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 Cornell University Library 
 PR 4971.M3G5 
 
 Gladys the singer, and other poems. 
 
 3 1924 013 520 501 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013520501 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 (^G^suvva.g,^ ERIC ^ACKAY, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "love LETTERS OF A VIOLINIST,' 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 REEVES AND TURNER, 196 STRAND. 
 
 1887. 
 
 c6 
 
/\-l!oq'7o 
 
 BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Gladys the Singer : — 
 canto first . 
 canto second 
 
 A Choral Ode to Liberty 
 
 The Nightingales . 
 
 Medusa's Hair . 
 
 The King's Rest 
 
 Vox Amoris 
 
 9 
 39 
 69 
 
 87 
 
 94 
 
 98 
 
 103 
 
TO 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING, 
 
 POET, SEER, PHILOSOPHER. 
 
I knew thee first as one may know the fame 
 
 Of some apostle, as a man may know 
 
 The mid-day sun far-shining o'er the snow. 
 I hail'd thee prince of poets ! I became 
 Vassal of thine, and warm'd me at the flame 
 
 Of thy pure thought, my spirit all aglow 
 
 With dreams of peace, and pomp, and lyric show. 
 And all the splendors. Browning ! of thy name. 
 But now, a man reveal'd, a guide for men, 
 
 I see thy face, I clasp thee by the hand ; 
 
 And though the Muses in thy presence stand. 
 There's room for me to loiter in thy ken. 
 O lordly soul ! O wizard of the pen ! 
 
 What news from God ? What word from Fairyland ? 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 Canto 3ffrst. 
 
 Ye who have known the pangs of much delight, 
 
 The joys of sorrow, and the ravish'd sight 
 
 Of some enthralment in a woman's shape. 
 
 Ye who have known the wondrous wild escape 
 
 Of heyday thoughts, — accept me of your kin ! 
 
 I, too, have lov'd ; I, too, have joy'd therein ; 
 
 I, too, have pray'd and sigh'd, — as ye have 
 
 sigh'd,— 
 And sought the Wisdom which is near allied 
 To Folly's self. — Far off I hear ye weep, 
 I see your smiles, I note the things you keep. 
 
10 GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 The hoarded nothings of a perish'd year, — 
 A faded rose, — a ringlet passion-dear, — 
 All these I see; and, while I muse thereon, 
 I think of those sweet souls beyond the dawn 
 Whose love was flame. O deathless ! O ye dead ! 
 Are ye well met ? Have ye no tears to shed. 
 Not e'en for joy ? Is love not worth a kiss 
 Up there in Heaven ? A mere seraphic bliss, 
 Fit for a saint ? God help us then each one ! 
 And you, my brothers, — you, this side the sun, 
 Who love true-love, — believe this much of me, 
 That I have worshipp'd Love upon my knee 
 And almost fear'd it. I have trembled there 
 For sheer delight ! A glove, — a ribbon fair, — 
 Have moved me strangely ; and in lonefy hours, 
 In empty chambers, and in starlit bowers, 
 I have been blest. Have you enthroned a Grief 
 And paid it homage ? Have you found relief 
 In tears and dreams, as I full oft have done. 
 And not been impious ? earn'd a benison 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. ii 
 
 And not been proud ? — I claim you, here to-night, 
 Friends of these lovers twain, of whom I write. 
 That you may see them, in their smiles and tears, 
 A-down the depths of non-returning years. 
 
 In days gone by there stood, beside the sea, 
 A lofty tower, which loom'd across the lea. 
 Far-seen for miles ; and, in the glade below, 
 A rustic dwelling fit for those to know 
 Who love seclusion. 'Twas a peaceful nook 
 Meet for Apollo when, with pipe and crook. 
 He wooed Acantha; and within its walls 
 One was safe shelter'd whom a Legend calls 
 Gladys the Singer, — one of those elect 
 And fond, fair women whom the world has deck'd 
 But will not honor. 
 
 He who own'd the tower 
 Was young and wild, and knew that lonesome bower. 
 Knew it too well, aye ! knew it as the kite 
 
12 GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 May know the dove-cot ; and a-down the height 
 He strode one day, one lustrous autumn-day, 
 Brain-sick with fancies such as warp the sway 
 Of Eros' children ; and his steps he turn'd 
 To where the cottage stood amid the burn'd 
 And withering foliage. But, beside the same, 
 He paus'd in doubt ; and, with a kindling shame. 
 Half glad, half sad, he heard a matin song 
 Sung, as it seem'd, by One who did belong 
 To angel-choirs. And, as he drain'd the draught 
 Of that sweet voice, — as soul and body quaff'd 
 The nectarous notes, — a something from his eyes 
 Fell like a film, and all the earth and skies 
 And all the frondage of the forest way 
 Re-took the raptures of the month of May. 
 He roam'd, in thought, once more beside the stream 
 Where she had led him, — where the golden gleam 
 Of her bright hair had crown'd the tender grace 
 Of her lithe body, and her matchless face 
 Had made him mad ! And once again he stood 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 13 
 
 Alone with her in Heaven, and found it good, 
 
 Found it the one sweet thing of all things known, 
 
 To sit with her at twilight, all alone, 
 
 In halcyon spots, — the universe their own. 
 
 A bowery nook, a sea-side lonely cave. 
 
 These were his Heaven, and more he did not crave ! 
 
 But now he tarried near the very shrine 
 
 Of this lov'd soul, and heard her voice divine 
 
 Peal out supreme. — He open'd with a smile 
 
 The querulous door, and stood, a breathing-while. 
 
 Straight in her sight. 
 
 She rush'd into his arms 
 Tear-lit with joy, and glowing in the charms 
 Of white surrender : " O my Love ! my Love ! 
 So true, so gentle, so insured above 
 All time and distance ! I have yearn'd for thee 
 As earth for summer, as the lonely sea 
 For midnight stars ; and now thou'rt here at last, 
 I mean to cling to thee, and hold thee fast. 
 Ay ! as a chain might do, I mean to cling 
 
14 GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 . J , 
 
 Fast round thy soul, and sphere thee like a ring. 
 
 What ! not one word ? And gloomy, too, and chill. 
 
 On this bright day ? O Rupert ! thou art ill, 
 
 And wilt not tell me ! Thou'rt convulsion-pale, 
 
 And in thy gaze I read the dismal tale 
 
 Of some foreboding. O my dearest one ! 
 
 My life, my death, my All beneath the sun ! 
 
 In God's good name I charge thee make it clear 
 
 What makes thee sad ? If thou require a tear 
 
 Seek it in me, — for I have learnt the way 
 
 To shed more tears than thou wilt need to-day." 
 
 "Nay, Gladys, nay!" with smiles he answer'd her, 
 '"Tis much; 'tis nothing! Some unwonted stir 
 In household matters. — Words are empty things. 
 Why should they hurt ? If Faithfulness had wings 
 'Twould quit me now ; 'tis here, and thou art She. 
 Nay, sit thee down, and I will yield to thee 
 My sure confession ; and as thou art true 
 Thou wilt absolve me with thine eyes of blue 
 Ere all be said." 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 15 
 
 That other with a look 
 Half frown, half smile, obey'd him ; yet she shook 
 As shakes an aspen when the winds are hush'd, 
 And all the meadow-lands are sunset-flushed. 
 And he ? Remorse was with him ; and apart 
 He stood absorb'd. Should he consult his heart ? 
 Or serve ambition ? He had won the soul 
 Of this sweet woman, and to his control 
 His words had sway'd her. — Should he put to sec 
 The threats and frets and sneers which, all the mo 
 Had marr'd his peace? Aye ! should he, as a knight 
 In olden time had done for his delight, 
 Accept, revere, enshrine, and re-endow 
 This blue-eyed wonder with his marriage-vow ? 
 He still'd a sigh, and turn'd to her, and spake : — 
 " Thou know'st, O Gladys ! for thine honor's sake, 
 And for thyself that art as Heaven to me, 
 I would not break the oath which unto thee 
 My lips have sworn. But I, too long I fear. 
 Have stood between thy life and that career 
 
1 6 GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 Which waits for thee, as Silence in the dales 
 Waits, after dark, for songs of nightingales ! 
 I should have warn'd thee. In my heart I knew 
 That tedious hours, and sorrows, not a few. 
 Would be thy meed, if here thou didst prolong 
 Thy tell-tale absence from the world of song." 
 
 She heard abash'd. Was he indeed possess'd 
 Of foregone knowledge, though so late confess'd ? 
 Or was he wearied of their sylvan bliss ? 
 She mused an instant in the fear of this ; 
 And then, without a sign, she droop'd her head 
 And wept outright, — such tears as children shed 
 When, 'mid a storm, they hear their parents pray. 
 
 Women are stronger than we care to say. 
 And when they weep they conquer more than men 
 With sword or sceptre ; and they bind us then 
 With weak, warm hands, as with a festal wreath. 
 Let those who draw the sword from out its sheath, 
 And those who sit and stare on gilded thrones, 
 Beware of Woman ! She, in all the zones 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 17 
 
 And all the courts of earth, and all its bowers, 
 
 Is queen elect of all the golden hours. 
 
 She is the ruler whom the rulers know, 
 
 And when she wills a thing, in joy or woe. 
 
 In health or sickness, or remorse or sin, 
 
 The valiant soul must bow to her therein. 
 
 'Twas so to-day when, with a mute caress. 
 
 She spake her trust, and, clothed in comeliness. 
 
 Made known her fears, — and this with such a mii 
 
 And such sweet fervor, and so bright a sheen 
 
 Of pout and blush, that, for a moment's space, 
 
 He gazed, relenting, on her radiant face. 
 
 And loath'd himself; and trembled at her glance. 
 
 And vow'd to God that his was evil chance 
 
 To do this thing, and in his very shame 
 
 To fear to name it, though in Reason's name. — 
 
 He knelt beside her ; and he seiz'd her hand 
 
 In his two palms, and, with contrition, scann'd 
 
 Her amorous eyes, the brighter for the rush 
 
 Of those quick tears ; then kiss'd away the blush 
 
1 8 GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 That warm'd her cheek as with a rose's stain, 
 And, prompt, re-kiss'd it to its place again. 
 So weak she seem'd, and yet so strong withal, 
 And so unyielding, that, within her thrall, 
 Man as he was, he felt the force in him 
 Melt into misery, and a tear bedim 
 His love-lorn gaze ; for he was one of those 
 Who fear the scorn of maidens more than blows ; 
 And fain was he, e'en now, to mend his speech. 
 And coax and flatter, and, in part, beseech 
 Some word of pardon. 
 
 But a woman's eyes 
 Are quick to see through every base disguise ; 
 And she could mark the menace and the drift 
 Of thoughts unspoken, and her soul could sift 
 Sound from the sense thereof; and thus she spake: 
 " O Rupert ! O my Master ! for thy sake 
 I have been stabb'd by doubts and lain awake 
 Night after night, to dream of foolish things, — 
 A moth's lament, a flower with folded wings. 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. ig 
 
 An April daisy turn'd into a screen 
 
 For elfin lovers, and the face serene 
 
 Of my dead sister, who, though like to me 
 
 As flakes of snow are like the foam at sea, 
 
 Would thrust me back, full soon, could she behold 
 
 My fall'n estate, and all my promise-gold 
 
 Turn'd into dust, — I mean the pride I had 
 
 In mine own self, ere doting made me mad. 
 
 Ah, gracious God ! how glad were I to pass. 
 
 Young as I am, beneath the churchyard grass, 
 
 If, but an instant, ere I went that way, 
 
 I might re-win the right I had to pray ! " 
 
 But he, soft-smiling, gazed on her, and stood 
 Silent apace, as one, within a wood, 
 Haunted by pixies at the swooning-hour 
 Of birds and bushes, when the moon has power. 
 As one entranced, who, ere the night is done. 
 May note the world's betrothal to the sun ; 
 E'en so he watch'd her, with a pent-up sigh, 
 And thus address'd her: — "Thou'rt too young to die. 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 And much too fair. Who knows it more than thou? 
 
 Nay, hear me, Gladys ! for I lie not now. 
 
 Nor have I lied to thee at any time. 
 
 Or wrong'd in thought the holy wedding chime. 
 
 Or spurn'd an oath; or fear'd a promise-ring. 
 
 No ! I have thought no lie, nor would I bring 
 
 Sorrow to thee or shame, or make thee rue 
 
 The rapt confession of thine eyes of blue. 
 
 When first I saw thee in the long-ago 
 
 Of this year's May, — as blameless as the snow 
 
 Which falls in winter, at a mountain's base. 
 
 Beauty is thine, and Music, and the race 
 
 For power and wealth, and all the Joys of fame. 
 
 And all the rhapsodies that round a name 
 
 Burst into splendor, and possess a world ! 
 
 Glory is thine ; and, on thy lips impearl'd, 
 
 A smile so sweet, so lustrous in its mirth. 
 
 That none hath known till now, upon the earth, 
 
 A dream so true, a joy so fair to see." 
 
 " A dream, — a joy ? Ah, thou canst flatter me ! " 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 She rippled forth, in answer to his speech, 
 " But I am here, to hide me, out of reach. 
 If thou upbraid me, — as I know thou wilt, — 
 For too much love, — itself a kind of guilt. 
 Am I attaint, or guiltless in thy sight. 
 For my long trust ? " 
 
 He answered her aright : — 
 " I am not worthy of so proud a boon 
 As thy great love ; for not the sun and moon, 
 And not the stars, in all their course, have known 
 Such gem-like joy ; and I would fain atone. 
 If thou permit me, by a prompt assent 
 To all thy dreams, — and Art's aggrandisement ; 
 Aye ! have thee robed, and see thee crown'd again, 
 As Music's Queen, return'd to her domain." 
 
 "Music's domain?" she cried. "Nay, that is done. 
 But lo ! I love thee as a kneeling nun 
 Loves, in the circuit of her little cell. 
 The pictured face of Christ who conquer'd Hell. 
 E'en so I love thee. Sweetheart ! and I swear. 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 By God's own mouth, and by His auburn hair, 
 That I will slay thee if thou'rt false to me ! " 
 This said, she flush'd as red as roses be 
 And sprang to him, and kiss'd him on the throat. 
 Thus might a panther, with a tawny coat, 
 Spring at a stag, whom Death has brought to bay. 
 But Life was here, not Death, and in its sway 
 The strong man bow'd, as when the knotted oak 
 Bows to the storm ; and over him there broke 
 The wild, weak utterance of a quavering voice. 
 " Rupert ! " it cried, " O Rupert ! O my Choice ! 
 Sorrow be mine, not thine, if I offend. 
 It seems I vex thee. Shall I make an end, 
 Here, in this place, with this thy jewell'd knife. 
 At once of loving and of loveless life ? 
 Winter is wild. The storm may want a wife. 
 And I am friendless as a foundering ship. 
 The hours recoil. The monstrous moments slip 
 Fast through my fingers, while I count the beads 
 Of my poor life, — the rosary of my deeds 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 Good, bad, and selfish, and the joy therein 
 
 Which oft I found, undaunted by the sin, — 
 
 If sin it be, — which brought me to thy side. 
 
 I lov'd thee, Rupert ! as, at eventide. 
 
 The lowly daisy, in her hood of green, 
 
 Loves the set sun, and keeps her face unseen 
 
 Through all the drowsy hours of sainted night. 
 
 Till dawn restores the Lov'd One to her sight. 
 
 Oh ! I can drown, or, like a broken lyre, 
 
 Be thrown to earth, or cast upon a fire. 
 
 I can be made to feel the pangs of death, 
 
 And yet be constant to the quest of breath, — 
 
 Our poor, pale trick of living through the lies 
 
 We name Existence, when that ' something ' dies 
 
 Which we call Honor. Many and many a way 
 
 Can I be struck, or fretted, night and day, 
 
 In some new fashion, or condemn'd the while 
 
 To take for food the semblance of a smile, 
 
 The left-ofF rapture of a slain caress, 
 
 And ' Yes ' for ' No,' and ' No ' perchance for ' Yes.' 
 
24 GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 Ah ! well I see, of comfort there is none, 
 And no completion of the faith begun, 
 When moon and star, and swift-ascending sun, 
 Brought joy to me, and made me, as I wis. 
 The thing I am, soul-famish'd for a kiss." 
 He rais'd her hand, and kiss'd it, as a king, 
 For some cold vow, may do so staid a thing. 
 But as he kiss'd her, — careful as the snow 
 Which falls on flowers, — she frown'd, and murmur'd 
 
 low : — 
 " Too kind, — good Sir ! " and dashed away a tear. 
 And waved him back, as mindful to appear 
 Nor grave nor gay, nor coy, nor over-kind ; 
 And, far away, the wailing autumn wind 
 Sobb'd o'er the sea, alone and unconfined, 
 Like some poor lover whom the nights and days 
 Have robb'd alike of triumph and of praise. 
 
 " O friend ! " he answer'd, " I am much to blame. 
 I taught thee this. I taught thee how to name 
 Sorrow and sin and suffering ; and for thee 
 I brought myself to sue on bended knee 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 25 
 
 To my proud sire. His answer wouldst thou guess, 
 
 His rude retort, his smile of bitterness ? 
 
 He curs'd thee, Gladys ! and he told me then. 
 
 In that rough hour, that shameful unto men 
 
 My ways had grown ; and bade me, as I fear'd 
 
 Death and dishonor for a name revered. 
 
 To break with thee, — as winter breaks with spring, 
 
 And night with day, and Nature with the thing 
 
 She most hath treasured.'' 
 
 With a frown she drew 
 A hot, quick breath, and look'd him through and 
 
 through. 
 And then replied : — " I gave thee all I had, — 
 My youth, my truth, my life, and all things glad. 
 All thoughts of love, all hopes of peace to come. 
 And only kept away my sorrows' sum, — 
 My tears, and fears, and sighs, and all the shame 
 That burnt the bays of what I deem'd my fame. 
 If still remember'd in the world of men. 
 If honor'd still beyond this desert-glen 
 Where now we meet, I care not. I am dead 
 
26 GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 To all delights with which my soul I fed, 
 And all ambitions in the realm of art, 
 And all the fond desires that were a part 
 Of my young life, before I came to thee." 
 
 " What need," he answer'd, " here beside the sea, 
 Where Art and Nature have the world for friend, 
 What need, I say, of tears that come to end 
 Full soon for all men, — and for women first ? 
 What need hast thou for rancour, or for thirst 
 Of things withheld unkindly, — who shall say ! — 
 Or hid from sight, or haply kept away 
 For some just purpose ? " And he bent his head 
 And moved his lips, and, with a word unsaid, 
 Look'd straight at her. 
 
 " O God ! " she stammer'd out, 
 " Can such things be ? Nay, Sir, beyond a doubt. 
 You men are just ; but, by your tardy leave, 
 We women, too, may learn, while we deceive, 
 To preach like you ! — 'Twas Adam tempted Eve ! 
 He bade her eat. He tempted her to fall, 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 27 
 
 And then denounced her ! " And, with this recall 
 
 Of her past life, she lifted up her face, 
 
 As one who sees a snake a-near the place 
 
 She thought secure ; and flash'd a proud disdain 
 
 On his mute wonder and the look of pain 
 
 With which he eyed her ; and she spake again : — 
 
 " Men have their rights, I know, and thou hast thine, 
 
 To break the bowl, and squander all the wine ! 
 
 But tell me, quick, thy father's final word. 
 
 And what, in shame, to-day thine ears have heard?" 
 
 His faltering lips made answer to her quest : — 
 " He was unjust, and stern, and ill at rest. 
 But clear, emphatic, certain of his power. 
 ' Thou must dismiss,' he said, ' this very hour. 
 All thoughts of love till I permit the same.' 
 And, with a cold aspersion on thy fame. 
 He wrung my heart with words I will not name." 
 
 Sudden as fire she started to her feet : 
 " And thou ? " she cried, " Thine answer to the heat 
 Of this distemper ? " Like a craven man 
 
28 GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 He hung his head, and blush'd as he began 
 Some stuttering words. " I am controll'd," he said, 
 " By claims of kindred, which the quick and dead 
 Ahke have bow'd to. For my father's sake, 
 For mine and his, I must at once partake 
 Of his fell purpose, and restore thy troth. 
 And claim of thee mine own mistaken oath, 
 This, and no less.'' 
 
 " No less ? " she swift replied. 
 " This, — and no less ? Well, well, I must have died 
 Some time to-day ! I must have met my death 
 Some minutes since, or, with thy cruel breath. 
 Thou hadst not dared to slander so my corse. 
 And rack my soul with word of this divorce. 
 But leave me quickly, for the dead are proud, 
 And murder'd oaths are safest in a shroud. 
 I hate thee, Rupert ! and my hate is such 
 I would not soil my finger with a touch 
 Of thy white body, though to touch it now 
 Made me an Empress. O thou traitor, thou ! 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 29 
 
 Traitor to me and mine, — if mine there be 
 In days hereafter, — O thou sad-to-see. 
 And dark and dread pale spectre of the thing 
 I lov'd and fear'd and reverenced as a king ! 
 Nay, I have eyes. I see thee. I can trace 
 The coward blush that lurks about thy face, 
 And fears its colour, — fears to show itself. 
 Lest it should wear the livid look of pelf. 
 Or mark thy cheek with some detested blot. 
 I know thy purpose, though thou tell it not : — 
 To wed hereafter, for Ambition's sake, 
 A high-born dame with gold enough to slake 
 Thy thirst of power." 
 
 He made a quick retort : 
 " No bride for me, — in good or ill report, — 
 In all the round of all my nights and days." 
 But with a withering look she met his gaze. 
 As she would stab him with that very knife 
 Whereof she spake, ere yet a word of strife 
 Had sprung between them ; and she raised her head 
 
30 GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 And flash'd contempt. "Thou art some serf," she 
 
 said, 
 " Stol'n in the night from some marauder's shed. 
 And made to take the place, — a place belied, — 
 Of son and heir, — a castle's foolish pride. 
 But One who knows all things beneath the sun 
 Hath frown'd on thee, and sees what thou hast done ; 
 And all thy heart is bared to Him to-day, 
 And all thou say 'st, — and all thou still wouldst say." 
 
 She paus'd an instant with a weary thought 
 That he might scatter all her doubts to nought, — 
 All her distress, and all the throbs of pain 
 That work'd within her ; and she spake again : — 
 " O thou dried soul whom long I deem'd a man, 
 Monarch of men, and mine for all the span 
 Of all our lives, in this world and the next, 
 O thou weak boaster of a brainless text, 
 Fitter to fill a trench than be the curse 
 Of one more summer, or to move me worse 
 Than now thou mov'st me ! Nay, I hate thee not. 
 Who hates the worm ? Who hates the canker- blot 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 31 
 
 On some poor tree ? I see thee as thou art. 
 I sound thy depths. I read thee to the heart. 
 I find thee shallow as a clamorous rill 
 That wends its way, uncall'd for, down a hill ! " 
 
 As thus she spake, his face from white to red, 
 And red to white, as of a man half dead, 
 Grew famine-featured while he look'd at her. 
 And own'd the mastery, and the fretful spur 
 Of her keen anger ; and was nigh to sue 
 For absolution, as his passion due. 
 But, like a standard-pole whose flag is down, 
 Or like the base usurper of a crown. 
 He stood erect, and, for a pulse's beat. 
 Eyed her askance, as one who would retreat 
 In some sleek way, if, ere proceeding thence, 
 He might be pardon'd for his life's offence. 
 
 " One word ! " she answer'd to his mute appeal, 
 " One further word ! " And then, as she would 
 
 reel. 
 Or swoon, or die, or do some deadly thing. 
 She clutch'd the air, as men at sea may cling, 
 
32 GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 Wreck'd as they are, to some unsightly rope. 
 She ached towards him with a kind of hope, 
 And then dismiss'd it, and in accents weak. 
 And tears held back, continued thus to speak : — 
 " Thou know'st all women well, — thou oft hast 
 said; 
 Thou know'st not me. Go, know thyself instead, — 
 What man thou art, how false and how unjust 
 To Nature's test, and Knighthood's holy trust. 
 I lov'd thee not 1 I lov'd a foolish dream 
 That look'd like thee. I saw thee in the gleam 
 Of some wild thought, and deem'd thee such an one 
 As minstrels sing of, when they drape the sun. 
 And make him Man, and crown him with a crown ! 
 Thou wast the flower of all the world's renown 
 In my glad sight ; but now, to see thee there, 
 I seem to see the wraith of some despair, — 
 A thing so rude, so robber-like in plan, 
 I would not have thee for my serving-man ! 
 Aye, aye, 'tis so ! — I swear by God's delight 
 When with His hand He parted day and night. 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 33 
 
 And by the stars, and by the saints of heaven, 
 
 That I repent me of my girlhood given 
 
 To thee in forfeit ! I repent me well 
 
 Of that dark hour which caught me in the spell 
 
 Of some dead witch ; for, if report be true,, 
 
 She built the grot, whose memory I must rue 
 
 While life endures, — the cave wherein we met 
 
 That doomful day. All evil thee beset, 
 
 Thou blight of morning ! All remorse and shame 
 
 Possess thy soul, and sap the ancient fame 
 
 Of thy great house ! I was too frail a thing, 
 
 Too quickly won, — too impotent to sting, — 
 
 A fair-hair'd frailty with attractive eyes, — 
 
 A doll, — a puppet, — something from the skies 
 
 For thy caressing, and belike in time 
 
 For thy denouncing, as a minute's crime 
 
 Done up in silk ! But should'st thou, for thy 
 
 peace, — 
 If peace it be, — should'st thou, ere autumn cease, 
 Require a toy, a heart to play withal, 
 An unwed wife to answer to thy call, — 
 
34 GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 Say I was proud, and spurn'd thee from my 
 
 side; 
 Say that the love between us snapp'd and died, 
 As dies a tune, as snaps the strained chord 
 Of some wild harp, — too weak to be restored. 
 Nay ! say this, too : I claim no part in thee, 
 For I would liefer trust a wave at sea, 
 A pent-up fire, a raging famish'd bear. 
 Than thy false heart ! — I lov'd thy raven hair ; 
 I hate it now. I lov'd thy hand so white. 
 Thy face, thy form, — thy flattery, day and night, — 
 And thy dark eyes and alabaster brow ; 
 Be God my witness how I hate them now ! " 
 
 He stood transfix'd ; he quiver'd as he heard. 
 He made as he would speak some ruffian word, 
 Some word uncased by torture from his soul, 
 Beyond the boundaries of his blood's control. 
 But with a groan he conquer'd this intent, 
 And smiled on her, as some reflex is sent 
 From westward skies, at waning of the day. 
 When winds of winter spurn the clouds away. 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 35 
 
 "Let us be friends," he urged, with lifted head, 
 " For Love's sweet sake, for Love that was not dead 
 That night in June, — for Love that lured us on 
 To deeds that wreck'd us on the shores of dawn, — 
 E'en for that love, I say, be generous now. 
 And grant some liking, though the Fates allow 
 Small time for rapture. Say ! shall this be done, 
 And we forget the dream that made us One ? " 
 
 She shrill'd an answer, as, in ancient days, 
 Cassandra, lovely but with eyes ablaze, 
 Pour'd out her accents to the sons of Troy ; 
 And as he heard that answer's dark alloy 
 Of taunt and scorn, he launch'd a fearful word 
 Which clove in twain her spirit as- she heard. 
 
 " Hence ! Quit my sight ! " she cried, as with her 
 palm 
 She waved him back, — white-heated in her calm. 
 As some sweet lady whom a boor has vex'd, — 
 " Away, — thou clown ! " 
 
 One moment, and the next, 
 He stood aloof; and then, with half a stare. 
 
36 GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 And half a scowl, out-saunter'd in the air. 
 " She must be mad," he thought; and, slow, retraced 
 His measured steps, athwart the shingly waste. 
 But she leapt forward, like a stricken deer. 
 With one great cry, brow-beaten in her fear. 
 And yet transform'd to something half divine. 
 For Love had torn the darkness for a sign, 
 And, sharp within her soul, a something stirr'd 
 Like wounded wings of some imprison'd bird. 
 
 " Come back ! " she call'd, as open wide she flung 
 The lattice-window, where the roses hung 
 In crumpled wreaths, " Come back and learn from 
 
 me 
 What no man knows, — what haply unto thee 
 May bring content." But, shuddering on the air 
 The wild cry fell ; and through her golden hair 
 Her face look'd out, as, on a winter's night. 
 The icy moon looks down through vapours white. 
 " Come back ! " she call'd to that retreating form 
 Which heard' her not; and weird, and wan, and warm, 
 She craned her neck to note the path he took, 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 37 
 
 And sway'd herself, as sways beside a brook 
 A lonely willow on a breathless day ; 
 And with her lips she made as she would say : — 
 " I was thy faithful wife, though wed in sport 
 As wives were wedded once in Arthur's court. 
 Yet heed my plea ! Two hearts are knit in one 
 In my poor frame." 
 
 But utterance found she none ; 
 For, ere ecstatic she could shape the words, 
 And waft them forth as Summer wafts the birds. 
 For joy, for memory, or for grief's control. 
 Her face convuls'd, and o'er her tottering soul 
 The storm-cloud burst ; and tears shut out the light. 
 
 " O God ! " she cried, impetuous, pallor-bright. 
 With thoughts full dark, " O Saviour ! give me 
 
 strength. 
 Here where I bend, to turn to Thee at length 
 As my Redeemer, though unfit to kneel, 
 Unfit to pray, unfit to make appeal 
 For hope, or mercy, where Thine angels are." 
 And, rising feebly from the lattice-bar. 
 
38 GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 She stood erect, — and harden'd from the shock, — 
 As though Despair had changed her into rock. 
 
 But, later on, the breezes told the flowers 
 How One who must have wept for many hours 
 Fled through the wood. It was some sprite, they 
 
 said, — 
 A nymph, — a na'iad, — One who, as she fled, 
 O'er-ruled her grief, and watch'd, with aching sight, 
 The blood-red moon go down into the night. 
 
Canto SeconJ). 
 
 Again the spring-time with its songs of love 
 Had come and gone'; again the cooing dove 
 Had dropp'd its plumes in moulting ; and the 
 
 wren 
 Had rais'd anew its arbor in the glen, — 
 Its dome - like nest, whereof the wondering 
 
 breeze 
 Had late espied the threshold through the trees. 
 Again the waves of the advancing seas 
 Had stofm'd the coast with shouts of loud 
 
 acclaim, 
 What time the winter-wind, in ocean's name, 
 Had hurl'd defiance ; and the queen of heaven. 
 
40 GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 The maiden-moon, entranced or in a sweven, 
 Had paced the sky, from autumn unto spring, 
 Unclaim'd of men, uncrown'd of any king. 
 And only lov'd aright by loveless maids. 
 And once again the rapture of the glades, — 
 The rout and revel of the spring-decades, — 
 Had fiU'd and thrill'd the air with such delight 
 As makes a tourney of the day and night 
 When gale confronts with gale at equinox. 
 And all the cliffs, and all the seaward rocks 
 Have thuds of joy ! Again the forest yearn'd 
 For sight of summer, and the roses burn'd 
 On many a hedge, whereon the mounting sun 
 Had flung his trophies ; for the world had won 
 Full right to cling thereto, as — for a feast — 
 The crown'd Apollo leapt from out the East. 
 Earth and the sky had call'd him ; and the land 
 Had smiled, expectant ; and the ocean-strand 
 Had bared her bosom to his proud caress ; 
 And wind and wave had counted tress on tress 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 41 
 
 Of his long hair, and made a chant thereof 
 Warm, aye ! and wanton as the songs of love 
 Which sybils sing. And now the breezes crept 
 From rock to rock, where over-night had slept 
 A white sea-fog, and where, in summer days, 
 The blue hare-bell would sound the Maker's praise 
 In silvery chimes, unheard but guess'd aright 
 By wandering bards. The hill was all alight 
 With blazing furze, that keeps the sun in sight, 
 And seems to thrill with sunshine after dark ; 
 And, far away, the lilting of the lark. 
 The prophet-bird, the singer of the dawn. 
 Invested Heaven, as if its mate had gone 
 Straight through the sky, and must be ravish'd back. 
 
 And lo ! dishevell'd, on the upland track, 
 A weary woman with a load of joy : — 
 A Phceban gift, — a bright-eyed baby-boy. 
 With clustering curls disorder'd on its brow 
 As dark as midnight, when the skies allow 
 Stars to be seen, — a lustrous, laughing thing 
 
42 GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 With dimpled cheeks, and glamour of the spring 
 All o'er its face ! And she who bore the child 
 Was fair and comely, though with something wild 
 In her blue eyes, and something in her gait 
 That spoke of watchfulness endured of late, 
 As if the ghost of terror had pursued 
 Her faltering steps, and agony, at feud 
 With fairer things, had sapp'd within her mind 
 The girlish thoughts which link'd her to her kind. 
 
 " Here let us rest," she cried, as on a knoll 
 She bent her down, " and I will ease my soul 
 Of half its weight, and ease my body, too. 
 Of its fond burden. For I tell thee true, 
 Mine own sweet babe ! that, in this heart of mine, 
 Are tears unnumber'd, sharper than the brine 
 Of salt sea-winds, and fiercer than the flames 
 Of twenty fires ; and there are bitter names, — 
 If I could find them, — for my many blames. 
 But I will tell thee all I know of thee. 
 And how thy mother met, beside the sea, 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 43 
 
 A lordly mate, who look'd a king of men, 
 Or something more : — a Nimrod of the glen, 
 Half saint, half sinner, with a sinner's smile, 
 A saint's caress, to capture and beguile. — 
 Dost see, my Rupert ! yonder on the ridge. 
 This side the forest, near the broken bridge. 
 That princely tower ? The keys thereof are thine. 
 The flag that waves so high is thine and mine. 
 Yea, all the landscape, from the frothing beach. 
 Is mine and thine ; as far as eye can reach. 
 East, west, and north, — all ours, — the shining land 
 All ours for ever, if we lift a hand. 
 But shall we lift it ? Shall we make appeal 
 To God the Father for the future weal 
 Of one who hates us, — who, beyond his pelf, 
 Hath nought to love, or pray for, but himself?" 
 
 While thus she parley'd with the tender elf 
 Who call'd her " Mother," and was all she had 
 This side eternity, to keep her glad. 
 Shudders oppress'd her, and there came a sound 
 
44 GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 Of leaves and twigs in ear-shot of the mound 
 Where she was throned. And lo ! towards her came 
 A faggot-woman, old and cold and lame, 
 Who seem'd the ghost of some dead winter's day 
 Return'd to life, to lead the world astray. 
 An instant thought ran riot in her brain, 
 That she would do a deed of loss, or gain, 
 Or dole, or mercy, as the hour might teach. 
 And bring her lover to a secret speech 
 With this white crone, and lure him to the beach 
 By talk of gold, or treasure, or what not. 
 . For yesternight a weird, unhappy plot 
 Had marr'd her sleep, and prompted her to make 
 A last bequest, — a Will, which made her quake 
 Only to think on't. And the tool she sought 
 Was close at hand ; as close as evil thought 
 To souls accurst ! The beldam look'd at her, 
 And snarl'd, aggressive, as a famish'd cur 
 That sniffs its prey. " Wilt do a deed for me," 
 The girl inquired, " and earn a golden fee 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 45 
 
 This happy morn ? I see thou wilt do this ; 
 For thou art pleased, as when a dream of bliss 
 Comes to a child. Aye ! aye ! the world is sad. 
 I know it well ! But gold will make it glad." 
 With this she tore a leaflet from a book, 
 And wrote as follows, — and her bosom shook 
 With untold fears : — 
 
 " If thou remember now 
 A broken heart, — a broken, foolish vow, — 
 A poor, pale ghost who, in the years gone by. 
 Was known as Gladys, — quit thy turret high. 
 And seek, this day, the place thou knowest well : 
 The Witches' Cave, the ante-room of Hell, — 
 If Heaven and Hell be one thing and the same. 
 And hope a snare, and misery but a name ! 
 I have a lustrous jewel here with me 
 Which bears thy mark ; a thing so fair to see 
 That many a wealthy man would sell for this 
 All things he hath, and all his chance of bliss 
 In far-off worlds. And yet, oh ! read me right. 
 
46 GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 And heed me well. This is no fool's delight, 
 
 And no poor treasure from the marts of men, 
 
 That now I speak of; for a poet's pen, 
 
 A painter's brush, a sculptor's art divine, 
 
 Alone were fit to vaunt this gem of mine. 
 
 A rapturous burst of music at a shrine 
 
 Might make it clear ; and earth would understand ! 
 
 But I must place it in a surer hand 
 
 Than this I write with ; and I pray thee now, 
 
 If thou remember still a midnight vow 
 
 Which once was thine, — which God and I alone 
 
 Heard thee pronounce, albeit in under-tone, — 
 
 Come with this dame ; but come as comes a 
 
 man 
 Who clears a path for Csesar in the van 
 Of utmost truth." 
 
 When she the scrip had tied, 
 And kiss'd it fondly, — and 'twas done with pride. 
 As one, in prayer, may kiss a holy thing, — 
 She smiled a smile as gentle as the Spring 
 Bestows on Winter when the year is young, 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 47 
 
 And thus address'd, with her persuading tongue, 
 
 That aged crone : — " Go, take with thee, I pray. 
 
 This scrip I give thee, and in haste convey 
 
 To yonder height. The master of the land 
 
 Is great and courteous, with a princely hand ; 
 
 And scarce an hour ago I saw him pass 
 
 Home to his towers, across the shuddering grass 
 
 There on the cliff. Go, tell him I am here, 
 
 And bring him where the sea-weed sad and sere 
 
 Thrills to the blast, and hisses to the sea : — 
 
 But make no further talk of mine or me. 
 
 Save this alone : — Thou'st seen me on my way 
 
 To find a cavern where, from day to day. 
 
 Strange things were plann'd. He knows what I 
 
 would say! 
 Hence, then, and quickly ; and return with him." 
 
 The ancient woman, cold in every limb 
 And twitch 'd by palsy, with a croaking laugh. 
 Made mouths at her, and fumbled with her staff. 
 And talk'd of God ! The world is full of such : — 
 Women and men, unseemly to the touch. 
 
48 GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 Unkempt, uncanny, girt about with woe, 
 And smirch'd with mud, who yet are proud to know 
 Some far-off Duke, who threats them with a rod 
 And claims their toil ; and so she talk'd of God ! — 
 With tottering steps, and smile of winter-cheer. 
 She went her way, with what might seem a tear 
 In her dull'd eyes ; and once again the boy. 
 Who play'd, low-crooning, with a broken toy. 
 Was all-in-all to that adoring face : — 
 A youthful mother's with a naiad's grace. 
 Who wore the crownlet of her golden hair ! — 
 
 But when she'd watch'd the beldam by the glare 
 Of that fierce sun, up-toil, with tottering care. 
 The burnt-up path, she caught the radiant child 
 Quick in her arms, and sang to it, and smiled. 
 And kiss'd and worshipp'd it, and made it gay 
 With meadow-flowers, and mosses silver-gray, 
 And call'd it "King," and "Sweetheart," and was fain 
 To crown its brows, and kiss its lips again 
 A thousand times, and tell it how she knew 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 49 
 
 That he, as son and heir, would have his due. 
 Though now denied it, and be smiled upon 
 By rich and poor, — and win their benison. 
 And he whose eyes in rapture seem'd to float 
 Caught up the chain that hung about her throat, 
 And toy'd therewith, and seiz'd, and open'd wide, 
 The golden trinket, where a face of pride 
 Look'd out in smiles, as faces in a dream 
 Invest the darkness and absorb the beam 
 Of some set sun ; and thus that woman fair 
 Resumed her talk, and covered with her hair 
 The baby-face which look'd into her own : — 
 " He is thy father, child ! though all unknown, 
 Thine unkind father who, in summers flown. 
 Made me his plaything and a gibe of men. 
 He called me Philomel ; and gladly then 
 OfFer'd me marriage. I was Philomel 
 For half a summer ; and he lov'd me well, — 
 Or said he lov'd me ! Will he make thee great. 
 And treat thee as a lord of high estate, 
 
so GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 Or mar thy life, as children break a toy ? — 
 There, there, my Rupert ! Hush, my darling boy ! 
 I did but jest. My tears are foolish ones. 
 All hopes are sound ; all fathers love their sons. 
 And thine will love thee when he comes to-day 
 And scans thy face, — while mine is far away ! " 
 
 These latter words she spoke beneath her breath, 
 And as she paus'd a pallor, like to death. 
 Came o'er her cheek. There seem'd to surge to her 
 The far-off sound of some sea-sepulchre. 
 The thud of waters, and the thrill of tides 
 In lonely haunts, where Ocean over-rides 
 Her ghastly wrecks. 
 
 She swoon'd into herself. 
 With eyes out-staring to a broken shelf 
 Of piled-up cloud, on which the sun had smiled ; 
 And then, with feverous haste, she seiz'd the child 
 Forth from its couch among the flow'rets fair. 
 And bore it seaward, and was quickly there 
 In that same nook whereof she wrote the name, — 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 51 
 
 The Witches' Cave, — the landmark of a shame 
 She lov'd more dearly when the worst was known 
 Than halcyon bards, or kings upon a throne, 
 Love their dominions ; and within the niche. 
 All poor with weeds, she placed the jewel rich 
 Whereof she spake. 
 
 The child into a trance 
 Of loveliest sleep had fall'n ; and now, askance 
 She gazed upon it, as she wrapp'd it round 
 In her red scarf, and laid a packet bound 
 With golden thread beside it ; and, with tears, 
 Kiss'd it in silence, — lest the dimpled fears, 
 Still hush'd in slumber, should awake to pry 
 And thwart her purpose. 
 
 Sweet indeed to die. 
 To save from drowning, or to snatch from fire 
 This life-long treasure ; but, in penance dire. 
 To leave it thus ? To thrust it on its sire. 
 And then to shun it ? And for what ? A dream, — 
 A chance, — a hope, — a certitude, — a beam 
 
52 GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 Of far-off light ! " He will be poor," she thought, 
 
 " If I live on ; but rich, and richly taught, 
 
 And fondly cared for, if I die to-day. 
 
 So let me fare, O God ! as best I may. 
 
 Let this be will'd,— let all Thy will be will'd, 
 
 E'en as the tempest in the night is still'd 
 
 At Thy great coming ! " And she bow'd her head, 
 
 And wept afresh, as weeps, when day is dead, 
 
 A sunset cloud ; and, shuddering and abyss'd 
 
 In her own soul, re-touch'd the child and kiss'd, 
 
 With desolate dull moaning of wild pain. 
 
 And, like a woman with the curse of Cain 
 
 Full in her heart, out-leapt into the sun 
 
 And sought the ocean. 
 
 All her hair undone. 
 And pale and proud, with bosom-folded hands. 
 She stood in water on the hissing sands, 
 And, apkle-deep, survey'd the glittering sea. 
 What time the wind uprose upon the lea, 
 " O God ! " she murmur'd, as she waded in 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 53 
 
 " Take Thou my soul ; absolve me of my sin, 
 
 And make me fit to join, when I am gone, 
 
 The ranks of those who wait, unfrown'd upon. 
 
 In deathful shades, in hope to reconcile 
 
 Their clamorous past with Thine eternal smile ! " 
 
 Therewith she looked to shoreward, and awhile 
 
 Shed tears that scathed her, as they struggled 
 
 through 
 Their eyelids' fringe ; and, for a space or two, 
 Paused there inert. " I will be brave," she said. 
 And journey'd on, " I will confront the dead, 
 In true-love fashion ! I will smile to-day. 
 And sing the songs of madness born in May, 
 The mirth of madness when the world was young. 
 And flower and field and ford had found a tongue ; 
 And each created thing had tuned its voice 
 To praise its Maker. For I die by choice. 
 I go to meet the ghosts of my despairs, 
 My murder'd hopes, my unregarded cares ! 
 No man has wrought my death ! — no woman's guile 
 Has sear'd my soul." And with a kind of smile 
 
54 GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 That twitch'd her mouth, and sadden'd all her face, 
 She sang a song of Death's abiding-place, — 
 A song of sorrow which, in days gone by, 
 Her lute had thrill'd to, — sigh with cadence-sigh 
 New knit in chorus. But to-day the sea, 
 The wind-struck sea, made all its chords agree 
 With that one rapture ; and the sounds thereof 
 Were sad to hear as sighs that wait on love. 
 
 Song. 
 I. 
 There is a land beyond the rising moon, 
 
 A land of glory which the angels know ; — 
 A floating wonder, like a dream of June, — 
 And I will seek it in mine ocean-swoon. 
 
 II. 
 A white sea-bird, a sea-gull overhead. 
 
 May chirp at me, and twit me with a doubt, 
 But I shall smile upon my foamy bed. 
 While wind and wave will know that I am dead. 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 55 
 
 III. 
 
 The sun, all day, will see me where I go, 
 
 And, one by one, the stars will peep at me, 
 And each and all will find me fair as snow. 
 Though weird and wild with wandering to and fro. 
 
 By this the water, bubbling to her knees. 
 Broke into ripples, which the venturous breeze 
 Edged as with lace, so dainty was the foam. 
 A wintry wind had comb'd it like a comb ; 
 But this light breeze, careering o'er the spray, 
 Turn'd it to silver 'mid the roundelay 
 Of that lone creature on her foam-ward way. 
 
 Song. 
 I. 
 O Love, my Master, mine Anointed One, 
 
 O thou to whom my thoughts, to-day, are turn'd. 
 Behold ! I stand with all my cravings done, 
 And all my fevers quench'd beneath the sun. 
 
S6 GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 II. 
 
 I am not mad. I am not what I seem ; 
 
 For there are those in heaven who know the truth. 
 I hear the shouts of men, as in a dream, 
 And, far away, the sea-bird's sudden scream. 
 
 III. 
 
 I am the wicked rose that lov'd the Dark, 
 
 And lost its color, and its blushing power, 
 And all its right of kinship to the lark ! 
 I am the night-wind's, and I bear its mark. 
 
 But now the water, — clamoring to the ends 
 Of her long hair, — appear'd to make amends 
 For recent calm ; and lash'd her on the side. 
 It was the buffet of the turning tide. 
 The full tide, ebbing now, that sought the sea. 
 As late the land was sought, — a moment's glee 
 Whipp'd into foam. But, unaffray'd at this. 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 57 
 
 She smiled and said : — " It was an ocean-kiss, 
 This, and no more." And, with an aching heart. 
 She sang, with fervor that was once a part 
 Of her stage life, — by men remembered well, — ■ 
 The silvery sadness of her ocean-knell. 
 
 Song. 
 
 I. 
 O SWEET my Son ! my darling ! dead to me, 
 
 But saved for him, as flowers are saved for 
 God ; 
 A fairy fete-day will thy finding be 
 When this my voice is silent in the sea. 
 
 ir. 
 Thou art the one sweet thing on all the earth, 
 
 The seasons' joy, the summer's tender grace ; 
 A glimpse of Heaven, a glory from thy birth, 
 Unpeer'd in sleep, unparagon'd in mirth. 
 
58 GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 III. 
 Had I a thousand lives instead of one, 
 
 A thousand deaths to die to cancel thine, 
 I'd yield them all, aye ! gladly as a nun 
 Gives all she hath for great Jehovah's son. 
 
 Then, rapture-fraught, with wildly streaming hair, 
 She flung these notes ecstatic through the air. 
 
 Song. 
 I. 
 This is the end of all my many fears, 
 
 And this the charter of my right to die, — 
 To find a haven, now, for all my fears. 
 And kill the scandal of my twenty years. 
 
 ir. 
 This is my penance, this ! and my delight. 
 
 To sail the deep for searching of a tomb, — 
 To count the stars with mine unseeing sight ! 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 59 
 
 Up to the waist she stood in that expanse 
 Of wan sea- water, piteous in her glance, 
 And weary-limb'd, and shuddering to the soul ; 
 For, far away, she eyed the ocean-goal 
 Whereto she thirsted with a quivering lip, — 
 The straight sea-line whereon a sudden ship 
 E'en now appear'd with homeward-sailing men ; 
 And all the blood within her falter'd then. 
 " Shall I go back," she thought, " and claim my boy. 
 And dare the worst of all the world's annoy. 
 And front his father, and confide in him ? 
 Shall I do this, and turn me from the rim 
 Of this dark wave, now bearing full on me. 
 And seek a dwelling far from any sea, — 
 Unknown to him ? " 
 
 She stagger'd from the wave 
 That reel'd about her like ji rolling grave. 
 And swerv'd aside to give it passage clear. 
 " O God ! " she mused, half palsied in her fear, 
 " I have o'erstepp'd my doom ; and now for this 
 
6o GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 I shall be tumbled in the seething hiss 
 Of tides tumultuous, and a Nothing be, 
 A wide-eyed Nothing on the doubtful sea ! " 
 Therewith she met the breakers' dark advance 
 Which seem'd to tilt and tower at her, askance. 
 And one of these assail'd her with the shocks 
 Of foam-fed wrath, and hurl'd her at the rocks 
 And dragg'd her forth, low-gurgling in the strain 
 Of imminent death, and roar'd at her amain ; 
 And made more havoc of her shining hair 
 Than lovers' hands which murder while they spare : 
 Wild, wanton hands of wooers like the one 
 For whom, to-day, unkiss'd beneath the sun, 
 She fronted Fate. A lily in a stream 
 Might do as much, — a love-bird in a beam 
 Of mid-day light might thus resist a storm ! 
 The curl'd-up waves o'ercanopied her form 
 And then submerged her. But she rose anew, 
 Prone on her back, aghast, and pale of hue. 
 And out to sea, — a lifeless thing, and mild. 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 6i 
 
 With oozing lips, and eyes that ever smiled 
 She slowly drifted, — soon to face the stars, 
 And soon to front the moon athwart the bars 
 Of feathery cloud and opal-tinted mist ; — 
 But nevermore on earth should she be kiss'd. 
 And nevermore be touch'd by baby-hands. 
 And nevermore be seen in any lands ! 
 
 Meantime the child within the lonely cave 
 Lay lock'd in slumber, spared by wind and wave, 
 And snugly-housed as eaglets in the bliss 
 Of nested thrall, though near a precipice. 
 Or rock-suspended in an Alpine wood. 
 And lo ! at entrance of the cave there stood 
 A silent man, with white and wistful face. 
 Who seem'd to know the secrets of the place 
 And all the hopes which lit it, lantern-wise. 
 
 He paused an instant, and, with eager eyes, 
 Peer'd in the grot, but saw no woman there. 
 Only the child, which gave him stare for stare. 
 And clench'd its fist, new-waken'd out of sleep ; 
 
62 GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 And, as he enter'd, he was like to weep ; 
 And through his lashes crept a burning tear. 
 Was it a woman's voice that warbled near 
 Or some sea-dove's ? 
 
 He open'd wide the scroll, 
 And read these words : " O Rupert ! O my soul ! 
 Lord of my life, my Liege, my King of Men ! 
 If thou be he who met me in the glen. 
 And not a dream, a phantom, or a fiend. 
 Accept of me this boy that I have screen'd 
 From birth till now, and take him to thyself, 
 And love him as a Ghibeline, or Guelf, 
 May love his heir. The Saviour said, of old, 
 ' Forbid them not ! ' and took into His fold 
 All tender babes, and bless'd them with His Steven, 
 And call'd them God's elect, the lov'd of Heaven, 
 Whom none on all the earth should drive away 
 From His anointing, nightly or by day 1 
 In life I err'd ! In death I make it clear 
 How much I lov'd thee, — more than honor dear, 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 63 
 
 And more than wealth, that is the bane of youth, 
 
 When, canker-like, it makes a lie a truth, 
 
 And truth a lie, and hope a thing morose. 
 
 I am not brave ; and yet, if one so close 
 
 To Death's domain may dare to speak of Life, 
 
 I know not fear. I am the Ocean's wife. 
 
 I am the wife of every wanton wave 
 
 That cares to touch me, though it may not save. 
 
 Yet hear, oh, hear my plea ! My time will come. 
 
 This baby-voice will speak when I am dumb. 
 
 This baby-face entreat thee, with a smile. 
 
 To think of me, and pray for me the while, 
 
 As one enduring things that will endure. 
 
 And, O my Love ! of this, at least be sure : — 
 
 I love thee still, — for I will call thee mine 
 
 One minute more 1 The place beyond the brine, 
 
 The place that I shall know when I am dead, 
 
 Will not affright me when my breath is sped. 
 
 And lo ! I ask thy pardon ere I die. 
 
 Meekly I crave it. For I made reply 
 
64 GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 In words unseemly ; and I pray thee now 
 Forget, forgive ! All wrongs I disallow ; 
 Yea, all my griefs, and all the blame thereof, 
 And all the pangs that seem'd to wait on love. 
 Oh, heed me, Rupert ! Heed me, and, to-day 
 Let me be glad, and cast my doubts away 
 As all unfit to share my dreams of thee. 
 And do thou pause ere thou condemn in me 
 The headlong fault which drives me to the sea. 
 Therein to find oblivion. Is't a sin? 
 If so, God help me ! Is't a fury-din 
 Of mere mad waves, and no assured repose 
 Beyond all these ? I know not ; for the shows 
 Of life and death and darkness touch me not. 
 As they did touch me ere I trod the spot 
 Of our first meeting. But I yearn at last 
 To this one hope, — new-looming from the past,- 
 That thou'lt remove all scandal from my boy, 
 When by my death I rid thee of annoy 
 Henceforth for ever ! He will win his peace 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 65 
 
 And thou thy comfort ; and, till summers cease, 
 
 And winters weary of their woful chace, 
 
 He will be thine. Oh ! when he grows apace 
 
 Let him be shown the picture of my face, 
 
 The face I wore when I was lov'd of thee, 
 
 And say I died, unhurt, beside the sea. 
 
 Not in the sea itself, — 'twould injure him 
 
 To know too much ! In cloisters cold and dim 
 
 Let students frown, but let the wise be gay ! 
 
 I want my boy to laugh from day to day, 
 
 And smile at Fear, and torture not himself 
 
 With anxious thoughts. And yet, to bring him pelf, 
 
 I die unblest, unpray'd-for, in the flash 
 
 Of one wild moment ! If the deed be rash, 
 
 I do't in pity, — not uncomfortfed ; 
 
 For God, they say, protects when one is dead 
 
 One's only child ! And Thou ? Forgive me. Dear ! 
 
 And love my boy, — when I'm no longer here 
 
 Aye, tell him, Rupert ! tell him that I died 
 
 A natural death, — and bless'd.thee like a bride, 
 
66 GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 And call'd on God to guard thee evermore ! " 
 
 A shuddering sob convuls'd him to the core 
 At these last words. " My wife ! my winsome 
 
 wife ! 
 Mine and not mine ! My wife ! " and then, at strife 
 With his own grief, he fell before the child, 
 And clasp'd and kiss'd him, and, in accents mild, 
 Call'd him his angel, his predestined one, 
 And bore him out triumphant to the sun. 
 And still'd his cries by clamoring to the blast : 
 " Come back ! Come back ! " and turn'd a face aghast 
 To that old crone, who jabber'd on the sands. 
 And made obeisance, and, with jerk'd up hands. 
 Pointed to Heaven. 
 
 And what the further tale 
 Of all this woe ? And what the legend pale 
 Of this contrition ? Day by day, for weeks, 
 The wifeless man, with sad and sunken cheeks, 
 Sail'd o'er the deep, and sought, in silent bays. 
 
GLADYS THE SINGER. 67 
 
 And lonely creeks, the wooed and wish'd for gaze 
 Of stranded Gladys ; but he gain'd thereby 
 Naught but remorse, and shame that cannot die, — 
 Shame and despair and blistering of the soul 
 Burnt through by vice, — as though a burning coal 
 Had dropt therein. He was the fool of Time 
 And, — like a man for whom in every chime 
 Outrings a knell, — he quaff'd the wine of hope 
 And found it poison ; and his thoughts did grope 
 In undug graves. 
 
 On earth, and on the sea. 
 No man, was found on foot, or on his knee. 
 At home, — abroad, — in sanctum or in pit 
 Of lowliest labour, so untimely knit 
 To thoughts of dole ; and still the large-eyed corse 
 Veer'd out to sea, as blind as his remorse, — 
 As deaf as danger, and as stiff and cold 
 As lopp'd-off limbs of trees upon the mould. 
 Yet was she hallow'd by the nights and days 
 Of heavenward calm, and redden'd by the rays 
 
68 GLADYS THE SINGER. 
 
 Of pitying suns, and look'd at, after dark, 
 By Lady Dian in her crescent-bark. 
 Yea ! she was cradled, for a week and more, 
 On Ocean's breast, and then, amid the roar 
 Of waves up-shuddering to the star-lit skies, 
 Torn down in wrack, where Silence underlies 
 All hopes of Man, all cravings of the sod, 
 This side the sanctum of the joys of God ! 
 
A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. 
 
 O SUNLIKE Liberty, with eyes of flame, 
 
 Mother and maid, immortal, man's DeHght ! 
 Fairest and first art thou in name and fame. 
 And none shall rob thee of thine ancient 
 right. 
 No, none shall taunt thee, none shall drag thee 
 
 down. 
 Or vex thy calmness with a coward frown, 
 Or kill in thee the pride that men shall take, 
 O glad-eyed Freedom ! for thine honor's sake. 
 
70 A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. 
 
 Old as the sun art thou, and young as morn, 
 And fresh as April when the breezes blow, 
 And girt with glory, like the growing corn, 
 
 And undefiled like mountains made of snow. 
 Where is the man, though fifty times a King, 
 Can stay the tide, or countermand the spring ? 
 And where is he, though fifty times a knave. 
 Can track thy steps to cast thee in a grave ? 
 
 HI. 
 
 Thou art the summer of the souls of men. 
 
 And where thou shinest, where thy feet have been. 
 Honor abides ; and Faith, — with eagle ken, — 
 Surveys the landmarks of the life terrene : 
 Beauty, and truth, and love without a flaw 1 
 And poor men's rights, so long denied by law. 
 Are made self-certain as the sun at noon. 
 And fair to view as flowers that grow in June. 
 
A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. %i 
 
 IV. 
 
 1 long have sought thee, Freedom ! as a guide, 
 And, Hke a lover I have knelt to thee. 
 
 And sung thee songs at morn and eventide. 
 To show to men the joy that filleth me. 
 
 I have done this in evil times and good. 
 
 And blessed the grass wherein thy feet have 
 stood. 
 
 And loved the sword, by which, in years 
 gone by, 
 
 Thou didst prevail o'er those who bade thee die. 
 
 O sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame. 
 
 Mother and maid, immortal, stern of vow ! 
 
 Fairest and first art thou in name and fame. 
 And thou shalt wear the lightnings on thy 
 brow ! 
 
72 A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Thou art the welkin's smile when earth is dark — 
 
 The face of God reflected in the sea — 
 The land's acclaim uplifted by the lark 
 
 To ring the raptures of the just and free. 
 Thou art all this and more ; thou art the goal 
 Of earth's elected ones from pole to pole, 
 The lute-string's voice, the world's primeval fire, 
 And each man's hope, and every man's desire. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Who then condemns thee with the puny breath 
 Of one poor life, O thou untouched of Fate ! 
 Who seeks to lure thee to a felon's death. 
 
 And thou so splendid and so love-elate ? 
 Who dares do this and live ? Who dares assail 
 Thy star-kissed forehead, pure and marble-pale ; 
 And thou so self-possessed 'mid all the stir, 
 And like to Pallas born of Mulciber ? 
 
A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. 73 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Oh ! I have seen the sun, at setting-time, 
 
 Peep o'er the hills, as if to say good-bye ; 
 And I have hail'd it with the sudden rhyme 
 
 Of some new thought, full freighted with a sigh. 
 And I have mused : E'en thus may Freedom fall. 
 And darkness shroud it like a wintry pall. 
 But where is he — what man, alive or dead. 
 Has seen contempt descend on Freedom's head ? 
 
 IX. 
 
 There is no fall for thee, there is no tomb ; 
 
 And none shall stab thee, none shall stay thy hand. 
 Thy face is fair with love's eternal bloom. 
 
 And thou shalt have all things at thy command. 
 A tomb for thee ? Aye, when the sun is slain. 
 And lamps and fires make daylight on the plain — 
 Then may'st thou die, O Freedom ! and for thee 
 A grave be found in rocks beneath the sea. 
 
74 A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. 
 
 X. 
 
 O sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame, 
 
 Mother and maid, immortal, unsurpassed ! 
 Fairest and first art thou in name and fame, 
 And thou shalt rule the sea-girt world at last ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 There shall be feasting and a sound of song 
 
 In thy great cities ; and a voice divine 
 Shall speak of freedom all the winter long. 
 
 And fill the winds with rapture as with 
 wine; 
 And spring shall hear it, spring shall hear the 
 
 sound. 
 And summer waft it o'er the flowerful ground. 
 And autumn shake for joy her withered leaves, 
 On festal morns and star- bespangled eves. 
 
A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. 75 
 
 XII. 
 
 Thou wast the one good thing belov'd of Him 
 
 Whose ears were quicken'd to the sense of sight, 
 Whose blinded eyes beheld the seraphim 
 
 Beyond the shadows of the shores of night ; 
 Who lived, and loved, and prayed as prays a child. 
 Because, though learned, he was unbeguiled 
 By man's poor logic, — and could turn his eyes 
 To view the paths of our Lost Paradise. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 O thou desired of men ! O thou supreme 
 
 And true- toned Spirit, fair and far-renowned ! 
 At times thou com'st in likeness of a dream ; 
 
 But, dream or truth, thy place is holy ground. 
 Vision or fact, thy form is still the first 
 Of all God's creatures whom thy foes have curs'd. 
 For Death shall die, full sure ; and in his place 
 His sister. Life, uplift her blameless face. 
 
76 A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The days and nights, with all their daughters 
 fair, 
 And all their sons, the latest-born of Time — 
 
 The golden hours that tintinnate in air — 
 
 Shall sing thee songs as soft as wedding- 
 chime. 
 
 And bards who note them — bards who heed the 
 words — 
 
 Will think the stillness all alive with birds ; 
 
 And reproduce, in strains that cannot die. 
 
 The new-found nothings of the earth and sky. 
 
 XV. 
 
 O sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame, 
 
 Mother and maid, immortal, pure of tongue ! 
 
 Fairest and first art thou in name and fame, 
 
 And thou shalt thrill the hearts of old and 
 young ! 
 
A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. 77 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Who loves thee not is traitor to himself; 
 
 Traitor is he to God and to the grave, 
 Poor as a miser with his load of pelf, 
 
 And more unstable than a leeward wave. 
 Cursed is he for aye, and he shall be 
 A name of shame from sea to furthest sea, 
 A name of scorn to all men under sun. 
 Whose upright souls have learnt to loathe this one. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Thy heroes serve thee for thy love alone ; 
 
 Honor is theirs, — in thee they put their trust. 
 The deeds they do shall live from zone to zone, 
 
 When tyrants' tombs are trampled in the dust. 
 No ! not the mists of earth, — and not the host 
 Of marshall'd worlds that guard the Silent Coast — 
 Not all the storms of night, though night be black, 
 Can keep the grandeurs of the Morning back ! 
 
78 A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Look where, erect and tall, thy symbol waits * — 
 
 The gift of France to friends beyond the deep — 
 A lofty presence at the ocean-gates. 
 
 With lips of peace, and eyes that cannot weep. 
 A new-born Tellus, with uplifted arm, 
 To light the seas, and keep, the land from harm. 
 To light the coast at downfall of the day. 
 And dower with dawn the darkening water-way. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Thou hast no peer in all the shining globe. 
 
 And none to cope with thee in face or fonn> 
 And none to match thine ampleness of robe — 
 
 Nothing to stand so high above a storm. 
 Not the majestic thing that years ago 
 O'ershadowed Rhodes, and not the sculptured snow 
 Of ten times ten white statues can compare 
 With this thy semblance on the seaward air. 
 
 * Bartholdi's Statue of Liberty in New York Harbour. 
 
4 CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. 79 
 
 XX. 
 
 O sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame, 
 Mother and maid, immortal, unconfined ! 
 
 Fairest and first art thou in name and fame, 
 
 And thou shalt speed more swiftly than the 
 wind! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 What though for ages thou hast dwelt apart, 
 
 And lived unlov'd, unheralded of men, 
 With tears that burn while they relieve the 
 
 heart ? 
 Thou hast survived all this ; and sword and 
 
 pen 
 Have done thee service, landward and by sea. 
 And slave importers have been foiled by thee. 
 And slaves, down-trodden, have been taught to 
 
 stand 
 Lords of themselves in each chivalrous land. 
 
So A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Yes ! thou hast lived in exile many days, 
 
 And men have mocked thee for thy poor estate, 
 And called thee vile, and torn away the bays 
 From off' thy forehead with a scowl of hate. 
 Thou hast been threaten'd with a thousand things. 
 The shame that maddens and the blame that stings, 
 And all the tortures that await at times 
 The trapp'd assassin, with his coil of crimes. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Thou hast been jeer'd at for the maiden snow 
 
 Of thy white raiment and thy beauty's sake. 
 Gordon the True was slain to work thee woe 
 And wound the cause which centuries could not 
 shake. 
 To serve this end was Nelson's name belied, 
 And Lincoln murder'd in his place of pride. 
 Tyrants and mobs have wrong'd thee, many a one, 
 But thou hast pass'd them, and hast bow'd to none. 
 
A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. 8i 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 A thousand times, O Freedom ! have I turn'd 
 To thy rapt face, and wished that unto thee 
 I, too, might bring some glory, such as burn'd 
 
 In Gordon's eyes, divine, and fair to see. 
 Ah, God ! How grand it were to give thee 
 
 life, 
 To aid thy cause, self-sinking, in the strife. 
 Loving thee best, O Freedom ! and, in tears. 
 Giving thee thanks for death-accepted years. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 O sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame. 
 
 Mother and maid, immortal, prompt of 
 thought ! 
 Fairest and first art thou in name and fame, 
 And thou shalt lash the storm till it be 
 naught ! 
 
82 A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 O pure and proud ! O gentle and sublime ! 
 
 For thee and thine, O Freedom ! O my Joy ! 
 For thee, Celestial ! on the shores of time 
 
 A throne is built which no man shall destroy. 
 Thou shalt be seen for miles and miles around, 
 And wield a sceptre, though of none be crown'A 
 The waves shall know thee, and the winds of Heaven 
 Shall sing thee songs with mix'd and mighty steven. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The leagued fleets and armies of the law, 
 
 The direful things that once were tools of hate. 
 
 Shall serve, ere long, to keep thy name in awe. 
 And then collapse, as old and out of date. 
 
 Yea ! this shall be ; for God has willed it so ; 
 
 And none shall touch thy flag, to lay it low ; 
 
 And none shall rend thy robe that is to thee 
 
 As day to dawn, as sunlight to the sea. 
 
A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. 83 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 When tyrants rob thee of thy vested right, 
 O clear-eyed Liberty ! whom God will save, 
 
 When they do this, in fear, and fraud, and spite, 
 And when they circumvent the just and brave, 
 
 Oh ! then we hate them, and our hate is deep. 
 
 We curse them waking, watchful, and in sleep ; 
 
 In all the circuit of their sin's desire 
 
 We curse the curse that clothes them like a fire. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Oh ! thou art fearful, though so grand of soul. 
 
 Fearful and fearless, and a friend of men. 
 The haughtiest kings shall bow to thy control, 
 And rich and poor accept thy guidance then. 
 The kings and queens — the great ones of the earth, 
 Who urge allegiance by the test of birth — 
 When these are true to thee we wish them well. 
 But when they're false their place is down in hell. 
 
84 A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 O sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame, 
 
 Mother and maid, immortcil, keen of sight ! 
 
 Fairest and first art thou in name and fame, 
 And thou shalt tread the tempest in the night ! 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Creation's Lord alone is lord of thee ; 
 
 For all the systems, like a turning wheel, 
 Turn at His touch. He made the land and sea. 
 
 And found them good, and seal'd them with His 
 seal. 
 The sun, at setting, is the seal thereof. 
 The seal and cypher of His perfect love. 
 And lo ! at night His hand extended lies. 
 And in His palm He holds the flaming skies. 
 
A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. 85 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Though all so frail we see the dust of stars — 
 
 The dust and crust of worlds that shall be sent 
 Round and complete, and fleet and fair as Mars, 
 
 Through all the outlets of the firmament. 
 And down the crater of the seething West, 
 And up beyond the Morning's phcenix-nest, 
 We see, by faith, the outposts of the place 
 Where saints and seraphs view the Maker's face. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 He gave us Thee. We thank him for the gift. 
 
 The praise whereof is tempered, now, with tears. 
 But, each and all, our thoughts we will uplift 
 To sing the splendors of the coming years. 
 Who doubts the daylight when he sees afar 
 The fading lamp of some night-weary star. 
 Which, prophet-like, has heard amid the dark 
 The first faint prelude of the nested lark ? 
 
86 A CHORAL ODE TO LIBERTY. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 O Freedom ! O thou grand and gracious thing ! 
 
 For love of thee all seas and every shore, 
 And all domains whereof the poets sing, 
 
 Are link'd to man's requirements evermore. 
 And there shall be full soon, from north to south. 
 From east to west, by wisdom's word of mouth. 
 One code of laws that all shall understand ; 
 And all the world shall be one Fatherland. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 O sunlike Liberty, with eyes of flame, 
 
 Mother and maid, immortal, sweet of breath ! 
 
 Fairest and first art thou in name and fame, 
 
 And thou shalt pluck Redemption out of Death ! 
 
THE NIGHTINGALES. 
 
 I. 
 
 Nature and night and silence how divine ! 
 
 As in the west the sunset, like a sign, 
 
 Throbs through the dark, and swoons away in red 
 
 Fray'd out with gold. And lo ! from overhead 
 
 A curtain'd mist that hides in ecstacy 
 The sky-blue stillness of the day that's dead. 
 
 II. 
 The hours are pale. The sun has travell'd on 
 To reach the boundaries of to-morrow's dawn ; 
 And from the copse a rhapsody is heard, 
 As of the under-talk of bird with bird, — 
 
 The deep-set tones of unwed nightingales 
 Who seek the clue to Love's transcendent word. 
 
THE NIGHTINGALES. 
 
 III. 
 Yes, there is peace in Heaven, and joy and truth. 
 Sing of these things, ye troubadours of youth ! 
 And sound to-night the watchword of the same. 
 Ye come to sanctify, in beauty's name. 
 
 The ways and wants and witcheries of the woods; 
 And all your songs are fretted as with flame. 
 
 IV. 
 
 O ye delicious birds ! I love ye well. 
 Ye ring your changes like a wedding bell ; 
 Making such clamor on the quivering air 
 With such exuberance of ecstatic fare 
 
 That flowers and trees absorb the taste thereof; 
 And Echo sobs, heart-wounded in her prayer. 
 
 V. 
 
 Ye are the wingfed words of poets slain, 
 The souls of lovers come to earth again, — 
 The dear, dead spirits of the deathless past 
 Whose life was love, whose love was overcast 
 
 By dim forebodings of the end of things, 
 Whereof the joys were all too wild to last. 
 
THE NIGHTINGALES. 89 
 
 VI. 
 
 Or have ye sinn'd, dear warblers ! as at night 
 The rose may sin, the rose and lily white 
 Each kiss'd in turn ? A bird is but a flower 
 With song for scent. Have ye from out a bower 
 
 Enticed a pixy ? Wrong'd a carrier-moth ? 
 Or hurt a glow-worm in its trysting hour ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 What is't ye seek ? A chance ? A thing of peace ? 
 A pent-up rapture from the realms of Greece ? 
 A dream ? A trust ? A something undefined 
 That seems to come like madness up the wind ? 
 
 If this be so, ah, God ! if this be so. 
 There may be hope for mine unsolaced mind. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 I love a maid, ye sprites ! a maid of earth, 
 Endow'd so rarely, and of so much worth, — 
 And such content, — that all who meet her say. 
 She is the symbol of a summer's day. 
 
 She is my queen, and I will bow to her. 
 And crown her with a crownlet of the May ! 
 
go THE NIGHTINGALES. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Ah ! now the rounded moon looks o'er the grove ; 
 And, like the bowl that Vulcan held to Jove, — 
 The tvirn'd-up bowl whereof the wine was spilt, — 
 She doth survey the world in all its guilt. 
 
 And all the sweet sad bliss of all its tears. 
 And all the hope on which our faith is built. 
 
 X. 
 
 Sing on ! sing on uncheck'd, ye clamorous things. 
 With hearts on fire, and moonlight on your wings. 
 But have a care lest ye should now proclaim 
 Some life-long doubt, — or trill my Lady's name 
 Right through the wood, — for then the fauns 
 might hear, 
 And boastful Pan might cheapen her sweet fame ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 A whole cascade of notes ye seem to toss 
 From your full throats, as if to drown a loss, — 
 As if to make amends for something will'd 
 But not perform'd, — an ecstacy distill'd 
 
 From Dian's tears, or lovers' lonely sighs>. 
 Or cups of nectar which the gods have fill'd. 
 
THE NIGHTINGALES. 91 
 
 XII. 
 
 If sounds were sights, I'd say, to hear ye sing, 
 That these are pictures which to-night ye fling 
 Straight down the dusk in shakes which never tire : — 
 Sobs turn'd to flame and quick roulades of fire, 
 
 And vocal webs to catch delusions in. 
 And sparks of song which break while they aspire. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 I may be wrong, — I may misjudge ye now, — 
 I may confound a cadence with a vow 
 Not meant for Heaven. But in your chant I hear 
 A something Sapphic, — something like a cheer 
 
 From hordes of Bacchus when, at twilight hour, 
 The Oreads faced them in their mad career. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 What is your quest ? Redemption, or a boon ? 
 A west-wind guerdon, or a mirror'd moon 
 In some cool lake ? Of Athens do ye sing. 
 Or bright Sorrento, where the sun is king 
 
 All through the year, and where, if Eros wills. 
 My Love and I will journey ere the spring ? 
 
92 THE NIGHTINGALES. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Seek ye the clue to some untold romance, 
 
 A lover's idyl, or a poet's glance 
 
 In far-off Smyrna, where the myrtles bloom?' 
 
 Ye seem to make orations o'er the tomb 
 
 Of some dead fairy. Was she married well ? 
 
 Who kiss'd her first ? Who compass'd her poor 
 
 doom ? 
 
 XVI. 
 Unnamed, unnameable, enthroned Despair 
 
 Broods o'er the place, and daunts me unaware, 
 
 And half enthrals me with a sense, too brief, 
 
 Of awful wonder, which is kin to grief, — 
 
 Yet is not sorrow. There is joy in tears ; 
 
 But no content can cOme of Unbelief. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Oh, cease, sweet birds ! Oh, cease to thrill the night 
 With such weird fancies link'd with such delight. 
 I have been drugg'd with moonbeams, arid the hour 
 Is danger-tipp'd ! Ye have, methinks, a power 
 Not meant for solace, and my soul is touch'd 
 As with the fragrance of an opium-flower. 
 
THE NIGHTINGALES. 93 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 If ye are here to sing yourselves to death, 
 Let it be known ; and let the languid breath 
 Of some sirocco make your meanings clear. 
 Tell me what joy, from flowering year to year, 
 Makes ye so mad ; and teach me, ere I go. 
 How best to pray for Her whom I revere ! 
 
MEDUSA'S HAIR. 
 
 Who own'd it first ? 
 
 Who, first of all, unthinking in his sleep, 
 Caress'd this token which I will not keep ? 
 Behold ! I deem it loathsome and accurst. 
 
 n. 
 A charm, a snare ! 
 
 A net-work, aye, a woof it seems to me. 
 
 For there are syrens, still, by land and sea, 
 
 Who catch us, shuddering, in a web of hair. 
 
 HI. 
 
 See ! it is black. 
 
 Aye, black as night itself, or vulture's plume. 
 I deem it hateful, and of evil doom, — 
 Yet I will kiss it ere I give it back. 
 
MEDUSA'S HAIR. 95 
 
 IV. 
 
 O hideous coil ! 
 
 serpent twisted from a Gorgon's head ! 
 Thou art the token of a prayer unsaid, 
 
 A vow unutter'd which I will not soil. 
 
 V. 
 
 Thou art a chain ; 
 
 A dead thing, thou ! albeit alive in spring. 
 Thy jagged points offend me like a sting. 
 And thou canst fret me till I feel the pain. 
 
 VI. 
 
 1 dare not say 
 
 How wildly, O thou snake ! thou didst embrace 
 Me and thy dame, up-curling in my face ; 
 And how I lov'd thee many a spendrift day. 
 
 VII. 
 
 'Twas long ago : 
 
 A week or more, — what matters ? It is past. 
 
 In sooth I know, thou thing ! who kiss'd thee last, 
 
 But who will kiss thee next I shall not know. 
 
96 MEDUSA'S HAIR. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 She was not fair, — 
 
 She was not dark, — this woman whom I knew. 
 Her lips had something of the coral's hue. 
 And she was beauteous in the summer air. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Oh ! could we see. 
 
 Could we but see deception in an eye, 
 
 And say : This face is good, and this will lie. 
 
 And this, though seeming-true, will perjured be ! 
 
 X. 
 
 But hearts are mute ; 
 
 And few can read the thoughts that, out of sight. 
 
 Lurk in the mind. And I, in my despite, 
 
 I muse thereon, low-leaning o'er my lute. 
 
 XI. 
 
 I weep at times, — 
 
 I weep hot tears, and, like a child, am driven 
 Back from the brink of death to dream of heaven ; 
 And hope and doubt commingle in my rhymes. 
 
MEDUSA'S HAIR. 97 
 
 XII. 
 
 I scarce can tell, — 
 
 I scarce can dream indeed, — why this should be, 
 
 Or' why a lock of hair should anger me. 
 
 Or why remorse should rend me as in hell. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Yet this is sweet, 
 
 This thought, at least, which I will not forego : 
 The coil'd-up tress, — the symbol of my woe, — 
 Is powerless now and stingless at my feet. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Oh ! hence, thou snake. 
 Thou twisted thing too base to be alive. 
 Begone, thou traitor, to thy Gorgon hive. 
 That men may loathe thee, for thy lady's sake ! 
 
THE KING'S REST. 
 
 Here lies the Xing, within his tomb, — a shrine for 
 
 men to cherish 
 The landmark of a nation's love, whose fame will 
 
 never perish, — 
 Our Shakespeare's Rest ! — the grave of him whom 
 
 all were proud to follow. 
 Because he join'd to Plato's brain the frenzies of 
 
 Apollo. 
 
THE KING'S REST. 99 
 
 II. 
 
 Aye, there he lies on English soil, the chief of all 
 
 the singers. 
 Highest and best in honor's quest among the 
 
 passion-bringers. 
 And o'er the stone a warning word, as if, in kingly 
 
 sorrow. 
 He had foreseen the vulgar touch of some demented 
 
 Morrow. 
 
 III.' 
 
 So many boons he left us here, so many golden 
 
 verses, 
 That, had he curs'd us once a year, we might have 
 
 borne his curses. 
 But he was just. He curs'd but once, as to the 
 
 grave he wended : — 
 " Accurst be he who moves my bones ! " and there 
 
 the fury ended. 
 
THE KING'S REST. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh ! he was great and wise as Fate, and, by the 
 
 pen he wielded, — 
 Yea, by the pen that was his sword, — he lov'd the 
 
 cause he shielded. 
 He lov'd the children at the knee, the maiden and 
 
 the mother, 
 And all who toil by land and sea, and all who help 
 
 each other. 
 
 V. 
 
 He found that as the years declined, — as one by 
 
 one they vanish'd, — 
 The earth was robb'd of many joys, and Chivalry 
 
 was banish'd. 
 And so, to dower the world again, — to fill the 
 
 place vacated, — 
 He throng'd the air with ecstacies which he alone 
 
 created. 
 
THE KING'S REST. 
 
 VI. 
 
 He built a palace out of nought, for Love to come 
 
 and win it, — 
 A dome of pride and pageantry, and only breath 
 
 within it. 
 But when he touch'd it with his hand, behold ! 
 
 from out the portal, 
 A thousand goodly shapes advanced, — and they were 
 
 all immortal. 
 
 VII. 
 
 These are the men we know to-day, the friends we 
 
 cannot sever, 
 Women and men of Shakspeare's pen who live with 
 
 us for ever. 
 We may forget the present hour, and facts around 
 
 it clinging, 
 But not the grand eternities of his emphatic 
 
 singing. 
 
THE KING'S REST. 
 
 VIII. 
 And when he dofF'd his robe of clay, to prove 
 
 amid the dying, 
 That death was meant for meaner men, and not for 
 
 his descrying. 
 At least he earn'd the common right which others, 
 
 still, have taken. 
 To turn his face to mother earth, belov'd, and not 
 
 forsaken. 
 
 IX. 
 
 He cannot die, but he has pass'd to Nature's holy 
 
 keeping, 
 Happy in sleep below the sod, and guarded in his 
 
 sleeping. 
 Oh ! peace be his, by night and day, — his spirit 
 
 with the Giver, — 
 His dust within the Land he lov'd, beside the 
 
 rolling river ! 
 
vox AMORIS. 
 
 Vouchsafe, my Lady ! by the passion-flower, 
 And by the glamor of a moonlight hour, 
 And by the cries and sighs of all the birds 
 That sing o' nights, to heed again the words 
 Of my poor pleading ! for I swear to thee 
 My love is deeper than the bounding sea, 
 
 And more conclusive than a wedding bell. 
 And freer-voiced than winds upon the lea. 
 
I04 VOX A MORIS. 
 
 In all the world, from east unto the west, 
 There is no vantage-ground, and little rest. 
 And no content for me, from dawn to dark. 
 From set of sun to songtime of the lark, 
 And yet, withal, there is no man alive 
 Who, for a goodly cause, to make it thrive. 
 
 Would do such deeds as I would gird me to. 
 Could I but win the pearl for which I dive. 
 
 III. 
 
 It is thy love which, downward in the deep 
 
 Of far-off visions, I behold in sleep, — 
 
 It is thy pearl of love which, in the night. 
 
 Doth tempt my soul to hopes I dare not write,— 
 
 It is this gem for which, had I a crown, 
 
 I'd barter peace and pomp and ermined gown, — 
 
 It is thy troth, thou paragon of maids ! 
 For which I'd sell the joys of all renown. 
 
vox A MORIS. lbs 
 
 IV. 
 
 I would attack a panther in its den, 
 To do thee service as thy man of men, 
 Or front the Fates, or, like a ghoul confer 
 With staring ghosts outside a sepulchre. 
 I would forego a limb to give thee life. 
 And yield my soul itself in any strife. 
 
 In any coil of doubt, in any spot. 
 Where Death and Danger meet as man and wife. 
 
 V. 
 
 It is my solace, all my nights and days. 
 To pray for thee and dote on thee alwciys. 
 And evermore to count myself a king. 
 Because I earn'd thy favor in the spring. 
 Oh, smile on me, and call me to thy side. 
 And I will kneel to thee as to a bride. 
 
 And yet adore thee as a saint in Heaven, 
 By God ordain'd, by good men glorified ! 
 
io6 VOX A MORIS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I will acquaint thee with mine inmost thought, 
 And teach thee all I know, though unbesought. 
 And make thee prouder of a poet's dream 
 Than wealthy men are proud of what they seem. 
 If thou have trust therein, if thou require 
 Service of me, or song, or penance dire, 
 I will obey thee as thy belted knight, 
 Or die to satisfy thy heart's desire. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Ah ! thou hast that in store which none can give, 
 
 None but thyself; and I am fain to live 
 
 To watch the outcome of so fair a gift, — 
 
 To see the bright good-morrow loom, and lift, — 
 
 To know that thou, — unpeer'd beneath the moon, — 
 
 Untamed of men, — untutor'd to the tune 
 
 Of hp with lip, — wilt cease thy coy disdain, — 
 And learn the languors of the loves of June. 
 
vox A MORIS. 107 
 
 VIII. 
 
 All that I am, and all I hope to be, 
 
 Is thine till death ; and though I die for thee 
 
 Each day I live, and though I throb and thrill 
 
 At each returning touch, for good or ill. 
 
 Of my dark hour, I revel in the same. 
 
 Yet I am free of hope, as thou of blame ; 
 
 And all around thee, wakeful and in sleep, 
 I weave a blessing for thy soul to claim. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Oh, by thy radiant hair, and by the glow 
 Of thy full eyes, — and by thy breast of snow, — 
 And by the buds thereof that have the flush 
 Of infant roses when they strive to blush, — 
 And by thy voice, melodious as a bell 
 That rings for prayer in God's own citadel, — ■ 
 By all these things, and more than I can urge, 
 I charge thee. Sweet ! to let me out of hell ! 
 
io8 VOX A MORIS. 
 
 Is it not hell to live so far away, 
 And not to touch thee, — not, by night or day, 
 To be partaker of one smile of thine, 
 Or one commingling of thy breath and mine, 
 Or one encounter of thine amorous mouth ? 
 I dwell apart from thee, as north from south. 
 As east from western ways I dwell apart, 
 And taste the tears that quench not any drouth. 
 
 xj. 
 
 Why wilt thou take the memory of a wrong 
 To be thy shadow all the summer long, — 
 A thing to chide thee, at the dead of night, 
 A thing to wake thee with the morning light 
 For self-upbraiding, while the wanton bird 
 O'er-rides the welkin ! Ah, by joy deferr'd, — 
 By peace withheld from me, — do thou relent. 
 And dower my life, to-day, with one love-word. 
 
vox AMORIS. 109 
 
 XII. 
 
 Wouldst thou, Cassandra-wise, oppress my soul, 
 With more unrest, and, Hebe-like, the bowl 
 Of festal comfort for a moment raise 
 To my poor lips, and then avert thy gaze ? 
 Wouldst make me mad beyond the daily curse 
 Of thy displeasure, and, in wrath, disperse 
 
 That halcyon draught, that nectar of the mind, 
 Which is the theme I yearn to, in my verse ? 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Oh, by thy pity, when so slight a thing 
 As some small bird is wounded in the wing, 
 Avert thy scorn, and grant me, from afar, 
 At least the right to love thee as a star, — 
 The right to turn to thee, the right to bow 
 To thy pure name, and evermore, as now, 
 
 To own thy thraldom, and to sing thereof, 
 In proud allegiance to mine earliest vow. 
 
vox A MORIS. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 It were abuse of power to frown again, 
 When, all day long, I gloat upon the pain 
 Of pent-up hope, my joy and my distress, 
 While the remembrance of a mute caress 
 Given to a rose, — a rose I pluck'd for thee, — 
 Seems as the withering of the world to me. 
 
 Because I am unlov'd of thee to-day. 
 And undesired as sea-weeds in the sea. 
 
 XV. 
 
 I'll not believe that eyes so bright as thine 
 Were meant for malice in the summer-shine. 
 Or that a glance thereof, though turn'd to fire. 
 Could injure one whose spirit, like a lyre. 
 Has throbb'd to music of remember'd joys, — 
 The pride thereof, — and all the tender poise 
 
 Of trust with trust, — the symphonies of grief 
 Made all mine own, — and Faith which never cloys 
 
vox A MORIS. Ill 
 
 XVI. 
 
 How can it be that one so fair as thou 
 Should wear contention on a whiter brow 
 Than Mayday Dian's in her hunting-gear ? 
 I'll not believe that eyes so holy-clear, 
 And mouth so constant to its morning prayer, 
 Could mock the mischief of a man's despair. 
 
 And all the misery of a moment's hope 
 Seen far away as mists are seen in air. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 How can a woman's heart be made of stone 
 And she not know it ? Mine is overthrown. 
 I have no heart to-day, no perfect one ; 
 Only a thing that sighs at set of sun. 
 And beats its cage, as if the thrall thereof 
 Were freedom's prison, or the tomb of love ; 
 
 As if, God help me ! there were shame in Truth, 
 And no salvation left in realms above. 
 
112 VOX A MORIS. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 I once could laugh. I once was deem'd a man 
 
 Fit for the frenzies of the dead god Pan, 
 
 And now, by Heaven ! the birds that sing so well 
 
 Move me to tears ; and all the leafy dell, 
 
 And all the sundown glories of the west, 
 
 And all the moorland which the moon has blest, 
 
 Make me a dreamer, aye ! a coward, too. 
 In all the weird expanse of mine unrest. 
 
 It is my curse to see thee, and to learn 
 
 That I must shun thee, though I blaze and burn 
 
 With all this longing, all this fierce delight,. 
 
 Fear-fraught and famish'd for a suitor's right, — 
 
 A right conceded for a moment's space. 
 
 And then withdrawn, as, amorous face to face, 
 
 I dared to clasp thee, and to urge a troth 
 Too sovereign-sweet for one of Adam's race. 
 
vox A MORIS. 113 
 
 XX. 
 
 I am a doom-entangled, mirthless soul, 
 Without the power to rid me of the dole 
 Which, day by day, and nightly evermore. 
 Corrodes my peace ! Oh, smile, as once before. 
 At each wild thought, — and each discarded plea,- 
 And let thy sentence, let thy suffrance be, 
 
 That I be reckon'd, till the day I die. 
 The sad-eyed Singer of thy fame and thee ! 
 
 THE END. 
 
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