A-76S9/ Xi//'f^^ __ ^ Cornell University Library PR 6045.O65S2 St. Christopher, and other poems. 3 1924 013 241 678 ST. CHRISTOPHER AND OTHER POEMS ELIZABETH WORDSWORTH AUTHOR OF 'illustrations OF THE CRBBd' * INDOORS AND OUT' BTC, AND JOINT AUTHOR OF ' THE LIFE OF CHRISTOPHER .WORDSWORTH, BISHOP OF LINCOLN' LONDON LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. AND NEW YORK ': 15 EAST 16* STREET 1890 ?■ A ll rights vescrvcd FEINTED EV SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STSEET SQUAEB LONDON PREFACE A VERY FEW WORDS will suffice as introduction to a volume like the present. The story of St. Christopher, which has always had a special attraction for the writer, not merely on its own account, but for family and personal reasons, will be found here, but very slightly altered, although accompanied by a kind of musical interlude, in which images drawn from the uses and functions of water in the natural world lead up to a higher spiritual interpretation. It is surely not impossible that the position frequently occupied by figures of St. Christopher near the church door, a place where the font is usually found, may be due to some more or less conscious association of his story with the thought of Holy Baptism, the tirne in the life of a Christian when the servitude of Evil is forsworn, and the sovereignty of Christ is acknow- ledged. The ' King's Father ' is an attempt to reproduce iv PREFACE in a dramatic form the very interesting sketch of M. Emmanuel De Broglie, ' Le Fils de Louis Quinze,' which reminds us that even in an age and court pro- verbially corrupt there was at least one untainted household, and one lofty and unworldly nature. The very inaction to which the Dauphin was condemned, while it moves our deepest sympathy, unfortunately makes his history somewhat unsuitable for dramatic purposes ; the tragedy of his life consisted chiefly in the fact that there was no 4^nouement, no climax to be worked up to.' Yet it is perhaps well for us to preserve, so far as in us lies, the memory of a character which under more favourable circumstances might have had a bright light shed on it by the poet or the historian ; a man of whom even the cynical Horace Walpole said that his death was the greatest loss which had befallen France since that of Henri IV. It is hardly necessary to apologise for some liberties taken with the subject, such as e.g. the un- due prominence given to Madame Louise, to the ex- clusion of her sisters, which was almost necessary for dramatic purposes ; the all but ignoring of the great Jesuit struggle ; the making the date of the camp at Compifegne coincide with that of the death of Madame de Pompadour, and the substitution of the Due de Bourgogne, whose early death had (176 1) darkened the last years of the Dauphin, for his brother the future Louis XVI. in the closing scenes ; and many 1 ' II mounit d^vor^ par le sentiment de son inutility ' (Z>« Broglie). PREFACE V Other weak points which those conversant with the period will at once detect. The object has been not to load the pages with details, but to create interest in one or two important characters, and to bring out the old but never hackneyed moral, that not what a man does, but what he is, should be the criterion by which he must be judged. It is interesting to know that the Dauphin's remains were preserved intact during the Revolution, and that France has not profaned the ashes of one of whom even Madame de Pompadour was forced to say, ' Le Dauphin a le coeur bon ; c'est peut-etre le seul hdritier qui verserait des larmes k la mort de son pbre.' His devoted counsellor Du Muy, who had carried out the Dauphin's dying request, that he would be good to his children, by accepting ofiSce under Louis XVI., was buried at his old friend's feet in the Cathedral of Sens, with the inscription on his tomb, Ilucusque luctus meus. Oxford : Nov. 17, 1890. Cornell University Library The original of tlnis 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/details/cu31 92401 3241 678 CONTENTS >AGE ST. CHRISTOPHER i POEMS: The Bridge 43 Silence .... 46 A Vestal Virgin 50 St. Cecilia ... S3 At Assisi S& Good Friday at Rome .... .60 In the Cloister op San Zeno, Verona . . . 61 Gemma Donati 64 Tarquin and the Sibyl 70 A Flemish Madonna 74 In the Churchyard of Over Denton, Cumber- land 75 A Modern Rachel So Judas' Kiss 82 The Blind Beggar at Jericho .... 84 St. Paul at Rome 87 Christmas Eve at Bemeeton, 1885. . . . gi Sea-gulls at Riseholme, near Lincoln , . . 93 Three Months after a Funeral ... .98 Misunderstood loi In the Twilight 104 Reserve 105 Sympathy 107 viii CONTENTS POEMS — continued. p^g^ ' There shall be no more Pain ' . . . . 109 A Real LtAdy iii A Family Likeness 114 A Happv Hour ti6 The Comet op '82 . . . .... 117 The Empty Chair .... . 119 Outside a Door 120 To A Friend 12a ' Surely the Lord is in this Place; and I knew IT not' ......... 122 A Rainy Day 124 The Way of the World 126 To a Small Boy 128 Words, Words, Words ! 130 Madam Etiquette . . . . . . .132 Les Absents ont toujours Raison . . .135 In the Infirmary . . . . . . .137 Good and Clever 138 KiNE, OR Cows? 139 Mud 140 ' O Nata Mecum ' . . ■ ; . . . .141 Daisies 142 SONNETS : To a FRIEND 145 The Jungfrau 146 The Great Frost, 1880-81 147 Death 148 Life . 149 The Day after a Funeral .... 150 Oxford above the Floods . . . . 151 The Gorse at Elsfield ...... 15a Lincoln after Sunset 153 THE KING'S FATHER . . . " . , . . 155 ST. CHRISTOPHER (^ Cftitfofci Christopheri Sancti speciem quicunque tuetur IIlo sane die miUo dolore gravetur Old mural inscription in a Wiltshire Church ST. CHRISTOPHER A CANTATA Scene I.— ^ rocky Hermitage by the side of a ravine. The Hermit walking on the crags. Time, early morning. Hermit. Once more, O sun ! I watch thee grandly rising, As Christ arose, when all the world was still ; Thou blood-red fount of Love, the world baptising. That spreadst in rosy light from hill to hill ! The fir-tree tops rejoice, the woods awaken ; Swift flies the gloom, by thy keen rays o'ertaken. Still deep and dark yon hollow chasm abideth. Where, black and pent with cliffs, th' imprisoned stream Bellows and frets and foams, and hoarsely chideth ; Rough rocks beneath, above it smothering steam. O soul of riian ! 'twixt ignorance and sorrow Thus runs thy course — long night, as yet no morrow ! Such have I known erewhile ; the struggling many, Whose life, uncheered by sunshine, darkly ran In fruitless strife, nor comfort had it any. Nor hope in God, nor tenderness for man. O lyord ! have pity ; they know not. Thou knowest ; Touch with Thy love even these, Thy last and lowest ! 4 ST. CHRISTOPHER See, yonder see, the rifted crags receding ! Those waves, set free, in broader currents run ; And now, ah now ! — O moment worth the heeding ! — Their crests are golden, they have felt the sun. The glory spreads : of late in darkness pining, The stream laughs back to heaven— gives sheen for shining ; And redder still those ruby clouds are burning. And wider, wider spread those shafts of gold ; Hill after hill is touched, all nature yearning For this new blessing, which can ne'er grow old. flowers ! O birds ! and everything that moveth, 1 love you all in Him, because He loveth. \Turns, and sees two figures wrestling in the distance. Black in the full-orbed glory of the sun, Oh, who are these afar, that hither press ? Not friendly, as two pilgrims side by side » In amicable converse ; nay, their shapes Are wrestling, intertwined in fiercest throes Of deadly combat, knee fast locked in knee : One gripes the throat ; now grappling, breast to breast. Forward they come, gigantically matched, Two rocky masses on each other flung By earthquake's might,' two clouds that burst in rain, With flash and rolling thunder ; or as at sea Two towering ships, storm-driven, that crash on crash Confound each other in one general wreck. Spars flying, shouts of woe, and curses dire ! O Heaven ! I see them nearer ! God above. What fiendish shape is this ? From the mouth of hell That voice, those gestures came ! His face is dark ST. CHRISTOPHER 5 O'erbrooding wings of blackness veil his form, That, nearer drawing, with iierce, scorching glow, Sucks, like a furnace blast, the dewy air. \Figures approach nearer. ist VoiK. Thou canst not fly me ! 2nd Voice. I defy thee. Hence ! i^^ Voice. Thou'rt mine ! I challenge Heaven and Earth to wrest Thee, body or soul, from me. - 2nd Voice, I will not yield ; I hate thee, scorn thee, and forswear thee ! 1st Voice. Yield ! What shall resistance bring thee, trampled worm. But pain, pain, pain, and threefold thousand pains, From me, thy lord and master, in that world Wherein I reign? 2nd Voice (Peregrinus). Thou canst not wrest my will. I will not yield. Have at thee once again ! Bruise me, and scorch me, mar my face with blows, Break all my bones, the shapeless mass deformed Thou tramplest on the earth, from every wound Shall cry, ' I hate thee ! ' ere my stiffening lips Shall say one word of yielding. \st Voice. Then with this I'll crush thee to the earth. \They wrestle. Hermit \approaching\. Nearer and nearer, fiercer sounds the fray. thou dark spirit ! in the name of Him Who wrestled with thee on the cross for man, By this same cross, by that victorious might, 1 charge thee, hence ! ist Voice. Thou foil'st me now, mean slave Of pious usage, hypocritic form, 6 ST. CHRISTOPHER Lax coward, fingering beads and pattering prayer ; But when the moonless midnight hour is come. And all is dark in thy storm-circled cell, And winds put out the taper's petty life Before thy cherished image, and with moans And twitching faces, sudden flash of eyes, And^ — threatening now, now musically bland. Now laughing, now blaspheming — airy tongues Mix with the petulant chiding of the gale And cries of shipwrecked men, my prey ; why, then Think on this hour, and thou wilt curse the day Thou durst step in betwixt my own and me ! Hermit. Hence, in His name ! [ Thzcnder. First speaker disappears. Hermit alone with Peregrinus, who has sunk ex- hausted on the ground. A giant mass of manhood, yet he lies Utterly spent, like some scarce-breathing corse. With streaming gashes, singed and clotted hair, And ashy lips, and all his mighty limbs In tattered garments, foul with dust and sweat, Felled to the ground, like some tall tree, whose arms Once fellows with the sky, now trailed in mire, AVith fresh green foliage drooping, soiled and torn, Bewail the woodman's axe. I'll lend him aid. See, take my hand I Peregrinus \kalf springing up, and flinging out his arms']. Hence ! wouldst thou yet again Try masteries with me ? Oh, forgive, forgive ! Or art thou he, my wary foe, disguised Beneath the garb of sanctity and age ? Hermit. Nay, yonder see the charred and withered grass. The track his burning footsteps left — and there. ST. CHRISTOPHER 7 Deep down the chasm, from yonder point of rock, He leapt and vanished. Peregrinus. There ? Hermit. Even there. Peregrinus. 'Tis well ! I little thought to breathe this pure blue air, To feel the loving sunbeams strike upon me. Unshadowed by those wings' infernal gloom, Breathe unimpeded by that throttling clutch And breath of flame — to touch a human hand, Kind, willing, sympathetic as thine own. Yet I would yield me, never ! yet I knew The will within me that no force could break, Intense through pain, still constant to itself. Would dare him to the death. Oh, I am weary, {Rises slowly. Yet glad. Dost know what gladness fills the heart When all the body aches, and every limb Sends back a separate throb, a separate groan. Yet every groan a messenger of joy ? I would not lose one anguish, not one stab Of this strange pain, for all the healthful ease And downy lullabies of prosperous men. Yet scarce my feet can bear me. Oh, how oft I have laughed at weakness— now methinks I know How the weak feel — a laughing-stock myself. Hermit. Come ! 'tis few paces further to my cell, Just where the sunlight falls on that low roof, Grey as the rock 'tis hewn from ; now you hear The soft, slow trickling of my neighbour stream. And now the cooing of my doves that build Amid the tufted ivy. Come in with me, Refresh thyself, and then when evening's light Shines in yon heaven, and all the gentle stars, 8 ST. CHRISTOPHER A band of noiseless listeners, glitter forth To hear the tale, your labours and your life, How you have toiled and struggled, how endured. You shall recount at leisure. Peregrinus. I obey. My will is spent, I follow. Lead the way. Scene II. — The Cell at evening. Peregrinus and the Hermit, seated. Herifiit. Thou wilt not stay beyond to-morrow's dawn? There's many a traveller tarries at my cell For food or drink or shelter, and their words Are kind and grateful ever, yet to none Have I felt moved, like thee. Peregrinus. I may not stay. I thank thee, but this life is not for me. There is a passionate movement in my blood That longs for doing, and my frame, if here I tarried listlessly, full soon would tire For lack of being tired. Those short- winged birds That flutter down for crumbs and fragments, sit Pecking with delicate beak at hips and haws, Or trailing, many-coloured brambles' fruit — Sparrow to sparrow twittering, finch to finch, — 'Tis well for them ; but bid yon sea-gull stop From his wild life where all the heaven 's his own, And all the unapproachfed rocky steeps, And all the sea, wide-glittering — bid him come Feed at your table, fatten him on worms, Catch hillside trout to set before him— say, S2\ CHRISTOPHER 9 Henceforth I'll tend thee, wherefore wouldst thou fly?' How would he answer thee ? A sea-mew's wing Must needs fly far, and battle with the storm ; To such, a listless life is worse than death, And so 'twould be with me. Hermit. Yet thou hast lived Feregrinus. Yes, I have lived. Wouldst hear how I have lived ? 'Twere a strange story for a winter night. Hermit. Ay, marry, if thy story match thyself, 'Tis something that o'ertops the common life And common ways of mortals. Feregrinus. From a child 'Twas still the same ; within myself I felt The growing promise of unconquered strength ; A boy, I played with men ; to manhood grown. Unmatched by men, I turned to fight with beasts. Was never horse so skittish and untamed. But when he felt my hand upon his mane Grew straightway docile to my whispering voice ; Was never bloodhound fierce, but fawned on me, Wagged tail and crouched and whined like beaten cur ; Ay, the wild lions and the white-toothed pards, Did I but lift my finger, skulked away Like cats that fear the rod — nay more, they feared My cast-off mantle and my pine-tree stafi" While I lay, slumber- bound. Hermit. And yet, 'tis strange. Thou bear'st such kindly manhood in thy looks. Sleeping or waking I could never fear thee. For all thou hast, thou strongly hast, and sure Thy heart is strong to love. 10 ST. CHRISTOPHER Peregrinus. Of that I know not. Love is a word for minstrels and for maids. But wouldst hear more ? I wearied for my match ; , All strength lay prostrate at my feet. I scorned To fight and merely conquer. Who would break A reed, a grass-blade, or a brittle straw ? To snap an oak tree 's worth the pains ! I went From land to land, still seeking for my match. They brought me out their strongest champions ; this Had slain his thousands — his ten thousands, he ; But when I barely touched them, they grew weak, Forgot their manhood, and for mercy cried Ere I had warmed to work. At length there came Great news of one unconquerable lord, Stronger than all. Hermit. His name ? Peregrinus. Thou wouldst not hear it. He hath a many names, and every one Stings like a curse and blisters each man's tongue Who speaks it. Hermit. What ! and thou didst yield to him ? Him ? Peregrinus. Ay, and he paid me richly for my pains. Would I have gold ? He showed o' darksome nights The shrunken, helpless miser, with his hoard. Would I have beauty ? Fairest womanhood. Decked for the market all in pearls and smiles. My gold would buy. Would I have pleasure ? There Were tables spread, all mine. I gave my strength. And did him lusty service many a year ; He gave me all beside. I fought his wars, I slew his foes, pale drivellers at their books, Bold, eager-eyed enthusiasts, who stood forth ST. CHRISTOPHER ii To preach rebellion 'gainst his frustrate law, And holy busybodies, prating still Of charity and faith, their petty alms Not worth my picking up. I tell thee, friend, I wearied of it. Then to harder tasks He set me, and with sterner face he chode For slightest mandate left undone. Hermit, Thou tellest An old, old tale, the prodigal's, who erst Devoured his portion, then would feed on husks. And no man gave them. Peregrinus. Of that tale I know not ; But this I know, one day he bade me hale Before Jove's altar, where expectant eyes, Strained necks, and pushing elbows scarce left room i''or her and me, Marcella, whose fair brows. Curled round with childish ringlets, white in gold, Held womanhood within, how delicate. Yet shaming manhood ! There upright she stood, Now flushed, now pale, the soft small fingers twined, Downcast of eye ; yet all the potencies Terrestrial or infernal ne'er could move The tender finger-tips of that white hand To fling one grain of incense on the flame, Nor from that infantine and rosy mouth Force forth the words of worship that would save The mother of her children yet unborn. The wife of him who never yet had wooed, From dying ere the crescent of her life Had orbed to fullest glory. Hermit. What ails thee now ? Thy face is changed with sudden, twitching pain. Peregrinus. T^hey tortured her — I saw it, I was there — 12 ST. CHRISTOPHER That little girlish face, those limbs so white . . . I see it now, the flames, the irons, the rack, The fiendish faces greedy of her throes, And she so beautiful ! Hermit. Thou didst not touch her ? Peregrinus. I could not. He was there and urged me on, His muttered curses crowded in mine ear, His eye malignant, like some baneful star, Shot down on me, and yet — I thank Thee, Heaven, I raised no hand against her. At her side I stood, the drooping lily head fell back. Pale, and more pale in death ; her voice was gone, But, as her breath from those tigbt-strainfed lips Ebbed gaspingly away, she raised to me One glance, and whispered, 'Though thy lord be strong. There is a stronger yet, serve ffim ! ' and then Torture could do no more. [Rises, and exit suddenly. Hermit. He is strangely moved. With giant strides I hear him pace the path O'erhangs the river's margin. How his face Worked as he spoke, and that great ox-like brow ! The solid veins in that vast hand stood forth, The deep chest quivered, and almost a tear Rose in those grandly set, unshrinking eyes, Whence Truth herself looks out, unshamed and fearless. He comes again ; a calm is on his face. Calm as the sunset of a stormy day. Re-enter Peregrinus. Peregrinus. Wouldst hear the rest? 'tis brief. I have wearied you ? ST. CHRISTOPHER 13 Hermit. Not wearied, but the thought of that pure life Has left a strange vibration in my heart. As at the ceasing of some rhythmic chime The rocking melancholy music floats, Dead to the ear, but living to the brain, Reverberating with a nameles^ thrill. Where sense with memory dances hand in hand, Even thus it comes before me ! Peregrinus. But to me ! I cannot speak of it or her. This only Would I now ask thee. Know'st thou Him she spake of? That Lord, that Strong One, that Omnipotent, Who in a maiden's heart such fortitude Inspired, Who steeled that slight and tender frame To bear what never man had borne, to smile When every tense and cracking sinew seemed But like the chords of some clear-ringing lyre, Whence heavenliest music tremblingly uprose — To whom? Hermit. I know Him. Peregrinus. I would know Him. Say, How can I find Him ? Hermit. Thou must fast and pray. And haply He will show Himself to thee. He sits upon no earthly throne, the winds His chariots, and the swift thought-wingfed clouds His coursers, and the starry hosts of night His armies, and the empyreal world His seat ; So vast, the heaven of heavens cannot contain. And yet He walks in brotherhood with men, And dwells within the heart, no cruel Lord, But tenderest, wisest Friend. 14 ST. CHRISTOPHER Peregrinus. Would He were mine ! Hermit. All things are possible to fast and prayer. Peregrinus. Thou bidd'st me fast. What ! starve my giant strength, Relax the swing of this tremendous arm, Slacken my sinews, bid these brawny cords, Flaccid and limp and profitless, shrink back From challenge, once contemptuously returned ? What ! should / fast, whom Hunger unappeased Haunts with an everlasting cry for meat ? Who largely gives takes largely, no thin blood Runs in my veins, nor on thin viands fed Can strength like this subsist. Forgive me, friend ; Strength to the strong, no fasting fare for me ! Thou smilest. I am answered. Hermit. If to fast Thou canst not or thou wilt not bring thee,, then At least I bid thee pray. Peregrinus. I ne'er have prayed, Nor know I how to pray. Once on. my knees I tried to bend my thoughts to God, when straight A herd of wild gazelles dashed past me — -swift I followed ; all my prayer had fled away ; Swifter than they my lightning arrow sped. One palpitating victim left behind Of all the herd was mine — a feast before me ! I ate and drank, was satisfied and slept. And thus 'tis ever when I seek to pray. I cannot pray, my nature loves it not ; And He who made my nature what it is, Sure ne'er can blame the nature He has made. Thou smil'st not. Art thou answered? Hermit. If to pray Thou find'st thus irksome — though methinks the soul ST. CHRISTOPHER 15 Has thews and sinews like the body's self, Which, being unexercised, do waste and pine, And prayer is such gymnastic, wholesome, stern, By none at first congenial found, yet after Easy, delightful, ay, and profitable To such as use it — if thou wilt not pray. Then by yon steep and rocky stair descend. And seek the deep and dangerous ford beneath. There oft in spring-time, swollen by mountain snows, The torrent rages, chin and shoulder deep ; And he who wades across it, dizzy grown Amid the dancing whirlpools, totters first, Then falls, and by the mighty current borne, In vain maly shriek for succour, and in vain Wave desperate hands, ere dashed on rocks unseen He sinks, no more to rise alive. But thou. Tall as a tower, with firm wide-stepping stride. What were the torrent to thee, but a brook Wherein a mother sees her child at play Without a fear ? And on thy shoulders borne, Locked in the custody of those strong arms, What traveller, ay what woman, ay what child. Would henceforth fear to pass it ? Peregrinus. Thou speakest truth. Such labour suits me well ; to-morrow morn I'll leave thee, hospitable friend, and seek The deep ravine, the foaming mountain ford ; And thou'lt forgive me for the fast and prayer ? {Exeunt. i6 57: CHRISTOPHER THE WATER-SPIRITS INTERLUDE i^for music). Song of Ice-Spirits. Cold, inexorable, still Sit we on our crystal hill ; While the alpine winds that freeze Whistle round our snow-capt brows, In our rigid grasp the keys Of that silent prison-house Where our captives lie congealed, Locked with bolts that may not yield. Sunlight, moonlight come in vain To disturb our sullen reign ; Still we sit like statues grim, Smileless, tearless, and apart. Fixed of visage, stern of limb, Like an unrepentant heart. Bleaker than the granite stone. Where the raven makes his throne. Might that reigns, but cannot bless. Death in everlastingness ! Being, without power to move, Strength that serves but to defy. Constancy that feels no love. Hopeless immortality ! These are ours, alone and still Seated on our icy hill ! ST. CHRISTOPHER 17 Chorus of the Mountain Torrents. Forth we come leaping to light from the gloom, Joyously rushing from death's frozen womb ; Long we lay prisoned through winters untold, Blue vaults above us of ice gleaming cold, Barren as moonlight, and cruel and drear, Loveless and lifeless in silence a'ustere, Save for the falling ice-masses that boom, Echoes of thunder, loud crashes of doom. Faintly, how faintly, like morn in a dream. Thickly veiled. sunlight seemed scarcely to gleam. Slowly, how slowly, a gold thread of day Dripped through the crevice and fell where we lay ! Water, O water ! sweet dewdrops divine, Firstborn of light and of love, how ye shine ! Joy-tears of hope, how ye glitter at morn ! Hark to the music ! the river is born ! Slowly, how slowly, the sun struggles through. Far, far away in that faint streak of blue ; Slowly, how slowly, we waken to bliss : Is there a world that is gladder than this ? Brother joins brother, see faster we haste ; Yonder, out there, is the sunshine at last. Hark to the murmurs of life from afar, See, through the crevice, that flash like a star ! Now we burst forth, now the barrier is won ; Oh, how it warms us to look on the sun ! Rush we and bound we, and shout with delight. Forth from our prison to freedom and light ! c I J! ST. CHRISTOPHER Dancing with joy in the sunbeams of mom, Filled with fresh gladness for ever new-bcrn, Downwards we rush in a chorus of song, Life ever blessing, and love ever strong ! First Water-Spirit (The Rair^. O'er a thirsty land I hovered, While the days to weeks rolled on ; Every hedge with dust was covered. Every flower looked sick and wan, Cattle starved in plain and meadow, On the herbage parched and brown. Fever walked, a ghastly shadow. In the close infected town. Day by day I lingered, feigning That to-night the shower would fall. Night by night my gift restraining. How I mocked earth's children all ! To the sky they looked, bemoaning. While the clouds grew thin as air ; Mothers weeping, sick men groaning. Faces haggard in despair. Rose a voice of supplication Hoarsely from their parchfed throat, And a wail of lamentation On mine ear incessant smote. Till at length my heart had pity On the dry and choking land. On the hot, plague-stricken city. And I raised my laden hand, ST. CHRISTOPHER 19 Poised the golden pitcher meetly ; — Rushed the shower, and streamed the plain. Oh, how balmily, how sweetly Rose the fragrance of the rain ! And a greenness, slowly, surely Crept, where all seemed dead before, And the river ran more purely. And the brooks were heard once more ; And the sick man rose to labour. And the children ran to play, Each man smiled to greet his neighbour. Flowers grew bright, the world was gay ; But they knew me not, nor heeded (Though I freed them from their pain), Straight forgetting how they pleaded For the blessing of the rain. Second Water-Spirit {The Well). In an archbd grotto deep. Through the midday hours I sleep ; Dewy moss and maidenhair Shed a greenness everywhere. And the moisture drips and glides, Never hasting, never staying, Down the cavern's marble sides ; And the fringfed grasses, swaying O'er the steps that edge the light, Tempt the butterfly to rest ; And pink-footed pigeons white, Murmuring music in their breast, Coo and sip, and coo again, To their image, mirrored plain. ST. CHRISTOPHER But the sun, at eve's decline, Paints one brief and golden line On the limpid surface smooth ; And a maid in freshest youth Dips her pitcher as she sings ; — Circling still, and ever circling, Swell the glassy water-rings With a trembling and a gurgling That subsides to show her face Flushing 'neath her hood of blue ; Then she moves with slowest pace Homeward 'neath her burden new ; — Daisies give her, as she goes, One last look, and then they close. But the treasure she doth bear Makes the cot a palace fair ; Old things touched by it are new. Fresh as shining grass in dew ; Food and drink and raiment pure, Home-felt blessings hourly needed. Health's refreshment, sickness' cure. Gifts and gains that come unheeded, In that earthen pitcher brought. Issue from my lonely well. — Who would ever give a thought To the nymph within her cell ? No, she lies and dreams alway. Dreams in twilight at noonday ! Third Water-Spirit {The River). Wandering on, I flow serenely, In a livelong daydream bound, ST. CHRISTOFHER Where the forest-shadows greenly Tremble to my rippling sound, And the swans above me riding Brood, and dip their long necks low, And the breath of Quiet, gliding. Curls the leaves where lilies grow. And the darting, hovering swallows Flit and gleam, and then are gone, And the redstart haunts the sallows. As my btream winds on and on ; Beauty, merged and fused in blessing, Sings her lullaby of peace. Like a mother's hand caressing, Music, throbbing ere it cease. Then a sail, far off beholden, Steals across the westward line, While the mellow water golden. Full of glory, gleams like wine ; And a sky-enkindled splendour O'er the broadening ocean smiles. And Delight than Thought more tender Qjiivers through the sunset isles ! Fourth Water-Spirit {The Tempest). Night-black clouds fast driven, Furious, winds that wail. All the host of waters Surging with the gale ! Stars scarce seen in heaven, Fitful moonlight streaks, ST. CHRISTOPHER Torn, tempestuous masses, Swept o'er mountain peaks. Caverns dark and hollow. Deep in ocean's womb. Foam like hellish laughter Tossed amid the gloom, Long-drawn mighty thunderings Groaning evermore. Crash of giant breakers On the gleaming shore. Sobs and shrieks despairing. Flung to heaven in vain. Brief and tearless partings. Terror numbing pain ! Then, when cold grey morning Tarries for the sun, Yonder hull dismasted Tells what night has done. Wealth that none may gathei;, Fast-locked coffers burst, Silk and spice and treasure Wantonly dispersed. Ah, a dead white woman Tossing with the deep ! Babe upon that bosom Never more may sleep. ST. CHRISTOPHER 23 Scene III. — A narrow gorge by a deep ford. Evening. Peregrinus, alone. As swifter-paced the night draws nigh, While autumn into winter turns, I watch thee, striding through the sky, Orion, with the belt that burns ; I mark thee roam the heavens so free, And would that I could roam with thee ! A thousand years, a thousand more. Thou mov'st, resplendent, on thy way Thou shin'st immortal as of yore, Untired, undimmed, thyself thy day ! The world, with all its shifting range, Thou seest, but dost never change. O god-like giant ! — and my days Are prisoned by this rocky bound ; Too soon thou passest from my gaze Behind yon cliff with pine-trees crowned. On earth I linger, yet my breast Is stirred by thee, and cannot rest. Thou, when the sun is veiled in night, Com'st glittering forth in proud array ; /stood beneath his noonday light. And shrank not from its fiercest ray ; Methought the sun but rose that he Might light the wcr'd to look on me ! 24 Sr. CHRISTOPHER. Where is it now, that golden prime, When I myself, no less than thou, Seemed lifted to a height sublime, With laurel wreathed my thick-tressed brow, And all men crowded round, to view His form that could a world subdue ? Where now the shout, the breathless pause. The ring of faces closely pressed. The strength redoubled by applause, The boiling fury in my breast, The thrill, the triumph, and the pride. The thirst for glory satisfied ? Fled, like a dream ! and where is he, The hero of that splendid hour ? Who asks or cares what he may be, And who recalls his boasted power ? His days slip by, and leave behind No trace, forgotten by mankind. I've watched the moon, a crescent fine. Grow seven times full and seven times dim, And star by star in season shine Above yon chasm's sharp-severed rim ; No message comes from heaven or earth. My deeds and I seem nothing worth. I've watched the ferns uncurling slow, The foxglove bells that bloom and die ; Above my head the mountain roe Flits, like a shadow 'gainst the sky ; Swift comes the sun, swift goes the rain, While still I watch and wait in vain. Sr. CHRISTOPHER 25 ■How fast the twilight grows ! above me brood, Vaster and blacker, yon tall peaks and pines. White water foams below me, louder peals, The ever, ever-sounding, maddening roar. So grateful once, so wearisome at length, A long six months monotonously heard ! Fain would I change it for the glare, the thirst. The silence of parched lips and burning tongue, By sandy plains and summer suns begotten In some broad shadeless desert of the south. O for a noon of Africa to-night ! for the glorious quivering whitening haze Shed from pure heat ! above, a blaze of blue Hotter than molten brass, more bright than flame. While earth, a tawny lion, sleeps outstretched In noontide calm of motionless repose ! Enter Traveller. Is that a light that flickers o'er the ford. Or wandering meteor fire ? From point to point It moves, yet rather glides than walks ; it comes Crossing my way. Ah ! how my eyes mistook ! 'Tis but a traveller, wading with his staff" From stone to stone, safe through the dangerous ford. Good night, and welcome hither, friend ! Traveller. I pray you Tell me the way to climb yon pass ; the night Comes swift upon us, and my errand yields Small leisure for delay. Peregrinus. By yonder steps Still gleaming white, there lies your rocky path, The road then plain before you. Traveller. Sir, my thanks ; 1 half despaired —your voice as music met me. 26 ST. CHRISTOPHER But, oh, what godlike majesty is yours ! Such stateliness, such strength, such towering height Make you a wonder for the general eye ; Yet Solitude and Twilight cannot veil Those vast proportions and that royal grace, Power lightly borne, and effortless displayed. 'Tis not for such as you to linger here. And I methinks have heard your name ere now. Art thou not Peregrinus ? he whose name Lives like a proverb in our speech, whose deeds Even fertile Fancy betters not in telling, Nor feigning poets overtop in praise. Oh, art thou he indeed ? Thou art ; then wherefore, When all the world awaits thee, hide thee here ? Why, when I reach yon city, let me but say, ' I spake with Peregrinus,' every face Will wake from dullness, every ear prick up. And straight a buzz of voices questioning me, 'What news of him? How looked he? Is his strength Gone, as the story ran ? ' Peregrinus. What sayst thou ? How ? Who said my strength was gone? Traveller. Oh, 'tis mere folly ; Such tales will spread abroad, and tales of you Are thick as twinkling minnows in a brook. Who heeds such petty restlessness of tongue ? For tongues will wag when great men disappear All in a moment from the gaze of all. Some said a sudden madness sent from heaven Chastised your lofty pride, but others knew That you were sick of love Forgive me, I But speak the things Chance utters in mine ears, Even as the mountain echo mocks our voice ! Sr. CHRISTOPHER 27 Some said the nymphs had rapt you far from men (As Hylas once), some clamorously maintained, Worsted in combat, baffled and ashamed Peregrinus. I tell thee 'tis a lie, a thousand lies. Each blacker than the last. By heaven and earth, I'll have his blood who dares to hawk abroad Such slanderous wares, such foul throat-choking tales, Shameless as he who speaks them ! What? I am conquered ? Who said it? Who durst say it ? Traveller. Ah, good friend, 'Tis but a shadow fight that you would wage With Slander's shifting, disembodied might. That, hit before, still mocks you from behind. Laughs when you bruise your own hand with the force Of your own angry impotence, and straight Repeats the spiteful fable once again. Since no man says what all men do report. And blameless each when every man is blamed. Thou canst not fight with Rumour, canst not crush Conjecture 'neath thy heel. One only way Remains. Come forth, this solitude forsake, Shake thy old prowess from its slumber. Rise, And show thee to the world thyself indeed ! Peregrinus. What reck I of the world ? Let the dogs bark. Or howl, or whine, or fawn, do what they will. Feed on street garbage, spurned by noble feet ! I go my way and heed them not. Traveller. Be 't so ; All 's one to me. I may not tarry here. But yet to-morrow, when, the citv reached, Folk ask of my adventures, and I say. 28 , i-y; CHRISTOPHER ' I chanced on Peregrinus yesternight,' And they demand, ' What news, what news of him. Our pride, our. hero ? ' shall I answer ? Peregrinus. Nothing ; I am dead to them, and they to me. Traveller. Amen ; But dead men have their epitaphs writ fair. What is thy epitaph ? That, sick of life, With thy magnificent, unconquered powers. Thy manhood unimpaired, thy forces whole. With all the world before thee, thou didst choose To waste and linger out thy life obscure, A beast of burden, carrying o'er the ford (1 know thee- and thy ways !) the old, the faint. Poor shreds and refuse of humanity. For what? some mean misshapen copper coin. Doled out by grudging Poverty. Feregrinus. Hold thy peace ! Could such as I e'er take from such as they. Heaven strike this arm with palsy ! Traveller. Wherefore, then. What wild hallucination, baseless dream, Commands thee here to waste thy time, thyself. And all men's hopes of thee ? \A pause. Peregrinus is silent. Bethink thee, friend. Shake off this sickly, mouldy, creeping growth Of thy fantastic lassitude. Be sure Stronger than thou there breathes no living man, And sooner shall this torrent cease to flow, That runs and runs and will for ever run With breathless haste, unhesitating speed. Than such a one appear. Peregrinus. Who told thee ? Who ? ST. CHRISTOPHER 29 I ne'er have breathed my thought to living ear, Save one. Traveller. Ah, friend, the men of every day May come and go, unnoticed as this stone I fling into the torrent's bed, unheeding Where it may fall ; but should some precious ring, Ruby or diamond, from our grasp be lost, We bear it not thus lightly. How I know Thy inmost thought, perchance some other day Will prove a merry tale for thee and me. I know thee better than thyself. Nay, come, Thou'lt live to thank me ! Ay, 'tis good, I see Thy yielding silence but foreruns thy speech. \A child's voice is heard. Thou'rt coming ! Welcome to the world of men ! Feregrinus. Was that a cry ? Traveller. Why not ? Belike a bird Calling its mate i' the darkness. Feregrinus. No : a child ! — Seest thou not something white out yonder ? Traveller. Ay, Foam frothing o'er the stone. Why, friend, thou seemst A fanciful and frightened girl : this comes Of loneliness and brooding. Speed we on. The hour grows late. \A child's voice is heard. ■ Voice. Help, help ! across the ford I pray thee, bear me ! Feregrinus. Ay. Come, little one ! Fear not — 'tis Feregrinus, in these arms Thou wilt be safe. Traveller. I charge thee, come with me. What, for a puny and unthankful babe Lose all ? 30 ST. CHRISTOPHER Peregrinus. I may not leave him thus alone. Think, if to-morrow, circled with the throi;g — Made much of, welcomed, praised, my name sent up To heaven with deafening plaudits — there should come A terrified, forsaken childish face Betwixt my pride and me ; the wail of death. Faint though it were, would fill mine ear, and dull All sense, all sound beside. I cannot leave him : See, see the little hands are stretched towards me ! He fears me not— he trusts me. Traveller. Ha ! it moves My laughter. Here's thy strong one, Peregrinus — A mighty giant, truly ! Peregrinus. Mock me not : I must do what I must. Come hither, child ! Traveller. To think, belike to-morrow I shall stand Amid th' incredulous multitude, and say : ' Why — Peregrinus — 'twere a jest indeed. Could you but see him— prattling to a babe ! — The petty creature ! such a weight, forsooth, Poised on his labouring shoulders ! — like an ass He plies 'twixt shore and shore.' Peregrinus. Peace, peace, and leave me ! Gird at me with thy mates — I care not for it : My choice is mine, and matters not to thee. Come hither, little one ! Traveller. Oh, when I crave Motive for mirth, I need but think of this. Who knows what men may come to ? Bravely done ! Oh, I could laugh to choking — splitting sides. Till mirth became a torment — at the thought Of Peregrinus Bravely, Peregrinus ! ST. CHRISTOPHER 31 I thank thy folly for the merriest tale That e'er set table in a roar. Farewell, Scorn on thy second childhood, drivelling fool ! [Exit. Peregrinus (taking child in his arms). Fear not, little one, although Wonder 'tis I love thee so ! — ■ But thy hand upon my cheek Seems a blessing strange and new — Something that I durst not seek. Something to my heart-beats true. On my shoulder be thy throne (Feather-light thou seem'st to me); Oh, wert thou indeed my own. What would I not do for thee ? Sweet one, like a flower of spring Com'st thou hither be my King ! Ah, my hand is stained with blood — Thou art innocent and good ; Couldst thou look on me by day? Durst I raise my glance to thine ? On this dark and watery way Let me dream that thou art mine ! Through this angry ford I wade — Every step is known to me : On thy mother's bosom laid Safer thou couldst never be. Would that thou and I could fare Thus together everywhere ! \A sound of gathering tempest is heard. What is this ? — my limbs grow, weak ; Oft I've borne a mightier freight, 32 St. CHRISTOPHER Yet methinks, e'en while I speak, Heavier on me grows thy weight, Scarcely can my steps proceed ; Child — art thou a child indeed ? What is this ? — a darkening sky. While the pine-woods crash and roar, And the fleeting rack on high Where the stars are seen no more; — Whence this wild tempestuous wail — Wind and rain and scourging hail ? Voice of the Winds. Woe, woe, woe For the curse and the doom of earth. For Eden deserted and lost. For fallen and bewildered man ! Woe, woe, woe For Creation's travail and groans. For the thorns and thistles of toil, The bitter birth-pangs of Eve ! Woe, woe, woe For the righteous, brother-slain ! — The voice of blood that cries For vengeance from earth to heaven ! Woe, woe, woe For Motherhood's bitter tears. For the wanderer's death in life — The pain over-great to bear ! Woe, woe, woe For the storm in the heart of man. In the bosom of restless earth Accursed for evermore ! ST. CHRISTOPHER 33 Peregrinus. Struggling 'neath the heavy weight, Scarcely can I onward tread. Voice. Wonder not, the load is great Piled upon My guiltless head : Since they crowned Me with the thorn, Adam's toil by Me is borne ! Voice of the Winds. Rolling onward, growing ever. Like the waves of some dark river, Comes the cry of mortal woe — One vast stream of lamentation, Swelled by every age and nation, Till the flood-tides overflow ; From the dungeon, dark, despairing, Year by year the spirit wearing, While the wasted flesh grows wan ; From the rack, the cross, the burning, War's fierce fury undiscerning, — All that man inflicts on man ; From the hearts of women riven. Maids and mothers captive driven, Jewels trodden in the mire, Weeping bitterest tears for sweetest. Stung by insolence unmeetest. Tools of every base desire ; From the children, cowering, pining — While the sun abroad is shining — In some dark and fetid room. Sick and wizened, starved and taunted, By some nameless terror haunted. Creeping mutely to their tomb ; 34 ST. CHRISTOPHER From the writhing slave tormented For some fancy soon repented, Plaything of a ghastly mirth ; From the maniac, chained, degraded, Filthy, famine-pinched, unaided, Saddest shape that haunts the earth ; From the lazar-house where languish Countless forms of human anguish Through th' interminable day. Each man 'neath his burden groaning, And his neighbour's pain disowning, While he chides at Death's delay ; From the bed of Death — oh, hearken. While the shades of Terror darken. And the spirit bids farewell To the light and hope of living, And the soul, in chill misgiving, Listens for the body's knell ! Hark, the passing bell is tolling. And the sounds of grief are rolling, Widely echoed, loud and long ; Pain and .woe and lamentation Sobbing through each deep vibration, Human sorrow's undersong ! Peregrinus. Ah, no further can I go ; Lo ! I sink on bended knee. Voice. 'Tis the weight of human woe, 'Tis the Cross upborne by Me ; All their sorrows I must share. And of every grief am heir. ST. CHRISTOPHER 35 Peregrinus. Hark ! the rain and thunder, hark! See the lightning deadly wild Flashing, streaming through the dark. Who and what art thou, O Child ? Whence those voices high and low. Mingled strains that swell and grow ? Voice of the Winds. Deeper, deeper still Sounds the note of ill, While the tones begin, Fraught with human sin. Blacker still the gloom, Heavier yet the doom, Like a mountain piled On the Undefiled. Anger, wrath and strife. Envy poisoning life, Guilt by Passion fed Whence all love has fled ; Sloth and swinish greed. Dullness for its meed. Sour Self-love that loathes Even the self it clothes ; F'alsehood, meanness, lies, Fraud with narrow eyes, Treachery's hidden hold On disgraceful gold ; 36 ST. CHRISTOPHER Mad Ambition's bent, Endless Discontent, Secret Slander's guile, Hissing 'neath her smile ; Hypocritic face Poisoning holiest grace, Worst things aping best, Sin in priestly vest ; Prodigal unthrift Wasting each good gift, Thanklessness, the meed Of each kindly deed ; Cruelty, whose gain Is another's pain ; Blasphemy, whose cry Mocks at God on high ; Frenzy's torch of flame. Self-destruction's shame. Terror's wild-eyed glare. Fathomless despair ! Peregrinus. Blackest horrors o'er me brood ; Crushed, my limbs beneath me sway, And the boisterous water-flood Sweeps me like a leaf away ! O thou Terrible, thy might Frays me worse than death or night ! Voice. Well mayst thou lament and groan. And beneath thy burden fall, For the iniquity of all Lies upon My head alone ; ST. CHRISTOPHER 37 I was made a curse and shame, I Myself as sin became. Feregrinus. Ah ! I yield me ; now at length Find I Him I sought so long !, Thou than Evil's self more strong, Thou Thyself art Strength of strength. Now I own Thy mastery, now Strive no more, the Victor thou ! But what is this — what sudden change steals o'er me? Lulled is the storm, the horror put to flight -, It seems as if some sudden power upbore me, And made my youth return, my burden light. joy ! O wonder ! such a spring of gladness Bounds in my heart and veins, divinest madness ! 1 walk as light as air, and all around me The floods run music, and the waters sing ; And is it day or night ? and have I found me Within the presence of my heart's dear King ? Oh, let me see Thy face in rapturous vision, Though blindness follow straight on such fruition ! Ah ! for this hour how have I longed and waited ! How oft have mused, how oft have dreamed of Thee ! But far unlike to all my thoughts created Thou cam'st at length, disguised in Infancy. Methought 'twas Nature's voice for pity pleaded, And Thou wast there, and might'st have passed unheeded ! Show me Thyself, that I may see and know Thee, And in the joy of Thy sweet presence move ; 38 ST. CHRISTOPHER Be all my own, for all myself I owe Thee, And love of Strength has turned to strength of Love ! I triumph as Thy slave ; my former story Is lost, forgotten, melted in Thy glory ! Voice. Thou canst not see Me yet, thou canst but serve Me With all the might thou hast, upon this earth ; And if at length thou hopest to deserve Me, Count no desert of thine of any worth ; Serve thou My servants, even the poorest, weakest, Behold Me there, find there the Lor-d thou seekest. ' Bearer of Christ ' be thou, to all who meet thee A glimpse of blessedness, a pledge of joy ! And whosoe'er at matin-tide shall greet thee, Shall feel that day from no foul thing annoy ; The helpless bless thee, potent yet most tender, And heroes learn thy might in self-surrender. Bearer of Christ be thou in all thy going. In heart and body His thy whole life long ; Fight in His name, all evil overthrowing. When most thou own'st thy weakness, then most strong ; So shall He bear thee up, and still deliver, And safely bring thee home through Death's dark river. Morning. Chorus of Water-Spirits. Rejoice, you host of waters, Ye thronging floods of might, O clap your hands together, In still-renewed delight ! 57: CHRISTOPHER 39 Rejoice, for ye are holy In Him, the Pure, the True, Who, water's self baptising, Hath blessed and hallowed you. Henceforth in flood and fountain Celestial virtue dwells, Life-giving streams eternal Are poured from crystal wells ; Each shower with blessing laden From God to man descends, The rainbow's threefold glory O'er earth in promise bends. Break forth, thou mystic river, ' From God's own altar run, Flow forth from God's own threshold, Swift hastening toward the sun ! Oh, rise and deepen round us With ever-swelling crest. Till we, our feet forsaking. Are carried on thy breast ! Stream onward to the desert, And bid its dryness flee ; O haste and heal the saltness Even of th' accursfed sea ! With living fish in thousands O let those waters teem ; Bring life where'er thou goest. And wide and wider stream ! ^ Ezek, xlvii. 40 ST. CHRISTOPHER Unfading trees of beauty Upon thy banks be seen, Whose fruit is ever fragrant 'Mid boughs still budding green ; The leaves shall be for healing, The fruit shall be for meat ; Thy bourne the land of morning, Thy source the mercy-seat ! *,* Since writing the above Chorus my attentionhas been drawn to some fine lines on the same subject in the Baptistery, by Isaac Williams. POEMS THE BRIDGE HAUNTED world ! with these thy outward shows, That part and just disclose Some flying vision of the things that are, How many a face hast thou Half hidden from me now. That comes and goes again, like some cloud- peeping star ! 1 see them hovering everywhere I go — Beside the firelight's glow, Beneath the April buds, in sun and rain ; Their laughter scarce has died, I feel them at my side — Who says that they are dead and cannot come again ? They climbed beside us on the mountain ridge ; They crossed by yonder bridge — That narrow bridge, that fragile arch of stone ; And now their voice is drowned. The thundering waters sound. The rocks rise up, and they — oh, whither are they gone? Still on our path unfaded lies the spray They plucked in daring play ; 44 THE BRIDGE The dewy bank they trod still bears the track Of climbing hands and feet ; The echoes still repeat That ringing laugh — the last — and here the boughs bent back ! O dark, deep-plunging waters, with your roar That thunders ' Nevermore ! ' Where have ye hid them — whither walk they now ? What, must they ne'er be seen 'Twixt ferns and branches green ? No ? — not in far-off vision on the mountain's brow ? Can things be near as our own hearts to-day, The next so far away ? And can a moment turn our all to nought ? What is there in mankind That makes the fickle wind More constant than his life, less subtle than his thought ? Why should we spend long nights and countless days Still wandering in the maze Of sad perplexity, that fain would guess At their new life untried, When knowledge is denied, And old Experience mocks us, clad in Fancy's dress ? As toward a cradle, empty still, and white. Some mother glides at night. And o'er the pillow bends, with yearnings strong, Until she seems to see The baby face to be. Yet, whatsoe'er she dreams, one day may prove it wrong— THE BRIDGE 45 ,As she, through long-drawn hours content to wait, Ne'er murmurs at the fate That hides the mystery from her tender eye, For very love intense Endures the long suspense, And would not know too soon, lest hope itself should die — So, musing o'er that life which never dies, A thousand fancies rise : We shape the Future by the things of earth ; Yet far from Truth we stray, We cannot be as they ; The very mystery shrines the miracle of birth. And if we saw and touched and knew — oh, where Would be our hope and prayer ? Thrice blessed be the thought, we cannot know : There's something then above To feed progressive love ; We cannot be our whole best selves below. O Death ! thou bride with features grandly pale, We bless thee for thy veil : There's somewhat beauteous still beyond our ken. Rejoice ! — with all our lore We cannot half explore The heights and depths of God, the hopes and joys of men. O dear, dear souls ! kind hands we loved to hold. Now hid in coffins cold — O friends ! so near a little while ago — If child and mother move In one blest world of love, 'Tis love that knits us yet far closer than we know. 46 THE BRIDGE Thank God, who veils the spirit's growth divine • In dim, thrice-curtained shrine, And hides the nascent glory from our sight ! Oh, be it ours to wait, And trust Him soon or late To bid our darkness yield, and manifest His light ! SILENCE THOU who wrap'st us in th' eternal fold Of thy soft garment, on whose breast we lie. Strange power, whose face we never may behold, Whose voice has never answered back our cry, Say, art thou deaf or blind, Unheeding or unkind ? Is M7 face veiled or ours? Hast thou a tale untold? Oft when our throbbing conscience wakes to deem She hears the avenging footstep on its way, Thy spell descends, and our misgivings seem The self-raised phantoms of a mind astray ; So children lie and mark Strange faces in the dark. And sick men start and shudder at a dream. Oft, goaded on by fierce and cruel pain. We cry aloud, upbraiding unjust Fate, Th' unheeding world rolls past us in disdain. Stones wound our feet, fast closed is Pity's gate, Thy mists obstruct our prayer. We shout through stifling air, And grope along blank walls, in vain, in vain. SILENCE 47 Oft when we seek, amid the wreck of years, For Love's dear presence in Love's ancient haunt, Mid lonely chambers where no form appears. No touch is felt, and memory seems to taunt Our anguish by the keen Sharp thrust of things unseen," Thou fiU'st the space left empty by our tears. No voice, no presence, nothing, where of old Kind words, sweet music, tenderest feelings flowed, No fire to cheer us on the hearth-stone cold. No welcome at the turning of the road ! Blank strangeness everywhere, A chill in summer air,— How can the flowers still blossom from the mould ? A spell-bound breathless wonder that pervades The light of day, the air, the paths we knew, A hesitating doubt that haunts the glades And asks, ' Can I be I ? Can this be true ? ' But now it seemed a home Where sorrow ne'er might come. And then we wake to mourn life's sunshine as it fades. Dread monarch, ruling with triumphant sway Our present life — that, questioning still the Past, Hears nought to bless the Future — Silence, say. Must thy supremacy for ever last ? Can nothing break thy spell. And from th' eternal well Pour forth the spring of speech now locked, ice- bound and fast ? 48 SILENCE Dost thou beat back the fluttering wings of Prayer ? And is it all in vain, a childish tale ? And is there none to hearken or to care, To hear us when we laugh or when we wail ? Is yon Cathedral chime An idle* pulse of time, The spirit of man poured forth to empty air ? Still neutral, still impervious, still unknown. Strong to refuse, safe guardian of thy trust, While Hope and Memory, by thy sands o'erstrown. Lie hid beneath a waste of level dust, O stillness, worse than storm! O void, than direst form More terrible ! thou turn'st the heart to stone. THE REPLY I hear thee, I have heard thee, I will hear. The weak restrain not speech, the strong control. To me the far-off ages seem the near, Thou seest a part, but I the perfect whole, Therefore revere me more ; Thrice dreadful is the roar Of thunder for that pause ere yet it burst and roll. Still gathering up its strength, yon breaker vast Sucked drop by drop in its unhurried swell, And poised the weight of water, ere at last With rhythmic roar it curved and crashed and fell ; My waves even thus keep time DeUberately sublime. For Nature's pace, like God's, knows nought of slow nor fast. THE REPLY 49 And thou forsooth wouldst gather, in thy haste, The first rude pebble that thine hand can reach. And fling it wildly 'mid the watery waste, And think the splash and foam responsive speech. Ah, fool ! not thus, not yet Thy craving can be met, Too mighty are the powers 'midst whom thy soul is placed ! Yet deem it not in vain, this longing deep. This ear of thine attent to every sound ; And woe to him who yearns not, nor doth weep- By him who seeks for nothing, nought is found, The wakeful ready mind Its own reward must find, Hears Love's first distant footfall, while the world's asleep. Even as thy pulsfe, to ocean's pulse akin, Throbs with thy heart in microcosmic tides, As ocean's music, by thine ear drunk in. With strong recurrence in thy brain abides. So let thy spirit's power Forecast the final hour When Speech, of Silence born, his empire shall begin ! so A VESTAL VIRGIN^ Dum Capitolium Scandet cum tacita virgine Pon'ifex. HOR. Od. III. 30. MARBLE woman with the perfect grace Of undulating raiment, white and fine, In half-suspended motion, face to face. Shoulder to shoulder, almost touching mine. How strange thy nearness makes thy farness seem, Pale as a ghost, and vivid as a dream ! Even thus thou movedst day by day ; and so When thy fair bosom heaved with living swell, And heart-beats throbbed with ceaseless ebb and flow, Those folds of beauty round thy stature fell, And that pale face and that too pensive mouth Bespake the rich ripe beauty of the South. Those pale and stony eyes were glowing then With who knows what of scarcely veiled fire Of beauteous womanhood, aloof from men, The woman's nature changeless and entire ! How didst thou pass, unscathed, those perilous years ? Where was thy heart, and what its hopes, its fears ? 1 See the beautiful statues lately discovered in the Atrium Vestse