarce can recognize the fields I know ; And both- my thighs are rotted with the dew ,; Yet cease I not to clamor and to cry, While my stifE spine can hold my weary head. Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from the stone, ^ave mercy, mercy : take away my sin. O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul, Who may be saved ? who is it may be saved ? Who may be made a saint, if I fail here ? Show me the man hath suffer'd more than I. For did not all thy martyrs die one death ? For either they were stoned, or cruci- fied. Or burn' d in fire, or boil*d in oil, or sawn In twain beneath the ribs ; but I die here To-day, and whole years long, a life of death. Bear witness, if I could have found a way (And heedfully I sifted all my thought) More slowly-painful to subdue this home Of sin, my fl.esh, which I despise and hate, I had not stinted practice, O nay God. For not alone this pillar-punishment. Not this alone I bore : but while I lived In the white convent down the valley there. For many weeks about my loins I wore The rope that haled the buckets from the well, Twisted as tight as I could knot the noose ; And spake not of it to a single soul, Until the ulcer, eating thro' my skin, Betray'd my secret penance, so that all My brethren marvell'd greatly. More than this I bore, whereof, O God, thou knowest all. Three winters, that my soul might grow to thee, I lived up there on yonder mountain side. My right leg chain'd into the crag, I lay Pent m a roofless close of ragged stones ; oT. SIMEOK STYLITES. 55 Ijiswatlie<\ sometimes in Trandering mist, and twice Black'd with thy brsmding thunder, and sometimes Sucking the damps for drink, and eat- ing not, Except the spare chance-gift of those that came To touch my body and be lieal'd, and live : And they say then that I work'd miracles, Whereof my fame is loud amongst mankind, Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. Thou, O God, Knowest alone whether this was or no- Hare mercy, mercy ; cover all my sin. Then, that 1 might be more alone with thee. Three years I lived upon a pillar, high Six cubits, and three years on one of twelve ; And twice three years I crouch'd on one that, rose Twenty by measure ; last of all, I grew Twice ten long weary years to this. That numbers forty cubits from the soil. I think that I have borne as much as this— Or else I dream — and for so long a, time. If I may measure time by yon elow light. And this high dial, which my sorrow crowns- So much— even so. And yet I know not well. For that the evil ones come here, and say, " Pall down, O Simeon : thou hast suifer'd long For ages and for ages ! " then they prate Of penances 1 cannot have gone thro'. Perplexing me with li«s ; and oft J.\ fall, Slaybe for months, in such blind lethargies, That Heaven, and Earth, and Time are choked. But yet Bethink thee. Lord, while thou and all the saints , Enjoy themselves in heaven, and men on earth House in the shade of comfortable roofs. Sit with tJieir wives by flies, eat whole- some food, And wear warm clothes, and even beasts have stalls, I, 'tween the spring and downfall of the light. Bow down one thousand and two hundred times. To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the Saints ; Or in the night, after a little sleep, I wake : the chill stars sparkle ; I am wet With drenching dews, or stiff with crackling frost. I wear an undress'd goatskin on my 'back ; A grazing iron collar grinds my r-n-ic ; And in my weak, lean arms 1' i^o ..le cross. And strive and wrestle with thee till I die : mercy, mercy ! wash away my sin. .0 Lord, thou knowest what a man I am : A sinful man, conceived and bom in sin : 'Tis their own doing ; this is none of mine; Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for this. That here come those that worship me ? Ha ! ha ! They think that I am somewhat. What ami? The silly people take me for a saint. And bnng me ofEerings of fruit and flowers ; And I, in truth (thou wilt bear witness here) Have all in all endured as much, and more Than many just and holy men, whose names Are register'd and calendar'd for saints. Good people, you do ill to kneel to me. What is it I can have done to merit this? 1 am a sinner viler than you aU. It may be I have wrought some mira- cles. And cured some halt and maim'd ; but what of that? It may be, no one, even among the saints. May match his pains with mine ; but what of that ? Yet do not rise ; for you may look on me. And in your looking you may kneel to God'. Speak ! is there any of you halt or maim'd ? I think you know I have some power with Heaven From my long penance : let him speak his wish. Yes, I can heal him. Power goes forth from me. They say that they are heal'd. Ah, hark ! they shout " St. Simeon Stylites." Why, if so, God reaps a harvest in me. O my soul, God reaps a harvest in thee. If this be. Can I work miracles and not be saved? This is not told of any. They were It cannot be but that I shall be saved ; Yea, crown'd a saint. They shout, 66 THE TALKING OAK. " Beliold a saint ! " And lower voices saint me from above. Courage, St. Simeon 1 This dull clirys- Cracks into shining wings, and hope ere death Spreads more and more and more, that God liath now Sponged and made blank of onmef ul record all * My mortal archives. O my sons, my sons, I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname Stylites, among men ; I, Simeon, The watcher on the column till the end; I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine I, whose bald brows in silent hours be- come Unnaturally hoax with rime, do now rroVn my high nest of penance here proclaim That Pontius and Iscariot by my side Show'd like fair seraphs. On the coals I lay, A vessel full of sin : all hell beneath Made me boU over. Devils pluck'd my r166V6 * Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me. I smote them with the cross ; they swarm'd again. In bed like monstrous apes they crush'd my chest ; They flapp'd my light out as I read: I saw Their faces grow between me and my book ; With colt-like whinny and with hog- gish whine They burst my prayer. Yet this way was left, And by this way I 'soaped them. Mor- tify Tour flesh, like me, with scourges and with thorns ; Smite, shrink not, spare not. If it may be, fast ■Whole Lents, and pray. I hardly, with slow steps, With slow, faint steps, and much ex- ceeding pain. Have scrambled past those pits of fire, tiiat still Sing in mine ears. But yield not me the praise : God only thro' his bounty hath thought fit. Among the powers and princes of this world, To make me an example to mankind. Which few can reach to. Yet I do not say But that a time may come — yea, even now. Now, now, his footsteps smite the threshold stairs Of life — I say, that time is at the doors When you may worship me without reproaoh ; For I will leave my relics in your laud, And you may carve a shrine about my dUBt> And burn a fragrant lamp before my bones. When I am ^ther'd to the glorious saints. While I spake then, a sting of shrewdest pain Ean shrivelling thro' me, and r cloud- like change. In passing, with a grosser film made thick These heavy, horny eyes. The end! the end ! Surely the end ! What's here ? a shape, A flash of 'light. Is that the angel there That holds a crown? Come, blessed brother, come. I know thy glittering face. I waited long; My brows are ready. What ! deny it now? Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I clutch It. Christ 1 'Tis gone : 'tis here again ; the crown ! the crown ! So now 'tis fitted on and grows to me, And from it melt the dews of Paradise, Sweet ! sweet ! spikenard, and balm, and frankincense. Ah ! let me not be fool'd, sweet saints: I trust That I am whole, and clean, and meet for Heaven. Speak, if there be a priest, a man of God, Among you there, and let him pres- ently Approach, and lean a ladder on the shaft. And climbing up into my airy home. Deliver me the blessed sacrament ; For by the warning of the Holy Ghost, I prophesy that I shall die to night, A quarter before twelve. But thou, O Lord, Aid all this foolish people ; let them Example, pattern : lead them to thy light. THE TALKING OAK. Once more the gate behind me falls ; Once more before my face I see the moulder'd Abbey-walla, That stand within the chace. Beyond the lodge the city lies, Beneath its drift of smoke ; And ah ! with what delighted eyes I turn to yonder oak. For when my passion first began, Ere that, which in me burivd The love, that makes me thrice a man. Could hope itself retum'd ; To yonder oak within the field I spoke without restraint, TH£ TALKING OAK:, 57 And with a larger faith appealed Than Papist unto Saint. For oft I talk'd with him apart, And told him of my choice, Until he plagiarized a heart, And Emswer'd with a voice. Tho' what he whisper'd, under Heaven None else could understand ; I found him garrulously given, A babbler in the laud. But since I heard him make reply Is many a weary hour ; 'Twere well to question him, and try If yet he keeps the power. Hail, hidden to the knees in fern, Broad Oak of Sumner-chace, Whose topmost branches can discern The roofs of Sumner-place ! Say thou, whereon I carved her name, If ever maid or spouse, As fair as my Olivia, cam.e To rest beneath thy boughs. — " O Walter, I have shelter'd here Whatever maiden grace The good old Summers, year by year Made ripe in Sumner-chace : "Old Summers, when the monk was fat, And, i8Buing_ shorn and sleek. Would twist his girdle tight, and pat The girls upon the cheek, *' Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence, And Tiumber'd bead, and shrift, ^ BlufE Harry broke into the spence, And turned the cowls adrift : " And I have seen some score of those Fresh faces, that would thrive When his man-minded offset rose To chase the deer at five ; "And all that from the town would stroll. Till that wild wind made work In wliich the gloomy brewer's soul Went by me, like a stork : *' The slight she-slips of loyal blood. And ouiers, passing praise. Strait-laced, but all-too-full in bud For puritanic stays : " And I have sliadow'd many a group Of beauties, that were bom In teacup-times of hood and hoop, Or while the patch was worn ; "And, leg and arm with love-knots gay. About me leap'd and laugh'd The modest Cupid of the day, And shriird his tinsel shaft. " I swear (and else may insects prick Each leaf into a gall) This girl, for whom your heart is sick, Is mree times worth them all ; " For those and theirs, by Nature's lUw, Have faded long ago ; But in these latter springs I saw Your own Olivia blow. " From when she gambolVd on the greens, Ahaby-germ, to when The maiden blossoms of her teena Ck>uld number live from ten. " I swear, by leaf, and wind, and ra.j, (And hear me with thine ears,) That, tho' I circle in the grain Five hundred rings of years— " Yet, since I first could cast a bhade Did never creature pass So slightly, musically made, So lighc upon the grass : "For as to fairies, that wi^i flit To make the greensward fresh, I hold them exquisitely knit. But far too spare of nesh." O, hide thy knotted knees in fern, And overlook the cLace ; And from thy topmost branch discern The roofs of Sumner-place. But thou^ whereon I carved her name, That oft hast heard my vows, Declare when last Olivia came To sport beneath thy boughs. " Oyesterday, you know, the fair Was holden at the town ; His father left his £ood ai-m-chalr, And rode his hunter down. " And with him Albert came on his, I look'd at him with joy : As cowslip untooxlip is, So seems she to the boy. "An hour had past — and, sitting straight Within the low-wheel*d chaise. Her mother trundled to the gate Behind the dappled grays. " But, as for her, she stay'd at home. And on the roof she went. And down the way you used to come, She look'd with discontent. " She left the novel half -uncut Upon the rosewood shelf ; She left the new piano shut : She could not please herself. " Then ran she, gamesome as the colt. And livelier than a lark She sent her voice thro' all the holt Before her, and the park. " A light wind chased her on the wing, And in the chase grew wild, As close as might be would he cling About the darling child : " But light as any wind that blows • So fleetly did she stir, The flower, she touch'd on, dipt and rose. And tum'd to look at her. "And here she came, and round mo play'd. And sang to me the whole Of those three stanzas that yon made About my * giant bole ; ' 58 THE TALKING OAK. " And in a fit of frolic mirth Slie strove to span my waist : Alas, I wa3 so broad of girth, I could not be embraced. " I wish'd myself the fair young beech That here beside me stands. That round me, clasping each in each, She might have lock'd her hands. **Yet seem'd the pressure thrice as sweet As woodbine's fragile hold. Or when I feel about my feet The berried briony fold." O mufle round thy knees with fern, And shadow Sumner-chace ! Long may thy topmost branch discern, The roofs of Sumner-place ! But tell me, did she read the name I carved with many vows When last with throbbing heart I came To rest beneath thy boughs ? '* O yes, she wan4or'd round and round These knotted knees of mine, And found, and kiss'd the name she found, And sweetly murmur'd thine. ** A teardrop trembled from its source. And down my surface crppt. My sense of touch is something coarse, But I believe she wept. "Then flush'd her cheek with rosy light, She glanced across the plain ; But not a creature was in sight : She kiss'd me once again- " Her kisses were so close and kind, That, trust me on my word. Hard wood I am, and wrinkled rind, But yet my sap was stirr'd : "And even into my inmost ring A pleasure I discern'd. Like those blind motions of the Spring, That show the year \s turn'd. " Thrice-happy he that may caress The ringlet's waving balm — The cushions of whose touch may press The maiden's tender palm. " I, rooted here among the groves. But languidly adjust My vapid vegetable loves , "With anthers and with dust : " For ah ! my friend, the days were biief "Whereof the poets talk,. "When that, which breathes within the leaf, Could slip its bark and walk, " But could I, as in times foregone, From spray, and branch, and stem, Have suck'd and gather'd into one The life that spreads in them, " She had not found me so remiss ; But lightly issuing thro', I would have paid her kiss for Mas, With usury thereto," O flourish high, with leafy towerSf And overlook the lea. Pursue thy loves among the bowere, But leave thou mine to me^ flourish, hidden deep in fern, Old oak, I love thee well ; A thousand thanks for what I learn And what remains to tell. " 'Tis little more : the day was warm ; At last, tired out with play, She sank her head upon her arm And at my feet she lay. " Her eyelids dropp'd their silkezi I breathed upon her eyes Thro' all the summer or my leaves A welcome mix'd with sighs. " I took the swarming sound of life^ The music from the town — The murmurs of the drum and fife And luU'd them in my own. " Sometimes I let a sunbeam slip, To light her shaded eye ; A second flutter'd round her lip Like a golden butterfly ; " A third would glimmer on her neck To make the necklace shine j Another slid, a sunny fleck, From head to ankle fine. " Then close and dark my arms !• And shadow'd all her rest— Dropt dews upon her golden head, An acorn in her ^^reast. '* But in a pet she started up, And pluck'd it out, and drew My little oakling from the-cup, And flung him in tbe dew. "And yet it was a ^aceful gift^ I felt a pang within As when I see the woodman lift His axe to slay my kin. "I shook him down because he was The finest on the tree. He lies beside thee on the ^ O kiss him once for me. " O kiss him twice and thrice for me, That have no lips to kiss, For never yet was oak on lea Shall grow so fair as this." Step deeper yet in herb and fern, Look further thro' the chace, Spread upward till thy boughs discern The front of Sumner-place. This fruit of thine by Love is blest, That but a moment lay "Where fairer fruit of Love may rest Some happy future day. I kiss it twice, I kiss it thrice, The warmth it therice shall win To riper life may magnetize The baby-oak within. But thou, while kingdoms overset Or lapse from hand to hand, LOVE AND DUTY. Thy leaf ahall never fail, nor yet Thine acorn in the land. May never saw dismember thee. Nor wielded axe disjoint, That art the f airest^spoken tree From here to Lizard-point. O rock upon thy towery top All thioats that gurgle sweet ! All starry culmination drop Balm-dews to bathe thy feet ! All grass of silky feather grow — And while he sinks or swells The full south breeze around thee blow The sound of minster bells. The fat earth feed thy branchy root, That under deeply strikes ! The northern morning o'er thee shoot, High up, in silver spikes 1 Nor ever lightning char thy grain, But, rolling as m sleep, Low thunders bring the mellow rain. That makes thee broad and deep 1 And hear rae swear a solemn oath, That only by thy side Will I to Olive plight my troth. And gain her for my bride. And when my marriage morn may fall, She, Dryad-like, shall wear Alternate leaf and acorn-ball In wreath about her hair. And I will work in prose and rhyme, And praise thee more in both Than bard has bonor'd beech or lime, Or that Thessalian growth, In which the swarihy ringdove sat. And mystic sentence spoke ; And more than England honors that. Thy famous brother-oak, ■Wherein the younger Charles abode Till all the paths were dim, And far below the Roundhead rode, And humm'd a surly hymn. LOVE ANB DUTY. Of love that never found his earthly close. What sequel? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts ? Or all the same as if he had not been ? Not so. Shall Error in the round of time Still father Truth? shall the brag- gart shout For some blind glimpse of freedom work itself Tljro' madness, hated by the wise, to law • System and empire ? Sin itself be found The cloudy porch oft opening on the Sun? And only he, this wonder, dead, be- come Mere highway dust? or year by year alone Sit brooding in the ruins of a life. Nightmare of youth, the spectre of himself? If this were thus, if this, indeed, were all. Better the narrow brain, the stony heart. The staring eye glazed o'er with sap- less days. The long mechanic pacings to and fro, The set gray life, and apathetic end. But am I not the nobler thro' thy love? O three times less unworthy ! likewise thou Art more thro' Love, and greater than thy years. The Sun will run his orbit, and the Moon Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will bring The drooping flower of knowledge changed to fruit Of wisdom. Wait : my faith is large in Time, And that which shapes it to some per- fect end. Will some one say, Then why not ill for good ? Why took ye not your pastime? To that man My work shaU answer, since I knew the right And did it ; for a man is not as God, But then most Godlike being most a man. — So let me think 'tis well for thee and me— Ill-fated that I am, what lot is mine Whose foresight preaches peace, my heart so slow To feel it ! For how hard it seem'd to me. When eyes, love-languid thro' half- tears, would dwell One earnest, earnest moment upon mine, Then not to dare to see ! when thy low voice, Ealtering, would break its syllables, to keep My own full-tuned,— hold passion in a leash, And not leap forth and fall about thy neck. And on thy bosom, (deep-desired re- lief !) Bain out the heavy mist of tears, that weigh'd Upon my brain, my senses and my soul ! For love himself took part against himself To warn us off, and Duty loved of Love— O this world's curse, — beloved but hated — came Like Death betwixt thy dear embraca • and mine. And crying, " Who is this ? behold thj bride,'' 60 THE GOLDEN YEAR. Slie push'd me from thee. If the sense is hard To alien ears, I did not speak to these— No, not to thee, but to thyself in me : Hard is my doom and thine : thou knowest it all. Could Love part thus? was it not well to speak, To have spoken once? It could not but be well. The slow sweet hours that bring us all things good, The slow sad hours that bring us all things ill, And all good things from evil, brought the night In which we sat together and alone. And to the want, that hoUow'd all the heart, Gave utterance by the yearning of an eye, That'burn'd upon its object thro' such tears As flow but once a life. The trance gave way To those caresses, when a iiundrea times In that last kiss, which never was the last, Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and died. Then foUow'd counsel, comfort, and the words That make a man feel strong in speak- ing truth ; Till now the dark was worn, and over- head The lights of sunset and of sunrise mix'd In that brief night ; the summer night, that paused Among her stars to hear us ; stars that hung Love-charm'd to listen : all the wheels oE Time Spun round in station, but the end had come. O then like those, who clench their nerves to rush Upon their dissolution, we two rose, There — closing like an individual life — ■ In one wild cry of passion and of pain, Like bitter accusation ev'n to death. Caught up the whole of love and utter' d it J And bade adieu for ever. Live — yet live — Shall sharpest pathos blight us, know- ing all Life needs for life is possible to will — Live happy ; tend thy flowers ; be tended by My blessing ! Should my Shadow cross thy thoughts Too sadly for their peace, remand it thou For calmer hours to Memory's darkest hold, If not to be forgotten — not at once — Not all forgotten. Should it cross thy dreams, O might it come like one that looks content, With quiet eyes unfaithful to the truth, And point thee forward to a distant ligbt, Or seem to lift a burden from thy heart And leave thee freer, till thou wake re- fresh'd, Then when the first low matin-chirp hath grown Full quire, and morning driv'n her plough of pearl Far furrowing into light the mounded rack. Beyond the fair green field and eastern sea. THE GOLDEN YEAR. Well, you shall have that song which Leonard wrote : It was last summer on a tour in WaleS: Old James was with me : we that day had been Up Snowdon ; and I wish'd for Leon- ard therCj And found him in Llauberis : then we crost Between the lakes, and clamber'd half way up The counter side ; and that same song of his He told me ; for I banter'd him, and swore They said he lived shut up within him- self, A tongue-tied Poet in his feverous days, That, setting the how much before the how. Cry, like the daughters of the horse- leech. " Give, Cram us with all," but count not me the herd ! To which " They call me what they will," he said : " But I was born too late : the fair new forms, That float about the threshold of an age, Like truths of Science waiting to be caught — Catch me who can, and make the catch- er crown'd — Are taken by the forelock. Let it be. But if you care indeed to listen, hear These measured words, my work of yestermorn. " we sleep and wake and sleep, but all things move ; The Sun flies forward to his brother Sun ; The dark Earth follows wheel'd in hei ellipse ', ULYSSES. 61 And huinan things returning on them- selves Move onward, leading up the golden year. " Ah, tho' the times, when some new thought can bud, Are but as poets' seasons When they flower, " Yet seas, that daily gaiit "^il'pon the shore, ^ave ebb and ;flow conditioning their march, And slow and sure comes up the gold- en year, " When wealth no more shall rest in mounded heaps, But smit with freervlight shall slowly melt In many streams to fatten lower lands, And light shall spread, and man be liker man lliro' all the season of the golden year. " Shall eagles not be eagles ? wrens be wrens ? If all the world were falcons, what pf that ? The wonder of the eagle were the less. But he not less the eagle. Happy days Koll onward, leading up the golden year, " Fly, happy happy sails and bear the Press : Fly happy with the mission of the- Cj'oss ; Knit land to land, and blowing haven- ward With silks, and fruits, and spices, clear of toll. Enrich the markets of the golden year. ** But we grow old. Ah ! when shall all men's good ! each ] Peace good lie, Be each man's rule, and universal Lie like a shaft of light across the • land. And like a lane of beams athwart the sea. Thro' all the" circle of the golden year ? " Thus far he flow'd, and ended; whereupon " Ah, folly ! " in mimic cadence an- swer'd James— " Ah, folly ! for it lies so far away, Not in our time, nor in our children's time, 'Tis like the second world to us that live ; 'Twere all as one to fix our hopes on Heaven Ab on this vision of the golden year." With that he struck his staff against the rocks And broke it,— James,— you know him, —old, but full Of force and choler, and firm upon his feet, And like an oaken stock in winter woods, O'erflouriih'd with the hoary clematis : Then added, all in heat : '■' What stufE is this! Old writers push'd the happy season back, — The more fools they, — we forward : dreamers both : Ton most, that in an age, when every hour Must sweat her sixty minutes to the death, Live on, God love us, as if the seeds- man, rapii Upon the teeming harvest, should not His hand into the bag : but well I know That unto him who works, and feel« he works, This same grand year is ever at the doors." He spoke: and, high above, I heard them blast The steep slate-quarry, and the great echo flap ^ And buffet round the hills from bluff . to bluff. ULYSSES. It little profits that an idle king, By this Etill hearth, among these bar- ren crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race. That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me I cannot rest from ti-avel : I will drink Life to the lees : all times I have en- joy' d GreaJly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone ; on shore, andt when Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea : I am become a name ; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known ; cities of men And manners', climates, councils, gov- ernments, Myself not least, but honor'd of them all; And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met ; Yet all experience is an arch where- tljro* Gleams that uutravell'd world, whose margin fades For ever and for ever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end. To rust unbumish'd, not to shine in use ! As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life 52 LOCKSLEY HALL Were all too little, and of one to me liittle remains : but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, Bometliing more, A bringer of new things ; and vile it were For some three Buns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in de- sire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bomid of human thought. This is my son, mine own Tele- machus, To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle— "Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil This labor, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and thro* soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail In offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods. When I am gone. He works his .work, I mine. There lies the port : the vessel puffs her sail : There gloom the dark broad seas- My mariners, Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me— That ever wifli a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free f oreheads-^you and I are old ; Old age hath yet his honor and his toll; Beath closes all : but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks : The long day wanes : the slow moon climbs : the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push ' off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows ; for my pur- pose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and tlie bath& Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down : It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides : and tho' "We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven ; that which we are, we are ; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. LOCKSLEY HALL. Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early mom : Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle horn *Ti8 the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews «all. Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall ; Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts, And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into uaburacts. Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest, Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the "West. Many a night T saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow shade, Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid. Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time ; "When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed ; "When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed ; When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see ; Saw the Vision of the world, and aU the wonder that would be.— In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast ; In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest ; — =© LOCKSLEY HALL. 63 In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the bumish'd dove ; In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. Then her cheek waa pale and thinner than should be for one as young, And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung. And I said, ** My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me, Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee." On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and a light, As 1 have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern li^t. And she turn' d— her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs — All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes — Saying, " I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong ; " Saying, " Dost thou love me, cousin 1 " weeping, " I have loved thee long.** Love took up the glass of Time, and tnrn'd it in his glowing hands ; Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. Love took lip the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might ; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight. Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring, And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fulness of the Spring. Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships, And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips. O my cousin, shallow-hearted ! O my Amy, mine no more ! the dreary, dreary moorland ! O the barren, barren shore ! Falser than'all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung. Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue t Is it well to wish thee happy ? ^^having known me — to decline On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine I Tet it shall be ; thou Shalt lower to his level day by day, "What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay. As the husband is, the wife is : thou art mated with a clown. And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Someihing better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. What is this ? his eyes are heavy ; think not they are glazed with wine. Go to him ; it is thy duty: kiss him : take his hand in thine. It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought : Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought. He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand — Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with my hand ! ' Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace, Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth !_, Oui'sed be the social lies that wai-p us from the living ti-ulh ! Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule ! Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the fool ! ■Well — 'tis well that I should bluster ! — Hadst thou less unworthy proved— Would to God— for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved. Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit 7 1 will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at the root. Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years should come As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery home. Where is comfort? in division of the records of the mind 7 Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind ? I remember one that perish'd : sweetly did she speak and move : Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love. Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore 7 No — she never loved me truly : love is love for evermore. Comfort 7 comfort soom'd of devils ! this is truth the poet sings, That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof, In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof. 64 LOCKSLEY HALL. Like a doe. he hunts In dreams, and thou art staring at the walL "Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall. Then a hand shall pass hefore thee, pointing to his drunken sleep, To thy widow'd mamage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. Thou Shalt hear the " Never, never," whisper'd by the phantom year* And a song from out the dis'tauoe in the ringing of thiue ears ; And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow : get thee to thy rest again. Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; for a tender voice will cry. 'Tis a purer life than thine ; a lip to drain thy trouble dry. Baby lips will laugh me down : my latest rival brings thee rest. Baby fingers, waxen touches, press from the mother's breast. O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due. Half is thine and half is his ; it will be worthy of the two. O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part, ■With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart. " They were dangerous guides the feelings — she herself was not exempt - Truly, Bhe herself had suffer'd " — Perish in thy self-contempt ! Overlive it — lower yet — be happy ! wherefore should I care ? I myself must mix with action, lest 1 wither by despair. What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these ? Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden keys. Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets overflow. I have but an angry fancy : what is that which I should do ? I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground^ "When the ranks are roU'd iu vapor, and the winds are laid with sound. But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honor feels. And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels. Can I but relive in sadness, I will turn that earlier page. Hide me from my deep emotion. O thou wondrous Mother-Age I Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife. When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life ; Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield. Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field, And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn. Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn ; And hia spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then, "LTndemeath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men ; Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new : That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do: For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the "Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be ; Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails ; Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales ; Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly dew Prom the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue ; Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rashing warm. With the standards of the peoples plunging tiiro' the thunder-storm ; Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were furl'd In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping thro' me left me dry, Lett me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye ; Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint : Science moves, but slowly slowly, creeping on from point to point : Slowly comes a hungry people, as a linn, creeping nigher, Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly-^ing fire. LOCKSLEY HALL. 66 Tet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs. And the thoughts of men ai-e widen'd with the process of the sung. ■What is tliat to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, Tho' the deep heart of existence beat lor ever like a boy s Z Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore, And the individual withers, and the world is more and more. Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast, FuU of s& experience, moving towards the stillness of his rest. Hark, mv merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle-horn. They tS^whom my foolish passion were a target lor their scorn : Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string ? I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so shglit a thing. Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! woman's pleasure, woman's pain- Natufe made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain . Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with mine. Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine — Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, lor some retreat Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat , Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starr'd ; — I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle s ward. Or to burst all links of habit — there to wander far away, On from island unto island at the gateways ol the day. Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and JiaPpy |^'«?.' Breldths ol tropic shade and palms m cluster, knots ol Paradise. Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag. Slides arbird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag ; Droops the heavy-blossomM bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree - Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. There methinks would be enjoyment more 'I'^n in this march of min^^ In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankma. There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope and breathing-space ; I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they shall run, Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun ; Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks, Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books — Pool, again the dream, the fancy ! buti tejoro my words aje-^^ld, But i count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child. /, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains, LlS a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains ! Mated with a squalid savage- what to me were sun or clime 7 I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files ot time — I that rather held it better men should perish one by one. Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon ! Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us ranee Let the great worldspin lor ever down the ringing grooves of change. Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day : Better fifty years ol Europe than a cycle ol Cathay. Mother-Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when "fe^fffi" ;,„ „„„ Bift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the Sun - O, I see the crescent promise ot my spirit hath not set. Ancient founts of inspiration *ell thro' all my fancy yet. Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall ! Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. Comes a vapor from the margin blackening "Te-r heath an^^ holt, Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow ; For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and 1 go. w> GODIVA. GODIVA. I waited for the (rain at Coventry , I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge, To watch the three tall spires ;a/nd there I shaped The city's ancient legend into this, — Not only we, the latest seed of Time, New men, that in the flying of awheel Cry down the past, not only we, that prate Of rights and wrongs, have loved the people well, And loathed to see them overtax'd ; but she Did more, and underwent, and over- came, The woman of «• thousand summers hack, Godiva, wife to that grim Earl,, who ruled In Coventry : for when he laid a tax Upon his town, and all the mothers brought "S^ieir children, clamoring, " If we pay, we starve ! " She sought her lord, and found him, where he strode About the hall, among his dogs, alone, His beard a foot before him, and his hair A yard behind. She told him of their tears, And pray'd him, "If they pay this tax, they starve." "Whereat he stared, replying, half- amazed, "You would not let your little finger ache For such as Mese?" — "But I would die," said she. He laugh'd, and swore by Peter and by Paul : Then fillip'd at the diamond in her 'Oa: Lv, ay, ay, you talk ! " - he said, ''Alas!* *' But prove me what it is I would not do." And from a heart as rough as Esau's hand, He answer'd, " Bide you naked thro' the town, And I repeal it ; " and nodding, as in scorn. He parted, with great strides among his dogs. So left alone, the passions of her mind. As winds from all the compass shift and blow. Made war upon each other for an hour. Till pity won. She sent a herald forth. And bade him cry, with sound of trum- pet, all The hard condition ; but that she would loose The people : therefore, s& they loved her well. Erom then till noon no foot should pace the street. No eye look down, she passing ; but that all Should keep within, door shut, and window barr'd. Then Jied she to her inmost bower, and there Unclasp'd the wedded eagles of her belt. The grim Earl's gift ; but ever at a breath She linger'd, looking like a summer moon Half -dipt in cloud ; anon she shook her head. And shower'd the rippled ringlets to her knee ; Unclad herself in haste ; adown the stair Stole on; and like a creeping sunbeam, slid From pillar unto pillar, until she reach'd The gateway ; there she f oimd her palf ery n-apt In purple blazon'd with armorial gold. Then she rode forth, clothed on with chastity : The deep air listen'd round her as she rode. And all the low wind hardly breathed for fear. The little wide-moutii'd heads upon the spout Had cunning eyes to see : the barking cur Matle her cheek flame : her palfrey's footfall shot Light horrors thro' her pulses : the blind walls "Were full of chinks and holes ; and overhead Fantastic gables, crowding, stared : but she Not less thro' all bore up, till, last, she saw The white-flower'd elder-thicket from the tield Gleam thro' the Gothic archways ia the wall. Then she rode back, clothed on with chastity : And one low churl, compact of thank* less earth. The fatal byword of all years to come, Boring a little augur-hole in f cmt, Peep'd— but his eyes, before they had their will. Were shrivell'd into darkness in his head, And dropt before him. So the Powers, who wait On noble deeds, cancell'd a sense mis- used ; And she. that knew not, pass'd : and all at once, "With twelve great shocks of sound, tha shameless ngou THE TWO VOICES. 67 Was clash*d and hammer'd from a hun- dred towers. One after one : but even tlien she gain'd Her bower ; whence reissuing, robed and crown'd, To meet her lord, she took the tax away And built herself an everlastiag name. THE TWO VOICES. A STiLii small voice spake unto me, ** Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be ? " Then to the still small voice I said : " Let me not east in endless shade What is so wonderfully made," To which the voice did urge reply : " To day I saw the dragon-fly Come from the wells where he did lie. .*• An inner impulse rent the veil Of his old husk : from head to tail Came out clear plates of sapphire mail. ** He dried his wings : like gauze they grew: Thro' crofts and pastures wet with deW A living flash of light he flew." I said, " When first the world began, Young Nature thro' live cycles ran, And in the sixth she moulded man. **'She gave him mind, the lordliest Proportion, and. above the rest, Dominion in the head and breast." Thereto the silent voice replied ; *' Self-blinded are you by your i>ride : Look up thro' night : the world is wide. "This truth within thy mind rehearse, That in a boundless universe Is boundless better, boundless worse. " Think you this mould of hopes and , fears Could find no statelier than his peers In yonder hundred million spheres ? ' ' It spake, moreover, in my mind : " Tho' thou were scatter'd to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind." Then did my response clearer fall : " No compound of this earthly ball Is like another, all in all." To which he answer'd scoflfiugly : " Good soul ! suppose I grant it thee, Who'll weep for thy deficiency ? "Or will one beam be less intense, When thy peculiar difference Is canceil'd in the world of sense ?" I would have said, " Thou canst not know," But my full heart, that work*d below, Rain'd thro* my sight its overflow. Again the voice spake unto me : "Thou art so steep'd in misery, Surely 'twere better not to be. "Thine anguish will not let thee sleep, TSot any train of reason keep : , Thou canst not think, but thou wilt weep." I said, " The years with change ad- vance : If I make dark my countenance, 1 shut my life from happier chance- " Some turn this sickness yet might take, Ev'nyet." But he: "What drug can make A wither'd palsy cease to shake ? " I wept, " Tho' I should die, I know That all about the thorn will blow In tuf te of rosy-tinted snow ; "And men, thro' novel spheres of thought Still moving after truth long sought, Will learn new things when I am not." "Yet," said the secret voice, "some time, Sooner or later, will gray prime Make thy grass hoar with early rime, " Not less swift souls that yearn for light, Rapt after heaven's starry flight. Would sweep the tracts of day and night. "Not less the bee would range her cells, Thefurzy prickle fire the dells. The foxglove cluster dappled bells." I said that " all the years invent ; Each month is various to present The world with some development. "We5:e this not well, to bide mine hour, Tho' watching from a ruin'd tower How grows the day of human power?" " The highest-mounted mind,'* he said, " Still sees the sacred morning spread The silent summit overhead. " Will thirty seasons render plain Those lonely lights that still remain. Just breaking over land and main ? "Or make that morn, from his cold crown And crystal silence creeping down. Flood with full daylight glebe and town? " Forerun thy peers, thy time, and let Thy feet, millenniums hence, be set In midst of knowledge, dream'd not yet. " Thou hast not gain'd a real height, Nor art thou nearer to the light, f Because the scale is infinite. " 'Twere better not to breathe or speak. Than cry for strength, remaining weak. And seem to find, but still to seek. " Moreover, but to seem to find Asks what thou lackest, thought re- sign'd, A healthy frame, a quiet mind." 68 THE TWO VOICES. I said, " When I am gone away, ' He dared not tarry,' men will say, Doing dishonour to my clay." " This is more vile," he made reply, "Xo breathe and loathe, to live and sigh, Than once from dread of pain to die. " Sick art thou— a divided will Still heaping on the fear of ill The fear of men, a coward still. "Do men love thee? Art thou so bound To la^n, that how thy name may sound "Will vex thee lying underground ? " The memory of the wither'd leaf In endless time is si;arce more brief Than of the garner'd Autumn-sheaf. **Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust : The right ear, that is tilled with dust, Hears little of the false or just." " Hark task, to pluck resolve," I cried, " From emptiness and the waste wide Of that abyss, or scornful pride ! * ' Nay— rather yet that I could raise One hope that warm'd me in the days "While still I yearn'dfor human praise. "When, wide in soul and bold of tongue, Among the tents I paused and sung, The distant battle flash'd and rung. *' I sung the joyful Paaat clear, And, sitting, bumish'd without fear The brand, the buckler, and the spear — *' Waiting to strive a happy strife, To war with falsehood to the knife, And not to lose the good of life— ■ " Some hidden principle to move,' To put together, part and prove. And mete the bounds of hate and love— " As far as might be, to carve out Free space for every human doubt, That the whole mind might orb about — '* To search thro' all I felt or saw, The springs of life, the depths of awe, And reach the law within the law : ** At least, not rotting like a weed. But, liaving sown some generous seed, Fruitful of further thought and deed, "To pass, when Life her Hght with- draws, Not void of righteous self -applause, Nor in a merely selfish cause — " In some good cause, not in mine own, To perish, wept for, honor'd, known, And like a warrior overthi-own ; '^-Whose eyes are dim with glorious tears. When, soil'd with noble dust, he hears His country's war-song thrill his ears ; " Then dying of a mortal stroke, What time the foeman's line is broke. And all the war is roU'd in smoke." " Yea ! " said the voice, "thy dream was good. While thou abodest in the bud. It was the stirring of the blood. " If nature put not forth her power About the opening of the flower. Who is it that could live an hour ? *' Then comes the check, the change, the fall. Pain rises up, old pleasures pall. There is one remedy for all. " Yet hadstthou, thro* enduring pain, Link'd month to month with such a chain Of knitted purport, all were vain. " Thouhadst not betweendeath and birth Dissolved the riddle of the earth. So were thy labour little worth. " That men -with knowledge merely play'd, I told thee— hardly nigher made, Tho' scaling slow from grade to grade ; " Much less this dreamer, deaf and blind. Named man, may hope some truth to find. That bears relation to the mind. " For every worm beneath the moon Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon. " Cry, faint not : either Truth is born Beyond the polar gleam forlorn. Or in the gateways of the morn " Cry, faint not, climb : the summits slope Beyond the furthest flights of hope. Wrapt in dense cloud from base to cope . " Sometimes a little corner shines. As over rainy mist inclines A gleaming crag with belts of pines " I will go forward, sayest thou, I shall not fail to find her now. Look up, the, fold is on her brow. " If straight thy track, or if oblique, Thou know'st not. Shadows thou doBt strike, Embrabing cloud, Ixion-like ; " And owning but a little more Than beasts, abidest lame and poor, Calling thyself a little lower " Than angels. Cease to wail and brawl ! Why inch by inch to darkness crawl ? There is one remedy for all." " O dull, one-sided voice," said I, " Wilt thou make everything a lie, To flatter me that I may die ? " I know that age to age succeeds, Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, A dust of systems and of creeds. " I cannot hide that some have striven, Achieving calm, to whom was given The joy that mixes man with Heaven : THE TWO VOICES. 69 « ■Wlio,rowiiig hard againBt the stream, Saw distant gates of Kden gleam, Aud did uot dream it was a dream ; " But heard, by secret transport led, Ev'n in the charnela of the dead, The murmur of the fountain-head— " Which did accomplish their desire. Bore and forebore, and did uot tire, Like Stephen, an unquenched fire. " He heeded not reviling tones, l^ov sold his heart to idle moans. The* cursed and Bcorn*d, and bruised with stones : " But looking upward, fall of grace, He pray'd, and from a happy place God's glory smote him on tlie face." The sullen answer slid betwixt : "'Not that the grounds of hope were fix'd, The elements were kindlier mix'd.** I said, " I toil beneath the cui'so, But, knowing not the universe, 1 fear to slide from bad to worse. *' And that, in seeking to undo One riddle, and to find the true, I knit a hundred others new : " Or that this anguish fleeting hence, Unmanacled from bonds of sense, Be fix'd andfroz'n to permanence : " For I go, weak from suffering here ; Naked I go, and void of cheer : What is it that I may not fear ? " " Consider well," the voice replied: *' His face, that two hours since hath died ; Wilt thou find passion, pain or piide ? " Will he obey when one commands ? Or answer should one press his hands? He answers not, nor understands. " His ^alms are folded on his breast : There is no other thing express'd But long disquiet merged in rest* " His lips are very mild and meek : Tho' one should smite him on the cheek, And on the mouth, he will not speak. ** His little daughter, whose sweet face He kiss'd, taking his last embrace. Becomes dishonor to her race — " His sons grow up that bear his name. Some grow to honor, some to shame, — But he is chill to praise or blame. " He will not hear the north-wind rave, Nor, moaning, household shelter crave From winter rains that beat his grave, " High up the vapors fold and swim : About him broods the twil ight dim : The place he knew forgeteth him." " If all be dark, vague voice," I said, " These things are wrapt in doubt and dread, Nor canst thou show the dead are dead. ** The sap dries up : the plant declines. A deeper tale my heart divines. Know I not Death? the outward signs ? ** I fomid him when my years were few; A shadow on the graves I knew. And darkness in the village yew. *' From grave to grave the shadow crept : In her still place the morning wept : Touch'd by his feet the daisy slept. '* The simple senses crown'd his head: * Omega ! thou art Loril,' they said, * We find no motion in the dead.* " Why, if man rot in dreamless ease. Should that plain fact, as taught by these, Not make him sure that he shall cease? " Who forged that other influence. That heat of inward evidence. By which he doubts against the sense? *' He owns the fatal gift of eyes. That read his spirit blindly wise, Not simple as a thing that dies. " Here sits he shaping wings to fly : His heart forebodes a mystery : He names the name Eternity. " That type of Perfect in his miud In Nature can ho nowhere find. He sows himself on every wind. " He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend, And thro* thick veils to apprehend A labor working to all end. " The end and the begimiing vex His reason : many things perplex With motions, checks, and counter- checks. ** He knows a baseness in his blood At such strange war with something good, He may not do the thing he would. " Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn, Vast images in pUmmering dawn, Half shown, are broken and witLdrawn. " Ah ! sure within him and without. Could his dark wisdom find it out, There must be answer to his doubt. '* But thou canst answer not again. With thine own weapon art thou slain, Or thou wilt answer but in vain. " The doubt would rest, I daro not solve. In the same circle we revolve. Assurance only breeds resolve.' As when a billow, blown against, Falls back, the voice with which I fenced A little ceased, but recommenced. " Where wert thou when thy father In his free field, and pastime made, A merry boy in sun and shade ? 70 THE TWO VOICES, " A merry boy they called him then, He sat upon the knees or men In days that never come again. " Before the little ducts began To feed thy bones with lime, and ran Their course, till thou wert ahso man ; *' Who took a wife, who rear'dhis race, "Whose wrinkles gather'd on his face, Whose troubles number with his days : " A life of nothings, nothing worth, From that first nothing ere his birth To that last nothing under earth 1 " '- These words," I said, " are like the rest. No certain clearness, but at best A vague suspicion of the breast : *' But if I grant, thou might'st defend The thesis which thy words intend- That to begin implies to end ; " Yet how should I for certain hold, Because my memory is so cold. That I first was in human mould ? * ' T cannot make this matter plain, But I would shoot, howe'er in vain, A random arrow from the brain. ' It may be that no life is found, Which only to one engine bound Falls ofE, but cycles always round. ' As old mythologies relate. Some draught of Lethe might await The slipping thro' from state to state. *' As here we find in trances, men Forget the dream that happens then, Until they fall in trance again. " So might we, if our state were such As one before, remember much, For those two likes might meet and touch. " But, if I lapsed from nobler place, Some legend of a fallen race Alone might hint of my disgrace ; "Some vague emotion of delight In gazing uj) an Alpine height, Some yearning toward the lamps of night. " Or if thro' lower lives I came — Tho' all experience past became Consolidate in mind and frame — " I might forget my weaker lot ; For is notour first year forgot ? The haunts of memory echo not. "And men, whose reason long was blind. From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind. " Much more, if first I floated free. As naked essence, must I b© Incompetent of memory: " For memory dealing but with time. And he with matter, should she climb Beyond her own material prime ? "Moreover, something is or seems, That touches me with mystic gleams, Like glimpses of forgotten dreams— " Of something felt, like , something Of sometLing done, I know not where ; Such as no language may declare." The still voice laugh'd. " I talk," said he, " Not with thy dreams. Suffice it thee Thy pain Is a reality." " But thou," said I, " hast miss'd thj mark. Who sought'st to wreck my mortal ark, By making all the horizon dark. " Why not set forth, if I should do This rashness, that which might ensue With this old soul in organs new? " Whatever *crazy sorrow saith. No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly long'd for death. "'Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant, life, not death, for which we pant ; More life, and fuller, that I want." 1 ceased^ and sat as one forlorn. Then said the voice, in quiet scorn, " Behold it is the Sabbam morn." And I arose, and I released The casement, and the light increased With freshness in the dawning east. Like soften'd airs that blowing steal, When meres begin to uncongeal, The sweet church bells began to peal. On to God's house the people prest : Passing the place where each must rest, Each enter'd like a welcome guest. Oie walk'd between his wife and child, With measured footfall firm and mild. And now and then he gravely smiled. The prudent partner of his blood Lean*d on him, faithful, gentle, good» Wearing the rose of womanhood. And in their double love secure, The little maiden walk'd demure. Pacing with downward eyelids pure. These three made unity so sweet. My frozen heart began to beat, Kemembering its ancient heat. I blest them, and they wander'd on; I spoke, but answer came there none: The dull and bitter voice was gone, A second voice was at mine ear, A little whisper silver-clear, A murmur, "Be of better cheer." As from some blissful neighborhood, A notice faintly understood, " I see the end, and know the good." THE DAY DREAM, 71 A little hint to solace woe, A hint, a whisper breathing low, •' I may not speak of what! know." Like an ^olian harp that wakes No certain air, but overtakes Far thought with music that it makes: Such seem'd the whisper at my side : " What is it thou kuowest, sweet voice?" I cried. " A hidden hope," the voice replied: So heavenly-toned, that in that hour From out my sullen heart a power Broke, like the rainbow from the shower, To feel, altho' no tongue can prove, . That every cloud, that spreads above And veileth love, itself is love. And forth into the fields I went. And Natiu-e's living motion lent 5,\The pulse of hope to discontent, Iwonder'd at the bounteous hours, The slow result of winter showers : , ^You scarce could see the grass for !* flowers. I wonder'd, while I paced along: The woods were fiU'd so full with song, There seem*d no room for sense oi wrong. So variously seem'd all things wrought, I marvell'd how the mind was brought To anchor by one gloomy thought ; And wherefore rather T made choice To commune with that barren voice. Than him that said, " Bejoice ! re- joice ! " THE DAY DBEAM. PROLOGUE. O Labt Flora, let me speak: A pleasant hour has past away "While, dreaming on your damask cheek, Th"B dewy sister-eyelids lay. As by the lattice you reclined, I went thro* many wayward moods To see you dreaming — and, behind, A summer crisp with shining woods. And I too dream'd, until at last Across my fancy, brooding warm, The reflex of a legend past, And loosely settled into form. And would you have the thought I had, And see the vision that I saw, Then take the broideiy-frame, and add A crimson to the quaint Macaw, And I will tell it. Turn your face, Nor look with that too-earnest eye — The rhymes are dazzled from their place, And order'd words asunder fly. THE SLEEPING PALACE. I. The Tar3ring year with blade and sheaf Clothes and reclothes the happy plains j Here rests the sap within the leaf, Here stays the blood along the veins* Paint shadows, vapors lightly curl'd. Faint murmurs from the meadows come, Like hints and echoes of the world To spirits folded in the womb. II. Soft lustre bathes the range of urns On every slanting teiT^ce-lawn. The fountain to his place returns Deep j.n the garden lake withdrawn. Here droops the banner on the tower, On the hall-hearths the festal fires, The peacock in his laurel bower, The parrot in his gilded wires. III. Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs: In tliese, in those the life is stay'd- The mantles f lom the golden pegs Droop t^leepily ; no sound is made, Not even of a gnat that sings. More like a picture seemeth all Than those old portraits of old kings. That watch the sleepers from the wall. Here sits the Butler with a flask Between his knees, half-drain'd; and there- The wrinkled steward at his task, The maid-of -honor blooming fair ^ The page has caught her hand in his: Her }ips are sever'd a^ to speak : His own are pouted to a kiss : The blush is fix'd upon her cheek. Till all the hundred summers pass. The beams, that thro' the Oriel shine, Make prisms in every carven glass. And beaker brimm'd with noble wine. Each baron at the banquet sleeps, Grave faces gathered in a ring. His state the king reposing keeps. ■ He must have been a jovial king. All round a hedge upshoots, and shows At distance hke a little wood ; Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes. And grapes with bunches red as blood ; All creeping plants, a wall of green Close-matted, burr and brake and brier. And glimpsing over these, just seen, Hi^ up, the topmost palace-spire. Yii. When will the hundred summers die, And thought and time be bom ajgain, And never knowledge, drawing nigh, Bring truth that sways the soul of men? 72 THE DAY DREAM. Here all things in their place remain, As all were order'd, ages since. Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain, And bring tlie fated fairy Prince. THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. Tear after year unto her feet, She lying on her couch alone, Across the purpled coverlet, The maiden's jet-black hair has grown, On either side her tranced form Forth streaming from a braid of pearl : The slumbrous light is rich and warm, And moves not on the rounded curl. II. The silk star-broider'd coverlid Unto her limbs itself dolh mould Languidly ever; and, amid Her full black ringlets downward roird, Glows forth each sol!tly-shadow*d arm With bracelets of tb e diamond bright : Her constant beauty doth inform Stillness with love, and day with light. III. She sleeps : her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The ii'agrant tresses are not stirr'd That fie upon her charmed heart. She sleeps ; on either hand upswells The gold -fringed pillow lightly prest : She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest. THE ARRIVAL. All precious things, discover'd late, To those that s^ek Ihem issue forth ; For love in sequel works with fate, And draws the veil from hidden worth. He travels far from other skies— His mantle glitters on the rocks — A faiiy Prince, with joyful eyes. And lighter-footed than the fox. II. The bodies and the bones of those That strove in other days to pass, Are wither'd in the thorny close, Or scatter'd blanching on the grass. He gazes on tlie silent dead : " They perish'd in their daring deeds."- Tliis proverb flashes thro* his head, " The many fail : the one succeeds." in. He comes, scarce knowing what he He breaks the hedge : he enters there : The color flies into his cheeks : He trusts to light ou something fair; For all his life the charm did taBc About his path, and hover near With words of promise in his walk, And whisper'd voices at his ear. IV. More close and close his footsteps wind : The Magic Music in his heart Beats quick and quicker, till he find The quiet chamlier far apart. His spirit flutters like a lark. He stoops — to kiB3 her— on his knee* " Love, if thy tresses be so dark, •■ How dark those hidden eyes must bel" THE REVIVAL. A TOUCH, a kiss ! the charm was snapt. There rose a noise of stiiking clocks, And feet that ran, and doors that clapt, And barking dogs, and crowing cocks ; A fuller light illumined all, A breeze thro' all the garden swept, A sudden hubbub shook the hall. And sixty feet the fountain leapt. The hedge broke in, the banner blew. The butler drank, the steward Bcrawl'd, The fire shot up, the martin flew. The parrot scream'd, the peacock squall'd, The maid and page renew'd their strife, The palace bang*d, and buzz'd and elackt, And all the long-pent stream of life Dash'd downward in a cataract. And last with these the king awoke, And in his chair himself uprear'd, And yawn'd, and rubb'd his face, and spoke, " By holy rood, a royal beard ! How say you ? we have slept, my lords. My beard has grown into my lap." The baron swore, with many words, 'Twas but an after-dimier's nap. "Pardy," returned the king, "but still My joints are somewhat stiff or so. My lord, and shall we pass the bill 1 mention 'd half an hour ago ?" The chancellor, sedate and vain. In courteous words return'd reply: But dallied with his golden chain, And, smiling, put the question by. THE DEPARTURE. And on her lover's arm she leant, . And round her waist she felt it fold. THE DAY DREAM. 73 And far across tlie hills tliejr went In that new world which is the old : Across the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, And deep Into the dying day The happy princess foUow'd him. II. " I'd Bleep another hundred years, O love, for such another kiss ; " " O wake for ever, love," she hearSj " love, 'twas such as this and this." And o'er them many a sliding star, And many a merry wind was home. And, stream'd thro' many a golden bar, j?he twilight melted into moru. III. *' eyes long laid in happy sleep ! " " O happy sleep, that lightly fled ! " " O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep ! " *' love, thy kiss would wake the dead ! " And o'er them many a flowing range Of vapour huoy'd the crescent-hark. And, rapt thro' many a rosy change, The twilight died into the dark. IV. " A hundred summers ! can it he 1 And whither goest thou, tell me where ?" "O seek my father's court with me. For there are greater wonders there." And o'er the hiUs, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the (Jay, Thro' all the world she follow'd him. MORAi. So, Lady Flora, take my lay. And if you find no moral there, Go, look in any glass and say. What moral is in being fair. O, to what uses shall we put The wildweed- flower that simply blows 7 VAnd is there any moral shut Within the bosom of the rose 7 II. But any man that walks the mead. In bud or blade, or bloom, may find. According as his humors lead, A mearang suited to his mind. And liberal applications lie In Art like Nature, dearest friend ; So 'twere to cramp its use, if I Should hook it to some useful end. l'entoi. I. Tou shake your head. A' random string Tour finer female sense offends. Well— were it not a pleasant thing To fall asleep with all one's friends ; To pass with all our social ties To silence from the paths of men ; And every hundred years to rise And learn the world, and sleep again, To sleep thro' terms of mighty wars, And wake on science grown to more, On secrets of the brain, the stars. As wild as aught of fairy lore ; And all that else the years will show, The Poet-forms of stronger hours. The vast RepubUcs that may grow. The Federations and the Powers ; Titanic forces taking birth In divers seasons, divers climes ; For we are Ancients of the earth, And in the morning of the times. II) So sleeping, so aroused from sleep Thro' sunny decades new andstrange, Or gay quinqueuniads would we reap The flower and quintessence of change. III. Ah, yet would I — and would I might ! So much your eyes my fancy take — Be still the first to leap to light That I might kiss those eyes awake ! For, am I right, or am I wrong. To choose your own you did not care ; You'd have my moral from the song. And I will take my pleasure there : And, am I right or am I wrong, My fancy, ranging thro' and thro', To search a meaning for the song. Perforce will still revert to you ; Nor finds a closer truth than this All-graceful head, so richly curl'd, And evermore a costly kiss The prelude to some brighter world. For since the time when Adam first Embraced his Eve in happy hour. And every bird of Eden burst In carol, every hud to flower. What eyes, like thine, have waken'd hopes 7 ■ What lips, like thine, so sweetly ioin'd7 Where on the double rosebud droops The fulness of the pensive mind : Which all too dearly self-involved. Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me ; A sleep by kisses undissolved. That lets thee neither hear nor see : But break it. In the name of wife. And in the rights that name may give. Are clasp'd the moral of thy life. And that for which I care to live. EPILOGUE. So, Lady Flora, take my lay, And, if you find a meaning there, O whisper to your glass, and say, " What wonder, if he thinks me fair ? " Wliat wonder I. was all unwise. To shape the song for your delight Like long-tail'd birds of Paradise, That float thro' Heaven, and cannot light? 74 ST. AGNES' EVE. Or old-world trains, upheld at court By Cupid-boys of blooming hue — But take it — earnest wed with sport, And either sacred unto you. AMPHION. My father left a park to me, But it is wild and barren, A garden too with scarce a tree. And waster than a warren : Yet say the neighbors when they call, It is not bad but good land, And in it is the germ of all That grows within the woodland. O had I lived when song was great In days of old Amphion, And ta'en my fiddle to the gate. Nor cared for seed or scion ! And had I lived when song was great, And legs of trees were limber, And ta'eu my fiddle to the gate. And fiddled in the timber ! 'Tis said he had a tuneful tongue, Such happy intonation, Wherever he sat down and sung He left a small plantation ; Wherever in a lonely grove He set up his forlorn pipes, The gouty oaks began to move, And flounder into hornpipes The mountain stirr'd its bushy crown. And, as tradition teaches, Young ashes pirouetted down Coquetting with young beeches ; And briony-vine and ivy-wreath Ran forward to his rhyming, And from the valleys underneath Came little copses climbing. The linden broke her ranks and rent The woodbine wreaths that bind her, And down the middle buzz ! she went With all her bees behind her ; The poplais, in long order due, With cypress promenaded, The shock-head willows two and two By rivers gallopaded. Came wet-shot alder from the wave, Came yews, a dismal coterie ; Each pluck'd his one foot from the grave, Poussetting with a sloe-tree: Old elms came breakiugfrom the vine, The vine stream'd out to follow, And, sweating rosin, plump'd the pine From many a cloudy hollow. And wasn't it a sight to see, When, ere his song was ended, JLiike some great landslip, tree by tree, The country-side descended ; And shepherds from the mountidn- eaves Look'd down, half -pleased, half- frighten'd, As dash'd about the drunken leaves The random sunshine lighteu'd I Oh ! nature first was fresh to men, And wanton without measure ; So youthful and so flexile then. You moved her at your pleasure. Twan§ out, my fiddle I shake the twigs ! And make her dance attendance, Blow, flute, and stir the stiff-set sprigs, And scirrhous roots and tendons, 'Tis vain ! in such a brassy age I could not move a thistle ; The very sparrows in the hedge Scarce answer to my whistle ; Or at the most, when three-parts-sick With strumming and with scraping, A jackass heehaws from the rick. The passive oxen gaping. But what is that I hear ? a sound Like sleepy counsel pleading^ O Lord ! — 'tis in my neignbour's ground, The modem Muses reading. They read Botanic Treatises, And Works on Gardening thro' there, And Methods of transplanting trees, To look as if they grew there. The wither'd Misses ! how they prose O'er books of travell'd seamen. And show you slips of all that grows From England to Van Biemen* They read in arbors dipt and cut. And alleys, faded places. By squares of tropic summer shut And warm'd in crystal cases. But these, the' fed with careful dirt, Are neither green nor sappy ; Half-conscious of the garden-squii-t, The spindlings look unhappy. Better tome the meanest weed That blows upon its mountain. The vilest herb that runs to seed Beside its native fountain. And I must work thro' months of toil, And years of cultivation, Upon my proper patch of soil To grow my own plantation. I'll take the showers as they fall, I will not vex my bosom : Enough if at the end of all A little garden blossom. ST. AGNES' EVE. Deep on the convent-roof the snows Are sparkling to the moon: My breath to heaven like vapor goes : May my soul follow soon ! The shadows of the convent-towers Slant down the snowy sward, Still creeping with the creeping hours That lead me to my Lord : Make Thou my sttirit pure and clear As are the frosty skies, Or this first snowdrop of the year That in my bosom lies. As these white robes are soil'd and dark, EDWARD GRAY. 75 To yonder shining ground ; As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round ; So shows my soul before the Lamb, My spiric before Thee ; So in mine earthly house I am, To that I hope to be. Break up the heavens, Lord ! and far, ThrO* all yon starlight keen. Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, In raiment white and clean. He lifts me to the golden doors ; The flaslies come and go ; All heaven bursts her siany floors, And strews her lights below, And deepens on and up ! the gates Roll back, and far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, To make me pure of sin. The sabbaths of Eternity, One sabbath deep and wide A light upon the shining sea — The Bridegroom with his bride ! SIR GALAHAD, i My good blade carves the casques of men. My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure. The shattering trumfietshrilleth high. The hard brands shiver on the steelj The spliuter'd spear-shafts crack and fly. The horse and rider reel : They reel, they roll in clanging lists. And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies' hands. How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favors fall ! For tixem I battle till the end, To save from shame and thrall : But all my heart is drawn above. My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine : I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden's hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill ; So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer ^ virgin heart in work and will. When down the stormy^ crescent goes, A light before me swims. Between dark stems the forest glows, I hear a noise of hymns ; Then by some secret shrine I ride ; I hear a voice, but none are there : The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair. 'Pair gleams the snowy altar cloth. The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chants resound he- tween. Sometimes on lonely mountain-merea I find a magic bark ; I leap on board: no helmsman steers: I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, and awful light ! Three angels bear the holy Grail : "With folded feet, in stoles of white. On sleeping wings they sail. Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! My spirit beats her mortal bars, As down dark tides the glory slides, And star-like mingles with the stars "When on my goodly charger borne Thro' dreaming towns 1 go, The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow. The tempest crackles on the leads. And, ringing, springs from brand and mail ; But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail, I leave the plain, I climb the height ; No branchy thicket shelter yields ; But blessed forms in whistling storms Fly o'er waste fens and windy rields A maiden knight — to me is given Such hope, 1 know not fear : I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven That often meet me here. I muse on you that will not cease, Pure spaces clothed in living beams. Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odors haunt my dreams ; And, stricken by an angel's hand, This mortal armor that I wear. This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touch' d, are tum'd to finest air. The clouds are broken in the sky. And thro' the mountain-walls A rolling organ-harmony Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices hover clear : *' O just and faithful knight of God ! Ride on ! the prize is near." So pass I hostel, hall, and grange ; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, AU-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, Until I find the holy Grail. EDWARD GRAY. Sweet Emma •Moreland of yonder town Met me walking on yonder way, " And have you lost your heart ? " she said, ** And are you married yet, Edward Gray?" Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me : Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : " Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more Can touch the heart of Edward Gray- 76 WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. " Ellen Adair she loved me -well, Against her father's and mother's will : To-day I sat for an hour and wept, By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill. *' Shy she was, and I thought her cold ; Thought her proud, and tied over the sea; Fiird I was with folly and spite. When Ellen Adair was dying for me. *' Cruel, cruel the words I said ! Cruelly came they back to-day : 'You're too slight and fickle,' I said, 'To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.' *' There I put m.y face in the grass — Whisper'd, ' Listen to my despair : I repent me of all I did : Speak a little, Ellen Adair ! ' "Then I took a pencil, and wrote On the mossy stone, as I lay. •Here lies the body of Ellen Adair ; And here the heart of Edward Gray ! ' '* Love majr come, and love may go, And fly, like ahird, from tree to tree; But I will love no more, no moj-e, Till Ellen Adair come hack to me. " Bitterly wept I over the stone : Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : There lies tho body of Ellen Adair ! And there the heart of Edward Gray ! " "WILL WATERPEOOF'S LYUICAL MONOLOGUE. MADE AT THE COCK:. PLUMP head waiter at The Cock, To which I most resort. How goes the time ? 'Tis five o'clock. Go fetch a pint of port : But let it not be such as that You set before chaiice-comers. But such whose father-grape grew fat On Lusitanian summers. No vain libation to the Muse, But may she still be kind, And whisper lovely words, and use Her influence on the mind. To make me write my random rhymes, Ere they be half -forgotten ; Nor add and alter, many times, Till all be ripe and rotten. I pledge her, and she comes and dips Her laurel in the wine, And lays it thrice upon my lips. These favor'd lips of mine ; Until the charm have power to make New lifeblood warm the bosom. And barren commonplaces break In full and kindly blossom. I pledge her silen t at the board : Her gradual fingers steal And touch upon the master-chord Of all I felt and feel. Old wishes, ghosts of broken planSj And phantom hopes assemble ; And that child's heart within the man's Begins to move and tremble. Thro' many an hour of summer suns, By many pleasant ways, Against its fountain upward runs The curient of my days : I kiss the Hps I once have kiss'd ; The gas-light wavers dimmer. And softly, thro' a vinous mist, My college friendships glimmer. I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, Unboding critic-pen, Or that eternal want of pence, "Which vexes public men. Who hold their hands to all and cry For that which all deny mem— Who sweep th« crossing, wet or dry, And all the world go oy them. Ah yet, tho* all tlie world forsake, Tho' fortune clip my wings, I will not cramp my heart, nor take Half-views of men and tilings. Let Whig and Tory stir their blood; There must be stormy weather ; But for some true result of good All parties work together. Let there be thistles, there are grapes j If old things, there are new : Ten thousand broken lights and shapes, Vet glimpses of the true. Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme, We lack not rhymes and reasons, As on this whirligig of Time We circle with the seasons. This earth is rich in man and maid ; With fair horizons bound : This whole wide earth of light and- shade Comes out, a perfect round. High over roaring Temple-bar, And, set in Heaven's third story, I look at all things as they are, But thro' a kind of glory. Head-waiter, honor' d by the guest Half -mused, or reeling ripe, The pint, yi m brought me. was the bes* That ever came from pipe. But tho' the port surpasses praise, My nerves have dealt with stiffen Is there some magic in tlie place ? Or do my peptics differ? For since T came to live and learn, No pint of white or red Had ever half the power to turn This wheel witliin my head. Which bears a season'd brain about, Unsubject to confusion, Tho' soak'd and saturate, out and out^ Thio' every convolution. For I am of a numerous house, With many kinsnien gay, Where long and largely we carouse As who anal] say me nay : WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 77 Each montli, a birtli-day coining on, We drink deiying trouble, Or sometimes two would meet in one, And then we da'ank it double ; Whether the vintage, yet unkept, Had relish fiery-new. Or, elbow-deep in Bawduat, slept, As old as Waterloo ; Or stow'd twhen classic Canning flied) In musty bins aud chambers, Had cast upon its crusty side The gloom of ten Decembers. ' The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is ! Sheanswer'd to my call, She changes with that mood or this. Is all-in-all to all : She lit the spark within my throat, To make my blood run quicker, Used all her fiery will, and smote Her life into the liquor. And hence this halo lives about The waiter's hands, that reach To each his perfect pint of stout, His propter chop to each. He looks not like the common breed That with the napkin dally ; I think he came like Ganymede, JTrom some delightful valley. The Cock waa of a larger egg Thau modern poultry drop, Stept forward on a firriaer leg, ^d cramm'd a plmnper crop: Upon an ampler dunglml trod, Crow'd lustier late and early, Sipt wine from silver, praising God, And raked in golden barley, A private life was all his joy, Till in a court he saw A somethiug-pottle-bodied "boy That knuckled at the taw : He Btoop'd and clutch'd him, fair and good, Flew over roof and casement : His brothers of the weather stood Stock-still for sheer amazement. But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire, And follow'd with acclaims, A sign to many a staring shire Came crowing over Thames, Bight down by smoky Paul's they bore. Till, where the street gi-ows straiter, One fix'd for ever at the door, And one became head-waiter. But whither would my fancy go ? How out of place she makes The violet of a legend blow Among the chops and steaks ! *Ti3 but a steward of the can, One sliade more plump than com- mon ; As just and mere a"Berving-man As any, horn of woman, I ranged toohigh: what draws me down Into the commpn day ? Is it the weight of that half-crown, Which I shall have to pay ? For something duller than at first, Nor wholly comfortable, I sit (ray emptjr glass reversed), And thrumming on the table : Half fearful that, with self at strife 1 taKe myself to task ; Lest of the fulutss of my life I leave an empty flasii : For I had hope, by something rare, To prove myself a poet : But while I plan and plan, my hair Is gray before I know it. So fares it since the years began, Till they be gather'd up ; The truth, that flies the flowing.can, Will haunt the vacant cup : And others' follies teach us not. Nor much their wisdom teaches ; And most, of sterling worth, is what Our own experience preaches. Ah, let the rusty theme alone ! We know not what we know. But for my pleasant hour, 'tis gone, 'Tisgone, and let it go. 'Tis gone : a thousand such have shpt Away from my embraces. And fall'n into the dusty crypt Of darken'd forms and faces. Go, therefore, thou! thy betters went Long since, and came no more ; With peals of genial clamor sent From many a tavern-door ; With twisted quirks and happy hits, From misty men of letters ; The tavern-hours of mighty wits — Thine elders and thy betters. Hours, when the Poet's words and looks Had yet their native glow : Nor yet the fear of little books Had made him talk for show ; But, all his vast heart sherris-warm'd. He flash'd his random speeches ; Ere days, that deal in ana, swarm'd His literary leeches. So mix for ever with the past, Like all good things on earth ! For should I prize ttiee, couldst thou last, At half thy real worth ? I hold it good, good things should pass: Witii time I will not quarrel : It is but yonder empty glass trhat makes me maudlin-moral. Head-waiter of the chop-house here, To which- 1 most resort. I too must part : I hold thee dear For this good pint of port. For this, thou shalt from all things Marrow of mirth and laughter : And, whereso'er thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after- But thou wilt never move from hence» 78 LADY C LA-RE. TI16 sphere thy fate allots : Thy latter days increased with pence Go down among the pots *: Thou battenest by the greasy gleam. In haunts of hungry sinners, Old boxes, larded witn the steam Of thirty thousand dinners. We fret, we fume, would shift our skins, "Would quarrel with our lot ; Thy care is, under polish'd tins, To serve the hot-and-hot ; To come and go, and come again, Returning like the pewit. And watch'd by silent gentlemen, That trifle with the cruet. Live long, ere from thy topmost head The thick-set hazel dies ;• Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread The corners of thine eyes : Live long, nor feel in head or chest Our changeful equinoxes. Till mellow Death, like some late guest Shall call thee from the boxes. But when he calls, and thou shalt cease To pace the gritted floor. And, laying down an unctuous lease Of life, Shalt eani no more ; No carved cross-bones, the types of Death, Shall show thee past to Heaven : But carved cross-pipes, and, under- neath, A pint-pot neatly graven. TO . AFTER READING A LIFE AKD LETTERS. '* Cursed be he that moves my hones." ShalcesQjeare's Epitaph. ToxT might have won the "Poet's name. If such be worth the winning now, And gain'd a laurel for yourT>row Of sounder leaf fhan I can claim ; But you have made the wiser choice, A life that moves to gracious ends Thro' troops of unrecording friends, A deedful life, a silent voice : And you have miss'd the irreverent doom Of those that wear the Poet's crown : Hereafter, neither knave nor clown Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. For now the Poet cannot die Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry : Proclaim the faults he would not show : Break lock and seal : betray the trust: Keep nothing sacred : 'tia but just The many-headed beast should know." Ah shameless ! for he did but sing A song that pleased us from its worth ; No public life was liiB on earth, No blazon'd statesman he, nor king. He gave the people of his best : His worst he kept, his best he gave. My Shakespeare's curse on clown and knave Who will not let his ashes rest ! "Who make it seem more sweet to be The little life of bank and brier. The bird that pipes his lone desire And. dies unheard yi'ithin his tree, Than he that warbles long and loud And drops at Glory's temple-gates, _ For whom the carrion vulture waits To tear his heart before the crowd ! TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE. Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls Of water, sheets of summer glass, The long divine Peneian pass, The vast Akrokerauiiian walls. Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair, With such a pencil, such a pen. You shadow forth to distant men, I read and felt that I was there : And trust me while T-tuni'd the page And track'd you t'till on classic ground, I grew ill gladness till I found My spirits in Uie golden age. For me the torrent ever pour'd And glisten'd— here and there alone The broad-limb'd Gods at random thrown By fountain-urns :— and Naiads oar'd. A glimmering_ shoulder under gloom Of cavern pillars ; on the swell The silver lily heaved and fell ; And many a slope was rich in bloom. From him that on the mountain lea By dancing rivulets fed his flocks, To him who sat upon the rocks. And fluted to the morning sea. LADY CLARE. It was the time when lilies blow. And clouds are highest up in air. Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe To give his cousin. Lady Clare. I trow they did not part in scorn : Lovers long-betroth'd were tiiey : They too will wed the morrow morn : God's blessing on the day ! " He does not love me for my birth, Nor for my lands so broad and fair, He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well," said Lady Clare. In there came old Alice the nurse, Said, " Who was this that went from thee ? " " It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, " To-morrow he weds with me." THE LORD 01 BURLEIGH. 79 " O God bo thank'd ! " said Alice tlie " That all comes round so just and fair; Lord Ronald ia heir of all your lands^ And you are not the Lady Clare." " Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse ? " Said Lady Clare, " that ye speak so wild?" •• A.S God's ahove," said Alice the nursa, " I speak the truth : you are my child. " The old Earl's daughter died at my breast ; . I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! X buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead." " Falsely, falsely have ye done, O mother," she said, " if this be true. To keep the best man under the sun So many years from his due." •' Nay- now, my child," said Alice the nurse, " But keep the secret for your life. And all you have will be Lord Ron- ald's, "When you are man and wife." " If I'm a beggar bom," she said, " I will spegOc out, for I dare not lie. Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by." " Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, " But keep the secret all ye can." She said, " Not so : but I will know If there be any faith in man " " Nay now, -what faith ? " said Alice the nurse, *' The man will cleave unto his right." " And he shall have it," the lady re- plied, " Tho' I should die to-night." " Tet give one kiss to your mother - dear ! Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee." " O mother, mother, mother," she said, " So strai^ge it seems to me. ** Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, My mother dear, if this be so. And lay your hand upon my head, And bless me, mother, e'er I go." She clad herself in a nisset gown, She was no longer Lady Clare : She went by dale, and she went by down. With a single rose in her hair. The lily-white doe Lord Bonald had biou^t Leapt up from where she lay, Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, And foUow'd her all the way. Down stept Lord Bonald from his tower : " O Lady Clare, you shame your worth ! Why come you drest hke a village maid. That are the flower of the earth?" *' If I come drest like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are : I am a beggar borii," she said, " And not the Lady Clare." •* Play me no tricks," said Lord Ron-- , aid, " For I am yours in word and in deed. Play me no tricks," said Lord Eon- aid, " Your riddle is hard to read." O and proudly stood she up ! Her heart within her did not fail : She look'd into Lord Ronalds eyes. And told him all her nurse's tale. He laugli'd a laugh of merry scorn ; He turned and kiss'd her where she stood ; " If you you are not the heiress bom, Audl,"saidhe, " the next in blood— " If you are not the heiress bom. And I," said he, "the lawful heir, We two will wed to-morrow morn. And you shall still be Lady Clare." THE LORD OP BURLEIGH. In her ear he whispers gayly, " If my heart by signs can tell. Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily. And I think thou lov'st me well." She replies, in accents fainter, " There is none I love like thee." He is but a landscape painter, And a village maiden she. He to lips, that fondiy falter. Presses his without reproof : Leads her to the village altar, And they leave her father's roof. *' I can make no marriage present : Little can I give my wife. Love win make our cottage pleasant, And I love thee more than life." They by parks and lodges going See the lordly castles stand : Summer woods, about them blowing. Made a murmur in the land. Prom deep thought himself he rouses, Says to her that loves him well, " Let us see these handsome houses Where the wealthy nobles dwell." So she goes by hiro attended, Hears him lovingly converse. Sees whatever fair and splendid Lay betwixt his home and hers ; Parks with oak and chestnut shady, Parks and nrder'd gardens great. Ancient homes of lord and lady, BuUt for pleasure and for state. 80 A FAREWELL, All h.e sliows her makes him dearer : Evermore she seems to gaze On that cottage growing nearer, Where they twain will spend their days. O but she will love him truly ! He shall have a cheerful home ; She will order all things duly, When beneath his roof they come. Thus ixei heart rejoices greatly, Till a gateway she discerns With armorial bearings stately, And beneath the gate she turns ; Sees a mansion more majestic Than all those she saw before ; Many a gallant gay domestic, Bows before him at the door. And they speak in gentle murmur, When they answer to his call, While he trea^ with footstep firmer, Leading on from hall to hall. And, while now she. wonders blindly, Nor the meaning can divine, Proudly turns he round and kindly, " All of this is mine and thine." Here he lives in state and bounty, Lord of Burleigh, fair and free, Not a lord in all the county Is so great a lord as he. All at once the color flushes Her sweet face from brow to chin : As it were with shame she blushes. And her spirit changed within. Then her countenance all over Pale again as death did prove : But he clasp'd her like a lover, And h& cheer'd her soul with love. So she strove against her weakness, Tho' at times her spirit sank : Shaped her heart with woman's meek- ness To all duties of her rank : And a gentle consort made he. And her gentle mind was such That she grew a noble lady, And the people loved her much. But a trouble weigh'd upon her, And perplex'd her, night and mom, With the burden of an honor Unto which she was not born. Faint she grew and ever fainter. And she murmur'd, " O. that he Were once more that landscape-paint- er, Which did win my heart from me ! " So she droop'd and droop'd before him, Fading slowly from bis side : Three fair children first she bore him, Then before her time she died. Weeping, weeping late and early. Walking up and pacing down, Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh, Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. And he came to look upon her, And he look'd at her and said"; " Bring the dress and put it on her, That she wore when she wag wed." Then her people, softly treading, Bore to earth her body, drest In the dress that she was wed in, ■•. That her spirit might have rest. " SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE. A FRAGMENT. Like souls that balance joy and pain, With tears and smiles from heaven again The maiden Spring upon the plain Game in a sun-lit fall of rain. In crystal vapor everywhere, Blue isles of heaven laugh'd between, And far, in forest-deeps unseen. The topmost elmtree gather'd green From draughts of balmy air. Sometimes the linnet piped his song ; , Sometimes the throstle whistled strong ; Sometimes the sparhawk, wheel'd along, Hush'd all the groves from fear of wrong : By grassy cape's with fuller sound In curves the yellowing aiver ran, And drooping chestnut-buds began To spread into the perfect fan, Above the teemingground. Then, in the boyhood of the year, Sir Lauilcelot and Queen Guinevere Rode thro' the coverts of the deer, With blissful treble ringing clear, .' She seem'd a part of joyous Spring ; A gown of gi'ass-green silk she wore, , Buckled with golden clasps before, - A Ught-green tuEt of plumes she bore Closed in a golden ring. Now on some twisted ivy-net, Now by some tinkling nyulet, In mosses mixt with violet Her cream-white mule his pastern set: And fleeter now she skimm'd the Than she whose elfin prancer springs By night to eery warblings. When all the glimmering moorlsmd rings With jingling bridle-reins. As she fled fast thro' sun and shade, The happy winds upon her play'd. Blowing ttie ringlet from the braid: ' She look'd so lovely, as she swayM The rein with dainty finger-tips, ' A man had given all other buss, And all his worldly worth for this. To waste his whole heart in one kiss Upon her perfect lips. A FAREWELL. Flo"w down, cold rivulet, to the sea ; Thy tribute wave deliver: No more by thee my steps shall be. For ever and for ever. Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, A rivulet then a river: THE VISION OF SIN. 81 JTo where by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. But here will sigh thine alder tree, And here thine aspen shiver ; And here by thee will hum the bee, For ever and for ever. A thousand suns will stream on thee, A thousand moons will quiver: But not by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. THE BEGGAB MAIB. Hbb arms across her breast she laid ; She was more fair than words can say: Bare-rooted came the beggar maid Before the king Cophetua. ^ In robe and crown, the king stept down, To meet and greet her on her way ; "It is no wonder," said the lords, " She is more beautiful than day." As shines the moon in clouded skies, She in her poor attire was seen : One praised her ankles, one her eyes, One her dark hair and lovesome mien. So sweet a face, such angel grace, In all that land had never oeen: Cophetua sware a royal oath: "This beggar maid shall be my queen ! " THE VISION OP SIN. I. I HAD a vision when the night was late; A youth came riding toward a palace- gate. He rode ahorse with wings, that would have flown, But that his heavy rider kept him down. And from the palace came a child of sin, And took him by the curls and let him in, "Where sat a company with heated eyes, Expecting when a fountain should arise: A sleepy light upon their brows and lips — As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse, Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles and capes — Suffused them, sitting, lying, languid By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, and piles of grapes. Then methought I heard a mellow sound, Gathering up from all the lower ground ; Narrowing in to where they sat as- .Bombled Low voluptuous music winding trem- bled, "Wov'n in circles : they that heard it sigh'd. Panted hand in hand with faces pale. Swung themselves, and in low tones replied ; Till the fountain spouted, showering wide Sleet of diamond-drift and pearly hail: Then the music touched the gates and died ; Rose again from where it seem'd to fail, Storm'd in orbs of song, a growing gale; Till thronging in and in, to where they waited, ' As 'twere a hundred-throated nightin- gale. The strong tempestuous treble throbb'd and palpitated ; Kan into its giddiest whirl of sound. Caught the sparkles, and in circles, Purple gauzes, golden hazes, liquid Flung the torrent rainbow round: Then they started from their places, Moved with violence, changed in hue, Caught each other with wild grim- aces, Half-invisible to the view, ■Wheeling with precipitate paces To the melody, till they flew, Hair, and eyes, and limbs, and faces. Twisted hard in fierce embraces, Like to Furies, like to Graces, Dash' d| together in blinding dew: Till, kiird with some luxurious agony, The nerve-dissolving melody Flutter'd headlong from the sky. And then I look'd up toward a moun- tain-tract, That girt the region with high cliff and lawn : I saw that every morning, far with- drawn Beyond the darkness and the cataract, God made himself an awful rose of dawn. Unheeded ; and detaching, fold by fold. From those still heights, and, slowly drawing near, A vapor heavy, hueless, formless, cold, Came floating on for many a month and year, Unheeded : and 1 thought I would have spoken. And wam*d that madman ere it grew too late ; But, ae in dreams, I could not. Mine was broken. "When that cold vapor touch'd the palace gate, And link*a again. I saw within my head THE VISION OF SIN. A gray and gap-tooth'd man as lean as death, WIlo slowly rode across a wither'd iLeath, And lighted at a ruin'd inn, and said: IV. " Wrinkled ostler, grim and thin ! Here is custom come your way ; Take my "brute, and lead him in, StufE Ids ribs with mouldy hay. *' Bitter barmaid, waning fast ! See that sheets are on my bed ; What ! the flower of life is past : It is long before you wed. *' Slip-shod waiter, lank and sour, At the Dragon on the heath ! Let us have a quiet hour, Let us hob-and-nob with Death. *'I am old, but let me drink ; Bring me spices, bring me wine I remember, when I think, That my youth was half divine. "Wine is good for shrivell'd lips, When a blanket wraps the day, When the rotten wooiUand drips, . And the leaf is stamp'd in clay, " Sit thee down, and have no shame. Cheek by jowl, and knee by knee; What care I for any name ? What for order or degree ? " Let me screw thee up a peg : Let me loose thy tongue with wine ; Callest thou that thing a leg ? Which is thinnest ? thine or mine ? "Thou Shalt not be saved by works ; Thou hast been a sinner too : Ruin'd trunks on wither'd forks. Empty scarecrows, I and you ! " Fill the cup, and fill the can : Have a rouse before the mom ; Every moment dies a man. Every moment one is bom. " We are men of ruin'd blood ; Therefore comes it we are wise. Eish are we that love the mud, liising to no fancy-flies. " Name and fame ! to fly sublime Thro' the courts, the camps, ttie schools. Is to be the ball of llmo, Bandied by the hands of foola. " Friendship ! — to be two in one — Let the canting liar pack ! Well I know, when I am gone, How she mouths behind my back. " Virtue ! — to be good and just — Every heart, when sifted well, Is a clot of warmer dust, Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell. " Oh ! we two as well can look Whited thought and cleanly life As the priest, above his book Leering at his neighbor's wife. *' Fill the cup, and fill the can : Have a rouse before the morn ; Every moment dies a man, Every moment one is bom. " Drinjc, and let the parties rave ; They are flll'd with idle spleen; Rising, falling, lilte a wave. For they know not what they mean. " He that roars for liberty Faster binds a tyrant's power ; And the tyrant's cruel glee Forces on the freer hour. " Fill the can, and fill the cup ; All the windy ways of men Axe but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again, " Greet her with applausive breath, Freedom', gaily doth she tread ; In her right a civic wreath. In her left a human head. " No, I love not what is new ; She is of an ancient house : And I think we know the hue Of that cap upon her brows. " Let her go ! her thirst she slakes Where the bloody conduit runs : Then her sweetest meal she makes "^ On the flrst-born of her sons. "Drink to lofty hopes that cool- Visions of a perfect State : Drink we, lasD, the public fool, Frantic love and frantic hate. " Chant me now some wicked stave, Till thy drooping courage rise, And the glow-worm of the grave Glimmer in thy rheumy eyes. *' Fear not thou to loose thy tongue; Set thy hoary f ancie^'f ree ; What is loathsome to the young Savord well to thee and me. '' Change, reverting to the years, When thy nerves could understand What there is in loving tears, And the warmth of hand in hand. " Tell me tales of thy first love- April hopes, the fools of chance ; Till the graves begin to move, And the dead begin to dance. *' Fill the can, and fill the cup : All the windy ways of men. Are but dust that rises up. And is lightly laid again, ** Trooping from their mouldy dens The chap-fallen circle spreads : Welcome, fellow-citizens, Hollow hearts and empty heads ! " Tou are bones, and what of that? Every face, however full. Padded round with flesh and fat. Is but modell'd on a skull. " Death is king, and Vivat Rex I Tread a measure on the Btones, ODE.— INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITION. Madam— If I know your sex, ' From the fashion of your bones, " No, I cannot praise the fire In your eye — nor yet your lip : All the more do I admire Joints of cunning workmanship. " Lo ! God's likeness — the ground- plan — Neimer modell'd, glazed, or framed : Buss me, thou rough sketch of man, Far too naked to be shamed ! "Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, While we keep a little breath ! Drink to heavy Ignorance ! Hob-and-nob with brother Death ! " Thou art mazed, the night is long, And the longer night Is near : What ! I am not all as wrong As a bitter jest is dear. "Youthful hopes, by scores, to all. When the locks are crisp and curl'd ; Unto me my maudlin gall And my mockeries of the world. "Fill the cup, and fill the can ! Mingle madiiess, mingle scorn ! Dregs of life, and lees oi man : Yet we will not die forlorn ! " The voice grew faint : there came a further change : Once more uprose the mystic mountain- range : Below were men and horses pierced with worms, J And slowly quickening into lower forms ; By shards and scurt of salt, and scum of dross. Old plash 01 rains, and refuse patch'd with moss. Then some one spake : " Behold ! it was a crime Of sense avenged by. sense that wore with time.' Another said : "The crime of sense be- came The crime of malice, and is equal blame." Audone: " He hadnot wholly quenoh'd his power ; A little grain of conscience made him sour. At last I heard a voice upon the slope Cry to the summit, " Is there any hope ? " To which an answer peal'd from that liigh land. But in a tongue no man could under- stand ; And on the glimmering limit far ^th- God made Himself an awfiil rose of dawn. Gome not, when I am dead, To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, 83 To trample round my fallen head, And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save. There let the wind sweep and tho plover cry ; But thou, go hy. Child, if it were thine error or thy crime I care no longer, heing all unhlest : Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time, And I desire to rest. Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie : Go by, go hy. THE EAGLE FEAGMENT. He clasps the crag with hooked hands ; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring'd with tlm azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls ; He watches from his mountain walls ; And like a thunderbolt he falls. Move eastward, happy earth, and leavo Yon orange sunset waning slow: From fringes of the faded eve, O, happy planet, eastward go ; Till over.thy dark shoulder glow Thy silver sister-world, and rise To glass herself in dewy eyes That watch me from the glen below. Ah, bear me with thee, smoothly borne, Dip forward under stany light, And move me to my marriage-mom. And round again to happy night. INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITION. Uplift a thousand voices full and sweet. In this wide hall with earth's invention stored. And praise th' invisible universal Lord, Who lets once more in peace the- naliona meet, Where Science, Art, and Labor have outpour'd Their myriad horns of plenty at our feet. O silent father of onr Kings to be Mourn'd in this golden hour of jubilee. For this, for all, we weep our thanks to thee I The world-compelling plan was thine, And lo I the long laborious miles. Of Palace; lo! the giant aisles, Eich in model and design ; Harvest-tool and husbandry. Loom and wheel and engin'ry. Secrets of the sullen mine. Steel and gold, and corn and wine, Fabric rough, or Fairy fine, Sunny tokens of the Line, 84 Polar marvels, and a feast Of wonder out of West and East, And shapes and hues of Art divine! All of beauty, all of use, That one fair planet can produce. Brought from under every star, Blown from over every main, And mixt, as life is mixt with pain. The works of peace with works of t; O ye, thewise who think, thewise who From growing commerce loose her chain, MAUD. reign, latest And let the fair white-winged peacemaker fly To happy havens under all the sky, And mix the seasons and the golden hours. Till each man finds his own in all meu^s good, And all men work in noble brotherhood, Breaking their mailed fleets and armed towers, And ruling by obeying Nature's powers, And gathering all the fruits of peace and crownM with all her flowers. MAUD. I. I, I HATE the dreadful hollow behind the little wood, Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red heath, The red-ribb'd ledges drip with a silent horror of blood, Aud Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, answers " Death." II. For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was found, His who had given me life— O father ! O God ! was it well ? — Mangled, and flatten'd, and crush'd, and dinted into the ground : There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he fell. in. Did he fling himself down ? who knows ? for a vast speculation had fail'dj And ever he mutter'd and madden'd, and ever wann'd with despair. And out he walk'd when the wind like a broken worldling wail'd, And the flying gold of the ruin'd woodlands drove thro' the air. IT. I remember the time, for the roots of my hair were stirr'd By a shuffled step, by a dead weight trail'd, by a.whisper'd fright, And my pulses closed their gates with a shock on my heart as I heard The shlrill-edged shriek of a mother divide the shuddering night. Villany somewhere ! whose ? One says, we are villains all. Not he : his honest fame should at least by me be maintained ; But that old man, now lord of the broad estate and the Hall, Dropt off gorged from a scheme that had left us flaccid and drained. VI. Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace ? we have made them a curse, Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own ; And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or worse Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own hearthstone ? VII. But these are the days of advance, the works of the men of mindj When who but a fool would have faith in a tradesman's wai'e or his word ? Is it peace or war ? Civil war, as I think, and that of a kind The viler, as underhand, not openly bearing the sword. VIII. Sooner or later I too may passively take the print Of the golden age— why not ? I have neither hope nor trust ; May make my heart as a millstone, set my face as a flint, Cheat and be cheated, ^nd die ; who knows ? we are ashes aud dust. * IX. Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days gone by. When the poor are hovelVd and hustled together, eaSi sex, like swine. When only the ledger lives, and when only not all men lie ; Peace in her vineyard— yes 1— but a company forges the wine. X. And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian's head. Till the filthy by-lane rings to the yell of the trampled wife, And chalk and alum and plaster are Sold to the poor for bread. And the spirit of murder works in the very means of Ufo. MAUD. 85 XI. And Sleep must lie down arm'd, for the villanous centre-bits Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush of the moonless nights, While another is cheating the sick of a few last gasps, as he sits Xo pestle a poison'd poison behind his ciimson lights. XII. When a Mammonite mother kills hcT babe for a burial fee. And Timour-Mammon grins on a pile of children's bones, Is it peace or war ? better, war ! loud war by land and by sea, War witha thousand battles, and shakmg a hundred thrones. XIII. For I trust if an enemy's fleet came yonder round by the hill, And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three-decker out of the foam, That the smooth-faced snubnosed rogue would leap from his counter and till. And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating yardwand, home, — XIV. What ! am I raging alone as my father raged in his mood 7 Must / too creep to the hollow and dash myself down and die Bather than hold by the law that I made, nevermore to brood On a horror of shatter'd limbs and a wretched swindler's lie 1 XV. Would there be sorrow for me? there was love in the passionate shriek, Love for the silent thing that had made false haste to the grave — Wrapt in a cloak, as I sa.w him, and thought he would rise and speak And rave at the lie and the liar, ah God, as he used to rave. XVI. I am sick of the Hall and the hill, I am sick of the moor and the main. Why should I stay ?> can a sweeter chance ever come to me here ? ©.having the nerves of motion as well as the nerves of pain. Were it not wise if I fled from the place and the pit and the fear ? XVII. Workmen up at the Hall ! — they are coming back from abroad ; The dark old place will be gilt by the touch of a millionnaire ; I have heard, I know not whence, of the singular beauty of Maud ; I play'd with the girl when a child ; she promised then to be fair. XVIII. Maud with her venturous climbings and tumbles and childish escapes, Maud the delight of the village, the ringing joy of the Hall, Maud with her sweet purse-mouth when my father dangled the grapes, Maud the beloved of my mother, the moon-faced darling of all, — XIX. What is she now ? My dreams are bad. She may bring me a curse. No, there is fatter game on the moor ; she will let me alone. Thanks, for the fiend best knows whether woman or man be the worse, I will bury myself in myself, and the Devil may pipe to his own. II. Long have I sigh'd for a calm : God grant I may fin d it at last ! It will never be broken by Maud, she has neither savor nor salt. But a cold and clear-cut face, aa I found when her carriage past, Perfectly beautiful : let it be granted her : where is the fault ? All that I saw (for her eyes were downcast, not to be seen) Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidlj; null, Dead perfection, no more ; nothing more, if it had not been For a chance of travel, a paleness, an hour's defect of the rose, Or an underlip, you may call it a little too ripe, too full. Or the least little delicate aquiline curve in a sensitive nose, From what I escaped heart free, with the least little touch of spleen. III. Cold and clear-cut face, why come you so cruelly meek. Breaking a slumber in which all spleenful folly was drown'd. Pale with the golden beam of an eyelash dead on the cheek, Passionless, pale, cold face, star-sweet on a gloom profound ; Womanlike, taking-revenge too deep for a transient wrong Done but in thought to your beauty, and ever as pale as before Growing and fading and growing upon me without a sound. Luminous, gemlike, ghostlike, deathlike, half the night long Growing aud fading and growing, till I could bear it no more. 1 MAUD. But arose, and all by myself in my own dark garden ground, Listening now to the tide in its broad-flung shipwrecking roar. Now to the scream of a madden'd beach dragg'd down by the wavs, Walk'd in a wintry wind by a ghastly glimmer, and found The shining daffodil dead, and Orion low in his grave. IV. I. A MILLION emeralds break from the ruby-budded lime In the little grove where I sit— ah, wherefore cannot I be Like things of the season gay, like the bountiful season bland. When the far-off sail is blown by the breeze of a softer clime. Half-lost in the liquid azure bloom of a crescent of sea. The silent sapphire-spangled marriage ring of the land? II. Below me, there, is the village, and looks how quiet and small ! And yet bubbles o'er like a city, with gossip, scandal, and spite ; And Jack on his ale-house bench has as many lies as a Czar ; And here on the landward side, by a red rock, glimmers the Hall ; And up in the high Hall-garden I see her pass like a light ; But sorrow seize me if ever that light be my leading star ! III. When have I bow'd to her father, the wrinkled head of the race ? I met her to-day with her brother, hut not to her brother I bow'd .- I bow'd to his lady-sister as she rode by on the moor : But the Are of a foolish pride flash'd over her beautiful face. child, you wrong your beauty, believe it, in being so proud ; Your father has wealth well-gotten, and I am nameless and poor. IT. ' I keep but a man and a maid, ever ready to slander and steal ; • 1 know it, and smile a hard-set smile, like a stoic, or like A wiser epicurean, and let the world have its way : For nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal ; The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow spear'd by the shrike, And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey. v. We are puppets, Man in his pride, and Beauty fair in her flower ; Bo we move ourselves, or are moved by an unseen hand at a game That pushes us off from the board, and others ever succeed? Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each other here for an hour ; We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a brother's shame However we brave it out, we men are a little breed. TI. A monstrous eft was of old the Lord and Master of Earth, For him did his high sun flame, and his river billowing ran, And he felt himselt in his force to be Nature's crowning race. As nine inonthB go to the shaping an infant ripe for his birth, So many a million of ages have gone to the making of man : He now is iu'St, but is he the last ? is he not too base ? VII. The man of science himself is fonder of glory, and vain. An eye well-practised in nature, a spirit bounded and poor ; The passionate heart of the poet is whirl'd into folly and vice. I would not marvel at either, but keep a temperate brain ; For not to desire or admire.'if a man could learn it, were more Than to walk all day like the sultan of old in a garden of spice. vm. For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis hid by the veil. Who knows the ways of the world, how God will bring them about 7 Our planet is oneLthe suns are many, the world is wide. Shall I weep if a Poland fall ? shall I shriek if a Hungary fail ? Or an infant civilization be ruled with rod or with knout? J have not made the world, and He that made it will guide. MAUD. 87 Be mine a philosopher^B life in the quiet woodland ways, Where if I cannot be gay let a passionless peace be my lot, Far-ofC from the clamor of liars belied in the hubbub of lies ; From th.e long-neck'd geese of the world that are ever hissing dispraise Because their natures are little, and. whether he heed it or not,^ Where each man walks with his head in a cloud of poisonous flies. X. And most of all would I flee from the cruel madness of love, The honey of poison-flowers and all the measureless ill. Ah Maud, you milkwhite fawn, you are all unmeet for a wife. Your mother is mute in her grave as her image in marble above ; Your father is ever in London, you wander about at your will ; . You have but fed on the roses, and lain in the lilies of life. A VOICE by the cedar tree, In the meadow under the Hall ! She is singing an air that is known to me, A passionate ballad gallant and gay, A martial song like a trumpet's call ! Singing alone in the morning of life, In the happy morning of life and of May, ' Singing of men that in battle array, Beady m heart and ready in hand, March with banner and bugle and fife To the (Jeath, for their native land. Maud with her exquisite face. And wild voice pealing up to the sun- ny sky, And feet like sunny gems on an Eng- lish green, Maud in the light of her youth and her grace, Singing of Death, and of Honor that cannot die, Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and mean. And myself so languid and base, III. Silence, beautiful voice Be still, for you only trouble the mind With a joy in which I cannot rejoice, A glory I shall not find. Still ! I will hear you no more, For your sweetness hardly leaves me a ' choice But to move to the meadow and fall before Her feet on the meadow grass, and adore. Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind. Not her, not her, but a voice. . VI. I. Morning arises stormy and pale, No sun, but a wannish glare In fold upon fold of hueless cloud. And the budded peaks of the wood are bow'd Caught and cufE'd by the gale : I had fancied it would be fair. Whom but Maud should I meet Last night, when the sunset bum'd On the Dlossom'd gable-ends At the head of the village street, Whom but Maud should I meet ? And she touch'd my hand with a smile so sweet She made me divine amends For a courtesy not return'd. And thus a delicate spark Of glowing and growing light Thro' the livelong hours of the dark Kept itself warm in the heart of my dreams, Ready to burst in a color'd flame ; Till at last when the morning came In a cloud, it faded, and seems But an ashen-gray delight. IV. What if with her sunny hair, And smile as sunny as cold. She meant to weave me a snare Of some coquettish deceit, Cleopatra-like as of old To entangle me when we met, To have her lion roll in a silken net And fawn at a victor's feet. Ah, what shall I be at fiftjr Should Nature keep me alive. If I find the world so bitter When I am but twenty-five? Yet, if she were not a cheat, If Maud were all that she 8eem*d, And her smile were all that Idream'd, Then the world were not so bitter But a smile could make it sweet. VI. What if tho' her eye seem*d full Of a kind intent to me. What if that dandy-despot, he, That jewell'd mass of millinery, That oil'd and curl'd Assyrian Bull Smelling of musk and of Insolence, 88 MAUD. Her brother, from whom I keep aloof, Who wants the finer politic sense To mask, tho* but in his own behoof, "With a glassy smile his brutal scorn— What if he had told her yestermorn How prettily for his own sweet sake A face of tenderness might be feign'd, And a moist mirage in desert eyes, That so, when the rotten hustings shake. In another month to his brazen lies, A wretched vote may be gain'd. For a raven ever croaks, at my side, Keep watch and ward, keep watch and ward. Or thou wilt prove their tool. Yea too, myself from myself I guard, For often a man's own angry pride Is cap and bells for a fool. Perhaps the smile and tender tone Came out of her pitying womanhood, For am I not, am I not, here alone So many a summer since she died, My mother, who was so gentle and good? Living alone in an empty house, Here half-hid in the gleaming wood, Where I hear the dead at midday moan, And the shrieking rush of the wainscot mouse, And my own sad name in corners cried, When the shiver of dancing leaves is thrown About its echoing chambers wide, Till a morbid hate and horror have grown Of a world in which I have hardly mixt. And a morbid eating lichen fixt, On a heart half-tum'd to stone. / i^- / O heart of stone, are yon flesh, and caught By that you swore to withstand ? For what was it else within me wrought '■"IBut, I fear, the new strong wine of love, That made my tongue so stammer and trip When I saw the treasured splendoc, her hand. Come sliding out of her sacred glove, And the sunlight broke from Eer lip ? X. I have play'd with her when a child , She remembers it now we meet. Ah well, well, well, I maw be beguiled By some coquettish deceit. Yet, if she were not a cheat, H Maud were all that she seem'd, And her smile had all that I dream'd, Th 'n the world were not so bitter But a smile could make it sweet. VII. Did I hear it half in a doze, Long since, I know not where? Did I dream it an hour ago, When asleep in this arm-ohair? II. Men were drinking together, Drinking and talking of me ; ** Well, if It prove a girl, the boy Will have plenty : so let it be." III. Is it an echo of something Kead with a boy's delight, Viziers nodding together In some Arabian night ? IV. Strange, that I hear two men, Somewhere, talking of me ; " Well, if it prove agirl, my boy Will have plenty : so let It be." VIII. She came to the village church, And sat by a pillar alone ; An angel watching an um Wept over her, carved in stone ; And once, but once, she lifted her eyes, And suddenly, sweetly, strangely blush'd To find they were met by my own ; And suddenly, sweetly, my heart beat stronger And thicker, until I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone ; And thought, is it pride, and mused and sigh'd *' No sure^, now it cannot be pride." IX. I "WAS walking a mile, More than a mile from the shore, The sun look'd out with a smile Betwixt the cloud and the moor, And riding at set of day Over the dark moor land, Rapidly riding far away, She waved to me with her hand. There were two at her side, Something flash'd in the sun, Down by Uie hill I saw them ride, In a moment they were gone : Like a sudden spark Struck vainly in the night. Then returns the dark With no more hope of light Sick, am I sick of a jealous dread? Was not one of the two at her side This new-made lord, whose splendor plucks The slavish hat from the villager's head? MAUD. 89 Wliose old grandfather has lately died, Gone to a blacker pit, for whom Grimy nakedness dragging his trucks And laying his trams in a poison'd gloom Wrought, till he crept from a gutted mine Master of half a servile shire, And left his coal all tum'd into ^old To a grandson, first of his noble line, Eich in the grace all women desire, Strong in the power that all men adore, "And simper and set their voices lower, And soften as if to a girl, and hold Awe-stricken breaths at a work divine, Seeing his gewgaw castle shine. New as his title, built last year, There amid perky larches and pine, And over the sullen-purple moor (Look at it) pricking a cockney ear. II. "What, has he found my jewel out ? For one of the two that rode at her side Bound for the Hall, I am sure was he : Bound for the Hall, and I think for a bride. Blithe would her brother's acceptance be. Maud could he gracious too, no doubt. To a lord, a captain, a padded shape, A bought commission, a waxen face, A rabbit mouth that is ever agape — Bought ? what is it he cannot buy ? And therefore splenetic, personaljbase, A wounded thing with a rancorous cry. At war with myself and a wretched race, Sick, sick to the heart of life, am I. Last week came one to the county town, To preach our poor little army down. And play the game of the despot kings, Tho* the state has done it and thrice as well : This broad-brimm'd hawker of holy things, "Whose ear is cramm'd with his cotton, and rings Even in dreams to the chink of his pence, This huckster put down war ! can he tell Whether war be a cause or a conse- quence ? Put down the passions that make earth Hell! Down with ambition, avarice, pride. Jealousy, down ! cut ofE from the mind The bitter springs of anger and fear ; Down too, down at your own fireside, With the evil tongue and the evil ear. For each is at war with mankind. I wish I could hear again The chivalrous battle-song That she warbled alone in her joy I I might persuade myself then She would not do herself this great wrong. To take a wanton dissolute boy For a man and leader of men. V. Ah God, for a man with heart, head, hand, Like some of the simple great ones gone For ever and ever by. One still strong man in a blatant land. Whatever they call him, what care I, Aristocrat, democrat, autocrat, — one Who can rule and dare not lie. And ah for a man to arise in me. That the man I am may cease to he ! XI. LET the solid ground Not fail beneath my feet Before my life has found What some have found so sweet ; Then let come what come may, What matter if I go mad, 1 shall have had my day. II. Let the sweet heavens endure, Not close and darken above me Before I am quite quite sure That there is one to love me ; Then let come what come may To a life that has been so sad, I shall have had my day. xn. Birds in the high Hall-garden When twilight was falling, Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud, They were crying and calling. II. Where was Maud? in our wood ; And I, who else, was with her, Gathering woodland lilies, Myriads blow together. . III. Birds in our wood sang Kinging thro' the valleys, Maud is here, here, here In arilong the lilies. IV. I kiss'd her slender hand. She took the kiss sedately ; Maud is not seventeen, But she IS tall and stately. v. I to cry out on pride Who have won her favor ! Maud were sure of Heaven If lowliness could save her, YI, 1 know the way she went Home with her maiden posyi 90 MAUD. For her feet have touch'd the meadows And left the daisies rosy, vir. Birds in the high Hall-garden ' Were crying and calhng to her, Where is Maud, Maud, Maud, One is come to woo her. VIII. Look, a horse at the door, And little King Charley snarling. Go back, my lord, across the moor, You are not her darling. xm. I. SOOKN'D, to be scorn'd by one that I •scorn. Is that a matter to make me fret? That a calamity hard to be borne ? Well, he may live to hate me yet. Fool that I am to be vext with his pride ! I past him, I was crossing his lands ; He stood on the path a little aside ; His face, as I grant, in spite of spite, Has a broad^lown comeliness, red and white, ' And six feet two, as I think, he stands; But his essences turu'd the live air sick, And barbarous opulence jewel-thick Sunn'd itself on his breast and his hands. II. Who shall call me ungentle, unfair, I long'd so heartily then and there To give him the grasp of 'fellowship ; But while I past he was hummhig an air, Stopt, and then with a riding whip Leisurely tapping a glossy boot, And curving a contumelious lip, Gorgonized me from head to foot With a stony British stare. III. Why sits he here in his father's chair ? That old man never comes to his place: Shall I believe him ashamed to be seen? For only once, in the village street. Last y,ear, I caught a glimpse of his face, A gray old wolf and a lean. Scarcely, now, would I call him a cheat ; For then perhaps, as a child of deceit, She might by a true descent be un- true ; And Maud is as true as Maud is sweet ; Tho' I fancy her sweetness only due To the sweeter blood by the other side; Her mother has been a thing complete, However she came to be so allied. And fair without, faithful within, Maud to him is nothing akin : Some peculiar mystic grace Made her only the child of her mother. And heap'd the whole inherited sin On that huge scapegoat of the race, All, all upon the brother. Peace, angry spirit, and let him be I Has not his sister smiled on me ? XIV. Maud has a garden of roses And lilies fair on a lawn ; There she walks in her state And tends upon bed and bower, And thither I climb'd at dawn And stood by her garden-gate ; A lion ramps at the top. He Is claspt by a passion-flower. II. Maud's own little oak-room (Which Maud, like a precious stone Set in the heart of the carven gloom, Lights with herself j when alone She sits by her music and books. And her brother lingers late With a roystering company) looks Upon Maud's own garden-gate : And I thought as I stood, if a hand, as . white As ocean-foam in the moon, were laid On the hasp of the window, and mv Delight ' Had a sudden desire, like a glorious ghost, to glide. Like a beam of the seventh Heaven, down to my side. There were but a step to be made. in. The fancy flatter'd my mind, And again seem'd overbold ; Now I thought that she cared for me, Now I thoueht she was kind Osnly because she was cold. IV. I heard no sound where 1 stood But the rivulet on from the lawn Running down to my own dark wood ; Or the voice of the long sea-wave as it swell'd Now and then in the dim-gray dawn ; But I look'd, and round, all round the house I beheld The death-white curtain drawn ; Felt a horror over me creep. Prickle my skin and catch my breath, Knew that the death-white curtain meant but sleep. Yet I shudder'd and thought like a fool of the sleep of death. XV. So dark a mind within me dwells. And I make myself such evil cheer. That if / be dear to some one else. Then some one else may have much to fear ; But if / be dear to some one else. Then I should he to myself more dear. Shall I not take care of all that I think, ^ MAUD. 91 Tea ev'n of wretched meat and drink, If I te dear, If Ite dear to some one else ? ZVI. I. This lump of earth has left his estate The lighter hy the loss of his weight ; And so that he find what he went to seek, And fulsome Pleasure clog him, and drown His heart in the gross mud-honey of town, He may stay for a year who has gone for a week ; ■ But this is the day when I must speak, And I see my Oread coming down, this is the day ! heautif ul creature, what am I That I dare to look her way ; Think I may hold dominion sweet, Lord of the pulse that is lord of her breast, And dream of her beauty with tender dread, From the delicate Arab arch of her feet To the grace that, bright and light as the crest Of a peacock, sits on her shining head, And she knows it not : O, if she knew - it, To know her beauty might half undo it. 1 know it the one bright thing to save My yet young life in me wilds of Time, Perhaps from madness, perhaps from. crime, Perhaps from a selfish grave. II. "What, if she be fastened to this fool lord, I)are I bid her abide by her word ? Should I love her so well if she Had given her word to a thing so low? Shall I love her as well if she Can break her word were it even for me? I trust that it is not so. III. Catch not my breath, O clamorous heart. Let not my tongue be a thrall to my ^e. For I must tell her before we part, I must tell her, or die. XVII. Go not, happy day. From the shining helds, Go not. happy day, Till fhe maiden yields. Rosy is the West, Rosy is the South, Eoses are her cheeks. And a rose her mouth. When the happy Yes Falters from her lips, , Pass and blush the newe O'er the blowing ships. Over blowing seas. Over seas at rest. Pass the happy news. Blush it thro' the West ; Till the red man dance By his red cedar tree, And the red man's babe Leap, beyond the sea. Blush from West to East, Blush from East to West, Till the West is East, Blush it thro' the West, Rosy is the West, Rosy is the South, Roses are her cheeks, And a rose her mouth. XVIII. I have led her home, my love, my only friend. There is none like her, none. And never yet so warmly ran my blood And sweetly, on and on Calming itself to the long-wish* d-f or end, Full to the banks, close on the prom- ised good. II. None like her, none. Just now the dry-tongued laurels' pat- tering talk Seem'd her light foQt along the garden walk. And shook my heart to think she comes once more ; But even then I heard' her close the door, The gates of Heaven are closfed, and she is gone. III. There is none like her, none. Nor will be when our summers have deceased. O, art thou Fighiug for Lebanon In the long breeze that streams to thy delicious East, ' Sighing for Lebanon, Dark cedar, tho' thy limbs have here increased, Upon a pastoral slope as fair. And looking to the South, and fed With honey'd rain and delicate air. And haunted by the starry head Of her whose gentle will has changed my fate, And made my life a perfumed altar- flame ; And over whom thy darkness must have sprtjad With such daylight as theirs of old, thy great Forefathers of the thornless garden, there Shadowing the snow-limb'd Eve from whom she came. 92 MAUD. IV. Here will I lie, while these long brauches sway. And you fair stars that crown a happy day Go in and out as if at merry play, "Who am no more bo all forlorn. As when it seem'd far better to he born To labor and the mattock-harden'd hand, Than nursed at ease and brought to understand A sad astrology, the boundless plan That makes you tyrants in your iron skies, Innumerable, pitiless, passionless eyes. Cold fires, yet with power to bum and brand His nothingness into man. V. But now shine on, and what care I, Who in this stormy gulf have found a pearl The countercharm of space and hollow sky, And do accept mymadness, and would die To save from some slight shame one simple girl. TI. Would die ; for sullen-seeming Death may give More life to Love than is or ever was In our low world, where yet 't is sweet to live. Let no one ask me how it came to pass; It seems that I am happy, that to me A livelier emerald twinkles in the grass, A purer sapphire melts into the sea. Not die; but live a life of truest breath. And teach true life to fight with mortal wrongs. O, why should Love, like men in drink- ing son^B. Spice his fair banquet with the dust of death ? Make answer, Maud my bliss, Maud made my Maud by that long lover's kiss, Life of my life, wilt thou not answer this? " The dusky strand of Death inwoven here With dear Love's tie, makes Love him- self more dear." Is that enchanted moan only the swell Of the long waves that roll in yonder bay? And hark the clock within, the silver knell Of twelve sweet hours that past in bridal white, And died to live, long as my pulses play ; But now by this my love has closed her sight And given false death her hand, and stol'n away To dreamful wastes where footless fancies dwell Among the fragments of the golden day. May nothing there her maiden grace affright ! Dear heart, I feel with thee the drowsy spell. My bride to be, my evermore delight, My own heart's heart and ownest own. farewell ; It is but for a little space I go : And ye meanwhile far over moor and fell Beat to the noiseless music of the night ! Has our whole earth gone nearer to the glow Of your soft splendors that you look so bright ? /have climb'd nearer out of lonely Hell. Beat, happy stars, timing with things below, Beat with my heart more blest than heart can tell. Blest, but for some dark undercurrent woe That seems to draw— but it shall not be so : Let all be well, be well. XIX. Her brother is coming back^to-night, Breaking up my dream of delight. n. My dream ? do I dream of bliss ? I have walk'd awake with Truth. O when did a morning shine So rich in atonement as this For my dark-dawning youth, Darkened watching a mother decline And that dead man at her heart and mine : For who was left to watch her but I ? Yet so did I let my freshness die. I trust that T did not talk To gentle Maud in our walk (For often in lonely wanderings I have cursed him even to lifeless things) But I trust that I did not talk, Not touch on her father's sin : I am sure I did but spealo Of my mother's faded cheek When it slowly grew so thin, That I felt she was slowly dying Vext with lawyers and harass^ with debt : For how often I caught her with eyes all wet| MAUD. Shaking her head at her son and sigh- ing A world of trouble within ! And Maud too, Maud was moved To speak of the mother she loved As one scarce less forlorn, Dying abroad and it seems apart From Mm who had ceased to share her heart, And ever mourning over the feud. The household Fury sprinkled with blood By which our houses are torn : How strange was what she said, When only Maud and the brother Hung over her dying bed- That Maud's dark father and mine Had bound us one to the other. Betrothed us over their wine, On the day when Maud was bom ; Seal'd her mine from her first sweet breath. Mine, mine by a right, from birth till death. Mine, mine— our fathers have sworn. V. . But the true blood spilt had In it a heat To dissolve the precious seal on a bond, That, if left uncancell'd, had been so sweet : And none of us thought of a something beyond, A desire that awoke in the heart of the child. As it were a duty done to the tomb, To be friends for her sake, to Be recon- ciled ; And I was cursing them and my doom, And letting a dangerous thought run wild While often abroad in the fragrant gloom Of foreign churches— I see her there. Bright English lily, breathing a prayer To be friends, to be reconciled ! VI. But then what a flint Is he ! Abroad, at Florence, at Rome, I find whenever she touched on me This brother had laugh'd her down. And at last, when each came home, He had darkened into a frown. Chid her, and forbid her to speak To me, her friend of the years before ; And this was what had redden'd her cheek When I bbw'd to her on the moor. VII. Tet Maud, altho' not blind To the faults of his heart and mind I see she cannot but love hin^ And says he is rough but kind, And wishes me to approve him, And tells me, when she lay Sick once;i with a fear of worse, That he left his wine and horses and play, Sat with her, read to her, night and day, And tended her like a nurse. VIII. Kind ? but the deathbed desire Spurn'd by this heir of the liar— Rough but kind ? yet I know He haa plotted against me in this. That he plots against me still. Kind to Maud ? that were not amiss. Well, rough but kind; why let It be so: For shall not Maud have her will 1 IX. For, Maud, so tender and true, As long as my life endures I feel 1 shall owe you a debt, That I never can hope to pay ; And if ever I should forget That I owe this debt to you And for your sweet sake to yours ; then, what then shall I say ?— If ever I should forget. May God make me more wretched Thau ever 1 have been yet ! X. So now I have sworn to bury All this dead body of hate, 1 feel so free and so clear By the loss of that dead weight. That I should grow light-headed, I fear Fantastically merry ; But that her brother comes, like a blight On my fresh hope, to the Hall to-night. XX. Stbange, that I felt so gay. Strange, that / tried to-day To beguile her melancholy ; The Sultan, as we name him, — She did not wish to blame him — But he vext her and perplext her With his worldly talk and folly : Was it gentle to reprove her For stealing out of view From a little lazy lover ■Who but claims her as his due ? Or for chilling his caresses By the coldness of her manners, Kay, the plainness of her dresses ? Now I know her but in two. Nor can pronounce upon it If one should ask me whether The habit, hat, and feather, Or the frock and gypsy bonnet Be the neater and completer ; For nothing can be sweeter Than maiden Maud in either. n. But to-morrow, if we live, Our ponderous squire will give A grand political dinner To half the sguirelings near ; And Maud will wear ner iewels, 94 MAUD. And the bird of prey will hover, And the titmouse hope to win her With his chirrup at her ear. III. A grand political dinner To the men of many acres, A gathering of the Tory, A dinner and then a dance For the maids and marriage-makers, And every eye but mine will glance At Maud in all her glory. For I am not invited. But, with the Sultan*B pardon, I am all as well delighted, For I know her own rose garden, And mean to linger in it Till the dancing will be over ; And then, O then, come out to me For a minute, but for a minutfe. Come out to your own true lover That your true lover may see Your glory also, and render All homage to his own darling, Queen Maud in all her splendor. XXI. ErvULET crossing my ground, And bringing me down from the Hall This garden-rose that I found, Forgetful of Maud and me, And lost in trouble and moving round Here at the head of a tinkling tail, And trying to pass to the sea ; O Rivulet, born at the Hall, My Maud has sent it by thee 81 1 read her sweet will right) n a blushing mission to me, Saying in odor and color, " Ah, be Among the roses to-night." xxn. Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown, Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone ; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the roses blown ir. For a breeze of morning moves. And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves On a bed of daffodil sky. To faint in the light of the sun she loves, To faint in4iis light, and to die. III. All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon ; All night has the casement jessamine fllirr'd To the dancers dancing in tune ; Till a silence fell with the wakine bird, ® And a hush with the setting moon. I said to the lily, *' There is but one "With whom she has heart to be gay. When will ihe dancers leave her alone f She is weary of dance and play." Now half to the setting moon are gone, And half to the rising day ; Low on the sand and loud on the stone The last wheel echoes away. V. I said to the rose, " The brief night goes In babble and revel and wine. O young lord-lover, what sighs are those, For one that will never be thine ? But mine, but mine," so I swear to the rose, " For ever and ever, mine." VI. And the soul of the rose went into my blood. As the music clash'd in the hall ; And long by the garden lake I stood, For I heard your rivulet fall From the lake t© the meadow and on to the wood, Our wood, that is dearer than all ; From the meadow your walks have left so sweet That whenever a March-wind sighs He sets the jewel-print of your feet In violets blue as your eyes, To the woody hollows in which we meet And the valleys of Paradise. Till. The slender acacia would not shake One long milk-bloom on the tree ; The white lake-blossom fell into the lake As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; But the rose was awake all night for your sake. Knowing your promise to me ; The 'lilies and roses were all awake. They sigh'd for the dawn and thee. IX. Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, Come hither, the dances are done, In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, Queen lily and rose in on^ ; Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls. To the flowers, and be their sun. X. There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear ; She is coming, my life, my fate : The red rose cries, " She is near, she is * near ; " And the white rose weeps, " She is late ; " MAUD. The larkspur listens, '* I hear, I hear ;" And the lily whispers, "I wait." XI. She Is coming, my own, my sweet; Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear .her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed ; My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead ; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red. xxni. " The fault was mine, the fault was mine" — Why am I sitting here so stuun'd and still. Plucking the harmless wild-flower on the hill?— It is this guilty hand ! — 8A.nd there rises ever a passionate cry From underneath in the darkening land — What is it, that has been done ? O dawn of Eden bright ovei earth and sky, The fires of Hell brake out of thy ris: ing Bun, The fires of Hell and of Hate ; For she, sweet soul, had hardly spoken a word. When her brother ran in his rage to the gate. He came with the babe-faced lord ; Heap'd on her terms of disgrace, And while she wept, and I strove to be cool, He fiercely gave me the lie. Till I with as fierce an anger epoke, And he struck me, madman, over the face, Struck me before the languid fool, Who was gaping an grinning by : Struck for himself an evil stroke ; Wrought for his house an irredeemable woe ; For front to front in an hour we stood, And a million horrible bellowing echoes broke From the red-ribb'd hollow behind the wood. And thunder'd up into Heaven the Christless code, That must have life for a blow. Ever and ever afresh they seem'd to grow. Was it he lay there with a fading eye ? "The fault was mine," he whisper'd, "fly!" Then glided out of the joyous wood The ghastly Wraith pf one that I know; And there rang on a sudden a passion- ate cry, A cry for a brother's blood : It will ring in my heart and my ears, tiU I die> till I die. Is it gone ? my pulses beat — What was it? a lying trick of the brain ? Tet I thought I saw her stand, ,A shadow mere at my feet. High over the shadowy land. It 18 gone ; and the heavens fall in a gentle rain. When they should burst and drown with deluging storms The feeble vassals of wine and anger and lust. The little hearts that know not how to forgive : Arise, my God, and strike, for we hold Thee Just, Strike dead the whole weak race of venomous worms. That sting each other here in the dust ; We are not worthy to live- XXIV. See what a lovely shell, Small and pure as a pearl, Lying close to my foot, Frail, but a work divine, Made so f airily well With delicate spire and whoirl, How exquisitely minute, A miracle of design ! What is it ? a learned man Could give it a clumsy name. Let him name it who can. The beauty would be the same. The tiny cell is forlorn, "Void of the little living will That made it stir on the shore. Did he stand at the diamond door Of his house in a rainbow frill? Did he push, whQii he was uncurl'd, A golden foot or a fairy horn Thro* his dim water-world ? Slight, to be crush'd with a tap Of my finger-nail on the sand, Small, but a work divine, Frail, but of force to withstand, Year upon year, the shock Of cataract seas that snap The three decker's oaken spine Athwart the ledges of rock. Here on the Breton strand ! Breton, not Briton ; here Like a shipwreck'd man on a coast Of ancient fable and fear — Plagued with a flitting to and fro, A disease, a hard mechanic ghost That never came from on high Nor ever arose from below, But only moves with the moving eye, 96 MAUD. Plying along the land and the main— Wny Bhoula it look like Maud? Am I to be overawed By what I cannot but know Ib a juggle bom of the brain? Back from the Breton coast, Sick of a nameless fear, Back to the dark sea^liue Looking, thinking of all I have lost ; An old song vexes my ear ; But that of Lamech is mine. For years, a measureless ill, For years, for ever, to part — But she, she would love me still ; And as long, O God, as she Have a grain of love for me, So long, no doubt, no doubt, Shall I nurse in my dark heart. However weary, a spark of will Not to be trampled out. Strange, that the mind, when fraught "With a passion so intense One would think that it well Might drown all life in the eye,— That it should, by being so over- wrought, Suddenly strike on a sharper sense For a shell, or a flower, little things "Which else would have been past by I And now I remember, I, ■When he lay dyin^ there, I noticed one of his many rings (For he had many, poor worm) and thought It is his mother's hair. "Who knows if he be dead ? Whether I need have fled? Am I guilty of blood ? However tlus may be» Comfort her, comfort her, all things good, Whiie I am over the sea ! Let me and my passionate love go by. But speak to her all tilings holy and high, "Whatever happen to me ! Me and my harmful love go by ; But come to her waking, find her i*owers of the height, Powers of the deep, And comfort her tho' I die. XXV. CoTTRAGE, poor heart of stone I I will not ask thee why Thoti canst not understand That thou art left for ever alone : Courage, poor stupid heart of stone. — Or if r ask thee why, Care not thou to reply : She is but dead, and the time is at hand When thou shalt more than die. XXVL O THAT 'twere possible After long grief and pain To find the arms of my true love Round me once again ! When I was wont to meet her In the silent woody places By the home that gave me birth, We stood tranced m long embraces Mixt with kisses sweeter, sweeter Than anything on earth. A shadow flits before me, Not thou, but like to thee ; Ah Christ, that it were possible For one snort hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be. It leads me forth at evening, It lightly winds and steals In a cold white robe before me. When all my spirit reels At the shouts, the leagues of lights, And the roaring of the wheels. Half the night I waste in sigl^, Half in dreams I sorrow after The delight of early skies ; In a wakeful doze I sorrow For the handj the lips, the eyes, For the meeting of the morrow, The delight of happy laughter, The delight of low replies. 'Tis a morning pure and sweet. And a dewy splendor falls On the little flower that clings To the turrets and the walls ; 'Tis a morning pure and sweet, And the light and shadow fieet ; She is walking in the meadow, And the woodland echo rings ; In a moment we shall meet ; She is singing in the meadow, And the rivulet at her feet Eipples on in light and shadow To the ballad that she sings. VII. Do I hear her sing as of old, My bird with the shining head. My own dove with the tender eye 7 But there rings on a sudden a passion^ ate cry, There is some one dying or dead, And a sullen thunder is roll'd ; For a tumult shakes the cit^, MAVD. 97 And I wake, my dream is fled ; In the shuddenng dawn, behold, Without knowledge, without pity, By the curtains of my bed That abiding phantom cold. Cet thee hence, nor come again, Mix not memory with doubt. Pass, thou deathlike type of pain, Pass and cease to move about ! 'Tis the blot upon the brain Tliat will show itself without. Then I rise, the eavedrops fall, And theyellow vapors choke The great city sounding wide ; The day comes, a dull red ball Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke On the misty river-tide. Thro' the hubbub of the market I steal, a wasted frame, It crosses here, it crosses there, Thro' allthat crowd confused and loud, ' The shsidow still the same ; And on my heavy eyelids My anguish hangs like sUame. XI. Alas for her that met me, That heard me softly call, Game glimmering thro' the laurels At the quiet evenfall. In the garden by the turrets Of the old manorial hall. Would the happy spirit descend, From the realms of light and song. In the chamber or the street. As she looks among the blest. Should I fear to greet my friend'" Or to say " forgive the wrong," Or to ask her, " take me, sweet, To the regions of thy rest ? " XIII. But the broad light glares and beats. And the shadow flits and fleets And will not let me be ; And I loathe the squares and streets. And the faces that one meets, Hearts with no love for me : Always I long to creep Into some still cavern deep. There to weep, and weep, and weep My whole soul out to thee. xxvn. I, Dead, long dead, liOng deadl And my heart is a handful of dust. And the wheels go over my head. And my bones are shaken with pain. For into a shallow grave tney are thrust. Only a yard beneath the street. And the hoofs of the horses beat, beat. The hoofs of the horses beat, Beat into my scalp and my brain, With never an end to the stream of passing feet, Driving, hurrying ; marrying, burying. Glamor and rumble, and ringing and clatter. And here beneath it is all as bad. For I thought the d^d had peace, but it is not so ; To have no peace in the grave, is that not sad ? But up and down and to and fro. Ever about me the dead men go ; And then to hear a dead man chatter Is enough to drive one madi Wretchedest age, since Time began. They cannot even bur^ a man ; And tho' we paid our tithes in the days that are gone, Not a bell was rung, not a prayer was read ; It is that which makes us loud in the world of the dead ; There is none that does his work, not one ; A touch of their office might have suf- ficed. But the churchmen fain would kill their church, As the churches have kill'd their Christ. III. See, there is one of us sobbing. No limit to his distress ; And another, a lord of aU things, pray- ing To his own great self, as I guess ; And another, a statesman there, be- traying His party-secret, fool, to the press ; And yonder a vile physician, blabbing The case of his patient— all for what? To tickle the maggot born in an empty head, And wheedle a world that loves him not. For it is but a world of the dead. Nothing but idiot gabble ! For the prophecy given of o'd And then not understood. Has come to pass as foretold ; Not let any man think for the publle good, Butl>abble, merely for babble. . For I never whisper'd a private affair Within the hearing of cat or mouse. No, not to myself in the closet alone. But I heard it shouted at once from the top of the house; Everything came to be known : Who told him we were there? 98 MAUD: Not that gray old wolf, for lie came not back Prom the wildemeas, full of wolves, where he used to lie ; He has gather'd the bones for his o'er- grown whelp to crack ; Crack them now for yourself, and howl, and die. VI. Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip, And cui^se me the British vermin, the rat ; I know not whether he came in the Hanover ship, But I know that he lies and listens mute In an ancient mansion's crannies and holes : Arsenic, arsenic, sure, would do it. Except that now we poison our babes, poor souls ! It is all used up for that. vn. Tell him now : she is standing here at my head ; Not beautiful now, not even kind ; He may take her now ; for she never speaks her mind. But is ever the one thing silent here. She is not of us, as I divine ; She comes from another stiller world of the dead, Stiller, not fairer than mine. But I know where a garden grows, Fairer than aught in the world beside, All made up of the lily and rose That blow by night, when the season is good. To the sound of dancing music and flutes : It is only flowers , they had no fruits. And I almost fear they are not roses, but blood ; For the keeper was one, so full of pride. He linkt a dead man there to a spectral bride ; For he, if he had not been a Sultan of brutes. Would he have that hole in his side ? But what will the old man say ? He laid a cruel snare in a pit To catch a friend of mine one stormy day; Yet now I could even weep to think of it; For what will the old man say When he comes to the second corpse in the pit ? X. Friend, to be struck by the public foe, Then to strike him and lay him low, That were a public merit, far, Whateyer the Quaker holds, from sin ; But the red life spilt for a private blow — I swear to you, lawful and lawless war Are scarcely even akin. me, why have they not buried me deep enough ? Is it kind to have made me a grave so rough, Me, that was never a quiet sleeper ? Maybe still I am but half-dead ; Then I cannot be wholly dumb ; 1 will cry to the steps above my head And somebody, surely, some kind heart) will come To bury me, bur;^ me Deeper, ever so little deeper. xxvni. I. My life has crept so long on a broken wing Thro' cells of madness, haunts of hor- ror and fear, That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing : * My mood is changed, for it fell at a time of year When the face of night is fair on the dewy dawns. And the shining daffodil dies, and the Charioteer And starry Gemini hang like glorious crowns Over Orion's grave low down in the west, That like a silent lightning under the stars She seem'd to divide in a dream from a band of the blest, And spoke of a hope for the world in the coming wars — *'And in that hope, dear soul, let trouble have rest. Knowing I tarry fortnee," and pointed tolVfiirs Ashe glow'dlike a ruddy shield on the Lion's breast. n. And it was but a dream, yet it yielded a dear delight To have look'd, tho' but in a dream, upon eyes so fair. That had been in a weary world my one thing bright ; And it was buta dream, yet itlighten'd my despair WhenI thought that a war would arise in defence of the right, That an iron tyranny now should bend The glory of manhood stand on hia ancient height. Nor Britain's one sole God be the mil- lionnaire : No more shall commerce bo all in all| and Peace THE BROOK. 99 Pipe on her pastoral hillock a languid note, And watch her harvest ripen, her h6rd increase, Nor the cannon-bullet rust on a sloth- ful shore, And the cobweb woven across the can- non's throat Shall shake its threaded tears in the wind no more. And as months ran on and rumor of battle grew, "It is time, it is time, O passionate heart," said I (For 1 cleave to a cause that I felt to be pure and true), "It is time, O passionate heart and morbid eye. That old hysterical mock-disease should die." And I stood on a giant deck and mix'd my breath ■With a loyal people shouting a battle cry. Till I saw the dreary phantom arise and fly Far into the North, and battle, and seas of death. Let it go or stay, so I wake to the * higher aims Of a land that has lost for a little her lust of gold, And love of a peace that was full of wrongs and shames, Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to be told ; And hail once more to the banner of battle unroU'd ! Tho' many a light shall darken, and many shall weep For those that are crush'd in the clash of jarring claims, Tet God's just wrath shall be wreak'd on a giant liar ; • And many a darkness Into the light shall leap. And shine in the sudden making of splendid names, And noble thought be freer under the sun. And the heart of a people beat with one desire ; For the peace, that I deem'd no peace, is over and done, And now by the side of the Black and the Baltic deep. And deathful-grinning mouths of the fortress, flames The blood-red blossom of war with a heart of fire. T. Let it flame or fade, and the war roll down like a wind, . We have proved we have hearts in a cause, we are noble still, And myself have awaked, as it seems, to the better mind ; It is better to fight for the good, than to rail at the ill ; I have felt with my native land, I am one with my kind, I embrace the purpose of God, and the doom assigned. THE BEOOK; AN IDYL. " Hebe, by this brook, we parted ; I to the East And he for Italy— too late— too late ; One whom the strong sons of the world despise ; For lucky rhymes to him were scrip and share, And mellow metres more than cent for cent ; Nor could he understand how money breeds. Thought it a dead thing ; yet himself could make The thing that is not as the thing that is. O had he' lived! In our schoolbooks we say, Of those that held their heads above • the crowd, ' They flourish'd then or then ; but life in him Could scarce be said to flourish, only touch'd On such a time as goes before the leaf, "When all the wood stands in a mist of green, And nothing perfect ; yet the brook he loved. For which, in branding summers of Bengal, Or ev'n the sweet half-English Neil- gherry air I panted, seems, as I re-listen to it. Prattling the primrose fancies of the boy. To me that loved him; for 'O Brook,' he says, ^^ ' O babbling brook,' says Edmund in his rhyme, ' Whence come you ? ' and the brook, why not 7 replies : I come from haunts of coot and hem, I make a sudden sally. And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down. Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a little town. And half a hundred bridges. Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river. For men may come and men may go But I go on for ever. "Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite worn out, 100 THE BROOK. Travellmg to Naples. There is Dam- ley bndge, It has more ivy ; there the river j and there Stands Philip's farm where hrook and river meet. I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the peboles. "With raany a curve my banks I fret, By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow- weed and, mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. "But Philip chattered more than brook or bird , Old Philip ; all about the fields you caught His weary daylong chirping, like the dry High-elbow'd grigs that leap in sum- mer grass. I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout. And here and there a grayling. And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel. And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river. For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. " O darling Katie Willows, his one child ! A maiden of our century, yet most meek ; A daughter of our meadow, yet not coarse. Straight, but as lissome as a hazel wand ; Her eyes a bswhful azure, and her hair In gloss and hue , the chestnut, when the shell Divides, threefold to show the fruit within. ** Sweet Katie, once I did her a good turn. Her and her far-off cousin and be- trothed, James Willows, of one name and heart with her. For here I came, twenty years back— the week Before I parted with poor Edmund ; crost By that old bridge which, half in ruins then, Still makes a hoary eyebrow for the gleam Beyond it, where the waters marry— crost. Whistling a xandom bar of Bonny Boon, And push'd at Philip's garden-gate. The gate, Half-parted from a weak and scolding hinge, Stuck ; and he clamor'd from a case- ment ' run ' To Katie somewhere in the walks be- low, * Kun, Katie ! * Katie never ran : she moved To meet me, winding under woodbine bowers, A little flutter'd,with her eyelids down, Fresh apple- blossom, blushing for a boon. " What was it ? less of sentiment than sense Had Katie : not illiterate ; nor of those Who dabbling in the fount of fictiv» tears. And nursed by mealy-mouthed philan thropies, Divorce the Peeling from her mate the Deed. " She told me. She and James had quarrell'd. Why? What cause of quarrel? None, she said, no cause ; James had no cause : but when I prest the cause, I learnt that James had flickering jealousies Which anger'd her. Who anger'd James ? I said. But Katie snatch'd her eyes at once from mine. And sketching with her slender-pointed foot Some figure like a wizard's pentagram On garess so complete, She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet With costly spikenard and with tears. Thrice blest whose lives are faitltful prayers, Whose loves in higher love endure ; What souls possess themselves so piire, , Or is there blessedness like theirs ? XXXIII. O THOU that after toil and storm Mayst seem to have reach'd a purer air, Whose faith has centre everywhere, Nor cares to lix itself to form, Leave thou thy sister when she prays, Her early'Heaven, her happy views ; Nor thou with shadow'd hint con- fuse A life that leads melodious days. Her faith thro' form is pure as thine, Her hands are quicker unto good : Oh, sacred be the flesh and blood To which she links a truth divine ! See thou, that countest reason ripe In holding by the law within, Thou fail not in a world of sin, And ev'n for want of such a type. XXXIV. ' My own dim life should teach me this, That life shall live for evermore, Else earth is darkness at the core, And dust and ashes all that is ; This round of green, this orb of flame, Fantastic beauty ; such as lures In some wild Poet, when he works Without a conscience or an aim. What then were God to such as I ? 'Twere hardly worth my while to • choose Of thiugs all mortal, or to use A little patience ere I die ; 'Twere best at once to sink to peace, Like birds the charming serpent draws, To drop head-foremost in the jaws Of vacant darkness and to cease, XXXV, Yet if some voice that man could trust Should murmur from the narrow house, ** The cheeks drop in ; the body bows ; Man dies ; nor is there hope in dust ; " Might I not say ? " yet even here, But for one hour, O Love, I strive To keep so sweet a thing alive : " But I should turn mine ears and hear The moanings of the homeless sea, The sound of streams that swift or slow Draw down iEonian hills, and sow The dust of continents to be ; And Love would answer with a sigh, *• The sound of that forgetful shore Will change my sweetness more and more. Half-dead to know that I shall die." O me, what proflts it to put An idle case ? If Death were seen At first as Death, Love had not been. Or been in narrowest working shut, Mere fellowship of sluggish moods, Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape Had bruised the herb and crush'd the grape. And ba^'dand batten'd in the woods. XXXVI, Tho* truths in manhood darkly join, Deep-seated in our mystic frame, We yield all blessing to the name Of Him that made them current coin ; For Wisdom dealt'with mortal powers Where truth in closest words shall fail, Where truth embodied in a tale Shall enter in at lowly doors. And so the Word had breath, and wrought With hmnan hands the creed of creeds In loveliness of perfect deeds, More strong than all poetic thought; Which he may read that binds the sheaf. Or builds the house, or digs the grave, And those wild eyes that watch the wave In roarings round the coral reef. XXXVII. Urania speaks with darken'd browc " Thou pratest here where thou art least j This faith has many a purer priest, And many an abler voice than thou. IN MEMORIAM. 115 Go down beside thy native rill, On thy Parnassus set thy feet, And hear thy laurel whisper swtiet About the ledges of the hill." And my Melpomene replies, A touch ot shame upon her cheek ; *' I am not worthy ev'n to speak Of thy prevailing mysteries j For I am but an earthly Muse, And owning but a little art To lull with song an aching heart, And render human love his dues ; But brooding on the dear one dead, And all he said of things divine, (And dear to me as sacred wine, To dying lips is all he said), I murmur'd, as I came along. Of comfort clasp'd in truth reveal'd ; And loiter'd in the master's held. And darken'd sanctities with song." XXXVIII. With weary steps I loiter on, Tbo* always under alter'd skies The purple from the distance dies. My prospect and horizon gone. No joy the blowing season gives, Tlie herald melodies of spring, But in the songs I love to sing A doubtful gleam of solace lives. If any care for what is here Survive in spirits rendered free, . Then are these songs I sing of thee Not all ungrateful to thine ear. XXXIX. Old warder of these buried bones, And answering now my random stroke "With fruitful cloud and living smoke, Dark yew, that gtaspest at the stones And dippest toward the dreamless head, To thee too comes the golden hour "When flower is feeling after flower ; ButSorrow fixt upon the dead. And darkening the dark graves of men, What whisper'd from her lying lips ? Thy gloom is kindled at the tips, And passes into gloom again. XL. Could we forget the widow'd hour And look on Spirits breathed away. As on a maiden in the day When first she wears her orange- flower I When crown'd with blessing she doth rise To take her latest leave of home. And hopes and light regrets that come Make April of her tender eyes j And doubtful joys the father move, And tears are on the mother's face, As parting with a long embrace She enters other realms of love ; Her office there to rear, to teach. Becoming as is meet and fit A link among the days, to knit The generations each with each ; And doubtless, unto thee is given A life that bears immortal fruit In such great offices as suit The full-grown energies of heaven. Ay me, the difference I discern ! How often shall her old fireside Be cheer'd with tidings, of the bride, How often she herself return, And tell them all they would have told, And bring her babe, and make her boast, Till even those that miss'd her most. Shall count new things as dear as old-: But thou and I have shaken hands, Till grovring winters lay me low ; My paths are in the fields I know. And ttiine in undiscover'd lands. Thy spirit ere our fatal loss Did ever rise from high to higher ; As mounts the heavenward altar fire. As flies the lighter thro' the gross. But thou art turn'd to something strange, ^ And I have lost the links that bound Thy changes, here upon the ground, No more partaker of thy change. Deep folly ! yet that this could be — That I could wing my will with might To leap the grades of life and light, And flash at once, my friend, to thee : For tho' my nature rarely yields To that vague fear implied in death; Nor shudders at the gulfs beneath. The howlings from forgotten fields ; Yet oft when sundown skirts the moor An inner trouble I behold, A spectral doubt which makes me cold. That I shall be thy mate no more, Tho' following with an upward mind The wonders that have come to thee, Thro' all the secular to-be, But evermore & life behind. XLII I VEX my heart with fancies dim ; He still outstript me in the race ; It was but unity of place That made me dream I rank*d with him. * And so may Place retain us still. And he the much-beloved again, A lord of large experience, train To riper growth the mind and will ; 116 IN MEMORIAM. And what delights can equal those That stir the spirit's inner deeps, "When one that loves but knows not, reaps A truth from one that loves and Isnows? XLIII. If Sleep and Death be truly one, And every si>irit's folded bloom Thro' all its intervital gloom In some lone tranee should slumber onj Unconscious of the sliding hour, Bare of the body, might it last. And silent traces of the past Be all the color of the flower : So then were nothing lost to man, So that still garden of the souls In many a figured leaf enrolls The total world since life began j And love will last as pure and whole As when he loved me here in Time, And at the spiritual prime Kewaken with the dawning soul, XLIV. How fares it with the happy dead ? For here the man is more and more ; But he forgets the days before God shut the doorways of his head. The days have vanish'd, tone and tint, And yet perhaps the hoarding sense Gives out at times (he knows not whence) A little flash, a mystic hint ; And in the long harmonious years (If Death so taste Lethean springs) Majf some dim touch of earthly things Surprise the ranging with thy peers- If such a dreamy touch should fall, O turn thee round, resolve the doubt ; My guardian angel will speak out In that high place, and tell thee all. XLV. The baby new to earth and sky, What time his tender palm is prest Against the circle of the breast, Has never thought that "this is I : " But as he grows he gathers much. And learns the muse of **I" and "me," And finds " I am not what I see, And other than the things I touch." So rounds he to a separalJe mind Prom whence clear memory may be- gin, , As thro* the frame that binds him in His isolation grows defined. This use may lie in blood and breath, Which else were fruitless of their due, Had man to learn himself a new Beyond the second birth of Death We ranging down this lower track, The path we came by, thorn and flower, Is shadow'd by the growing hour, Lest life should fail in looidng back. So be it : there no shade can last In that deep dawn behind the tomb. But clear from marge to marge shall bloom The eternal landscape of the past ; A lifelong tract of time reveal'd ; The fruitful hours of still increase ; Days order'd in a wealthy peace. And those five years its richest field. O love, thy province were not large, A bounded field, nor stretching far ; Look also, Love, a brooding star, A rosy warmth from marge to marge. XLVII. That each, who seems a separate ^ whole, Should move his rounds, and fusing all The skirts of self again, should fall lElemerging in the general Soul, Is faith as vague as all unsweet : Eternal form shall still divide The eternal soul from all beside ; And I shall know him when we meet : 7 And we shall sit at endless feast. Enjoying each the other's good : What vaster dream can hit the mood Of Love .on earth ? He seeks at least Upon the last and sharpest height. Before the spirits fade away, . Some landing place, to elas^i and say, "JFarewell! We lose ourselves in light." If these" brief lays, of Sorrow born, Were taken to be such as closed Grave doubts and answers here pro- posed. Then these were such as men might scorn : • Her care is not to part and prove ; She takes, when harsher moods remit, What slender shade of doubt may flit, And makes it vassal unto love : And hence, indeed, she sports with words, But better serves a wholesome law, And holds it sin and shame to draw The deepest measure from the chords; Nor dare she trust a larger lay, But rather loosens from the lip Short swallow-flights of song, that dip Their wings in tears, and skim away . XLIX. From art, from nature, from the schools, Let random influences glance. Like light in many a shiver'd lance That breaks about the dappled pools ; The lightest wave of thought shall lisp, The fancy's tenderest eddy wreathe, IN MEMORIAM. 117 The sligliteBt air of song shall breathe To make the sullen surface crisp. And look thy look, and go thy way, But blame not thou the winds that make The seeming-wanton ripple break. The tender-pencil'd shadow play. Beneath all fancied hopes and fears Ay me, the sorrow deepens down. Whose muffled motions Dlindly drown The bases of my life in tears. Be near me when my light is low. When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick And tingle ; and the heart is sick. And all the wheels of Being slow. Be near me when the sensuous frame Is raok'd with pangs that conquer trust ; And Time, a maniac scattering dust. And Life, a Fury slinging flame. Be near me when my faith is dry, And men the flies of latter spring. That lay their eggs, and sting and sing, And weave their petty cells and die. Be near me when I fade away, To point the term of human strife, And on the low dark verge of life The twilight of eternal day. LI. Do we Indeed desire the dead " Should still be near us at our side ? Is there no baseness we would hide ? If inner vileness that we dread ? Shall he for whose applause I strove, I had such reverence for his blame, See '^ith clear eye some hidden shame And I be lessen'd in his love ? I wrong the grave with fears untrue : Shall love be blamed for want of faith ? There must be wisdom with great Death : The dead shall look me thro' and thro.' Be near us when we climb or fall : Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours With larger other eyes than ours, To make aflowance for us all. L LII. I OANNOT love thee as I ought, ' For love reflects the things beloved : ■ My words are only words, and moved Upon the topmost froth of thought. "Yet blame not thou thy plaintive song," The spirit of true love replied ; " Thou canst not move me from thy side. Nor human frailty do me wrong. " What keeps a spirit wholly ti-ue j?o that ideal which he hears ? What record ? not the sinless years That breathes beneath the Syrian blue: " So fret not, like an idle girl, That life is dash'd with flecks of sin. Abide : thy wealth is gather'd in, When Time hath sunder'd shell from pearl." LIII. How many a father have I seen, A sober man, among his boys. Whose youth was full of foolish noise, Who wears his manhood hale and green; And dare we to this fancy give, That had the wild oat not been sown. The soil, left barren, scarce had grown The grain by which a man may live? Oh, if we held the doctrine sound For life outliving heats of youth. Yet who would preach it as a truth To those that eddy round and round ? Hold thou thy good : define it well : For fear divine Philosophy Should push beyond her mark, and be Procuress to the Lords of Hell. Oh vet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill, To pangs of nature, sins of will, Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; That nothing walks with aimless feet ; That no one lite shall be destroy'd, Or cast as rubbish to the void, When God hath made the pile com- plete J That not a worm is cloven in vain ; That not a moth with vain desire Is shrivel'd in a fruitless fire. Or but subserves another's gain. Behold, we know not anything ; I can but trust that good shall fall At last — far off— at last, to all. And every winter change to spring. So runs my dream : but what am I ? An infant crying in the night : An infant crying for the light : And with no language but a cry. I.V. The wish, that of the living whole No lite.may fail beyond the grave, Derives it not from what we nave The likest God within the soul ? Are God and Nature then at strife, That Nature lends such evil dreams ? So careful of the type she seems, So careless of the single life ; That I, considering everywhere Her secret mearang in her deeds, And finding that ot fifty seeds She often brings but one to bear, I falter where I firmly trod. And falling with my weight of cares 118 7^" MEMORIAM. Upon the great world's altar-stairs That slope thro' darkness up to God, I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I ieel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope. ' LVI. " So careful of the type ?" hut no. From scarped cliff and quarried stone She cries ** a thousand types are gone : I care for nothing, all shall go. " Thou makest thine appeal to me % I brin^ to life, I bring to death : The spirit does but mean the breath : I know no more." And he, shall he, Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair, Such splendid purpose in his eyes. Who roU'd the psalm to wintry skies, "Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer, Who trusted God was love indeed And love Creation's final law— Tho* Nature, red in tooth and claw With ravine, shriek'd against his creed — Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills, Who battled for the True, the Just, Be blown about the deseft dust, Or seal'd within the iron huls ? No more? A monster then, a dream, A discord. Dragons of the prime, That tear each other in their slime. Were mellow music match'd with him. life as futile, then, as frail ! O for thy voice to soothe and bless ! What hope of answer, or redress ? Behind the veil, behind the veil. LTII. Peace ; come away : the song of woe Is after all an earthly song : Peaee ; come away : we do him wrong To sing so wildly : let us go. Come let us go : your cheeks are pale; But half my life I leave behind : Methinks my friend is richly shrin- ed; But I shall pass, my work will fail. Yet in these ears, till hearing dies. One set^low bell will seem to toll The passing of the sweetest soul That ever look'd with human eyes. 1 hear it now, and o'er and o'er. Eternal greetings to the dead, And *' Ave, Ave, Ave," said, " Adieu, adieu," for evermore. In those sad words I took farewell : Like echoes in sepulchral halls, As drop by drop the water falls In vaults and catacombs, they, fell ; And, falling, idly broke the peace Of hearts that beat from day to day, Half-conscious of their dying clay. And those cold crypts where they shall cease- The high Muse answer'd : "Where- fore grieve Thy brethren with a fruitless tear ? Abide a little longer here. And thou shalt take a nobler leave." LIX. O SoKROW, wilt thou live with me, No casual mistress, but a wife, Mj bosom-friend and half of life ; As I coniess it needs must be ; O Sorrow, wilt thou rule m, blood. Be sometimes lovely like a bride, And put thy harsher moods aside, If thou wilt have me wise and good. My centred passion cannot move, Kor will it lessen from to-day ; But I'll have leave at times to play As with the creature of my love ; And set thee forth, for thou art mine. With so much hope for years to come, That, howsoe'er I know thee, some Could hardly tell what name were thine. LX. He past : a soul of nobler tone : My spirit loved and loves him yet. Like some poor girl whose heart is set On one whose rank exceeds her own. He mixing with his proper sphere, She finds the baseness of her lot, Half jealous of she knows not what, And envying all that meet him there The little villai^e looks forlorn ; She sighs amid her narrow days, Moving about the household ways, In that dark house where*, she was born. The foolish neighbors come and go. And tease her till the day draws by : At night she weeps, " How vain am I! How should he love a thing so low ? " LXI. If, in thy second state sublime. Thy ransom'd reason change replies With all the circle of the wise, The perfect flower of human time ; And if thou cast thine eyes below, How dimly chaiacter'd and slight, How dwarf'd a growth of cold and night. How blanch'd witii darkness must I grow ! Tet turn to the doubtful shore, Where thy first form was made a man ; IN MEMORIAM. 119 I loved thee, Spirit and love, nor can Tlie soul of Shakespeare love thee more. txii. Tho' if an eye that's downward cast Could make thee somewhat blench or fail, Then be my love an idle tale. And fading legend of the past ; And thou, as one that once declined, When he was little more than boy. On some unworthy heart with joy, But lives to wed an equal mind ; And breathes a novel world, the while His other passion wholly dies. Or in the light of deeper eyea Is matter for a flying smile. LXIII. Tet pity for a horse o'er-drlven. And love in which my hound has part, Can hang no weight upon my heart In its assumptions up to heaven ; And I am so much more than these. As thou, perchance art more than I, And yet I spare them sympathy And I would set their pains at ease. So may'st thou watch me where I weep. As, unto vaster motions bound. The circuits of thine orbit round A higher height, a deeper deep. LXIV. Dost thou look back on what hath been, As some divinely gifted man, Whose life in low estate began And on a simple village green ; Who breaks his birth's invidious bar, And grasps the skirts of happy chance. And breasts the blows of circum- stance^ And grappjes with his evil star ; Who makes by force his merit known And lives to clutch the golden keys. To mould a mighty state's decrees. And shape the whisper of the throne ; And moving up from high to higher, Becomes on Fortune's crowning slope The pillar of a people's hope. The centre of a world's desire ; Yet feels, as in a pensive dream, When all his active powers are still, A distant dearness in the hill, A secret sweetness in t^e stream. The limit of his narrower fate. While yet beside its vocal springs He play'd at counsellors and kings. With one that was his earliest mate ; Who ploughs with pain his native lea And reaps the labpr of his hands. Or in the furrow musing stands : " Does my old friend remember me ? " LXT. Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt ; I lull a fancy trouble-tost With "Love's too precious to be lost, A little grain shall not be spilt." And in that solace can I sing. Till out of painful phases wrought There flutters up a happy thou^t. Self-balanced on a lightsome wing : Since we deserved the name of friends, And thine effect so lives in me, A part of mine may live in thee And move thee on to noble ends. You thought my heart too far dis- eased ; You wonder when my fancies play To find me gay among the gay, Like one with any trifle pleased. The shade by which.my life was crost Which mak^s a desert in the mind. Has made me kindly with my kind. And like to him whose sight is lost ; Whose feet are guided thro' the land. Whose jest among his friends is free Who takes the children on his knee. And winds their curls about his hand: He plays with threads, he beats his chair For pastime, dreaming of the sky ; His inner day can never die, His night of loss is always there. LXVII. Whex on my bed the moonlight falls, I know that in thy place of rest. By that broad waier of the west. There comes a glory on the walls : Tl>y marble bright in dark appears, As slowly steals a silver flame Along the letters of thy name. And o'er the number of thy years. The mystic glory swims away ; From oil my bed the moonlight dies ; And closing eaves of wearied eyes I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray : And then I know the mist is dra bird, whose warble, liquid sweet, Bings Eden thro' the budded guicks, . O tell me where the senses mix, O tell me where the passions meet, Whence radiate : fierce extremes ema ploy Thy spirits in the darkening leaf. And in the midmost heart of grief Thy passion clasps a secret joy : And I — my harp would prelude woe, I cannot all command the strings ; The glory of the sun of things Will flash along the chords and go LXXXIX. Witch-elms that oounterchange the floor Of this flat lawn with dusk and bpght : - And thou, with aU thy breadth and height Of foliage, towering sycamore ; How often, hither wandering down, My Arthur found your shadows fair, And shook to all the liberal air The dust and din and steam of town : He brought an eye for all he saw ; He.mixt in all our simple sports ; They pleased him, fresh from brawl' ing courts And