PR I '£amr 4I »»,. ^3 P\-li7ioi i>/;//f7'i ™»WU SfS'TV ' ' 'SsroTSflfl Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924065043295 Of this Large Paper edition Two Hundred and Fifty sets have been printed for sale. ■EU..'^.-^... y: FIFTY YEARS OF ENGLISH SONG. FIFTY YEARS OF English Song. SELECTIONS FROM THE POETS OF THE REIGN OF VICTORIA. EDITED AND ARRANGED BY HENRY F-RANDOLPH. -JP' ^ ^ The Poets of the Second Half of the Reign. The Writers of Vers de Societe. NEW YORK: ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & CO. 1888. I ' K, Copyright, 1887, By Anson D. F. Randolph & Co. Elnftttsfts Jgrcss: John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. UNTO J. H. F-R.' THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED. CONTENTS. Biographical and Bibliographical Notes xv Page MATTHEW ARNOLD. from 'sohrab and rustum'' 3 The Scholar-Gypsy 9 Dover Beach .... 17 Philomela 18 Immortality 19 East London 20 ROBERT BUCHANAN. FROM ' THE BOOK OF ORM.' Inscription to F. W. C. 21 Tks Shadow 22 The Dream of the World without Death 25 The Happy Earth .... 28 The Vision of the Man Accurst ... . . , 29 FROM THE ' CORUISKEN SONNETS.'' We are Fatherless ^8 Lord, art Thou here ? 39 Quiet Waters 40 The Ballad of Judas Iscariot 40 LEWIS MORRIS. FROM ' THE EPIC OF HADES? Clylcemnestra 47 Marsyas ^6 FROM ' THE ODE OF LIFE.' The Ode of Evil 62 vm CONTENTS. EDWIN ARNOLD. FROM • THE LIGHT OF ASIA.' The Renunciation 65 Sidddrtha and the Mother of the Dead Child . ... 73 She and He 76 After Death in Arabia . 79 JAMES THOMSON. FROM ' THE CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT' ... 82 A Voice from the Nile 91 FROM 'SUNDAY UP THE RIVER' 97 ALFRED AUSTIN. Hymn to Death 99 from 'the human tragedy.' The Journey of Godfrid and Olympia to Milan . . . 104 The Death of Godf rid and Olympia 113 A Question . 114 An Answer 115 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. FROM 'ATALANTA IN CALYDON.' Chorus 116 The Garden of Proserpine 118 Memorial Verses on the Death of Th^ophile Gautier .121 A Forsaken Garden . 127 MATHlLDE BLIND. from ' the prophecy of st. oran' ■ . -130 The Street-Children's Dance ... ... 138 The Dead 142 SEBASTIAN EVANS. Arnaud de Merveil 143 EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE. from ' firdausi in exile' 151 The Return of the Swallows 155 The Apotheosis of St. Dorothy 157 CONTENTS. ix Lying in the Grass i^g The Fear of Death 162 HARRIET ELEANOR HAMILTON KING. FROM ' THE disciples: From the ' Overture' 163 TTie Sermon in the Hospital . 167 Agesilao Milano 178 THOMAS GORDON HAKE. The Sun-Worshipper. ... . ... i8i The Snake-Charmer 184 AUGUSTA WEBSTER. FROM •■ SISTER ANNUNCIATA' 189 To One of Many 195 In the Storm 196 THOMAS ASHE. Psamathe 198 JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. Intellectual Isolation 203 At Amalfi . 206 Vintage ... . . 208 Beati Illi 209 AGNES MARY FRANCIS ROBINSON. The Scape-Goat. ... ..... . . 210 JiJTZi Schultheiss . . 211 Le Roi est Mort . . 216 A Classic Landscape .... .... . 216 Invocations . . 217 Remembrance ... . . 218 WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. Woodstock Maze . 219 Saint Margaret . . 223 Parting and Meeting again 224 Outside the Temple ... 225 Parted Love . . . . . 226 pvgmalion 226 X CONTENTS. ARTHUR%ILLIAM EDGAR O'SHAUGHNESSY. Ode. . . 228 Outcry 230 To A Young Murderess ... ... 232 ROBERT BULWER, EARL OF LYTTON. Madame la Marquise . 234 The Chess-board 236 from 'lucile' 237 EMILY PFEIFFER. Broken Light 239 To Nature 240 The Sting of Death 242 The Gospel of Dread Tidings 243 Evolution 243 PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. False Rest and True Rest 244 Beyond Reach . . . . 248 Beside the Dead . . . 248 Bridal Eve 249 CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTL Dream-Land ... 250 Bird Raptures . . . . . 251 Amor Mundi . 251 After Death . 252 Song . ... 253 Consider . . 253 Up-Hill 254 ERNEST MYERS. Rhodes 255 FROM ' THE JUDGMENT OF PROMETHEUS' ■ ■ 258 HERMAN CHARLES MERIVALE. Old and New Rome 263 CONTENTS. xi MORTIMER COLLINS. The King and the Beggar Maid 271 The Ivory Gate 272 April Fools 273 My Thrush . 274 A Little Lecture 275 A Game of Chess 275 MULTUM IN PaRVO 276 To F. C 277 FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON. To MY Grandmother 278 The Pilgrims of Pall Mall 280 Vanity Fair 282 Gertrude's Necklace . 283 The Old Cradle 284 A Garden Idyll 285 To Lina Oswald 287 Gertrude's Glove . ... 288 Du Rys de Madame D'Allebret 289 Love, Time, and Death . . 289 An Epitaph 289 HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON. A Song of Angiola in Heaven ... . 291 The Old Sedan Chair 293 Molly Trefusis 295 My Books 297 Une Marquise 298 tu quoque 302 ' Good Night, Baeette 1 ' 304 Before Sedan 306 An unfinished Song 307 The Wanderer 309 The Child-Musician 310 With Pipe and Flute 310 ANDREW LANG. The Fortunate Islands 312 Ballade of Middle Age 317 CONTENTS. Man and the Ascidian Ballade of Blue China ... Ballade of Sleep Ballade of His Choice of a Sepulchre In Ithaca 318 3'9 320 322 323 HENRY CHOLMONDELEY-PENNELL. The Night Mail North ... 324 The Rose of Ettrick 326 To A Lady with a Ring . 327 The Secret of Safety 328 Little Bo-Peep 329 ' Faite a Peindre ' 329 Explanatory Notes 333 Index of Authors . . 345 Initials and Pseudonyms . 347 Index of First Lines 349 BIOGRAPHICAL BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. BIOGRAPHICAL BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. THE authorities for these notes, in addition to the biograph- ical and bibliographical notes scattered through various anthologies and volumes of selections, are, Victorian Poets, by Edmund Clarence Stedman, eleventh edition, 1886; English Poetesses, by Eric S. Robertson ; Celebrities of the Century, edited by Lloyd Sanders, 1887 ; Men of the Reign, 1885, and Men of the Time, twelfth edition, 1887, both edited by Thomas Humphry Ward. The authors marked with an asterisk {*) are still (1887) living. * Arnold, Edwin, C.S.I. (1832). Educated at King's Col- lege, London, and University College, Oxford, where in 1852 he won the Newdigate prize by his English poem. The Feast of Bel- shazzar. Shortly after his graduation in honors in 1854 he was appointed Principal of the Government Sanscrit College at Poona, in the Bombay Presidency, and Fellow of the University of Bom- bay. He resigned this position in 1861 to become connected with The Daily Telegraph, of which he has been editor for many years. As editor of this paper he arranged in 1873 ^^ expedition of Mr. George Smith to conduct the excavation at Kouyunjik on the site of Nineveh, and a year later the expedition of Mr. Henry M. Stanley to Africa, which was undertaken at the joint expense of The Daily Telegraph and New York Herald. He is an accom- plished Sanscrit scholar, and upon the proclamation of the Queen as Empress of India he was named a Companion of the Star of XVI BIOGRAPHICAL AND India. Out of regard for his Light of Asia, the King of Siam deco- rated him with the Order of the White Elephant, and in 1876 he received the Second Class of the Imperial Order of the Medjidie from the Sultan. He has published Griselda (Drama), 1856; Hero and Leander, translation from the Greek of MustBus, 1874; The Indian Song of Songs, a metrical paraphrase from the San- scrit of The Gita Gminda of Jayadeva, 1875; The Light of Asia, 1879 ; Pearls of the Faith, 1883 ; Indian Idyls, a metrical transla- tion from the Sanscrit of The Mahdbhdrata, 1883 ; The Secret of Death {translation from the Sanscrit) and other Poems, 1885; The Song Celestial, a metrical translation from the Sanscrit of the Mahdbhdrata, 1S85. * Arnold, Matthew, LL. D. (1822). Son of the famous Dr. Arnold of Rugby, and born at Laleham near Staines. He was educated at Winchester and Rugby, and elected Scholar of Balliol College, Oxford, in 1840. Three years later he won the Newdigate prize for English verse by his poem Cromwell, graduated in honors a year afterwards, and was elected Fellow of Oriel College in 1845. I" ^^847 the third Lord Lansdowne nominated him his private secretary, and he continued to act in that capacity until 1851, when he was appointed Lay Inspector of Schools under the Committee of Council on Education. In connection with his official duties he visited the Continent in 1859, and the researches made in this and a subsequent visit led to the publication of a valuable volume on continental methods of education. In 1857 he was elected Professor of Poetry at Oxford, which chair he occupied for a period of ten years. In 1869 he received the honorary degree of Doctor of Laws from Edinburgh, and a year afterwards from Oxford, and in 187 1 the Order of Commander of the Crown of Italy was conferred on him by the King of Italy in acknowledgment of his care of the young Duke of Genoa, who lived in Mr. Arnold's family while pursuing his studies in England. In 1883-84 he made a lecturing tour in the United States, and in 1SS6 he resigned the position of Lay Inspector which he had held for nearly thirty-five years. His poetical publications are : The Strayed Reveller and other Poems, 1848 ; Empedocles and other Poems, 1S53 ; Merope, a tragedy after the antique, 1867 ; New Poems, 1869. BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. xvil * Ashe, Thomas, The Rev. ( 1836). He has published Poems, 1859; The Sorrows of Hypsifyle (Drama), 1867; Edith, 1873; Songs Now and Then, 1876; Poems, l886. *AUSTIN, Alfred (1835). Born at Headingley near Leeds, and as both his parents were Roman Catholics he was educated at Stonyhurst College, and afterwards at St. Mary's College, Oscott, and took his degree at the University of London in 1853. Educated for the law, he was called to the bar of the Inner Temple in 1857 ; but in i86i he abandoned that profession to devote himself entirely to literature. He acted for consid- erable time as leader writer and correspondent of The Standard, and as a Conservative in politics made two unsuccessful attempts to enter Parliament, for Taunton in 1865, and for Dewsbury in 1880. He is at present one of the editors of The National Review, which was founded as a Conservative publication in 1883. He has published Randolph, 1854; 7he Season, a Satire, l86l ; My Satire and its Censors, i86i ; The Human Tragedy, 1862, which was reissued considerably amended and altered in 1876; The Golden Age, a Satire, 187 1 ; Interludes, 1872; Rome or Death, 1873; '^^^ Tower of Babel {Drxcas), 1874; Leszko, the Bas- tard: a. Tale of Polish Grief, 1877 ; Savonarola, 1881 ; Soliloquies in Song, 1882; At the Gate of the Convent, 1885. He is also the author of three novels and several political letters and essays. * Blind, Mathilde. Miss Blind is a step-daughter of Karl Blind, and has achieved considerable reputation as editor and critic of Shelley's works. She has published Poems, 1867 ; The Prophecy of St. Or an and other Poems, i88l. * Buchanan, Robert (1841). Born at Caverswall, Stafford- shire, and son of a socialist lecturer and editor. He was edu- cated at Glasgow University, where his intimate friend and companion was the poet David Gray, with whom he occu- pied the same lodgings in London for a short time in i860. In 1872 his essay, The Fleshly School of Poetry, published in The Contemporary Review, an attack on the poems of Dante G. Rossetti, led to a bitter controversy with that author, in which Mr. Swinburne became subsequently involved. Mr. Buchanan b XVIU BIOGRAPHICAL AND subsequently retracted some o£ his charges, and in a letter written to Mr. T. Hall Caine after Rossetti's death, frankly admitted that his attack on the latter was unjust, and expressed regret that the controversy should ever have taken place. In 1874 his comedy A Madcap Prince was produced at the Hay- market, and he has since that time established for himself a reputation of being a very clever playwright. In 1876 he pub- lished his first novel, The Shadow of the Sword. He has been for many years closely connected with The Contemporary Review. In 1870 he was awarded a pension of ;^ioo per annum from the Civil List in consideration of his literary merit as a poet. He has published Undertones, i860 ; Idyls and Legends of Inver- burn, 1865 ; London Poems, 1866 ; North Coast Poems, 1867 ; The Book of Orm, 1870; Napoleon Fallen (a lyrical drama), 1871 ; The Drama of Kings, 1871 ; St. Abe, 187 1 ; White Rose and Red, a Love Story, 1873. A collected edition of his poetical works was published in 1874. Collins, Mortimer (1827-1876). Bom at Plymouth, and connected during his life with various newspapers, and especially with the London Globe. He was, in addition to being a jour- nalist and poet, a very successful novelist. His first novel, WJio is He ?vi3iS published in 1865. His volumes of verse are: Sum- mer Songs, i860 ; Idyls and Rhymes, 1865 ; The Inn of Strange Meetings, and other Poems, 1871. *DoBSON, Henry Austin (1840). Born at Plymouth, and at the age of eight or nine taken by his parents to Holyhead, in the island of Anglesea. He received a desultory education in Wales and Germany. Originally intended for an engineer, it was finally decided that he should enter the Civil Service, and in 1856 he was appointed to a clerkship in the Board of Trade, where he has remained ever since, having risen to the position of a First- Class clerk. To Mr. Dobson belongs the credit of being among the first to introduce into English poetry the French form of verse, the rondeau, ballade, villanelle, etc., which have now be- come so popular. He has published Vignettes in Rhyme and Vers de Sociiti, 1873 ■ P'raverbs in Porcelain, 1877 ; Old World Idylls, 1883 ; At the Sign of the Lyre, 1S85. BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. xix *EVANS, Sebastian, LL.D. (1830). Born at Market Bos- worth, Leicestershire, and educated at Emmanuel College, Cam- bridge, from which he graduated B.A. in 1853, M.A. in 1857, and LL.D. in 1868. In 1857 he became manager of the artistic department in Messrs. Chance Brothers & Co.'s glass works, and nine years later editor of The Birmingham Daily Gazette. He resigned the editorship of this paper in 1870, and three years afterwards was called to the bar, joining the Oxford Circuit. In 1878 he removed from Birmingham to London, where he took an active part in the organization of the Con- servative party in connection with the National Union of Conservative Associations, and in 1881 he became the editor of The People, a Sunday newspaper, and one of the official organs of the Conservative party. He has published Brother Fabian's MS. and other Poems, 1865; In the Studio ; a Decade of Poems, 1875. *GossE, Edmund William (1849). Born in London, and educated at Devonshire. In 1867 he was appointed assistant librarian at the British Museum, and in 1875 became Translator to the Board of Trade. Prior to receiving the last appointment he spent two years in Norway, Denmark, and Sweden, and afterwards considerable time in Holland, for the purpose of studying the language and literature of those countries, where he gathered the material for his Northern Studies, a volume of essays on Scandinavian, Dutch, and German literature. In the spring of 1884 he was elected Clark Lecturer in English Literature at Trinity College, Cambridge; and in the fall of the same year visited America at the invitation of the Lowell Institute, Boston, where he delivered a course of lectures upon the rise of classical poetry in England, subsequently repeated before the Johns Hopkins University, Yale College, and else- where. In 1886 his The Masqtie of Painters was performed by the Royal Institute of Painters in Water Colors. He has pub- lished, in conjunction with a friend, Madrigals, Songs, and Sonnets, 1870; On Viol and Flute, 1873; King Erik (Drama), 1876; The Unknown Lover (Drama), 1878; New Poems, 1879; Firdausi in Exile and other Poems, 1886. He is also the author of several essays, and the editor of a complete edition of the works of Gray. XX BIOGRAPHICAL AND *Hake, Thomas Gordon, M.D. (i8ig). He has published Parables and Tales ; New Symbols ; Legends of the Morrow ; Madeline ; Maiden Ecstasy. *KiNG, Harriet Eleanor Hamilton (1840). Daughter of Admiral W. A. B. Hamilton, and in 1863 married Mr. Henry S. King, the banker and publisher. She has published Aspro- monte, 1869 ; The Disciples, 1873 > Book of Dreams, 1883. *Lang, Andrew (1844). Born at Selkirk, and educated at St. Andrew's University and Balliol College, Oxford, and in 1868 elected a Fellow of Merton College of the latter Univer- sity. He is connected with The Daily News, and a constant contributor to current periodicals. He is remarkable for the versatility of his attainments, having distinguished himself both by his graceful and humorous articles on ephemeral subjects and his scholarly contributions to French literature and the science of comparative mythology. His volumes of verse are : Ballads and Lyrics of Old France, 1872 ; Ballades in Blue China, 1881 ; Helen of Troy, 1882 ; Rhymes h la Mode, 1884. There was also an authorized collection of some of his poems published in America, under the title Ballades and Verses Vain. * Locker-Lampson, Frederick ( 1 821). For many years in the Admiralty as Precis Writer. He is a contributor of prose and verse to the various English periodicals, and also known for his collection of drawings by the Old Masters and his library of rare Elizabethan literature. His second wife was the daugh- ter of Sir Curtis Lampson, Bart, of Rowfant, after whose death Mr. Locker added the name of Lampson to his own. He has published London Lyrics, 1862; Patchwork, (prose and verse), 1879- *Lytton, The Right Hon. Edward Robert Bulwer- Lytton, Earlof, G. C. B. (1831). The only son of the novelist, and educated at Harrow. In 1849 he entered the diplomatic service, and served as an attache to various embassies, the earliest being that at Washington. In 1S63 he was promoted to be Secretary of Legation at Copenhagen, and the following BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. xxi year married the daughter of the Hon. Edward Villiers. In 1874 he was appointed Minister to Lisbon, and in 1876 Viceroy o£ India. During his Viceroyalty he presided at the Delhi durbar, at which Queen Victoria was proclaimed Empress of India, and in 1879 a mad Eurasian made an attempt to assas- sinate him. In 1877 the Queen conferred upon him the Grand Cross of the Civil Division of the Order of the Bath. In 1880 he was made Earl of Lytton, of Lytton in the county of Derby, and Viscount Knebworth, of Knebworth in the county of Herts, and that same year resigned his Viceroyalty. He has published Clytemnestra and other Poems, 1855; The Wanderer : a Collection of Poems in Many Lands, 1858; Lucile, i860; in conjunction with 'Neville Temple' (Mr. Julian Fane), Tann- kduser, or the Battle of the Bards, i85i ; Chronicles aud Char- acters, 1868; Orval, or the Fool of Time, 1869; Fables in Song, 1874 ; Glenaveril, or the Metamorphoses, 1885. Marston, Philip Eourke (1850-1887). Born in London, and son of Dr. Westland Marston, the dramatist. When quite a child he received an accidental blow in the eye, which even- tually produced total blindness. From the age of twenty his life was almost tragic in the personal losses which he sustained. His sister Eleanor' was the wife of the poet Arthur O'Shaugh- nessy, and he himself numbered among his intimate friends many of the younger generation of London poets. He was a frequent contributor to the American magazines and monthlies. Marston was the subject of Mrs. Craik's Philip my King, whose godson he was. He published Song-Tide, 1870; All in All, 1875 ; Wind Voices, 1883. *Merivale, Herman Charles (1839). Born in London, and educated at Harrow and at Balliol College, Oxford, where he graduated B.A. in 1861. Three years later he was called to the bar at the Inner Temple, but in 1879 was obliged to give up his profession on account of ill health, since which time he has devoted himself almost entirely to literature. His poetical works are : The White Pilgrim and other Poems, 1883 ; Florien and other Poems, 1884. He is also known as a. successful playwright. xxu BIOGRAPHICAL AND *MoRRis, Lewis (1834). Born near Casrmarthen, and edu- cated at Sherborne School and Jesus College, Oxford, where he obtained a Chancellor's prize in 1855. He was called to the bar at Lincoln's Inn in 1861, and practised chiefly as a conveyancing counsel until 1880. He has occupied various minor political and official positions, and in 1881 stood in the Liberal interest for the Ceermarthen Boroughs, but retired before election, and five years later was defeated for Pembroke Boroughs. In 1877 he was elected an Honorary Fellow of Jesus College, and in 1879 was appointed a Knight of the Order of the Saviour (of Greece). He has published Songs of Two Worlds, Vol. I., 1871 ; Vol. II., 1874 ; Vol. III., 1875 ; The Epic of Hades, Book II., 1876; Books I. and III., 1877; Gwen, a Drama in Monologue, 1879; The Ode of Life, 1880; Songs Unsung, 1883; Gycia (Drama), 1886. * Myers, Ernest. He has published The Puritans ; Poems ; The Defence of Rome and other Poems, 1880; The Judgment of Prometheus and other Poems, 1886. O'Shaughnessy, Arthur William Edgar (1844-1881). He was an ichthyologist by profession, and entering the British Museum as a transcriber, was two years afterwards removed to the Natural History Department, where he remained till his death. He published An Epic of Women, 1870; Lays of France, 1872; Music and Moonlight, 1874; Songs of a Worker (posthu- mously), 18S1. * Pennell, Henry Cholmondeley- ( 1837 ). He entered the public service in 1853, and after serving in various departments of the Admiralty, was appointed one of Her Majesty's Inspec- tors of Fisheries in 1866. In 1875 he was selected by the English Government, at the request of the Khedive of Egypt, to initiate and assist in carrying out certain commercial reforms, and was afterwards nominated Director-General of Commerce for the Interior. During 1864-65 he edited The Fisherman's Magazine and Review, and is a frequent contributor to the current English magazines and reviews. He has published Puck en Pegasus, 1861 ; Crescent, 1866; Modern Babylon, 1873; 'T^' BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. xxiii Muses of May fair, 1874; Pegasus Re-saddled, 1877; From Grave to Gay, a volume of selections from his complete poems, 1884. He has also contributed largely to the literature of ichthyology and practice of angling, and is a distinguished sportsman. * Pfeiffer, Mrs. Emily Davis, She has published Gerard's Monument, 1873; Poems, 1876; Glan-Alarch: His Silence and Song, 1877 ; Quarterman's Grace, and other Poems, 1879 '> Under the Aspens, 1882. * Robinson, Agnes Mary Frances (1857). Born at Leam- ington, and educated at Brussels and the University College of London, where she made a special study of the Greek language and literature. She has published A Handful of Honeysuckles, 1878; The Crowned Hippolytus (a metrical translation from Euripides), containing also a few new poems, 1880; The New Arcadia, and other Poems, 1884; An Italian Garden : a Book of Songs, 1886. She is also the author of a single novel, Arden, and one or two other prose works. * RossETTi, Christina Georgina (1830). Daughter of Ga- bries Rossetti, an Italian poet-patriot, who removed to Lon- don in 1821, and sister of Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Her earliest efforts at verse were made in a small volume privately printed by her maternal grandfather, G. Polidori, in 1847, and entitled Verses by Christina G. Rossetti, dedicated to her Mother. She also contributed to The Germ, the organ of the Pre-Raphaelite movement, under the pseudonym of Ellen AUeyn. She has published Goblin RIarket and other Poems, 1862 ; The Prince's Progress and other Poems, 1 870. * Scott, William Bell (181 i). Born at St. Leonards near Edinburgh, and distinguished as poet, painter, etcher, architect, and man of letters. He was educated at the Edinburgh High School, and subsequently entered the antique class of the Gov- ernment Academy, and in 1832 drew from the antique in the British Museum. In 1838 he exhibited his first considerable picture. The Old English Ballad Singer, and six years later he XXIV BIOGRAPHICAL AND undertook, at the request of the Board of Trade, the establish- ment of a school of art at Newcastle-on-Tyne. In 1851 he pub- lished a series of allegorical etchings. Chorea Sancti Viti, or Steps in the Life of Prince Legion, and during 1854-59, and in 1863-64, he was occupied on his large paintings illustrating the history of the English Border, and the ballad of Chevy Chase, for Welling- ton Hall, the seat of Sir Walter Trevelyan, Bart., and in 1882 he secured for himself the title of architect by building a hall in a mediseval manner at Penkill Castle. He was for many years an art examiner under the Education Board, which position he resigned in 1885. His poetical works are: Hades, or the Transit and the Progress of Mind, an Ode, 1838 ; The Year of the World, a Philosophical Poem on Redemption from the Fall, 1 846 ; Poems by u Painter, 1854; Ballads, Studies from Nature, Sonnets, etc., a collection from his poems, and decorated with etchings by him- self and Mr. Ij. Alma-Tadema, 1875; The Poet's Harvest Home, * Swinburne, Algernon Charles (1837). Born at Pimlico, and in 1857 entered Balliol College, Oxford. While here he contributed to a periodical entitled Undergraduate Papers, edited by Mr. John Nichol. He left the University without taking his degree, and afterwards visited Florence, where he spent some time with the late Walter Savage Landor. In 1866 his Poems and Ballads appeared, which were severely criticised, and led to the publication of a bitter retort by the young poet, Notes on Poems and Reviews. He has published The Queen Mother and Rosamond (Dramas), 1S60 ; Atalanta in Calydon (Tragedy on the Greek Model), 1S65 ; C/inrif/ar^/ (Drama), 1865 ; Poems and Ballads, 1866; A Song of Italy, 1867 ; in pamphlet form, Ode on the Proclajnation of the PYench Republic, Scpte7nber 4th, 1870, 1870; Songs before Sunrise, 187 1 ; Both-well (Drama), 1874; Songs of Two Nations, comprising A Song of Italy, Ode on the French Republic, and Dirce, a series of political Sonnets first contributed to The Examiner, 1875 ; Erectheus (Tragedy on the Greek Model), 1876 ; Poems and Ballads, Second Scries, 1878 ; Songs of the Spring-Tides, 1S80 ; I^Iary Stuart (Drama), 1881 ; Tristram of Lyonesse, 1882; A Century of Roicndels, 1883; A Midsummer Holiday, and other Poems, 1884; Marino F'aliero BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. xxv (Drama), 1885. He is also the author of a number of critical essays and volumes. * Symonds, John Addington. Born at Bristol, and educated at Harrow and Balliol College, Oxford, being elected to a Fel- lowship at Magdalen College in that University, in 1872, which he vacated by his marriage. For many years he has been com- pelled by reason of ill-health to reside at Davos-platz in the Grisons. His poetical works are : The Sonnets of Michael Angela Buonarotti and Campanella (translation), 1878; Many Moods; New and Old, 1880; Anima Figura, 1882; Vagalmnduli Libellus, 18S4 ; Witie, Women, and Song (translation of Latin Student songs), 1884. He is also a distinguished critic of Greek and Italian poetry. Thomson, James (1834-1882). Born at Port Glasgow, and son of a seafaring man. At the death of his mother when he was about six years old, he was placed in the Caledonian Or- phan Asylum. Upon leaving this institution, he resolved to qualify for the post of a schoolmaster in the army, and joined the service as assistant-schoolmaster, the garrison which he joined being stationed at BallincoUig, near Cork. It was here that he met and became engaged to a young girl, the daughter of the armorer-sergeant of a regiment. Two years later he was sent to the Training College at Chelsea, to finish his course of studies, and a little more than a year afterwards, he received the news of the sudden death of his betrothed, which became a life- long sorrow with him. In 1854 he left the Training School, and served with various regiments for the next eight years, having in the mean time become one of the earliest contributors to The National Reformer, which had been established in i860. In 1862 he left the army, and served for a time in the office of Mr. Bradlaugh, who was then acting as manager clerk to a solicitor named Levison. In 1872 he visited America, in the capacity of secretary to a company which was formed to work an American silver mine, and the following year served a short time as special correspondent of the New York World, to report the Carlist in- surrection in Spain. He subsequently formed a connection with Cope's Tobacco Plant, a monthly periodical, which he held to the time of his death. Most of his poems first appeared in this XXVI BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. paper, and The National Rmew. He published The City of Dreadful Night and other Poems, 1880 ; Vane's Story, Weddah and Om-el-Bonain, and other Poems, 1881 ; A Voice from the Nile and other Poems (posthumously), 1884. He was also the author of a volume of prose, Essays and Pha7ttasies, and his poem Shelley appeared with a critical essay on that poet in 1887. * Webster, Augusta {1840). Born at Poole, Dorsetshire, and daughter of Vice-Admiral Davies. In 1863 she was married to Mr. Thomas Webster, Fellow and Law Lecturer of Trinity College, Cambridge. In 1879 she was elected on the School Board, Chelsea, and again returned in 1885. She has contribu- ted articles to The Examiner on the subject of women's fran- chise, in which she takes a great interest. She has published Blanche Lisle and other Poems, i860; Lilian Gray, 1864; Pro- viethens Bound (translation from ^schylus), 1866; Dramatic Studies, 1866 ; A Woman Sold and other Poems, 1867 ; Medea (translation from Euripides), 1S68; Portraits, 1870; The Auspi- cious Day (Drama), 1872; Yu-Pe-Ya^s Lute, 1874; Disguises, 1879; ^ -^""^ 0/ Rhymes, 1881 ; In a Day, 1882. POETS OF THE LATTER HALF OF THE REIGN. POETS OF THE LATTER HALF OF THE REIGN. MATTHEW ARNOLD. FROM 'SOHRAB AND RUSTUM.'i Then, with weak hasty fingers, Sohrab loosed His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm. And showed a sign in faint vermihon points Pricked ; as a cunning workman, in Pekin, Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase, An emperor's gift — at early morn he paints, And all day long, and, when night comes, the lamp Lights up his studious forehead and thin hands — So dehcately pricked the sign appeared On Sohrab's arm, the sign of Rustum's seal. It was that grifKn, which of old reared Zal, Rustum's great father, whom they left to die, A helpless babe, among the mountain-rocks ; Him that kind creature found, and reared, and loved — Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign. And Sohrab bared that image on his arm. And himself scanned it long with mournful eyes. And then he touched it with his hand and said : — ' How say'st thou ? Is that sign the proper sign Of Rustum's son, or of some other man's .'' ' He spoke ; but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and stood POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Speechless ; and then he uttered one sharp cry : boy — thy father / — and his voice choked there. And then a dark cloud passed before his eyes, And his head swam, and he sank down to earth. But Sohrab crawled to where he lay, and cast His arms about his neck, and kissed his lips. And with fond faltering fingers stroked his cheeks, Trying to call him back to life ; and life Came back to Rustum, and he oped his eyes. And they stood wide with horror ; and he seized In both his hands the dust which lay around, And threw it on his head, and smirched his hair, — His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering arms ; And strong convulsive groanings shook his breast, And his sobs choked him; and he clutched his sword, To draw it, and forever let life out. But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his hands, And with a soothing voice he spake, and said : — ' Father, forbear ! for I but meet to-day The doom which at my birth was written down In Heaven, and thou art Heaven's unconscious hand. Surely my heart cried out that it was thoii, When first I saw thee ; and thy heart spoke too, 1 know it ! but fate trod those promptings down Under its iron heel ; fate, fate engaged The strife, and hurled me on my father's spear. But let us speak no more of this ! I find My father, let me feel that I have found ! Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks, And wash them with thy tears, and say : My son / Quick ! quick ! for numbered are my sands of hfe. And swift; for like the lightning to this field I came, and like the wind I go away — Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind ; But it was writ in Heaven that this should be.' MATTHEW ARNOLD. 5 So said he, and his voice released the heart Of Rustum, and his tears broke forth ; he cast His arms round his son's necic, and wept aloud, And kissed him. And awe fell on both the hosts. When they saw Rustum's grief ; and Ruksh, the horse, With his head bowing to the ground and mane Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe First to the one then to the other, moved His head, as if inquiring what their grief Might mean ; and from his dark, compassionate eyes. The big warm tears rolled down, and caked the sand. But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and said : — • ' Ruksh, now thou grievest ; but, O Ruksh, thy feet Should then have rotted on their nimble joints. When first they bore thy master to this field ! ' But Sohrab looked upon the horse and said : — ' Is this, then, Ruksh ? How often, in past days, My mother told me of thee, thou brave steed, My terrible father's terrible horse ! and said. That I should one day find thy lord and thee. Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane ! O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I ; For thou hast gone where I shall never go. And snuffed the breezes of my father's home. And thou hast trod the sands of Seistan, And seen the River of Helmund, and the Lake Of Zirrah ; and the aged Zal himself Has often stroked thy neck, and given thee food, Corn in a golden platter soaked with wine. And said : O Ruksh ! bear Rustum well ! — but I Have never known my grandsire's furrowed face, Nor seen his lofty house in Seistan, Nor slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund stream ; But lodged among my father's foes, and seen Afrasiab's cities only, Samarcand, Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste, POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. And the black Toorkmun tents ; and only drunk The desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend, Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep, The northern Sir ; and this great Oxus stream, The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die.' Then, with a heavy groan, Rustum bewailed : — ' Oh, that its waves were flowing over me ! Oh, that I saw its grains of yellow silt Roll tumbling in the current o'er my head ! ' But, with a grave, mild voice, Sohrab replied : — ' Desire not that, my father ! thou must live. For some are born to do great deeds, and live. As some are born to be obscured, and die. Do thou the deeds I die too young to do. And reap a second glory in thine age ; Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine. But come ! thou seest this great host of men Which follow me ; I pray thee, slay not these ! Let me entreat for them; what have they done? They followed me, my hope, my fame, my star. Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. But me thou must bear hence, not send with them. But carry me with thee to Seistan, And place me on a bed, and mourn for me. Thou, and the snow-haired Zal, and all thy friends. And thou must lay me in that lovely earth. And heap a stately mound above my bones. And plant a far-seen pillar over all. That so the passing horseman on the waste May see my tomb a great way off, and cry : Sohrab, the Tnighty RustuirCs son, lies there. Whom his great father did in ignorance kill / And I be not forgotten in my grave.' And, with a mournful voice, Rustum replied : — ' Fear not ! as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son, So shall it be ; for I will burn my tents. MATTHEW ARNOLD. And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me, And carry thee away to Seistan, And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee. With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends. And I will lay thee in that lovely earth, And heap a stately mound above thy bones, And plant a far-seen pillar over all, And men shall not forget thee in thy grave. And I will spare thy host ; yea, let them go ! Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace ! What should I do with slaying any more ? For would that all whom I have ever slain Might be once more alive ; my bitterest foes, And they who were called champions in their time. And through whose death I won that fame I have — And I were nothing but a common man, A poor, mean soldier, and without renown. So thou mightest live too, my son, my son ! Or rather would that I, even I myself, Might now be lying on this bloody sand, Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine. Not thou of mine ! and I might die, not thou ; And I, not thou, be borne to Seistan ; And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine ; And say : O son, I weep thee not too sore. For willingly, I know, thou met'st thine end ! But now in blood and battles was my youth. And full of blood and battles is my age. And I shall never end this life of blood.' Then, at the point of death, Sohrab replied : — ' A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful man ! But thou shalt yet have peace ; only not now, Not yet ! but thou shalt have it on that day. When thou shalt sail in a high-masted ship. Thou and the other peers of Kai Khosroo, Returning home over the salt blue sea, POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. From laying thy dear master in his grave.' And Rustum gazed in Sohrab's face, and said : — ' Soon be that day, my son, and deep that sea ! Till then, if fate so wills, let me endure.' He spoke ; and Sohrab smiled on him, and took The spear, and drew it from his side, and eased His wound's imperious anguish ; but the blood Came welling from the open gash, and life Flowed with the stream — all down his cold white side The crimson torrent ran, dim now and soiled, Like the soiled tissue of white violets Left, freshly gathered, on their native bank, By children whom their nurses call with haste Indoors from the sun's eye ; his head drooped low. His limbs grew slack ; motionless, white, he lay — White, with eyes closed ; only when heavy gasps, Deep heavy gasps quivering through all his frame. Convulsed him back to life, he opened them, And fixed them feebly on his father's face ; Till now all strength was ebbed, and from his limbs Unwillingly the siDirit fled away. Regretting the warm mansion which it left. And youth, and bloom, and this delightful world. So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead ; And the great Rustum drew his horseman's cloak Down o'er his face, and sate by his dead son. As those black granite pillars, once high-reared By Jemshid in Persepolis, to bear His house, now mid their broken flights of steps Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain side — So in the sand lay Rustum by his son. And night came down over the solemn waste, And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair. And darkened all ; and a cold fog, with night. Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum arose, As of a great assembly loosed, and fires MATTHEW ARNOLD. 9 Began to twinkle through the fog; for now Both armies moved to camp, and took their meal ; The Persians took it on the open sands Southward, the Tartars by the river marge ; And Rustum and his son were left alone. But the majestic river floated on, Out of the mist and hum of that low land, Into the frosty starlight, and there moved. Rejoicing, through the hushed Chorasmian waste, Under the solitary moon ; — he flowed Right for the polar star, past Orgunjfe, Brimming, and bright, and large ; then sands begin To hem his watery march, and dam his streams. And split his currents ; that for many a league The shorn and parcelled Oxus strains along Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles — Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had In his high mountain-cradle in Pamere, A foiled circuitous wanderer ■ — till at last The longed-for dash of waves is heard, and wide His luminous home of waters opens, bright And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed stars Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea. THE SCHOLAR-GYPSY?- Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill ; Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes ! No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed. Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats. Nor the cropped grasses shoot another head ; But when the fields are still, And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest. And only the white sheep are sometimes seen Cross and recross the strips of moon-blanched green. Come, shepherd, and again renew the quest ! O POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Here, where the reaper was at work of late — In this high field's dark corner, where he leaves His coat, his basket, and his earthern cruse. And in the sun all morning binds his sheaves, Then here, at noon, comes back his stores to use — Here will I sit and wait. While to my ear from uplands far away The bleating of the folded flocks is borne, With distant cries of reapers in the corn — All the live murmur of a summer's day. Screened is this nook o'er the high, half-reaped field. And here till sun-down, shepherd ! will I be. Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep. And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see Pale blue convolvulus in tendrils creep ; And air-swept lindens yield Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed showers Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid. And bower me from the August-sun with shade ; And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers. And near me on the grass lies Glanvil's book — Come, let me read the oft-read tale again ! The story of that Oxford scholar poor. Of shining parts and quick inventive brain, Who, tired of knocking at preferment's door. One summer-morn forsook His friends, and went to learn the gypsy-lore. And roamed the world with that wild brotherhood. And came, as most men deemed, to little good, But came to Oxford and his friends no more. But once, years after, in the country-lanes. Two scholars, whom at college erst he knew, Met him, and of his way of life inquired; Whereat he answered, that the gypsy-crew, MA TTHE W ARNOLD. 1 1 His mates, had arts to rule as they desired Tlie worlcings of men's brains, And they can bind them to what thoughts they will. ' And I,' he said, 'the secret of their art, When fully learned, will to the world impart ; But it needs heaven-sent moments for this skill.' This said, he left them, and returned no more. — But rumors hung about the country-side. That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray, Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied. In hat of antique shape, and cloak of gray. The same the gypsies wore. Shepherds had met him on the Hurst in spring ; At some lone ale-house in the Berkshire moors, On the warm ingle-bench, the smock-frocked boors Had found him seated at their entering, But, mid their drink and clatter, he would fly. And I myself seem half to know thy looks, And put the shepherds, wanderer ! on thy trace ; And boys who in lone wheatfields scare the rooks I ask if thou hast passed their quiet place ; Or in my boat I lie Moored to the cool bank in the summer-heats, Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills. And watch the warm, green-muffled Cumner hills, And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats. For most, I know, thou lov'st retired ground ! Thee at the ferry Oxford riders blithe. Returning home on summer-nights, have met Crossing the stripling Thames at Bab-lock-hithe, Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet, As the punt's rope chops round ; And leaning backward in a pensive dream, 12 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers Plucked in shy fields and distant Wychwood bowers, And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream. And then they land, and thou art seen no more ! — Maidens, who from the distant hamlets come To dance around the Fyfield elm in May, Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam, Or cross a stile into the public way ; Oft thou has given them store Of flowers — the frail-leafed, white anemony, Dark bluebells drenched with dews of summer eves. And purple orchises with spotted leaves — But none hath words she can report of thee ! And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay-time 's here In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames. Men who through those wide fields of breezy grass. Where black-winged swallows haunt the glittering Thames, To bathe in the abandoned lasher pass. Have often passed thee near Sitting upon the river-bank o'ergrown ; Marked thine outlandish garb, thy figure spare, Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air — But, when they came from bathing, thou wast gone ! At some lone homestead in the Cumner hills, Where at her open door the housewife darns. Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate To watch the threshers in the mossy barns. Children, who early range these slopes and late For cresses from the rills. Have known thee eying, all an April-day, The springing pastures and the feeding kine ; And marked thee, when the stars come out and shine, Through the long dewy grass move slow away. MA TTHE W ARNOLD. 1 3 In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood — Where most the gypsies by the turf-edged way Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush 3'ou see With scarlet patches tagged and shreds of gray. Above the forest-ground called Thessaly — The blackbird picking food Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all; So often has he known thee past him stray, Rapt, twirling in thy hand a withered spray. And waiting for the spark from heaven to fall. And once, in winter, on the causeway chill Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers go, Have I not passed thee on the wooden bridge Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow. Thy face toward Hinksey and its wintry ridge ? And thou hast climbed the hill, And gained the white brow of the Cumner range ; Turned once to watch, while thick the snow-fiakes fall. The line of festal light in Christ-Church hall — Then sought thy straw in some sequestered grange. But what — I dream ! Two hundred years are flown Since first thy story ran through O.xford halls, And the grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe That thou wert wandered from the studious walls To learn strange arts, and join a gypsy-tribe. And thou from earth art gone Long since, and in some quiet churchyard laid — Some country nook, where o'er thy unknown grave Tall grasses and white flowering nettles wave. Under a dark, red-fruited yew-tree's shade. — No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours ! For what wears out the life of mortal men? 'Tis that from change to change their being rolls ; 'T is that repeated shocks, again, again. 14 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Exhaust the energy of strongest souls, And numb the elastic powers. Till having used our nerves with bliss and teen, And tired upon a thousand schemes our wit, To the just-pausing Genius we remit Our well-worn life, and are — what we have been. Thou hast not lived, why shouldst thou perish, so? Thou hadst one aim, one business, one desire : Else wert thou long since numbered with the dead ! Else hadst thou spent, like other men, thy fire ! The generations of thy peers are fled. And we ourselves shall go ; But thou possessest an immortal lot. And we imagine thee exempt from age. And living as thou liv'st on Glanvil's page, Because thou hadst — what we, alas ! have not. For early didst thou leave the world, with powers Fresh, undiverted to the world without. Firm to their mark, not spent on other things ; Free from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt. Which much to have tried, in much been baffled, brings O life unlike to ours ! Who fluctuate idly without term or scope, Of whom each strives, nor knows for what he strives. And each half lives a hundred different lives ; Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope. Thou waitest for the spark from heaven ! and we. Light half-believers of our casual creeds. Who never deeply felt, nor clearly willed. Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds. Whose vague resolves never have been fulfilled ; For whom each year we see Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new ; MA TTHE W ARNOLD. I S Who hesitate and falter life away, And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day — Ah ! do not we, wanderer ! await it too ? Yes, we await it ! — but it still delays, And then we suffer ! and among us one. Who most has suffered, takes dejectedly His seat upon the intellectual throne ; And all his store of sad experience he Lays bare of wretched days ; Tells us his misery's birth and growth and signs, And how the dying spark of hope was fed. And how the breast was soothed, and how the head, And all his hourly varied anodynes. This for our wisest ! and we others pine. And wish the long unhappy dream would end, And waive all claim to bliss, and try to bear ; With close-lipped patience for our only friend. Sad patience, too near neighbor to despair — But none has hope like thine ! Thou through the fields and through the woods dost stray. Roaming the country-side, a truant boy, Nursing thy project in unclouded joy. And every doubt long blown by time away. O born in days when wits were fresh and clear. And life ran gayly as the sparkling Thames ; Before this strange disease of modern life. With its sick hurry, its divided aims, Its heads o'ertaxed, its palsied hearts, was rife — Fly hence, our contact fear ! Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood ! Averse, as Dido did with gesture stern From her false friend's approach in Hades turn. Wave us away, and keep thy solitude ! i6 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Still nursing the unconquerable hope, Still clutching the inviolable shade, With a free, onward impulse brushing through, By night, the silvered branches of the glade — Far on the forest-skirts, where none pursue, On some mild pastoral slope Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales Freshen thy flowers as in former years With dew, or listen with enchanted ears, From the dark dingles, to the nightingales ! But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly ! For strong the infection of our mental strife, Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest; And we should win thee from thy own fair life. Like us distracted, and like us unblest. Soon, soon thy cheer would die, Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfixed thy powers. And thy clear aims be cross and shifting made ; And then thy glad perennial youth would fade, Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours. Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles ! — As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea. Descried at sunrise an emerging prow Lifting the cool-haired creepers stealthily. The fringes of a southward-facing brow Among the ^gean isles ; And saw the merry Grecian coaster come. Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine. Green, bursting figs, and tunnies steeped in brine — And knew the intruders on his ancient home. The young light-hearted masters of the waves — And snatched his rudder, and shook out more sail; And day and night held on indignantly O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale, MATTHEW ARNOLD. 17 Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, To where the Atlantic raves Outside the western straits, and unbent sails There where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam, Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come ; And on the beach undid his corded bales. DOVER BEACH. The sea is calm to-night. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits : — on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone ; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet is the night air ! Only, from the long line of spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanched sand, Listen ! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand. Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in. Sophocles long ago Heard it on the ^gean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery ; we Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea. The sea of faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar. l8 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world. Ah, love, let us be true To one another ! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreatns. So various, so beautiful, so new. Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light. Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain ; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight. Where ignorant armies clash by night. PHILOMELA. Hark ! ah, the nightingale — The tawny-throated ! Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst ! What triumph ! hark ! — what pain ! O wanderer from a Grecian shore. Still, after many years, in distant lands. Still nourishing in thy bewildered brain That wild, unquenched, deep-sunken, old-world pain - Say, will it never heal ? And can this fragrant lawn With its cool trees, and night, And the sweet, tranquil Thames, And moonshine, and the dew. To thy racked heart and brain Afford no balm ? Dost thou to-night behold. Here, through the moonlight on this English grass. The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild .'' Dost thou again peruse MA TTHE W ARNOLD. 1 9 With hot cheeks and seared eyes The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame ? Dost thou once more essay Thy flight, and feel come over thee, Poor fugitive, the feathery change Once more, and once more seem to make resound With love and hate, triumph and agony, Lone Daulis, and the high Cephisian vale ? Listen, Eugenia — How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves ! Again — thou hearest ? Eternal passion ! Eternal pain ! IMMORTALITY. Foiled by our fellow-men, depressed, outworn, We leave the brutal world to take its way. And, Patience ! in another life, we say. The world shall be thrust down, and we up-borne. And will not, then, the immortal armies scorn The world's poor, routed leavings ? or will they. Who failed under the heat of this life's day, Support the fervors of the heavenly morn ? No, no ! the energy of life may be Kept on after the grave, but not begun ; And he who flagged not in the earthly strife, From strength to strength advancing — only he, His soul well knit, and all his battles won, Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life. 20 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. EAST LONDON. 'T WAS August, and the fierce sun overhead Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green, And the pale weaver, through his windows seen In Spitalfields, looked thrice dispirited. I met a preacher there I knew, and said : ' 111 and o'erworked, how fare you in this scene ? ' — ' Bravely ! ' said he ; ' for I of late have been Much cheered with thoughts of Christ, the living bread.'' O human soul ! as long as thou canst so Set up a mark of everlasting light. Above the howling senses' ebb and flow, To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam — Not with lost toil thou laborest through the night ! Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st indeed thy home. ROBERT BUCHANAN. ROBERT BUCHANAN. FROM 'THE BOOK OF ORM.'^ INSCRIPTION TO F. W. C. Flowers pluckt upon a grave by moonlight, pale And suffering, from the spiritual light They grew in: these, with all the love and blessing That prayers can gain of God, I send to thee ! If one of these poor flowers be worthy thee. The sweetest Soul that I have known on earth, The tenderest Soul that I can hope to know, Hold that one flower, and kneel, and pray for me. Pray for me. Comrade ! Close to thee I creep. Touching thy raiment : thy good eyes are calm ; But see ! the fitful fever in mine eyes ■ — ■ Pray for me ! — bid all good men pray for me ! If Love will serve, lo ! how I love my Friend — If Reverence, lo ! how I reverence him — If Faith be asked in something beautiful, Lo ! what a splendor is my faith in him ! Now, as thou risest gently from thy knees, Must we go different ways ? — thou followest Thy path, I mine ; — but all go westering. And all will meet among the Hills of God ! 2 2 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Thy face sails with me on a darker path, And smiles me onward ! For a time, farewell ; Wear in thy breast a few of these poor flowers. And let their scent remind my Friend of me ! Flowers of a grave, — yet deathless ! Be my love For thee as deathless ! I am beckoned on ; — ■ But meantime, these, with all the love and blessing That prayers can gain of God, I give to thee ! THE SHADOW. FROM BOOK II : ' THE MAN AND THE SHADOW.' O PERISHABLE Brother, what a World ! How wondrous and how fair ! Look ! look ! and think ! What magic mixed the tints of yonder west, Wherein, upon a cushion soft as moss, A heaven pink-tinted like a maiden's flesh, The dim Star of the Ocean lieth cool In palpitating silver, while beneath Her image, putting luminous feelers forth. Bathes liquid, like a living thing o' the Sea. What magic t What Magician ? O my Brother, What strange Magician, mixing up those tints. Pouring the water down, and sending forth The crystal air like breath, snowing the heavens With luminous jewels of the day and night, Looked down, and saw thee lie a lifeless clod, And lifted thee, and moulded thee to shape, Colored thee with the sunlight till thy blood Ran ruby, poured the chemic tints o' the air Through eyes that kindled into azure, stole The flesh-tints of the lily and the rose ROBERT BUCHANAN. 23 To make thee wondrous fair unto thyself, Knitted thy limbs with ruby bands, and blew Into thy hollow heart until it stirred, — Then to the inner chamber of his Heaven Withdrawing, left in midst of such a world The living apparition of a Man, — A mystery amid the mysteries, — A lonely Semblance, with a wild appeal To which no form that lives, however dear. Hath given a tearless answer, — a Shape, a Soul, Projecting ever as it ageth on A Shade which is a silence and a sleep. I saw a Hind at sunrise — dumb he stood. And saw the Dawn press with her rosy feet The dewy sweetness from the fields of hay. Felt the World brighten — leaves and flowers and grass Grow luminous — yet beside the pool he stood. Wherein, in the gray vapor of the marsh. His mottled oxen stood with large blank eyes And steaming nostrils : and his eyes like theirs Were empty, and he hummed a surly song Out of a hollow heart akin to beast's : Yea, sun nor star had little joy for him, Nor tree nor flower, — to him the world was all Mere matter for a ploughshare. On the hill Above him, with loose jerkin backward blown By winds of morning, and his white brow bare Like marble, stood a singer — one of those Who write in heart's-blood what is blotted out With ox-gall ; and his Soul was in his eyes To see the coming of the beautiful Day, His lips hung heavy with beauty, and he looked Down on the surly clod among the kine. And sent his Soul unto him through his eyes, 24 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Transfiguring liim with beauty and with praise Into the common pathos. Of such stuffs Is mankind shapen, both, lilce thee and me, Wear westward, to the melancholy Realm Where all the gathered Shades of all the world Lie as a cloud around the feet of God. This darkens all my seeking. O my friend ! If the whole world had royal eyes like thine, I were much holpen ; but to look upon Eyes like the ox-herd's, blank as very beast's, Shoots sorrow to the very roots of life. Aye ! there were hope indeed if each Man seemed A Spirit's habitation, — but the world Is curst with these blank faces, still as stone. And darkening inward. Have these dumb things Souls? If they be tenantless, dare thou and I Christen by so sublime a name the Wind Bred in the wasting body ? Yestermorn, In yonder city that afar away Staineth the peaceful blue with its foul breath, I passed into a dimly-lighted hall, And heard a lanthorn-jawed Philosopher Clawing his straw-like bunch of yellow hair. With skeletonian periods and a voice Shrill as the grating of two bones, ' O Soul,' Quoth he, ' O beauteousness we name the Soul, Thou art the Flower of all the life o' the World, And not in every clod of flesh shoots forth The perfect apparition of thy tints Immortal ! Flower and scented bloom of things. Thou growest on no dunghill in the sun ! ' A flower, a flower immortal ? How I laughed ! Clip me the lily from its secret roots, And farewell all the wonder of the flower ! ROBERT BUCHANAN. 25 THE DREAM OF THE WORLD WITHOUT DEATH. FROM BOOK III. I ' SONGS OF CORRUPTION.' Now, sitting by her side, worn out with weeping, Behold, I fell to sleep, and had a vision. Wherein I heard a wondrous Voice intoning : Crying aloud, ' The Master on His throne Openeth now the seventh seal of wonder, And beckoneth back the angel men name Death.' And at His feet the mighty Angel kneeleth. Breathing not ; and the Lord doth look upon him, Saying, ' Thy wanderings on earth are ended.' And lo ! the mighty Shadow sitteth idle Even at the silver gates of heaven, Drowsily looking in on quiet waters. And puts his silence among men no longer. The world was very quiet. Men in traffic Cast looks over their shoulders ; pallid seamen Shivered to walk upon the decks alone; And women barred their doors with bars of iron, In the silence of the night; and at the sunrise Trembled behind the husbandman afield. I could not see a kirkyard near or far ; I thirsted for a green grave, and my vision Was weary for the white gleam of a tombstone. But hearkening dumbly, ever and anon I heard a cry out of a human dwelling, And felt the cold wind of a lost one's going. 2 6 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. One struck a brother fiercely, and he fell, And faded in a darkness ; and that other Tore his hair, and was afraid, and could not perish. One struck his ag&d mother on the mouth, And she vanished with a gray grief from his hearth-stone. One melted from her bairn, and on the ground With sweet unconscious eyes the bairn lay smiling. And many made a weeping among mountains. And hid themselves in caverns, and were drunken. I heard a voice from out the beauteous earth, Whose side rolled up from winter into summer, Crying, ' I am grievous for my children.' I heard a voice from out the hoary ocean, Crying, ' Burial in the breast of me were better, Yea, burial in the salt flags and green crystals.' I heard a voice from out the hollow ether. Saying, ' The thing ye cursed hath been abolished — Corruption, and decay, and dissolution ! ' And the world shrieked, and the summer-time was bitter. And men and women feared the air behind them. And for lack of its green graves the world was hateful. Now at the bottom of a snowy mountain I came upon a woman thin with sorrow. Whose voice was like the crying of a sea-gull, Saying, ' O Angel of the Lord, come hither. And bring me him I seek for on thy bosom. That I may close his eyelids and embrace him. ' I curse thee that I cannot look upon him ! I curse thee that I know not he is sleeping! Yet know that he has vanished upon God ! ROBERT BUCHANAN. 27 ' I laid my little girl upon a wood-bier, And very sweet she seemed, and near unto me ; And slipping flowers into her shroud was comfort. ' I put my silver mother in the darkness, And kissed her, and was solaced by her kisses, And set a stone, to mark the place, above her. ' And green, green were their quiet sleeping-places, So green that it was pleasant to remember That I and my tall man would sleep beside them. ' The closing of dead eyelids is not dreadful. For comfort comes upon us when we close them. And tears fall, and our sorrow grows familiar; ' And we can sit above them where they slumber, And spin a dreamy pain into a sweetness. And know indeed that we are very near them. ' But to reach out empty arms is surely dreadful, And to feel the hollow empty world is awful, And bitter grow the silence and the distance. ' There is no space for grieving or for weeping ; No touch, no cold, no agony to strive with. And nothing but a horror and a blankness ! ' So far, so far to seek for were the limits Of aiHiction ; and men's terror grew a homeless Terror, yea, and a fatal sense of blankness. There was no little token of distraction. There was no visible presence of bereavement. Such as the mourner easeth out his heart on. There was no comfort in the slow farewell, Nor gentle shutting of belovM eyes. Nor beautiful broodings over sleeping features. 28 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. There were no kisses on familiar faces, No weaving of white grave-clothes, no last pondering Over the still wax cheeks and folded fingers. There was no putting tokens under pillows. There was no dreadful beauty slowly fading. Fading like moonlight softly into darkness. There was no churchyard paths to walk on, thinking How near the well-belovM ones are lying. There were no sweet green graves to sit and muse on. Till grief should grow a summer meditation. The shadow of the passing of an angel. And sleeping should seem easy, and not cruel. Nothing but wondrous parting and a blankness. THE HAPPY EARTH. FROM BOOK v.; 'SONGS OF SEEKING.' Sweet, sweet it was to sit in leafy Forests, In a green darkness, and to hear the stirring Of strange breaths hither and thither in the branches ; And sweet it was to sail on crystal Waters, Between the dome above and the dome under, The Hills above me and the Hills beneath me ; And sweet it was to watch the wondrous Lightning Spring flashing at the earth, and slowly perish Under the falling of the summer Rain. I loved all grand and gentle and strange things, — The wind-flower at the tree-root, and the white cloud. The strength of Mountains, and the power of Waters. ROBERT BUCHANAN. 29 And unto me all seasons uttered pleasure : Spring, standing startled, listening to the skylark. The wild flowers from her lap unheeded falling; And Summer, in her gorgeous loose apparel ; And Autumn, with her dreamy drooping lashes ; And Winter, with his white hair blown about him. Yea, everywhere there stirred a deathless beauty, A gleaming and a flashing into change. An under-stream of sober consecration. Yet nought endured, but all the glory faded. And power and joy and sorrow were interwoven ; There was no single presence of the Spirit. THE VISION OF THE MAN ACCURST. BOOK VIII. How in the end the Judgment dread Shall by the Lord thy God be said, — While brightly in a City of Rest Shall flash the fountains of the Blest, And gladdening around the Throne All mortal men shall smile, — save one — Children of Earth, hear, last and first, The Vision of the Man Accurst. Judgment was over ; all the world redeemed Save one Man, — who had sinned all sins, whose soul Was blackness and foul odor. Last of all, When all was lamb-white, thro' the summer Sea Of ministering Spirits he was drifted On to the white sands ; there he lay and writhed. Worm-like, black, venomous, with eyes accurst Looking defiance, dazzled by the light That gleamed upon his clenched and blood-stained hands ; 30 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. While with a voice low as a funeral bell, The Seraph, sickening, read the sable scroll, And as he read the Spirits ministrant Darkened and murmured, ' Cast him forth, O Lord ! ' And, from the Shrine where unbeheld He broods. The Lord said, "Tis the basest mortal born — Cast him beyond the Gate ! ' The wild thing laughed Defiant, as from wave to wave of light He drifted, till he swept beyond the Gate, Past the pale Seraph with the silvern eyes ; And there the wild Wind, that for ever beats About the edge of brightness, caught him up, And, like a straw, whirled round and lifted him, And, on a dark shore in the Underworld Cast him, alone and shivering; for the Clime Was sunless, and the ice was like a sheet Of glistening tin, and the faint glimmering peaks Were twisted to fantastic forms of frost, And everywhere the frozen moonlight steamed Foggy and blue, save where the abysses loomed Sepulchral shadow. But the Man arose. With teeth gnashed beast-like, waved wild feeble hands At the white Gate (that glimmered far away. Like to the round ball of the Sun beheld Through interstices in a wood of pine). Cast a shrill curse at the pale judge within Then groaning, beast-like crouched. Like golden waves That break on a green island of the south, Amid the flash of many plumaged wings. Passed the fair days in Heaven. By the side Of quiet waters perfect Spirits walked. Low singing, in the star-dew, full of joy In their own thoughts and pictures of those thoughts ROBERT BUCHANAN. 31 Flashed into eyes that loved them ; while beside them, After exceeding storm, the Waters of Life With soft sea-sound subsided. Then God said, ' 'T is finished — all is well ! ' But as He spake A voice, from out the lonely Deep beneath, Mocked ! Then to the Seraph at the Gate, Who looketh on the Deep with steadfast eyes For ever, God cried, ' What is he that mocks ? ' The Seraph answered, "Tis the Man accurst!' And, with a voice of most exceeding peace, God asked, ' What doth the Man ? ' The Seraph said : ' Upon a desolate peak, with hoar-frost hung, Amid the steaming vapors of the Moon, He sitteth on a throne, and hideously Playeth at Judgment; at his feet, with eyes Slimy and luminous, squats a monstrous Toad ; Above his head pale phantoms of the Stars Fulfil cold ministrations of the Void, And in their dim and melancholy lustre His shadow, and the shadow of the Toad Beneath him, linger. Sceptred, throned, and crowned, The foul judgeth the foul, and sitting grim. Laughs ! ' With a voice of most exceeding peace The Lord said, ' Look no more ! ' The Waters of Life Broke with a gentle sea-sound gladdening — God turned and blest them ; as He blest the same, A voice, from out the lonely Void beneath. Shrieked ! Then to the Seraph at the Gate, Who looketh on the Deep with steadfast eyes 32 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. For ever, God cried, 'What is he that shrieks ? The Seraph answered, ' 'T is the Man accurst ! ' And, with a voice of most exceeding peace, God asked, ' What doth the Man ? ' The Seraph said : • Around him the wild phantasms of the fog Moan in the rheumy hoar-frost and cold steam. Long time, crowned, sceptred, on his throne he sits Playing at Judgment ; then with a shrill voice cries — " 'Tis finished, thou art judged ! " and, fiercely laughing He thrusteth down an iron heel to crush The foul Toad, that with dim and luminous eyes So stareth at his Soul. Thrice doth he lift His foot up fiercely — lo ! he shrinks and cowers — Then, with a wild glare at the far-off Gate, Rushes away, and, rushing thro' the dark, Shrieks ! ' With a voice of most exceeding peace The Lord said, ' Look no more ! ' The Waters of Life, The living, spiritual Waters, broke, Fountain-like, up against the Master's Breast, Giving and taking blessing. Overhead Gathered the shining legions of the Stars, Led by the ethereal Moon, with dewy eyes Of lustre : these have been baptized in fire. Their raiment is of molten diamond. And 't is their office, as they circling move In their blue orbits, evermore to turn Their faces heavenward, drinking peace and strength From that great Flame which, in the core of Heaven, Like to the white heart of a violet burns Diffusing rays and odor. Blessing all, God sought their beauteous orbits, and behold ! The eyes innumerably glistening ROBERT BUCFIANAN. 33 Were turned away from Heaven, and with sick stare, Like the blue gleam of salt dissolved in fire, They searched the Void, as human faces look On horror. To the Seraph at the Gate, Who looketh on the Deep with steadfast eyes, God cried, ' What is this thing whereon they gaze ? ' The Seraph answered, ' On the Man accurst.' And, with a voice of most exceeding peace, God asked, ' What doth the Man ? ' The Seraph said : ' O Master ! send Thou forth a tongue of fire To wither up this worm ! Serene and cold. Flooded with moon-dew, lies the World, and there The Man roams ; and the image of the Man In the wan waters of the frosty sphere Falleth gigantic. Up and down he drifts. Worm-like, black, venomous, with eyes accursed. Waving his bloody hands in fierce appeal. So that the gracious faces of Thy Stars Are troubled, and the stainless tides of light Shadow pollution. With wild, ape-like eyes. The wild thing whining peers thro' horrent hair. And rusheth up and down, seeking to find A face to look upon, a hand to touch, A heart that beats ; but all the World is void And beauteous. All alone in the Cold Clime, Alone within the lonely universe, Crawleth the Man accurst ! ' Then said the Lord, ' Doth he repent ? ' And the fair Seraph said, ' Nay he blasphemeth ! Send Thou forth Thy fire ! ' But with a voice of most exceeding peace. Out of the Shrine where unbeheld He broods, 3 34 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. God said, ' What I have made, a living Soul, Cannot be unmade, but endures for ever.' Then added, ' Call the Man ! ' The Seraph heard, And in a low voice named the lost one's name ; The wild Wind that for ever beats the Gate Caught up the word, and fled thro' the cold Void. 'T was murmured on, as a lorn echo fading, From peak to peak. Swift as a wolf the Man Was rushing o'er a waste, with shadow streaming Backward against a frosty gleaming wind, When like a fearful whisper in his ear 'T was wafted ; then his blanched lips shook like leaves In that chill wind, his hair was lifted up. He paused, his shadow paused, like stone and shadow, And shivering, glaring round him, the Man moaned, ' Who calls 1 ' and in a moment he was 'ware Of the white light streaming from the far Gate, And looming, blotted black against the light. The Seraph with uplifted forefinger, Naming his name ! And ere the Man could fly, The wild Wind in its circuit swept upon him, And, like a straw, whirled him, and lifted him, And cast him at the Gate, — a bloody thing — Mad, moaning, horrible, obscene, unclean ; A body swollen and stained like the wool Of sheep that in the rainy season crawl About the hills, and sleep on foul damp beds Of bracken rusting red. There, breathing hard, Glaring with fiery eyes, panted the Man, With scorched lips drooping, thirsting as he heard The flowing of the Fountains far within. Then said the Lord, ' Is the Man there ? ' and ' Yea,' Answered the Seraph pale. Then said the Lord, ROBERT BUCHANAN. 35 'What doth the Man ?' The Seraph, frowning, said : ' O Master, in the belly of him is fire, He thirsteth, fiercely thrusting out his hands, And threateneth, seeking water! ' Then the Lord Said, ' Give him water — let him drink ! ' The Seraph, Stooping above him, with forefinger bright Touched the gold kerbstone of the Gate, and lo ! Water gushed forth and gleamed ; and lying prone The Man crawled thither, dipt his fevered face, Drank long and deeply ; then, his thirst appeased. Thrust in his bloody hands unto the wrist, And let the gleaming Fountain play upon them. And looking up out of his dripping hair, Grinned mockery at the giver. Then the Lord Said low, ' How doth the Man ? ' The Seraph said : ' It is a Snake ! He mocketh all Thy gifts, And, in a snake's voice half-articulate, Blasphemeth ! ' Then the Lord : ' Doth the Man crave To enter in ? ' ' Not so,' the Seraph said, 'Hesaith ' ' Whatsaith he?' ' That his Soul is filled With hate of Thee and of Thy ways ; he loathes Pure pathways where the fruitage of the Stars Hangeth resplendent, and he spitteth hate On all Thy Children. Send Thou forth Thy fire ! In no wise is he better than the beasts, The gentle beasts, that come like morning dew And vanish. Let him die ! ' Then said the Lord : ' What I have made endures ; but 't is not meet This thing should cross my perfect work for ever. Let him begone ! ' Then cried the Seraph pale : ' O Master ! at the frozen Clime he glares In awe, shrieking at Thee ! ' ' What doth he crave ? ' ' Neither Thy Heaven nor by Thy holy ways. 36 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. He murmureth out he is content to dwell In the Cold CHme for ever, so Thou sendest A face to look upon, a heart that beats, A hand to touch — albeit like himself, Black, venomous, unblest, exiled, and base: Give him this thing, he will be very still, Nor trouble Thee again.' The Lord mused. Still, Scarce audible trembled the Waters of Life — Over all Heaven the Snow of the same Thought Which rose within the Spirit of the Lord Fell hushedly ; the innumerable Eyes Swam in a lustrous dream. Then said the Lord : ' In all the waste of worlds there dwelleth not Another like himself — behold he is The basest Mortal born. Yet 't is not meet His cruel cry, for ever piteous, Should trouble my eternal Sabbath-day. Is there a Spirit here, a human thing. Will pass this day from the Gate Beautiful To share the exile of this Man accurst, — That he may cease the shrill pain of his cry, And I have peace ? ' Hushedly, hushedly. Snowed down the Thought Divine — the living Waters Murmured and darkened. But like mournful mist That hovers o'er an autumn pool, two Shapes, Beautiful, human, glided to the Gate And waited. ' What art thou ? ' in a stern voice The Seraph said, with dreadful forefinger ROBERT BUCHANAN. 37 Pointing to one. A gentle voice replied, ' I will go forth with him whom ye call curst ! He grew within my womb — my milk was white Upon his lips. I will go forth with him ! ' ' And thou ? ' the Seraph said. The second Shape Answered, ' I also will go forth with him ; I have kist his hps, I have lain upon his breast, I bare him children, and I closed his eyes ; I will go forth with him ! ' Then said the Lord, ' What Shapes are these who speak ? ' The Seraph an- swered : ' The woman who bore him and the wife he wed — The one he slew in anger — the other he stript, With ravenous claws, of raiment and of food.' Then said the Lord, ' Doth the Man hear ? ' 'He hears,' Answered the Seraph ; ' like a wolf he lies. Venomous, bloody, dark, a thing accurst. And hearkeneth, with no sign ! ' Then said the Lord : ' Show them the Man,' and the pale Seraph cried, ' Behold ! ' Hushedly, hushedly, hushedly. In heaven fell the Snow of Thought Divine, Gleaming upon the Waters of Life beneath And melting, — as with slow and lingering pace, The Shapes stole forth into the windy cold. And saw the thing that lay and throbbed and lived. And stooped above him. Then one reached a hand And touched him, and the fierce thing shrank and spat, Hiding his face. ' Have they beheld the Man ? ' The Lord said ; and the Seraph answered, ' Yea ; ' And the Lord said again, ' What doth the Man ? ' ' He lieth like a log in the wild blast, 38 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. And as he lieth, lo ! one sitting takes His head into her lap, and moans his name, And smooths his matted hair from off his brow. And croons in a low voice a cradle song ; And lo ! the other kneeleth at his side, Half-shrinking in the old habit of her fear, Yet hungering with her eyes, and passionately Kissing his bloody hands.' Then said the Lord, ' Will they go forth with him ? ' A voice replied, ' He grew within my womb — my milk was white Upon his lips. I will go forth with him ! ' And a voice cried, ' I will go forth with him ; I have kist his lips, I have lain upon his breast, I bore him children, and I closed his eyes ; I will go forth with him ! ' Still hushedly Snowed down the Thought Divine, the Waters of Life Flowed softly, sadly ; for an alien souud, A piteous human cry, a sob forlorn Thrilled to the heart of Heaven. The Man wept. And in a voice of most exceeding peace The Lord said (while against the Breast Divine The Waters of Life leapt, gleaming, gladdening) : ' The Man is saved ; let the Man enter in ! ' FROM THE 'CORUISKEN SONNETS.'^ II. WE ARE FATHERLESS. I FOUND Thee not by the starved widow's bed. Nor in the sick-rooms where my dear ones died ; In Cities vast I hearkened for Thy tread, ROBERT BUCHANAN. 39 And heard a thousand call Thee, wretched-eyed, Worn out, and bitter. But the Heavens denied Their melancholy Maker. From the Dead Assurance came, nor answer. Then I fled Into these wastes, and raised my hands, and cried : ' The seasons pass — the sky is as a pall — Thin wasted hands on withering hearts we press — There is no God — in vain we plead and call. In vain with weary eyes we search and guess — Like children in an empty house sit all, Cast-away children, lorn and fatherless.' LORD, ART THOU HERE ? Lord, art Thou here? far from the citied zones. Brooding in melancholy solitude ; Hushing Thy breath to awful undertones, Darkening Thy face, if mortal foot intrude. Father, how shall I meet Thee in this mood? How shall I ask Thee why Thou dwell'st with stones, While far away the world, like Lazarus, groans. Sick for Thy healing. Father, if Thou be'st good, And wise, and gentle, oh come down, come down ! Come like an Angel with a human face, Pass through the gates into the hungry Town, Comfort the weary, send the afflicted grace. Shine brighter on the graves where we lay down Our dear ones, cheer them in the narrow place ! 40 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. QUIET WATERS. O Rainbow, Rainbow, on the livid height Softening its ashen outlines into dream. Dewy yet brilliant, delicately bright As pink wild-roses' leaves, why dost thou gleam So beckoningly? Whom dost thou invite Still higher upward on the bitter quest ? What dost thou promise to the weary sight In that strange region whence thou issuest ? Speakest thou of pensive runlets by whose side Our dear ones wander sweet and gentle-eyed. In the soft dawn of some diviner Day ? Art thou a promise ? Come those hues and dyes From heavenly Meads, near which thou dost arise, Irised from Quiet Waters, far away ! THE BALLAD OF JUDAS ISC A RIOT. 'T WAS the body of Judas Iscariot Lay in the Field of Blood ; 'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot Beside the body stood. Black was the earth by night, And black was the sky; Black, black were the broken clouds, Tho' the red moon went by. 'T was the body of Judas Iscariot Strangled and dead lay there ; 'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot Looked on it in despair. ROBERT BUCHANAN. 41 The breath of the World came and went Like a sick man's in rest; Drop by drop on the World's eyes The dews fell cool and blest. Then the soul of Judas Iscariot Did make a gentle moan — ' I will bury underneath the ground My flesh and blood and bone. " I will bury deep beneath the soil, Lest mortals look thereon, And when the wolf and raven come The body will be gone ! ' The stones of the field are sharp as steel, And hard and cold, God wot ; And I must bear my body hence Until I find a spot ! ' 'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot, So grim, and gaunt, and gray, Raised the body of Judas Iscariot, And carried it away. And as he bare it from the field Its touch was cold as ice, And the ivory teeth within the jaw Rattled aloud, like dice. As the soul of Judas Iscariot Carried its load with pain, The Eye of Heaven, like a lanthorn's eye, Opened and shut again. Half he walked, and half he seemed Lifted on the cold wind; He did not turn, for chilly hands Were pushing from behind. 42 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. The first place that he came unto It was the open wold, And underneath were prickly whins, And a wind that blew so cold. The next place that he came unto It was a stagnant pool, And when he threw the body in It floated light as wool. He drew the body on his back, And it was dripping chill, And the next place he came unto Was a Cross upon a hill : A Cross upon the windy hill, And a Cross on either side, Three skeletons that swing thereon. Who had been crucified. And on the middle cross-bar sat A white dove slumbering ; Dim it sat in the dim light. With its head beneath its wing. And underneath the middle Cross A grave yawned wide and vast, But the soul of Judas Iscariot Shivered, and glided past. The fourth place that he came unto It was the Brig of Dread, And the great torrents rushing down Were deep, and swift, and red. He dared not fling the bodj' in For fear of faces dim, And arms were waved in the wild water To thrust it back to him. ROBERT BUCHANAN. 43 'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot Turned from the Brig of Dread, And the dreadful foam of the wild water Had splashed the body red. For days and nights he wandered on Upon an open plain, And the days went by like blinding mist, And the nights like rushing rain. For days and nights he wandered on. All thro' the Wood of Woe ; And the nights went by like moaning wind. And the days like drifting snow. 'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot Came with a weary face — • Alone, alone, and all alone, Alone in a lonely place ! He wandered east, he ^^andered west, And heard no human sound ; For months and years, in grief and tears. He wandered round and round. For months and years, in grief and tears. He walked the silent night ; Then the soul of Judas Iscariot Perceived a far-off light. A far-off light across the waste, As dim as dim might be. That came and went, like the lighthouse gleam On a black night at sea. 'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot Crawled to the distant gleam ; And the rain came down, and the rain was blown Against him with a scream. 44 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. For days and nights he wandered on, Pushed on by hands behind ; And the days went by like black, black rain. And the nights like rushing wind. 'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot, Strange, and sad, and tall. Stood all alone at dead of night Before a lighted hall. And the wold was white with snow. And his foot-marks black and damp, And the ghost of the silvern Moon arose, Holding her yellow lamp. And the icicles were on the eaves. And the walls were deep with white, And the shadows of the guests within Passed on the window light. The shadows of the,wedding guests Did strangely come and go, And the body of Judas Iscariot Lay stretched along the snow. The body of Judas Iscariot Lay stretched along the snow ; 'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot Ran swiftly to and fro. To and fro, and up and down. He ran so swiftly there. As round and round the frozen Pole Glideth the lean white bear. 'Twas the Bridegroom sat at the table-head, And the lights burnt bright and clear — ' O, who is that,' the Bridegroom said, ' Whose weary feet I hear ? ' ROBERT BUCHANAN. 45 'T was one looked from the lighted hall, And answered soft and slow, ' It is a wolf runs up and down With a black track in the snow.' The Bridegroom in his robe of white Sat at the table-head — ' O, who is that who moans without ? ' The blessM Bridegroom said. 'T was one looked from the lighted hall. And answered fierce and low, "Tis the soul of Judas Iscariot Gliding to and fro.' 'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot Did hush itself and stand, And saw the Bridegroom at the door With a light in his hand. The Bridegroom stood in the open door, And he was clad in white, And far within the Lord's Supper Was spread so broad and bright. The Bridegroom shaded his eyes and looked, And his face was bright to see — ' What dost thou here at the Lord's Supper With thy body's sins ? ' said he. 'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot Stood black, and sad, and bare — ' I have wandered many nights and days ; There is no light elsewhere.' 'T was the wedding guests cried out within. And their eyes were fierce and bright — ' Scourge the soul of Judas Iscariot Away into the night ! ' 46 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF RELGN. The Bridegroom stood in the open door, And he waved hands still and slow, And the third time that he waved his hands The air was thick with snow. And of every flake of falling snow. Before it touched the ground, There came a dove, and a thousand doves Made sweet sound. 'T was the body of Judas Iscariot Floated away full fleet, And the wings of the doves that bare it off Were like its winding-sheet. 'T was the Bridegroom stood at the open door, And beckoned, smiling sweet ; 'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot Stole in, and fell at his feet. ' The Holy Supper is spread within, And the many candles shine. And I have waited long for thee Before I poured the wine ! ' The supper wine is poured at last, The lights burn bright and fair, Iscariot washes the Bridegroom's feet. And dries them with his hair. LEWIS MORRIS. 47 LEWIS MORRIS. FROM 'THE EPIC OF HADES.' « CL YT^MNESTRA. FROM BOOK I., ' TARTARUS.' Then it was agaia A woman whom I saw, pitiless, stern, Bearing the brand of blood — a lithe dark form, And cruel eyes which glared beneath the gems Which argued her a Queen, and on her side An ancient stain of gore, which did befoul Her royal robe. A murderess in thought And dreadful act, who took within the toils Her kingly Lord, and slew him of old time After burnt Troy. I had no time to speak When she shrieked thus : ' It doth repent me not I would 't were yet to do, and I would do it Again a thousand times, if the shed blood Might for one hour restore to me the kisses Of my .^gisthus. Oh, he was divine. My hero, with the godlike locks and eyes Of Eros' self ! What boots it that they prate Of wifely duty, love of spouse or child, Honor or pity, when the swift fire takes A woman's heart, and burns it out, and leaps With fierce forked tongue around it, till it lies 48 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. In ashes, a dead heart, nor aught remains Of old affections, naught but the new flame Which is unquenched desire ? It did not come, My blessing, all at once, but the slow fruit Of solitude and midnight loneliness, And weary waiting for the tardy news Of taken Troy. Long years I sate alone, Widowed, within my palace, while my Lord Was over seas, waging the accursed war, First of the file of Kings. Year after year Came false report, or harder, no report Of the great fleet. The summers waxed and waned, The wintry surges smote the sounding shores, And yet there came no end of it. They brought Now hopeless failure, now great victories ; And all alike were false, all but delay And hope deferred, which cometh not, but breaks The heart which suffering wrings not. So I bore Long time the solitary years, and sought To solace the dull days with motherly cares For those my Lord had left me. My firstborn, Iphigeneia, sailed at first with him Upon that fatal voyage, but the young Orestes and Electra stayed with me — Not dear as she was, for the firstborn takes The mother's heart, and, with the milk it draws From the mother's virgin breast, drains all the love It bore, ay, even tho' the sire be dear; Much more, then, when he is a King indeed, Mighty in war and council, but too high To stoop to a woman's love. But she was gone, Nor heard I tidings of her, knowing not If yet she walked the earth, nor if she bare The load of children, even as I had borne LEWIS MORRIS. 49 Her in my opening girlhood, wlien I leapt From child to Queen, but never loved the King. Thus the slow years rolled onward, till at last There came a dreadful rumor — ' She is dead, Thy daughter, years ago. The cruel priests Clamored for blood ; the stern cold Kings stood round Without a tear, and he, her sire, with them, To see a virgin bleed. They cut with knives The taper girlish throat; they watched the blood Drip slowly on the sand, and the young life Meek as a lamb come to the sacrifice To appease the angry gods.' And he, the King, Her father, stood by too, and saw them do it, The wickedness, breathing no word of wrath. Till all was done ! The cowards ! the dull cowards ! I would some black storm, bursting suddenly, Had whelmed them and their fleets, ere yet they dared To waste an innocent life ! I had gone mad, I know it, but for him, my love, my dear. My fair sweet love. He came to comfort me With words of friendship, holding that my Lord Was bound, perhaps, to let her die — ' The gods Were ofttimes hard to appease — or was it indeed The priests who asked it ? Were there any gods ? Or only phantoms, creatures of the brain, Born of the fears of men, the greed of priests, Useful to govern women ? Had he been Lord of the fleet, not all the soothsayers Who ever frighted cowards should have brought His soul to such black depths.' I hearkening to him As 'twere my own thought grown articulate. Found my grief turn to hate, and hate to love — Hate of my Lord, love of the voice which spoke Such dear and comfortable words. And thus, 4 50 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Love to a storm of passion growing, swept My wounded soul and dried my tears, as dries The hot sirocco all the bitter pools Of salt among the sand. I never knew True love before ; I was a child, no more, When the King cast his eyes on me. What is it To have borne the weight of offspring 'neath the zone. If Love be not their sire ; or live long years Of commerce, not of love ? Better a day Of Passion than the long unlovely years Of wifely duty, when Love cometh not To wake the barren days ! And yet at first I hesitated long, nor would embrace The blessing that was mine. We are hedged round. We women, by such close-drawn ordinances. Set round us by our tyrants, that we fear To overstep a hand's breadth the dull bounds Of custom ; but at last Love, waking in me. Burst all my chains asunder, and I lived For naught but Love. My son, the young Orestes, I sent far off ; my girl Electra only Remained, too young to doubt me, and I knew At last what was to live. So the swift years Fleeted and found me happy, till the dark Ill-omened day when Rumor, thousand-tongued, Whispered of taken Troy ; and from my dream Of happiness, sudden I woke, and knew The coming retribution. We had grown Too loving for concealment, and our tale Of mutual love was bruited far and wide Through Argos. All the gossips bruited it. And were all tongue to tell it to the King When he should come. And should the cold proud Lord LEWIS MORRIS. 51 I never loved, the murderer of my girl, Come 'twixt my love and me ? A swift resolve Flashed through me on pondering it : Love for Love And Blood for Blood — the simple golden rule Taught by the elder gods. When I had taken My fixed resolve, I grew impatient for it, Counting the laggard days. Oh, it was sweet To simulate the yearning of a wife Long parted from her Lord, and mock the fools Who dogged each look and word, and but for fear Had torn me from my throne — the pies, the jays, The impotent chatterers, who thought by words To stay me in the act ! 'T was sweet to mock them And read distrust within their eyes, when I, Knowing my purpose, bade them quick prepare All fitting honors for the King, and knew They dared not disobey — oh, 't was enough To wing the slow-paced hours. But when at last I saw his sails upon the verge, and then The sea-worn ship, and marked his face grown old. The body a little bent, which was so straight. The thin gray hairs which were the raven locks Of manhood when he went, I felt a moment I could not do the deed. But when I saw The beautiful sad woman come with him. The future in her eyes, and her sad voice Proclaim the tale of doom, two thoughts at once Assailed me, bidding me despatch with a blow Him and his mistress, making sure the will Of fate, and my revenge. Oh, it was strange To see all happen as we planned ; as 't were Some drama oft rehearsed, wherein each step. Each word, is so prepared, the poorest player 52 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Knows his turn come to do — the solemn landing — The ride to the palace gate — the courtesies Of welcome — the mute crowds without — the bath Prepared within — the precious circling folds Of tissue stretched around him, shutting out The gaze, and folding helpless like a net The mighty limbs — the battle-axe laid down Against the wall, and I, his wife and Queen, Alone with him, waiting and watching still. Till the woman shrieked without. Then with swift step I seized the axe, and struck him as he lay- Helpless, once, twice, and thrice — once for my girl, Once for my love, once for the woman, and all For Fate and my Revenge ! He gave a groan, Once only, as I thought he might; and then No sound but the quick gurgling of the blood, As it flowed from him in streams, and turned the pure And limpid water of the bath to red — I had not looked for that — it flowed and flowed. And seemed to madden me to look on it. Until my love with hands bloody as mine. But with the woman's blood, rushed in, and eyes Rounded with horror ; and we turned to go, And left the dead alone. But happiness Still mocked me, and a doubt unknown before Came on me, and amid the silken shows And luxury of power I seemed to see Another answer to my riddle of life Than that I gave myself, and it was " murder; " And in my people's sullen mien and eyes, " Murder; " and in the mirror, when I looked, " Murder " glared out, and terror lest my son Returning, grown to manhood, should avenge His father's blood. For somehow, as 'twould seem, LEWIS MORRIS. 53 The gods, if gods there be, or the stern Fate Which doth direct our little lives, do filch Our happiness — though bright with Love's own ray, There comes a cloud which veils it. Yet, indeed, My days were happy. I repent me not ; I would wade through seas of blood to know again Those fierce delights once more. But my young girl Electra, grown to woman, turned from me Her modest maiden eyes, nor loved to set Her kiss upon my cheek, but, all distraught With secret care, hid her from all the pomps And revelries which did befit her youth, Walking alone ; and often at the tomb Of her lost sire they found her, pouring out Libations to the dead. And evermore I did bethink me of my son Orestes, Who now should be a man ; and yearned sometimes To see his face, yet feared lest from his eyes His father's soul should smite me. So I lived Happy and yet unquiet — a stern voice Speaking of doom, which long time softer notes Of careless weal, the music which doth spring From the fair harmonies of life and love. Would drown in their own concord. This at times, Nay, day by day, stronger and dreadfuUer, With dominant accent, marred the sounds of joy By one prevailing discord. So at length I came to lose the Present in the dread Of what might come ; the penalty that waits Upon successful sin ; who, having sinned, Had missed my sin's reward. Until one day I, looking from my palace casement, saw A humble suppliant, clad in pilgrim garb. 54 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Approach the marble stair. A sudden throb Thrilled thro' me, and the mother's heart went forth Thro' all disguise of garb and rank and years, Knowing my son. How fair he was, how tall And vigorous, my boy ! What strong straight limbs And noble port ! How beautiful the shade Of manhood on his lip ! I longed to burst From my chamber down, yearning to throw myself Upon his neck within the palace court, Before the guards — spurning my queenly rank, All but my motherhood. And then a chill Of doubt o'erspread me, knowing what a gulf Fate set between our lives, impassable As that great gulf which yawns 'twixt life and death And 'twixt this Hell and Heaven. I shrank back. And turned to think a moment, half in fear. And half in pain ; dividing the swift mind, Yet all in love. Then came a cry, a groan. From the inner court, the clash of swords, the fall Of a body on the pavement ; and one cried, " The King is dead, slain by the young Orestes, Who Cometh hither.'' With the word, the door Flew open, and my son stood straight before me. His drawn sword dripping blood. Oh, he was fair And terrible to see, when from his limbs. The suppliant's mantle fallen, left the mail And arms of a young warrior. Love and Hate, Which are the offspring of a common sire. Strove for the mastery, till within his eyes I saw his father's ghost glare unappeased From out Love's casements. Then I knew my fate And his — mine to be slain by my son's hand. And his to slay me, since the Furies drave Our lives to one destruction ; and I took LEWIS MORRIS. 55 His point within my breast. But I praise not The selfish, careless gods who wrecked our lives, Making the King the murderer of his girl. And me his murderess ; making my son The murderer of his mother and her love — A mystery of blood ! — I curse them all. The careless Forces, sitting far withdrawn Upon the heights of Space, taking men's lives For playthings, and deriding as in sport Our happiness and woe — 1 curse them all. We have a right to joy ; we have a right, I say, as they have. Let them stand confessed The puppets that they are — too weak to give The good they feign to love, since Fate, too strong For them as us, beyond their painted sky. Sits and derides them, too. I curse Fate too. The deaf blind Fury, taking human souls And crushing them, as a dull fretful child Crushes its toys and knows not with what skill Those feeble forms are feigned. I curse, I loathe, I spit on them. It doth repent me not. I would 't were yet to do. I have lived my hfe. I have loved. See, there he lies within the bath, And thus I smite him ! thus ! Didst hear him groan ? Oh, vengeance, thou art sweet ! What, living still t Ah me ! we cannot die ! Come, torture me, Ye Furies — for I love not soothing words — As once ye did my son. Ye miserable Blind ministers of Hell, I do defy you ; Not all your torments can undo the Past Of Passion and of Love ! ' Even as she spake There came a viewless trouble in the air, 5 6 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Which took her, and a sweep of wings unseen, And terrible sounds, which swooped on her and hushed Her voice, and seemed to occupy her soul With horror and despair ; and as she passed I marked her agonized eyes. MARSYAS. FROM BOOK II., 'HADES.' First I saw A youth who pensive leaned against the trunk Of a dark cypress, and an idle flute Hung at his side. A sorrowful sad soul. Such as sometimes he knows, who meets the gaze, Mute, uncomplaining yet most pitiful. Of one whom nature, by some secret spite. Has maimed and left imperfect ; or the pain Which fills a poet's eyes. Beneath his robe I seemed to see the scar of cruel stripes, Too hastily concealed. Yet was he not Wholly unhappy, but from out the core Of suffering flowed a secret spring of joy, Which mocked the droughts of Fate, and left him glad And glorying in his sorrow. As I gazed He raised his silent flute, and, half ashamed. Blew a soft note ; and as I stayed awhile I heard him thus discourse — ' The flute is sweet To gods and men, but sweeter far the lyre And voice of a true singer. Shall I fear To tell of that great trial, when I strove And Phoebus conquered ? Nay, no shame it is To bow to an immortal melody ; But glory. Once among the Phrygian hills ; I lay a-musing, — while the silly sheep LEWIS MORRIS. 57 Wandered among the thyme — upon the bank Of a clear mountain stream, beneath the pines, Safe hidden from the noon. A dreamy haze Played on the uplands, but the hills were clear In sunlight, and no cloud was on the sky. It was the time when a deep silence comes Upon the summer earth, and all the birds Have ceased from singing, and the world is still As midnight, and if any live thing move — Some fur-clad creature, or cool gliding snake — Within the pipy overgrowth of weeds. The ear can catch the rustle, and the trees And earth and air are listening. As I lay, Faintly, as in a dream, I seemed to hear A tender music, like the ^olian chords, Sound low within the woodland, whence the stream, Flowed full, yet silent. Long, with ear to ground, I hearkened ; and the sweet strain, fuller grown. Rounder and clearer came, and danced along In mirthful measure now, and now grown grave In dying falls, and sweeter and more clear. Tripping at nuptials and high revelry, Wailing at burials, rapt in soaring thoughts, Chanting strange sea-tales full of mystery. Touching all chords of being, and life and death. Now rose, now sank, and always was divine, So strange the music came. Till, as I lay Enraptured, swift a sudden discord rang. And all the sound grew still. A sudden flash, As from a sunlit jewel, fired the wood. A noise of water smitten, and on the hills A fair white fleece of cloud, which swiftly climbed Into the farthest heaven. Then, as I mused, Knowing a parting goddess, straight I saw A sudden splendor float upon the stream. S8 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. And knew it for this jewelled flute, which paused Before me on an eddy. It I snatched Eager, and to my ardent lips I bore j The wonder, and behold, with the first breath — The first warm human breath, the silent strains, The half-drowned notes which late the goddess blew, Revived, and sounded clearer, sweeter far Than mortal skill could make. So witli delight I left my flocks to wander o'er the wastes Untended, and the wolves and eagles seized The tender lambs, but I was for my art — Nought else ; and though the high-pitched notes divine Grew faint, yet something lingered, and at last So sweet a note I sounded of my skill. That all the Phrygian highlands, all the white Hill villages, were fain to hear the strain. Which the mad shepherd made. So, overbold, And rapt in my new art, at last I dared To challenge Phcebus' self. 'T was a fair day When sudden, on the mountain side, I saw A train of fleecy clouds in a white band Descending. Down the gleaming pinnacles And difiicult crags they floated, and the arch. Drawn with its thousand rays against the sun, Hung like a glory o'er them. Midst the pines They clothed themselves with form, and straight I knew The immortals. Young Apollo, with his lyre, Kissed by the sun, and all the Muses clad In robes of gleaming white ; then a great fear, Yet mixed with joy, assailed me, for I knew Myself a mortal equalled with the gods. Ah me ! how fair they were ! how fair and dread In face and form, they showed, when now they came LEWIS MORRIS. 59 Upon the thymy slope, and the young god Lay with his choir around him, beautiful And bold as Youth and Dawn ! There was no cloud Upon the sky, nor any sound at all When I began my strain. No coward fear Of what might come restrained me ; but an awe Of those immortal eyes and ears divine Looking and listening. All the earth seemed full Of ears for me alone — the woods, the fields. The hills, the skies were listening. Scarce a sound My flute might make ; such subtle harmonies The silence seemed to weave round me and flout The half unuttered thought. Till last I blew, As now, a hesitating note, and lo ! The breath divine, lingering on mortal lips, Hurried my soul along to such fair rhymes. Sweeter than wont, that swift I knew my life Rise up within me, and expand, and all The human, which so nearly is divine, Was glorified, and on the Muses' lips. And in their lovely eyes, I saw a fair Approval, and my soul in me was glad. For all the strains I blew were strains of love — Love striving, love triumphant, love that lies Within belovM arms, and wreathes his locks With flowers, and lets the world go by and sings Unheeding ; and I saw a kindly gleam Within the Muses' eyes, who were indeed, Women, though god-like. But upon the face Of the young Sun-god only haughty scorn Sate, and he swiftly struck his golden lyre, And played the Song of Life ; and lo, I knew My strain, how earthy ! Oh, to hear the young Apollo playing ! and the hidden cells 6o POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. And chambers of the universe displayed Before the charmM sound ! I seemed to fioat In some enchanted cave, where the wave dips In from the sunht sea, and floods its depths With reflex hues of heaven. My soul was rapt By that I heard, and dared to wish no more For victory ; and yet because the sound Of music that is born of human breath Comes straighter from the soul than any strain The hand alone can make ; therefore I knew, With a mixed thrill of pity and dehght. The nine immortal Sisters hardly touched By this fine strain of music, as by mine. And when the high lay trembled to its close, Still doubting. Then upon the Sun-god's face There passed a cold proud smile. He swept his lyre Once more, then laid it down, and with clear voice. The voice of godhead, sang. Oh, ecstasy, Oh happiness of him who once has heard Apollo singing ! For his ears the sound Of grosser music dies, and all the earth Is full of subtle undertones, which change The listener and transform him. As he sang — Of what I know not, but the music touched Each chord of being — I felt my secret life Stand open to it, as the parched earth yawns To drink the summer rain ; and at the call Of those refreshing waters, all my thought Stir from its dark and secret depths, and burst Into sweet, odorous flowers, and from their wells Deep call to deep, and all the mystery Of all that is, laid open. As he sang, I saw the Nine, with lovely pitying eyes. Sign " He has conquered." Yet I felt no pang Of fear, only deep joy that I had heard LEWIS MORRIS. 6 1 Such music while I Hved, even though it brought Torture and death. For what were it to lie Sleek, crowned with roses, drinking vulgar praise, And surfeited with offerings, the dull gift Of ignorant hands — all which I might have known — To this diviner failure ? Godlike 't is To climb upon the icy ledge, and fall Where other footsteps dare not. So I knew My fate, and it was near. For to a pine They bound me willing, and with cruel stripes Tore me, and took my life. But from my blood Was born the stream of song, and on its flow My poor flute, to the cool swift river borne. Floated, and thence adown a lordlier tide Into the deep, wide sea. I do not blame Phcebus, or Nature which has set this bar Betwixt success and failure, for I know How far high failure overleaps the bound Of low successes. Only suffering draws The inner heart of song and can elicit The perfumes of the soul. 'Twere not enough To fail, for that were happiness to him Who ever upward looks with reverent eye And seeks but to admire. So, since the race Of bards soars highest ; as who seek to show Our lives as in a glass ; therefore it comes That suffering weds with song, from him of old. Who solaced his blank darkness with his verse ; Through all the story of neglect and scorn. Necessity, sheer hunger, early death, Which smite the singer still. Not only those Who hold clear accents of the voice divine Are honorable — they are blest, indeed, Whate'er the world has held — but those who hear 62 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Some fair faint echoes, though the crowd be deaf, And see the white gods' garments on the hills. Which the crowd sees not, though they may not find Fit music for their visions; they are blest, Not pitiable. Not from arrogant pride Nor over boldness fail they who have striven To tell what they have heard, with voice too weak For such high message. More it is than ease. Palace and pomp, honors and luxuries. To have seen white Presences upon the hills. To have heard the voices of the Eternal Gods.' So spake he, and I seemed to look on him, Whose sad young eyes grow on us from the page Of his own verse : who did himself to death : Or whom the dullard slew : or whom the sea Rapt from us : and I passed without a word, Slow, grave, with many musings. FROM 'THE ODE OF LIFE.'' THE ODE OF EVIL. Oh, who shall sing of Life and not of 111 ? The essence of our will Is fullest liberty to stray. From out the green and blessed way. Amid the desert wastes of drought and death. This is the power that makes us free. This of our Being is the penalty ; And maybe the Eternal Will, Clothing itself with form to bid Creation be. Took to itself some boundary, and awhile, Self-hmited, made vile And subjected to Law the Majesty LEWIS MORRIS. 63 Which all the universe of space did fill. Evil is Life, The conflict of great laws pervading space ; Evil is strife, Which keeps the creature in its ordered place. If any hand divine should e'er withdraw The fixed coercive potency of Law, Surely the universe of things would fade And cease and be unmade. Where Law is, there is Good, And freedom to obey or to transgress ; Else 'twere no Law, but, weaker far and less. If one created being might not the thing it would. Young lives spring up and fade, Wither and are opprest. Toil takes the world, and pain. And all the things that God has made Travail and groan and fain would be at rest, And Wrong prevails again. And we — we lift a hopeless eye Up to the infinite sky, Mourning the 111 that is, and shall be yet. Weak creatures who forget The very law and root of Life, That it is sown in pain and nursed in woe and strife. The evil blight of war Torments the race from age to age. And man slays man through all the years that are, And savage lust and brutal rage Deform this glorious heritage of earth. We shudder and grow faint. Knowing the far fair dreams of seer and saint Show thin and Httle worth. The young life, rising, sinks in sloughs of sense. 64 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. And wanders and is lost. Alas ! for days of young-eyed innocence. Alas ! for the calm hours ere, passion-tost, The young soul grew, a white flower sweet and pure. Yet this is sure. That not in tranquil zones of endless calm Springs up the victor's palm, But blown by circling storms which blot the sky, Nor fitting were it to the eye Always to look upon a cloudless sun, — Grown blind with too much light before the journey done. The victories of Right Are born of strife. There were no Day were there no Night, Nor, without dying. Life. There only doth Right triumph, where the Wrong Is mightiest and most strong; There were no Good, indeed, were there no 111. And when the final victory shall come. Burst forth, oh Awful Sun, and draw Creation home ! Not within Time or Space Lines drawn in opposite ways grow one, But in some Infinite place Before the Eternal throne ; There, ways to-day divergent. Right and Wrong, Approach the nearer that they grow more long. There at the Eternal feet. Fused, joined, and grown complete. The circle rounds itself, the enclosing wall Of the Universe sinks down, and God is all in all ! EDWIN ARNOLD. 65 EDWIN ARNOLD. FROM 'THE LIGHT OF ASIA.'^ THE RENUNCIATION. FROM BOOK IV. The purdah hung, Crimson and blue, with broidered threads of gold, Across a portal carved in sandal-wood. Whence by three steps the way was to the bower Of inmost splendor, and the marriage-couch Set on a dais soft with silver cloths. Where the foot fell as though it trod on piles Of neem-blooms. All the walls were plates of pearl, Cut shapely from the shells of Lanka's wave ; And o'er the alabaster roof there ran Rich inlayings of lotus and of bird, Wrought in skilled work of lazulite and jade, Jacynth and jasper ; woven round the dome. And down the sides, and all about the frames Wherein were set the fretted lattices. Through which there breathed, with moonlight and cool airs, Scents from the shell-flowers and the jasmine sprays ; Not bringing thither grace or tenderness Sweeter than shed from those fair presences Within the place — the beauteous Sakya Prince, And hers, the stately, bright Yasodhara. Half risen from her soft nest at his side, The chuddah fallen to her waist, her brow S 66 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Laid in both palms, the lovely Princess leaned With heaving bosom and fast falling tears. Thrice with her lips she touched Siddirtha's hand, And at the third kiss moaned, 'Awake, my Lord ! Give me the comfort of thy speech ! ' Then he — ' What is it with thee, O my life ? ' but still She moaned anew before the words would come ; Then spake, ' Alas, my Prince ! I sank to sleep Most happy, for the babe I bear of thee Quickened this eve, and at my heart there beat That double pulse of life and joy and love Whose happy music lulled me, but — aho ! — In slumber I beheld three sights of dread. With thought whereof my heart is throbbing yet. I saw a white bull with wide branching horns, A lord of pastures, pacing through the streets. Bearing upon his front a gem which shone As if some star had dropped to glitter there. Or like the kantha-stone the great snake keeps To make bright daylight underneath the earth. Slow through the streets toward the gates he paced, And none could stay him, though there came a voice From Indra's temple, " If ye stay him not. The glory of the city goeth forth." Yet none could stay him. Then I wept aloud. And locked my arms about his neck, and strove, And bade them bar the gates ; but that ox-king Bellowed, and, lightly tossing free his crest. Broke from my clasp, and bursting through the bars, Trampled the warders down and passed away. The next strange dream was this : Four Presences Splendid, with shining eyes, so beautiful They seemed the Regents of the Earth who dwell On Mount Sumeru, lighting from the sky With retinue of countless heavenly ones, Swift swept unto our city, where I saw EDWIN ARNOLD. 67 The golden flag of Indra on the gate Flutter and fall : and lo ! there rose instead A glorious banner, all the folds whereof Rippled with flashing fire of rubies sown Thick on the silver threads, the rays wherefrom Set forth new words and weighty sentences Whose message made all living creatures glad ; And from the east the wind of sunrise blew With tender waft, opening those jewelled scrolls So that all flesh might read ; and wondrous blooms — Plucked in what clime I know not — fell in showers, Colored as none are colored in our groves.' Then spake the Prince : ' All this, my lotus-flower ! Was good to see.' ' Ay, Lord,' the Princess said, ' Save that it ended with a voice of fear Crying, " The time is nigh ! the time is nigh ! " Thereat the third dream came ; for when I sought Thy side, sweet Lord ! ah, on our bed there lay An unpressed pillow and an empty robe — Nothing of thee but those ! — nothing of thee, Who art my life and light, my king, my world ! And sleeping still I rose, and sleeping saw Thy belt of pearls, tied here below my breasts. Change to a stinging snake ; my ankle-rings Fall off, my golden bangles part and fall ; The jasmines in my hair wither to dust ; While this our bridal-couch sank to the ground, And something rent the crimson purdah down ; Then far away I heard the white bull low, And far away the embroidered banner flap. And once again that cry, " The time is come ! " But with that cry — which shakes my spirit still — I woke ! O prince ! what may such visions mean 68 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Except I die, or — worse than any death — Thou shouldst forsake me or be taken?' Sweet As the last smile of sunset was the look Siddartha bent upon his weeping wife. ' Comfort thee, dear ! ' he said, ' if comfort lives In changeless love ; for though thy dreams may be Shadows of things to come, and though the gods Are shaken in their seats, and though the world Stands nigh, perchance, to know some way of help, Yet, whatsoever fall to thee and me. Be sure I loved and love Yas6dhara. Thou knowest how I muse these many moons, Seeking to save the sad earth I have seen ; And when the time comes, that which will be will. But if my soul yearns sore for souls unknown. And if I grieve for griefs which are not mine. Judge how my high-winged thoughts must hover here O'er all these lives that share and sweeten mine — So dear ! and thine the dearest, gentlest, best. And nearest. Ah, thou mother of my babe ! Whose body mixed with mine for this fair hope, When most my spirit wanders, ranging round The lands and seas — as full of ruth for men As the far-flying dove is full of ruth For her twin nestlings — ever it has come Home with glad wing and passionate plumes to thee. Who art the sweetness of my kind best seen. The utmost of their good, the tenderest Of all their tenderness, mine most of all. Therefore, whatever after this betide, Bethink thee of that lordly bull which lowed. That jewelled banner in thy dream which waved Its folds departing, and of this be sure, Always I loved and always love thee well. And what I sought for all sought most for thee. EDWIN ARNOLD. 69 But thou, take comfort ; and, if sorrow falls, Take comfort still in deeming there may be A way of peace on earth by woes of ours ; And have with this embrace what faithful love Can think of thanks or frame for benison — Too little, seeing love's strong self is weak — Yet kiss me on the mouth, and drink these words From heart to heart therewith, that thou mayst know — What others will not — that I loved thee most Because I loved so well all living souls. Now, princess ! rest, for I will rise and watch.' Then in her tears she slept, but sleeping sighed — As if that vision passed again — ' The time ! The time is come ! ' Whereat Siddirtha turned. And, lo ! the moon shone by the Crab ! the stars In that same silver order long foretold Stood ranged to say, ' This is the night ! — choose thou The way of greatness or the way of good : To reign a king of kings, or wander lone, Crownless and homeless, that the world be helped.' Moreover, with the whispers of the gloom Came to his ears again that warning song, As when the Devas spoke upon the wind : And surely gods were round about the place Watching our Lord, who watched the shining stars. ' I will depart,' he spake ; ' the hour is come ! Thy tender lips, dear sleeper, summon me To that which saves the earth but sunders us ; And in the silence of yon sky I read My fated message flashing. Unto this Came I, and unto this all nights and days Have led me ; for I will not have that crown Which may be mine : I lay aside those realms Which wait the gleaming of my naked sword : 70 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. My chariot shall not roll with bloody wheels From victory to victory, till earth Wears the red record of my name. I choose To tread its paths with patient, stainless feet. Making its dust my bed, its loneliest wastes My dwelHng, and its meanest things my mates : Clad in no prouder garb than outcasts wear, Fed with no meats save what the charitable Give of their will, sheltered by no more pomp Than the dim cave lends or the jungle-bush. This will I do because the woful cry Of life and all flesh living cometh up Into my ears, and all my soul is full Of pity for the sickness of this world ; Which I will heal, if healing may be found By uttermost renouncing and strong strife. For which of all the great and lesser gods Have power or pity? Who hath seen them — who? What have they wrought to help their worshippers ? How hath it steaded man to pray, and pay Tithes of the corn and oil, to chant the charms. To slay the shrieking sacrifice, to rear The stately fane, to feed the priests, and call On Vishnu, Shiva, Surya, who save None — not the worthiest — from the griefs that teach Those litanies of flattery and fear Ascending day by day, like wasted smoke ? Hath any of my brothers 'scaped thereby The aches of life, the stings of love and loss, The fiery fever and the ague-shake. The slow, dull sinking into withered age. The horrible dark death — and what beyond Waits — till the whirling wheel comes up again, And new lives bring new sorrows to be borne, New generations for the new desires Which have their end in the old mockeries ? ED WIN ARNOLD. 7 1 Hath any of my tender sisters found Fruit of the fast or harvest of the hymn, Or bought one pang the less at bearing-time For white curds offered and trim tulsi-leaves ? Nay ; it may be some of the gods are good And evil some, but all in action wealc ; Both pitiful and pitiless, and both — As men are — bound upon this wheel of change, Knowing the former and the after lives. For so our scriptures truly seem to teach, That — once, and wheresoe'er, and whence begun — Life runs its rounds of living, climbing up From mote, and gnat, and worm, reptile, and fish, Bird and shagged beast, man, demon, deva, God, To clod and mote again ; so are we kin To all that is ; and thus, if one might save Man from his curse, the whole wide world should share The lightened horror of this ignorance Whose shadow is chill fear, and cruelty Its bitter pastime. Yea, if one might save ! And means must be ! There must be refuge ! Men Perished in winter-winds till one smote fire From flint-stones coldly hiding what they held, The red spark treasured from the kindling sun. They gorged on flesh hke wolves, till one sowed corn. Which grew a weed, yet makes the life of man; They mowed and babbled till some tongue struck speech, And patient fingers framed the lettered sound. What good gift have my brothers, but it came From search and strife and loving sacrifice.'' If one, then, being great and fortunate. Rich, dowered with health and ease, from birth designed To rule — if he would rule — a King of kings ; If one, not tired with fife's long day but glad I' the freshness of its morning, one not cloyed With love's delicious feasts, but hungry still ; 72 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. If one not worn and wrinkled, sadly sage, But joyous in the glory and the grace That mix with evils here, and free to choose Earth's loveliest at his will : one even as I, Who ache not, lack not, grieve not, save with griefs Which are not mine, except as I am man ; — If such a one, having so much to give, Gave all, laying it down for love of men, And thenceforth spent himself to search for truth. Wringing the secret of deliverance forth, Whether it lurk in hells or hide in heavens. Or hover, unrevealed, nigh unto all : Surely at last, far off, sometime, somewhere. The veil would lift for his deep-searching eyes. The road would open for his painful feet, That should be won for which he lost the world, And Death might find him conqueror of death. This will I do, who have a realm to lose. Because I love my realm, because my heart Beats with each throb of all the hearts that ache. Known and unknown, these that are mine and those Which shall be mine, a thousand million more Saved by this sacrifice I offer now. Oh, summoning stars ! I come ! Oh mournful earth ! For thee and thine I lay aside my youth, My throne, my joys, my golden days, my nights, My happy palace — and thine arms, sweet queen ! Harder to put aside than all the rest ! Yet thee, too, I shall save, saving this earth ; And that which stirs within thy tender womb, My child, the hidden blossom of our loves, Whom if I wait to bless my mind will fail. Wife ! child ! father ! and people ! ye must share A little while the anguish of this hour That light may break and all flesh learn the Law. Now am I fixed, and now I will depart, EDWIN ARNOLD. 73 Never to come again till what I seek Be found — if fervent search and strife avail.' So with his brow he touched her feet, and bent The farewell of fond eyes, unutterable. Upon her sleeping face, still wet with tears ; And thrice around the bed in reverence, As though it were an altar, softly stepped With clasped hands laid upon his beating heart, ' For never,' spake he, 'lie I there again ! ' And thrice he made to go, but thrice came back, So strong her beauty was, so large his love : Then, o'er his head drawing his cloth, he turned And raised the purdah's edge. siddArtha and the mother of the dead CHILD. FROM BOOK V. While the Master spake Blew down the mount the dust of pattering feet, White goats and black sheep winding slow their way, With many a lingering nibble at the tufts. And wanderings from the path, where water gleamed Or wild figs hung. But always as they strayed The herdsman cried, or slung his sling, and kept The silly crowd still moving to the plain. A ewe with couplets in the flock there was. Some hurt had lamed one lamb, which toiled behind Bleeding, while in the front its fellow skipped. And the vexed dam hither and thither ran. Fearful to lose this little one or that; Which when our Lord did mark, full tenderly He took the limping lamb upon his neck. Saying, ' Poor woolly mother, be at peace ! 74 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Whither thou goest I will bear thy care ; 'T were all as good to ease one beast of grief As sit and watch the sorrows of the world In yonder caverns with the priests who pray.' 'But,' spake he to the herdsmen, 'wherefore, friends ! Drive ye the flocks adown under high noon. Since 't is at evening that men fold their sheep ? ' And answer gave the peasants : ' We are sent To fetch a sacrifice of goats five score, And five score sheep, the which our Lord the King Slayeth this night in worship of his gods.' Then said the Master : ' I will also go ! ' So paced he patiently, bearing the lamb Beside the herdsmen in the dust and sun, The wistful ewe low-bleating at his feet. Whom, when they came unto the river-side, A woman — dove-eyed, young, with tearful face And lifted hands — saluted, bending low : ' Lord ! thou art he,' she said, ' who yesterday Had pity on me in the fig-grove here. Where I live lone and reared my child ; but he Straying amid the blossoms found a snake. Which twined about his wrist, whilst he did laugh And tease the quick forked tongue and opened mouth Of that cold playmate. But, alas ! ere long He turned so pale and still, I could not think Why he should cease to play, and let my breast Fall from his lips. And one said, " He is sick Of poison ; " and another, " He will die.'' But I, who could not lose my precious bo}% Prayed of them physic, which might bring the light Back to his eyes ; it was so very small That kiss-mark of the serpent, and I think EDWIN ARNOLD. 75 It could not hate him, gracious as he was, Nor hurt him in his sport. And some one said, " There is a holy man upon the hill — Lo ! now he passeth in the yellow robe — Ask of the Rishi if there be a cure For that which ails thy son." Whereon I came Trembling to thee, whose brow is like a god's, And wept and drew the face-cloth from my babe, Praying thee tell what simples might be good. And thou, great sir ! didst spurn me not, but gaze With gentle eyes and touch with patient hand; Then draw the face-cloth back, saying to me, "Yea ! little sister, there is that might heal Thee first, and him, if thou couldst fetch the thing; For they who seek physicians bring to them What is ordained. Therefore, I pray thee, find Black mustard-seed, a tola; only mark Thou take it not from any hand or house Where father, mother, child, or slave hath died ; It shall be well if thou canst find such seed." Thus didst thou speak, my Lord ! ' The Master smiled Exceeding tenderly. ' Yea ! I spake thus. Dear Kisag&tami ! But didst thou find The seed?' ' I went. Lord, clasping to my breast The babe, grown colder, asking at each hut — Here in the jungle and toward the town — • " I pray you, give me mustard, of your grace, A tola — black ; " and each who had it gave, For all the poor are piteous to the poor ; But when I asked, " In my friend's household here Hath any peradventure ever died — Husband or wife, or child, or slave .? " they said : " O sister! what is this you ask? the dead Are very many, and the living few ! " 76 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. So with sad thanks I gave the mustard back, And prayed of others ; but the others said, " Here is the seed, but we have lost our slave ! " " Here is the seed, but our good man is dead ! " "Here is some seed, but he that sowed it died Between the rain-time and the harvesting ! " Ah, sir ! I could not find a single house Where there was mustard-seed and none had died! Therefore I left my child — who would not suck Nor smile — beneath the wild-vines by the stream. To seek thy face and kiss thy feet, and pray Where I might find this seed and find no death, If now, indeed, my baby be not dead. As I do fear, and as they said to me.' ' My sister ! thou hast found,' the Master said, ' Searching for what none finds — that bitter balm I had to give thee. He thou lovedst slept Dead on thy bosom yesterday : to-day Thou know'st the whole wide world weeps with thy woe ; The grief which all hearts share grows less for one. Lo ! I would pour my blood if it could stay Thy tears and win the secret of tliat curse Which makes sweet love our anguish, and which drives O'er flowers and pastures to the sacrifice — As these dumb beasts are driven — men their lords. I seek that secret : bury thou thy child ! ' SHE AND HE. ' She is dead ! ' they said to him. ' Come away ; Kiss her ! and leave her ! — thy love is clay ! ' They smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair; On her forehead of marble they laid it fair : EDWIN ARNOLD. 77 Over her eyes, which gazed too much, They drew the lids with a gentle touch ; With a tender touch they closed up well The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell ; About her brows, and her dear, pale face They tied her veil and her marriage-lace ; And drew on her white feet her white silk shoes ; — Which were the whiter no eye could choose ! And over her bosom they crossed her hands ; ' Come away,' they said, — ' God understands ! ' And then there was Silence ; — and nothing there But the Silence — and scents of eglantere, And jasmine, and roses, and rosemary ; For they said, ' As a lady should lie, lies she ! ' And they held their breath as they left the room, With a shudder to glance at its stillness and gloom. But he — who loved her too well to dread The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead, — He lit his lamp, and took the key. And turned it ! — Alone again — he and she ! He and she ; but she would not speak, Though he kissed, in the old place, the quiet cheek ; He and she ; yet she would not smile. Though he called her the name that was fondest erewhile. He and she ; and she did not move To any one passionate whisper of love ! Then he said, ' Cold lips ! and breast without breath ! Is there no voice ? — no language of death 78 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. ' Dumb to the ear and still to the sense, But to heart and to soul distinct, — intense ? ' See, now, — I listen with soul, not ear — What was the secret of dying, Dear ? ' Was it the infinite wonder of all. That you ever could let life's flower fall ? ' Or was it a greater marvel to feel The perfect calm o'er the agony steal ? ' Was the miracle greatest to find how deep. Beyond all dreams, sank downward that sleep ? ' Did life roll backward its record. Dear, And show, as they say it does, past things clear ? ' And was it the innermost heart of the bliss To find out so what a wisdom love is ? ' Oh, perfect Dead ! Oh, Dead most dear, I hold the breath of my soul to hear ; ' I listen — as deep as to horrible hell. As high as to heaven ! — and you do not tell ! 'There must be pleasure in dying. Sweet, To make you so placid from head to feet ! ' I would tell you, Darling, if I were dead. And 't were your hot tears upon my brow shed. ' I would say, though the angel of death had laid His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid. ' Vau should not ask, vainly, with streaming eyes. Which in Death's touch was the chiefest surprise; ' The very strangest and suddenest thing Of all the surprises that dying must bring.' EDWIN ARNOLD. 79 Ah ! foolish world ! Oh ! most kind Dead Though he told me, who will believe it was said ? Who will believe that he heard her say, With the soft rich voice, in the dear old way : — ' The utmost wonder is this, — I hear. And see you, and love you, and kiss you. Dear ; ' I can speak, now you listen with soul alone ; If your soul could see, it would all be shown ' What a strange delicious amazement is Death, To be without body and breathe without breath. ' I should laugh for joy if you did not cry ; Oh, listen ! Love lasts ! — Love never will die. ' I am only your Angel who was your Bride ; And I know, that though dead, I have never died.' AFTER DEATH IN ARABIA. He who died at Azan sends This to comfort all his friends : Faithful friends ! It lies, I know. Pale and white and cold as snow ; And ye say, ' Abdallah 's dead ! ' Weeping at the feet and head, I can see your falling tears, I can hear your sighs and prayers ; Yet I smile and whisper this, — '/am not the thing you kiss ; Cease your tears, and let it lie ; It was mine, it is not I.' So POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Sweet friends ! What the women lave For its last bed of the grave, Is a tent which I am quitting, Is a garment no more fitting. Is a cage from which, at last, Like a hawk my soul hath passed. Love the inmate, not the room, — The wearer, not the garb, — the plume Of the falcon, not the bars Which kept him from those splendid stars. Loving friends ! Be wise and dry- Straightway every weeping eye, — What ye lift upon the bier Is not worth a wistful tear. 'T is an empty sea-shell, — one Out of which the pearl is gone ; The shell is broken, it lies there ; The pearl, the all, the soul, is here. 'T is an earthen jar, whose lid Allah sealed, the while it hid That treasure of his treasury, A mind that loved him ; let it lie ! Let the shard be earth's once more. Since the gold shines in his store ! Allah glorious ! Allah good ! Now thy world is understood; Now the long, long wonder ends ; Yet ye weep, my erring friends. While the man whom ye call dead. In unspoken bliss, instead. Lives and loves you ; lost, 't is true. By such light as shines for you ; But in the light ye cannot see Of unfulfilled felicity, — EDWIN ARNOLD. ■ In enlarging paradise, Lives a life that never dies. Farewell, friends ! Yet not farewell ; Where I am, ye, too, shall dwell. I am gone before your face, A moment's time, a little space. When ye come where I have stepped Ye will wonder why ye wept ; Ye will know, by wise love taught. That here is all, and there is naught. Weep awhile, if ye are fain, — ■ Sunshine still must follow rain ; Only not at death, — for death. Now I know, is that first breath Which our souls draw when we enter Life, which is of all life centre. Be ye certain all seems love, Viewed from Allah's throne above ; Be ye stout of heart, and come Bravely onward to your home ! La Allah ilia Allah ! yea! Thou love divine ! Thou love alway ! He that died at Azan gave This to those who made his grave. 82 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. JAMES THOMSON. FROM 'THE CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT.' « The City is of Night ; perchance of Death, But certainly of Night ; for never there Can come the lucid morning's fragrant breath After the dewy dawning's cold gray air ; The moon and stars may shine with scorn or pity ; The sun has never visited that city, For it dissolveth in the daylight fair. Dissolveth like a dream of night away ; Though present in distempered gloom of thought And deadly weariness of heart all day. But when a dream night after night is brought Throughout a week, and such weeks few or many Recur each year for several years, can any Discern that dream from real life in aught ? For life is but a dream whose shapes return, Some frequently, some seldom, some by night And some by day, some night and day ; we learn, The while all change and many vanish quite, In their recurrence with recurrent changes A certain seeming order; where this ranges We count things real ; such is memory's might. A river girds the city west and south. The main north channel of a broad lagoon, JAMES THOMSON. 83 Regurging with the salt tides from the mouth ; Waste marshes shine and glister to the moon For leagues, then moorland black, then stony ridges ; Great piers and causeways, many noble bridges. Connect the town and islet suburbs strewn. Upon an easy slope it lies at large, And scarcely overlaps the long curved crest Which swells out two leagues from the river marge. A trackless wilderness rolls north and west, Savannahs, savage woods, enormous mountains. Bleak uplands, black ravines with torrent fountains ; And eastward rolls the shipless sea's unrest. The city Is not ruinous, although Great ruins of an unremembered past, With others of a few short years ago More sad, are found within its precincts vast. The street-lamps always burn ; but scarce a casement In house or palace front from roof to basement Doth glow or gleam athwart the mirk air cast. The street-lamps burn amidst the baleful glooms, Amidst the soundless solitudes immense Of ranged mansions dark and still as tombs. The silence which benumbs or strains the sense Fulfils with awe the soul's despair unweeping : Myriads of habitants are ever sleeping, Or dead, or fled from nameless pestilence ! Yet as in some necropolis you find Perchance one mourner to a thousand dead, So there : worn faces that look deaf and blind Like tragic masks of stone. With weary tread, Each wrapt in his own doom, they wander, wander, Or sit foredone and desolately ponder Through sleepless hours with heavy drooping head. 84 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Mature men chiefly, few in age or youth, A woman rarely, now and then a child : A child ! If here the heart turns sick with ruth To see a little one from birth defiled. Or lame or blind, as preordained to languish Through youthless life, think how it bleeds with anguish To meet one erring in that homeless wild. They often murmur to themselves, they speak To one another seldom, for their woe Broods maddening inwardly and scorns to wreak Itself abroad ; and if at whiles it grow To frenzy which must rave, none heeds the clamor, Unless there waits some victim of like glamour, To rave in turn, who lends attentive show. The City is of Night, but not of Sleep : There sweet sleep is not for the weary brain ; The pitiless hours like years and ages creep, A night seems termless hell. This dreadful strain Of thought and consciousness which never ceases, Or which some moments' stupor but increases, This, worse than woe, makes wretches there insane. They leave all hope behind who enter there : One certitude while sane they cannot leave. One anodyne for torture and despair ; The certitude of Death, which no reprieve Can put off long; and which, divinely tender, But waits the outstretched hand to promptly render That draught whose slumber nothing can bereave. II. Because he seemed to walk with an intent I followed him ; who, shadowlike and frail, Unswervingly though slowly onward went, Regardless, wrapt in thought as in a veil : JAMES THOMSON. 85 Thus step for step with lonely sounding feet He travelled many a long dim silent street. At length he paused ; a black mass in the gloom, A tower that merged into the heavy sky ; Around, the huddled stones of grave and tomb : Some old God's-acre now corruption's sty : He murmured to himself with dull despair, Here Faith died, poisoned by this charnel air. Then turning to the right went on once more, And travelled weary roads without suspense ; And reached at last a low wall's open door. Whose villa gleamed beyond the foliage dense : He gazed, and muttered with a hard despair. Here Love died, stabbed by its own worshipped pair. Then turning to the right resumed his march. And travelled streets and lanes with wondrous strength, Until on stooping through a narrow arch We stood before a squalid house at length : He gazed, and whispered with a cold despair. Here Hope died, starved out in its utmost lair. When he had spoken thus, before he stirred, I spoke, perplexed by something in the signs Of desolation I had seen and heard In this drear pilgrimage to ruined shrines : When Faith and Love and Hope are dead indeed, Can Life still live ? By what doth it proceed ? As whom his one intense thought overpowers. He answered coldly. Take a watch, erase The signs and figures of the circling hours. Detach the hands, remove the dial-face ; The works proceed until run down ; although Bereft of purpose, void of use, still go. 86 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Then turning to the right paced on again, And traversed squares and travelled streets whose glooms Seemed more and more familiar to my pen ; And reached that sullen temple of the tombs ; And paused to murmur with the old despair, Here Faith died, poisoned by this charnel air. I ceased to follow, for the knot of doubt Was severed sharply with a cruel knife : He circled thus for ever tracing out The series of the fraction left of Life ; Perpetual recurrence in the scope Of but three terms, dead Faith, dead Love, dead Hope. XIX. The mighty river flowing dark and deep. With ebb and flood from the remote sea-tides Vague-sounding through the City's sleepless sleep. Is named the River of the Suicides ; For night by night some lorn wretch overweary. And shuddering from the future yet more dreary, Within its cold secure oblivion hides. One plunges from a bridge's parapet. As by some blind and sudden frenzy hurled ; Another wades in slow with purpose set Until the waters are above him furled; Another in a boat with dreamlike motion Glides drifting down into the desert ocean. To starve or sink from out the desert world. They perish from their suffering surely thus. For none beholding them attempts to save, The while each thinks how soon, solicitous, He may seek refuge in the self-same wave ; Some hour when tired of ever-vain endurance JAMES THOMSON. %\ Impatience will forerun the sweet assurance Of perfect peace eventual in the grave. When this poor tragic-farce has palled us long, Why actors and spectators do we stay ? — To fill our so-short rdles out right or wrong ; To see what shifts are yet in the dull play For our illusion ; to refrain from grieving Dear foolish friends by our untimely leaving : But those asleep at home, how blest are they ! Yet it is but for one night after all : What matters one brief night of dreary pain? When after it the weary eyelids fall Upon the weary eyes and wasted brain ; And all sad scenes and thoughts and feelings vanish In that sweet sleep no power can ever banish, That one best sleep which never wakes again. XX. I SAT me weary on a pillar's base, And leaned against the shaft ; for broad moonlight O'erflowed the peacefulness of cloistered space, A shore of shadow slanting from the right : The great cathedral's western front stood there, A wave-worn rock in that calm sea of air. Before it, opposite my place of rest, Two figures faced each other, large, austere ; A couchant sphinx in shadow to the breast. An angel standing in the moonlight clear ; So mighty by magnificence of form. They were not dwarfed beneath that mass enorm. Upon the cross-hilt of a naked sword The angel's hands, as prompt to smite, were held; 8 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. His vigilant, intense regard was poured Upon the creature placidly unquelled, Whose front was set at level gaze which took No heed of aught, a solemn trance-like look. And as I pondered these opposed shapes My eyelids sank in stupor, that dull swoon Which drugs and with a leaden mantle drapes The outworn to worse weariness. But soon A sharp and clashing noise the stillness broke, And from the evil lethargy I woke. The angel's wings had fallen, stone on stone, And lay there shattered ; hence the sudden sound : A warrior leaning on his sword alone Now watched the sphinx with that regard profound; The sphinx unchanged looked forthright, as aware Of nothing in the vast abyss of air. Again I sank in that repose unsweet, Again a clashing noise my slumber rent ; The warrior's sword lay broken at his feet : An unarmed man with raised hands impotent Now stood before the sphinx, which ever kept Such mien as if with open eyes it slept. My eyehds sank in spite of wonder grown ; A louder crash upstartled me in dread : The man had fallen forward, stone on stone. And lay there shattered, with his trunkless head Between the monster's large quiescent paws, Beneath its grand front changeless as life's laws. The moon had circled westward full and bright. And made the temple-front a mystic dream. And bathed the whole enclosure with its light. The sworded angel's wrecks, the sphinx supreme : I pondered long that cold majestic face Whose vision seemed of infinite void space. JAMES THOMSON. 89 XXI. Anear the centre of that northern crest Stands out a level upland bleak and bare, From which the city east and south and west Sinks gently in long waves ; and thronM there An Image sits, stupendous, superhuman. The bronze colossus of a wingfed Woman, Upon a graded granite base foursquare. Low-seated she leans forward massively. With cheek on clenched left hand, the forearm's might Erect, its elbow on her rounded knee ; Across a clasped book in her lap the right Upholds a pair of compasses ; she gazes With full set eyes, but wandering in thick mazes Of sombre thought beholds no outward sight. Words cannot picture her ; but all men know That solemn sketch the pure sad artist wrought Three centuries and threescore years ago. With phantasies of his peculiar thought : The instruments of carpentry and science Scattered about her feet, in strange alliance With the keen wolf-hound sleejDing undistraught ; Scales, hour-glass, bell, and magic-square above The grave and solid infant perched beside. With open winglets that might bear a dove, Intent upon its tablets, heavy-eyed ; Her folded wings as of a mighty eagle, But all too impotent to lift the regal Robustness of her earth-born strength and pride ; And with those wings, and that light wreath which seems To mock her grand head and the knotted frown 90 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Of forehead charged with baleful thoughts and dreams, The household bunch of keys, the housewife's gown Voluminous, indented, and yet rigid As if a shell of burnished metal frigid, The feet thick-shod to tread all weakness down ; The comet hanging o'er the waste dark seas, The massy rainbow curved in front of it Beyond the village with the masts and trees ; The snaky imp, dog-headed, from the Pit, Bearing upon its batlike leathern pinions Her name unfolded in the sun's dominions. The 'Melencolia' that transcends all wit. Thus has the artist copied her, and thus Surrounded to expound her form sublime, Her fate heroic and calamitous ; Fronting the dreadful mysteries of Time, Unvanquished in defeat and desolation. Undaunted in the hopeless conflagration Of the day setting on her baffled prime. Baffled and beaten back she works on still. Weary and sick of soul she works the more. Sustained by her indomitable will : The hands shall fashion and the brain shall pore. And all her sorrow shall be turned to labor. Till Death the friend-foe piercing with his sabre That mighty heart of hearts ends bitter war. But as if blacker night could dawn on night. With tenfold gloom on moonless night unstarred, A sense more tragic than defeat and blight. More desperate than strife with hope debarred. More fatal than the adamantine Never Encompassing her passionate endeavor, Dawns glooming in her tenebrous regard : JAMES THOMSON. 91 The sense that every struggle brings defeat Because Fate holds no prize to crown success ; That all the oracles are dumb or cheat Because they have no secret to express ; That none can pierce the vast black veil uncertain Because there is no light beyond the curtain ; That all is vanity and nothingness. Titanic from her high throne in the north, That City's sombre Patroness and Queen, In bronze sublimity she gazes forth Over her Capital of teen and threne, Over the river with its isles and bridges. The marsh and moorland, to the stern rock-ridges, Confronting them with a coeval mien. The moving moon and stars from east to west Circle before her in the sea of air ; Shadows and gleams glide round her solemn rest. Her subjects often gaze up to her there : The strong to drink new strength of iron endurance, The weak new terrors ; all, renewed assurance And confirmation of the old despair. A VOICE FROM THE NILE. I COME from mountains under other stars Than those reflected in my waters here ; Athwart broad realms, beneath large skies, I flow, Between the Libyan and Arabian hills, And merge at last into the great Mid-Sea ; And make this land of Egypt. All is mine : The palm-trees and the doves among the palms. The corn-fields and the flowers among the corn, The patient oxen and the crocodiles. The ibis and the heron and the hawk. The lotus and the thick papyrus reeds. 92 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. The slant-sailed boats that flit before the wind Or up my rapids ropes hale heavily ; Yea, even all the massive temple-fronts With all their columns and huge effigies, The pyramids and memnon and the sphinx, This Cairo and the City of the Greek As Memphis and the hundred-gated Thebes, Sais and Denderah of Isis queen ; Have grown because I fed them with full life, And flourish only while I feed them still. For if I stint my fertilizing flood. Gaunt famine reaps among the sons of men Who have not corn to reap for all they sowed. And blight and languishment are everywhere ; And when I have withdrawn or turned aside To other realms my ever-flowing streams, The old realms withered from their old renown. The sands came over them, the desert-sands Incessantly encroaching, numberless Beyond my water-drops, and buried them, And all is silence, solitude, and death, Exanimate silence while the waste winds howl Over the sad immeasurable waste. Dusk memories haunt me of an infinite past. Ages and cycles brood above my springs. Though I remember not my primal birth. So ancient is my being and august, I know not anything more venerable ; Unless, perchance, the vaulting skies that hold The sun and moon and stars that shine on me ; The air that breathes upon me with delight ; And Earth, All-Mother, all-beneficent, Who held her mountains forth like opulent breasts To cradle me and feed me with their snows, And hollowed out the great sea to receive JAMES THOMSON. 93 My overplus of flowing energy : Blessed forever be our; Mother Earth. Only, the mountains that must feed my springs Year after year and every year with snows As they have fed innumerable years, These mountains they are evermore the same. Rooted and motionless ; the solemn heavens Are evermore the same in stable rest ; The sun and moon and stars that shine on me Are evermore the same although they move : I solely, moving ever without pause, Am evermore the same and not the same ; Pouring myself away into the sea, And self-renewing from the farthest heights ; Ever-fresh waters streaming down and down. The one old Nilus constant through their change. The creatures also whom I breed and feed Perpetually perish and dissolve. And other creatures Hke them take their place, To perish in their turn and be no more : My profluent waters perish not from life, Absorbed into the ever-living sea Whose life is their full replenishment. Of all these creatures whom I breed and feed, One only with his works is strange to me. Is strange and admirable and pitiable. As homeless where all others are at home. My crocodiles are happy in my slime, And bask and seize their prey, each for itself, And leave their eggs to hatch in the hot sun, And die, their lives fulfilled, and are no more. And others bask and play and leave their eggs. My doves they build their nests, each pair its own. And feed their callow young, each pair its own, 94 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. None serves another, each one serves itself ; All glean alike about my fields of grain, And all the nests they build them are alike, And are the self-same nests they built of old Before the rearing of the pyramids, Before great Hekatompylos was reared; Their cooing is the cooing soft and sweet That murmured plaintively at evening-tide In pillared Karnak as its pillars rose ; And they are happy floating through my palms. But man the admirable, the pitiable, These sad-eyed peoples of the sons of men, Are as the children of an alien race Planted among my children, not at home, Changelings aloof from all my family. The one is servant and the other lord, And many myriads serve a single lord : So was it when the pyramids were reared. And sphinxes and huge columns and wrought stones Were haled long lengthening leagues adown my banks By hundreds groaning with the stress of toil And groaning under the taskmaster's scourge, With many falling foredone by the way, Half-starved on lentils, onions, and scant bread ; So is it now with these poor fellaheen To whom my annual bounty brings fierce toil With scarce enough of food to keep-in life. They build mud huts and spacious palaces ; And in the huts the moiling millions dwell, And in the palaces their sumptuous lords Pampered with all the choicest things I yield: Most admirable, most pitiable Man. Also their peoples ever are at war. Slaying and slain, burning and ravaging, JAMES THOMSON. 95 And one yields to another and they pass, While I flow evermore the same great Nile, The ever-young and ever-ancient Nile : The swarthy is succeeded by the dusk, The dusky by the pale, the pale again By sunburned turbaned tribes long-linen-robed : And with these changes all things change and pass. All things but Me and this old Land of mine. Their dwellings, habitudes, and garbs, and tongues : I hear strange voices ; never more the voice Austere priests chanted to the boat of death Gliding across the Acherusian lake. Or satraps parleyed in the Pharaoh's halls ; Never the voice of mad Cambyses' hosts. Never the voice of Alexander's Greece, Never the voice of Caesar's haughty Rome : And with the peoples and the languages. With the great Empires still the great Creeds change ; They shift, they change, they vanish like thin dreams. As unsubstantial as the mists that rise After my overflow from out my fields. In silver fleeces, golden volumes, rise. And melt away before the mounting sun ; While I flow onward solely permanent Amidst their swiftly-passing pageantry. Poor men, most admirable, most pitiable. With all their changes all their great Creeds change : For iVTan, this alien in my family. Is alien most in this, to cherish dreams And brood on visions of eternity. And build religions in his brooding brain And in the dark depths awe-full of his soul. My other children live their little lives, Are born and reach their prime and slowly fail, And all their little lives are self-fulfilled; They die and are no more, content with age 96 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. And weary with infirmity. But Man Has fear and hope and phantasy and awe, And wistful yearnings and unsated loves, That strain beyond the hmits of his life. And therefore Gods and Demons, Heaven and Hell : This Man, the admirable, the pitiable. Lo, I look backward some few thousand years. And see men hewing temples in my rocks With seated forms gigantic fronting them. And solemn labyrinthine catacombs With tombs all pictured with fair scenes of life And scenes and symbols of mysterious death ; And planting avenues of sphinxes forth. Sphinxes couched calm, whose passionless regard Sets timeless riddles to bewildered time, Forth from my sacred banks to other fanes Islanded in the boundless sea of air. Upon whose walls and colonnades are carved Tremendous hieroglyphs of secret things ; I see embalming of the bodies dead And judging of the disembodied souls ; I see the sacred animals alive. And statues of the various-headed gods, Among them throned a woman and a babe. The goddess crescent-horned, the babe divine. Then I flow forward some few thousand years, And see new temples shining with all grace. Whose sculptured gods are beautiful human forms. Then I flow forward not a thousand years, And see again a woman and a babe. The woman haloed and the babe divine ; And everywhere that symbol of the cross I knew aforetime in the ancient days, The emblem then of life, but now of death. Then I flow forward some few hundred years. JAMES THOMSON. 97 And see again the crescent, now supreme On lofty cupolas and minarets Whence voices sweet and solemn call to prayer. So the men change along my changeless stream, And change their faiths ; but I yield all alike Sweet water for their drinking, sweet as wine. And pure sweet water for their lustral rites : For thirty generations of my corn Outlast a generation of my men. And thirty generations of my men Outlast a generation of their gods : O admirable, pitiable Man, My child yet alien in my family. And I through all these generations flow Of corn and men and gods, all-bountiful. Perennial through their transientness, still fed By earth with waters in abundancy ; And as I flowed here long before they were. So may I flow when they no longer are. Most like the serpent of eternity : Blessed for ever be our Mother Earth. FROM 'SUNDAY UP THE RIVER.' » II. ' O, WHAT are you waiting for here ? young man ! What are you looking for over the bridge ? — ' A little straw hat with the streaming blue ribbons Is soon to come dancing over the bridge. Her heart beats the measure that keeps her feet dancing. Dancing along like a wave o' the sea ; Her heart pours the sunshine with which her eyes glancing Light up strange faces, in looking for me. 7 98 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. The strange faces brighten in meeting her glances ; The strangers all bless her, pure, lovely, and free ; She fancies she walks, but her walk skips and dances, Her heart makes such music in coming to me. O, thousands and thousands of happy young maidens Are tripping this morning their sweethearts to see ; But none whose heart beats to a sweeter love-cadence Than hers who will brighten the sunshine for me. ' O what are you waiting for here ? young man ! What are you looking for over the bridge? — ' A little straw hat with the streaming blue ribbons. — And here it comes dancing over the bridge. ALFRED AUSTIN. 99 ALFRED AUSTIN. HYMN TO DEATH. What is it haunts the summer air ? A sense of something lately passed away ; Something pleasant, something fair, That was with us yesterday, And is no longer there. Now from the pasture comes no baby bleat, Nor the frisk of frolic feet There is seen. Blossom and bloom have spread their wings, and flown, And the bosks and orchards green The rosy flush of childhood have outgrown. Lapwing and linnet and lark have fledged their brood ; Mavis and merle have gotten their desire ; The nightingale begins to tire ; Even the cuckoo's note hath fitful grown ; And in the closing leafage of the wood The ringdove now is left to coo alone. Then revel in your roses, reckless June ! Revel and ripen swift to your decay. Bui your turn will follow soon. And the rounding harvest-moon Avenge the too brief innocence of May. Yet once again there scents the morning air The soul of something passed away ; 100 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN: Something precious, something fair, That was breathing yesterday, And is no longer there. It is Autumn, dying, dying, With her leaves around her lying, And Winter, beggared heir, unprofitably sighing. Let her die. Unto us as unto her Earth is but a sepulchre. And the over-arching sky Neither asks nor wonders why Those who here are left behind Season sweet and spacious mind Fain would save ; Yet with pale visages and streaming tears Must watch the harvest of the ripened years Locked in the bootless granary of the grave. Why do you call me hence ? To purge what fault, to punish what offence ? Had I maligned my lot. Or ever once the privilege forgot Of being, through the spirit's inward sense. Mirror and measure of all things that are, 'Then it were right, were just, That, like a falling leaf or failing star. The winds of Heaven should blow about my dust. Or had I used the years as waifs and strays, To build myself a comfortable nest. Groped life for golden garb"age, like the rest, And, as a lacquey, on the public ways For private proiit hired out my tongue. Then against death 't were vain to plead, Then, then 'twere meet indeed I should grow silenced, hke a bell unrung. But bear me witness, every Spring that came ALFRED AUSTIN. 1 01 Since first with trembling furtive frame Out of my little crib I crept While others slept, Because to me the rising moon Was more than sleep, or toy, or boon, That never yet the thrush resumed to sing, But my heart straight did build, my voice was on the wing; Found the first primrose gazing frank From its cradle in the bank. Harked for the cuckoo days before he called, Then halted, at his note enthralled. Why do you beckon to another sphere ? Here was I born. Am deeply rooted here, And would not be uptorn. I want no other fields than these. No other skies. No redder dawn to break on bluer seas. No brighter stars to rise. Neither do I crave to know The origin of joy and woe. I love the doubt, the dark, the fear, That still surroundeth all things here. I love the mystery, nor seek to solve ; Content to let the stars revolve. Nor ask to have their meaning clear. Enough for me, enough to feel ; To let the mystic shadows steal Into a land whither I cannot follow; To see the stealthy sunlight leave Dewy dingle, dappled hollow; To watch, when falls the hour of eve, Quiet shadows on a quiet hill ; To watch, to wonder, and be still. 102 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. And can it be, That there will break the day, For me, for me. When I no more shall hear the throstle flute ; Not because his voice is mute. But that my soul sleeps stupefied in clay ? Never ! what, never again ! Deep within some silent glen To make a couch with peace, far from surmise of men. Never, never more to stand. Spell-bound in a leafy land, ■ Lie among the grasses tall. Hear the yaffel call, and call. And lazily watch the lazy clouds slow floating over all. That time and life will be, but I shall ne'er Find little feet upon the stair. Feel little arms about my throat. Hear little gleeful voices float Upon the wavelets of the summer air. That I again shall never share The peace that lies upon an English lawn. Watch the last lingering planet shining fair Upon the unwrinkled forehead of the dawn. Never, never, never more. When fate or fancy bids me roam, Lessen with loving thoughts the last long mile That leads unto my home, Descry the roses down the casement falling. Hear the garden thrushes calling. Behold my dear ones standing at the door, Void of fear, void of guile. And hail, as I so oft have hailed before. The broadening salutation of their smile ! Who will salute me There ? Who, who come forth to greet ? ALFRED AUSTIN. 103 Will Virgil stand upon the golden stair? Shall I take Spenser's hand, and sit at Shakespeare's feet? Will Galileo with unshrouded gaze Guide me through the starry maze, Upon wings that never tire, Up to the Heaven of Heavens, and higher and ever higher? If this be so. Quick let me go ! But ah ! pale spectre, paler still you grow. You would but lure me to the other bank, To find it blank ! Of all we loved, not one hath e'er come back To beckon us along the track, To point the way, to indicate the goal. And hold out steadying arms to help the tottering soul. But wilt thou make this compact with me, Death, And keep thy bond ? That even if mine be but borrowed breath, Lent here awhile, to be reclaimed beyond, And its poor husk be dug into the ground; Then, though the Future may not find my face. Nor arms that love me round my neck be wound. Fair lips that lisp not yet my name shall sound. And hearts that beat not yet be my warm dwelling-place ; That under trees which have no rootlets now, But will then be trunk and bough And dome of sheltering leaves, sometimes A tender tear shall fall upon my rhymes ; And hearts at secret war with life, Or dreaming maid or disillusioned wife, Shall my persuasive music bless. Shall call me comforter in their distress, And make me live again in sorrowing loveliness. So unto Death I do commend my Spirit, And Time which is in league with Death, that they 104 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF RELGN. May hold in trust, and see my kin inherit, AH of me that is not clay ; Embalm my voice and keep it from decay. Then I will not ask to stay ; — Nay, rather start at once upon the way : Cheered by the faith that, at our mortal birth. For some high reason beyond Reason's ken. We are put out to nurse on this strange earth, Until Death comes to take us home again. FROM 'THE HUMAN TRAGEDY.'" THE JOURNEY OF GODFRID AND OLYMPLA TO MILAN. FROM ACT II. Each valid foot of transept, nave, and aisle. Was dense with living things absorbed in prayer; Young men and maidens, children without guile. Gray sires with flowing beards and bosoms bare ; Smooth sinless faces here, that seemed to smile, E'en as they prayed, with eyes soft-closed ; and there, Hard furrowed visages down which the tears Flowed from the brackish fount of desert years. With comely kerchief crossed o'er bosom brown. The humble peasant fingered her worn beads. Made at her side her youngsters nestle down. And told Madonna of her simple needs. Next her, a dainty dame of Milan town. Voluptuous e'en as southern rapture breeds, Bewailing in the dust her too frail breast. Begged Christ to be her lover and sole guest. And many a tonsured head was there, that bore The ascetic cowl, surmounting garments strict; ALFRED AUSTIN. 105 Here the brown serge the loving Francis wore, There the black robes of active Benedict; And Dominic's stern habit, splashed with gore Of heretic, 'neath which the hairshirt pricked ; And, dotted 'mong the carnal crowd anon, Were pale-faced nuns, meek, circumspect, and wan. When lo ! throughout the kneeling multitude. From porch to choir, a wavelike motion swept; Swift from its sheath as starts a sword long mewed. Up from their feet the motley concourse stepped. And, as with one sole sovran will imbued, In serried ranks yet close and closer crept. Until a long straight open space they gave Down the right aisle, and back along the nave. Then from afar a long procession came Of white-robed acolytes silver censers swinging. And wreathed flowers, and torches all aflame, And golden bells melodiously ringing ; And fair young boys, with faces free from blame, Tuning their callow throats to such sweet singing, It seemed to eyes and ears of faith and fear That Christ and all His cherubim were near. And as they sang, the stately pomp swept on, Crozier and Cross, inlaid with many a gem. Taller than those that bore them; lights that shone In golden candlesticks with jewelled stem, And many a bright embroidered gonfalon Vaunting aloft the new Jerusalem ; And scintillating reliquaries rare. And awful Monstrance, whereon none may stare. Last in the solemn train, in cope of gold And snow-white alb, came venerable eld. I06 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF JiEIGi\. Mitre on head of more than earthly mould, Led by grave priests, gorgeously chasubled. And, as they passed, round arch and column old Incense and organ music rolled and swelled, Till the long line about the chancel poured, And then with one acclaim they praised the Lord. Then on the dense mass sudden silence fell. Each knee was bent, each reverent skull-cap doffed, Held was each breath, and, touched by unseen spell. The organ flutes piped silvery and soft. Then came the tinkle of a little bell And, all heads low, the Host was held aloft; While glinted through warm panes day's dying gleam. And the rapt soul touched Heaven in a dream. Then once again the organ thundered loud, Usurping the high edifice with sound, Whereat with dumb accord the prostrate crowd Rose, crossed themselves, and to the doorway wound ; And soon where, late, myriads of knees were bowed In phalanxed prayer, reigned solitude profound. The solemn notes waxed faint, then swooned away, And died along the aisles the light of day. And now throughout the vague cathedral gloom. That here and there with lone faint lamps was flecked. Two forms alone were blackly seen to loom, A kneeling maiden, and a man erect. They looked like statues carven at a tomb. Aping the quick, with flowing drapery decked. And praying with fixed lips and stony head Till the last trump shall sound and rouse the dead. But shortly rising, with a beckoning nod She drew him forward through the weird-like space. ALFRED AUSTIN. 107 And o'er the hard smooth marble as they trod, Their feet made fearsome echoes in the place. Anon she checked him : ' Stay you here with God,' Whispering she said, ' I will be back apace.' Then 'mong stone stems he saw her disappear. Though still her scudding footfall reached his ear. At length died e'en that sound away ; and then, He was alone in the tremendous gloom : Alone with God, far from the help of men, As anchorite, or child shut in the womb. Like yawning space the dark roof smote his ken, The long gaunt aisles seemed avenues of doom, And, in the distant chancel dimly lit, Bodiless forms, in shadow, seemed to flit. ' Angels and spirits of celestial make ! ' Deep from his aching soul aloud he sighed, ' Swoop from your heights, your unseen Heaven forsake. And now no more my lonely doubts deride. Sound-sleeping martyrs, in your tombs awake ! Palm-bearing virgins, through the silence glide ! Can you be false who are indeed so fair? And if I needs must pray, then hear my prayer ! ' And thou, Olympia's trust, once mine no less. Of all the Gods sweetest Divinity ! Mother, and Lady of the mild caress, Lend me thy face ! oh ! give me eyes to see ! If thou canst hear, why dost thou scorn distress, Thou before whom demons of darkness flee ? Let me behold thee once, — once, I entreat ! — • E'en as Judea's mountains felt thy feet ! ' Not such the prayers to which stern Heaven replies ; The lips of faith another language speak ; Celestial visions visit downcast eyes. And those who find, not arrogantly seek. I08 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. No answer came to his presumptuous cries, Sucli as, 'tis said, descends on suppliants meek, But only deeper darkness, and a sense Of unslaked thirst and yearning impotence. At length, again, a solitary tread Upon the silence trespassed, far and faint; Yet well he guessed 'twas hers, than whom the dead Or never dying vaunt no purer saint. Nearer, and ever nearer, now it sped. Until his fancy her fair form could paint On the dark space, and then the dark space yawned, And she herself, no fancy, on him dawned. ' Come with me, now,' she said, in accents low. And turned straightway, and with such swift command Led 'mong dense-columned aisles, it seemed as though Athwart a lonesome wood where huge trunks stand, Baulking straight steps, together they did go. He strange, and she familiar in the land. And, overhead, thick-matted branches made Day night, and night a more Cimmerian shade. But shortly shone a little hght ahead. Just level with their gaze ; a feeble flame, Held by a priest in cassock habited And in mid-doorway seen as in a frame. He stood as still as stand the pictured dead. When some deft hand makes death and life the same. And bids you, doubtful, nearer draw, and seek If that which gazes so, perchance will speak. But ere such doubts by Godfrid could be proved, Sudden he missed Olympia from his side; The tall dark figure in the doorway moved, And with fine gesture welcome fair implied. He, by the gracious courtesy behooved ALFRED AUSTIN. 109 To pass within, advanced with docile stride, And, entering, straight the other followed him ; Then the door closed and all again was dim. And where then was Olympia ? Ask you where ? She to the awful chancel back had crept, And, her torn soul surrendered unto prayer, Lay prone, aye prostrate, even as though she slept. The flowing tresses of her warm, soft hair. Dark as the gloom, the cold white marble swept ; She moved not, spake not, sighed not; e'en her breath Came faint, like one that feebly copes with death. But, rising thence at last, her body first, She lifted, then her hands, and last her eyes ; And floods of passionate supplication burst Through lips long sealed, from breast o'ercharged with sighs. She called on Christ, on Her who bore and nursed, On every Saint and Seraph in the skies, And vowed herself to pain, if Heaven would save From death the dear imperilled soul it gave. ' Oh, by thine agony and bloody sweat, Deliver him, O Lord ! ' she wildly cried ; ' By Thy keen Cross and Passion, save him yet ! Save by Thy crown of thorns and bleeding side ! Why did Gethsemane Thy teardrops wet 1 Why wert Thou scourged, why scorned, why crucified ? Why didst Thou die, why gloriously ascend. Why send the Comforter, be this the end?' Then in a tempest of hot tears her cries Were drenched and drowned, her wild words washed away; Her tears were choked with sobs, sobs swooned to sighs, Then sighs to silence, and there mute she lay. Oh, if there be a Heaven beyond the skies. no POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. A Heaven to hear, why was it deaf that day ? For since time's dawn, unto the realms of air No purer heart e'er breathed a purer prayer. 'Rise, my dear child,' a mild voice gravely said, ' Rise and accept your doom : ' whereat she rose. ' In vain is Reason's dew when Faith is dead, And meek Grace sleeps 'neath Doubt's unmelting snows. I can no more. The Paraclete hath fled; Through his parched heart e'en prayer no longer flows. By Heaven may yet the miracle be wrought; But human ways are weak, and words are nought.' Then, lamp in hand, through choir and transept dim He led them, till he oped a little door, And, having fatherly blessed her and him, Closed it, and they beheld his face no more. The sky was bright with starry cherubim, Silent, and round them was the city's roar ; And, in their hearts, a human hum and rush, O'erawed by heavenly sorrow's solemn hush ! So once again they fled without delay. On wings of wind through leagues of dim-seen land. Night and the stars accompanying their way, And roar and blackness close on either hand ; Until the dark drew off, and with the day They saw the sparkling bay and joyous strand. White sails, brown oars, huge coils of briny ropes. And fair proud city throned on regal slopes. And soon the road they came by, which had run Still by the sea, now smooth as woodland pond, Saw them once more, love-woven dreams unspun. Facing farewell. A little way beyond, A sleek brown mule stood blinking in the sun, ALFRED AUSTIN. For a long march rudely caparisoned ; And at its side a gentle mountaineer, Who to their grief lent neither eye nor ear. ' Hear me once more, Olympia ! Must we part ? Is Heaven so stern, and can a gentle breast Inflict, and sooth endure so keen a smart, When pity's voice could lull our pain to rest ? Is there no common Eden of the heart. Where each fond bosom is a welcome guest ? No comprehensive Paradise, to hold All loving souls in one celestial fold ? ' For Love is older far than all the Gods, And will survive both Gods and men, and be The sovran ruler still, when Nature nods, And the scared stars through misty chaos flee. Take love away, and we are brutish clods, Bhnd, spelling out our fate without the key ; Belated wanderers stumbling through the night, Cheered by no gleam of home or hope in sight. ' But they who in this cold contentious sphere Deep in their hearts foster Love's vestal fire, Can smile at pain, and all that mortals fear, And tranquil keep when time and death conspire. Though fickle winds should vex, they do not veer ; No threats can daunt them, weary waitings tire ; Their feet are planted on the clouds ; their eyes, Glare cannot blind, scan the eternal skies. ' This is my creed, and that the Heaven I seek. Which even here, Olympia ! may be ours. Unless my lips, or else thine ears be weak, Or we have outraged the Supernal Powers. Oh ! but that cannot be. Would Nature wreak Her wrath on thee, the tenderest of her flowers? 112 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF RELGN: The sin, if sin there be, is mine, is mine; Wrong never was, can pain be ever, thine ? ' Here 'twixt the mountains and the sea I swear, That I thy Faith will reverence as thy soul, And as on that bright morning when thy fair, Entrancing form upon my senses stole, Still every dewy dawn fresh gifts will bear Unto Madonna's shrine, that happy goal Where our first journey ended, and I fain Would have this end, — not snapped, as now, in pain ! ' The foam-fringe at their feet was not more white Than her pale cheek as, downcast, she replied: ' No, Godfrid ! no ! Farewell, farewell ! You might Have been my star; a star once fell by pride ; But since you furl your wings, and veil your light, I chng to Mary and Christ crucified. Leave me, nay leave me, ere it be too late ! Better part here than part at Heaven's gate ! ' Thereat he kissed her forehead, she his hand, And on the mule he mounted her, and then. Along the road that skirts the devious strand, Watched her, until she vanished from his ken. Tears vainly dropped as water upon sand Or words of grace on hearts of hardened men. Coursed down her cheeks, while, half her grief divined. The mountain guide walked sadly mute behind. But never more as in the simple days When prayer was all her thought, her heart shall be; For she is burdened with the grief that stays. And by a shadow vexed that will not flee. Pure, but not spared, she passes from our gaze, Victim, not vanquisher of Love. And he? Once more a traveller o'er land and main : — Ah ! Life is sad, and scarcely worth the pain ! ALFRED AUSTIN. 113 THE DEATH OF GODFRID AND OLYMPIA. FROM ACT IV. Too few to guard each passage, and thus ta'en In rear and flank, the rebel band faced round, Their one sole thought to slay before being slain, And with lowered points fired blank across the ground, At foes that, blind as they, flashed deadly rain Direct on all their level barrels found Standing erect; and, when these fell, to glut Ire too soon fed, made mangled mounds their butt. And Godfrid had but time, — at last! — to fling His arms around the form he had loved so well, Thinking to save, and she to him to cling. When, 'twixt the madness of the two they fell : He pierced by ball that fought for faiths of old. She by their shafts who 'gainst old faiths rebel ; Albeit so close was this their first, last troth. One well-aimed bullet would have served for both. Thus were they found, when, rummaging among Mixed heaps of slain, the victors came to save The corpses of their brethren, ere was flung The refuse in one contumelious grave. And seeing that one who wore Christ's habit, clung. Even in death, to form so worldly brave. They touched them not, but prayed that priest or nun Would come and say what meet 't were to be done. Then quickly from the Convent thither sped The reverend mother, with two daughters dear; Who, when she saw this bridal of the dead. Weeping, commanded, ' Put them on one bier, And bear them after me with gentle tread.' 114 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN: And straight she sent for him who many a year To them had been Heaven's helpmate in that place, A venerable man, with prayer-lit face. To him, in hearing of them all, she told The story she herself had learnt when first, Six brief weeks gone, Olympia joined their fold, And next, how Godfrid, aiding her, had nursed The wounded she with deeper balm consoled ; But from their ears withholding not the worst, — His strange sad unbelief, which still had kept The pair apart, till one in death they slept. The agfed pastor, thuswise as she spake, In silence listened, and then slowly said : ' My children ! These two souls, for Truth's pure sake, Divided were, since Faith, in him, was dead. Who knows ? Perchance it did in death awake : And 't was to save the lost Christ breathed and bled. Doubt watered by such prayers must somewhere bud; And see ! he hath the baptism of blood. ' Therefore I dare not say Christ vainly died Even for him. And since the twain would lie, Methinks at Spiaggiascura side by side, Heaven will not earth's infirmity deny. So let us there one grave for both provide, In consecrated ground beneath the sky. She needs no epitaph ; so let his plea, Dilexit multum, sole inscription be ! ' A QUESTION. Love, will thou love me still when wintry streak Steals on the tresses of autumnal brow ; When the pale rose hath perished in my cheek, And those are wrinkles that are dimples now? ALFRED AUSTIN. 115 Wilt thou, when this fond arm that here I twine Round thy dear neck to help thee in thy need, Droops faint and feeble, and hath need of thine, Be then my prop, and not a broken reed ? When thou canst only glean along the Past, And garner in thy heart what Time doth leave, O, wilt thou then to me, love, cling as fast As nest of April to December eave ; And, while my beauty dwindles and decays. Still warm thee by the embers of my gaze ? AN ANSWER. Come, let us go into the lane, love mine. And mark and gather what the Autumn grows : The creamy elder mellowed into wine. The russet hip that was the pink-white rose ; The amber woodbine into rubies turned. The blackberry that was the bramble born ; Nor let the seeded clematis be spurned. Nor pearls, that now are corals, of the thorn. Look ! what a lovely posy we have made From the wild garden of the waning year. So when, dear love, your summer is decayed. Beauty more touching than is clustered here Will linger in your life, and I shall cling Closely as now, nor ask if it be Spring. Il6 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. FROM 'ATALANTA IN CALYDON.'" CHORUS. When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, The mother of months in meadow or plain Fills the shadows and windy places With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain ; And the brown bright nightingale amorous Is half assuaged for Itylus, For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces, The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers. Maiden most perfect, lady of light, With a noise of winds and many rivers, With a clamor of waters, and with might; Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet. Over the splendor and speed of thy feet ; For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers. Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night. Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her. Fold our hands round her knees, and cling ? O that man's heart were as fire and could spring to her Fire, or the strength of tlie streams that spring ! For the stars and the winds are unto her As raiment, as songs of the harp-player ; For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her, And the south west-wind and the west-wind sing. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. I17 For winter's rains and ruins are over, And all the season of snows and sins ; The days dividing lover and lover, The light that loses, the night that wins ; And time remembered is grief forgotten, And frosts are slain and flowers begotten. And in green underwood and cover Blossom by blossom the spring begins. The full streams feed on flower of rushes, Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot, The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes From leaf to flower and flower to fruit ; And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire. And the oat is heard above the lyre. And the hoofM heel of a satyr crushes The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root. And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night. Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid. Follows with dancing and fills with delight The Masnad and the Bassarid ; And soft as lips that laugh and hide The laughing leaves of the trees divide. And screen from seeing and leave in sight The god pursuing, the maiden hid. The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes ; The wild vine slipping down leaves bare Her bright breast shortening into sighs ; The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves. But the berried ivy catches and cleaves To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. Il8 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE. Here, where the world is quiet, Here, where all trouble seems Dead winds' and spent waves' riot In doubtful dreams of dreams ; I watch the green field growing For reaping folk and sowing, For harvest-time and mowing, A sleepy world of streams. I am tired of tears and laughter, And men that laugh and weep Of what may come hereafter For men that sow to reap : I am weary of days and hours. Blown buds of barren flowers. Desires and dreams and powers And everything but sleep. Here life has death for neighbor ; And far from eye or ear Wan waves and wet winds labor, Weak ships and spirits steer ; They drive adrift, and whither They wot not who make thither ; But no such winds blow hither, And no such things grow here. No growth of moor or coppice, No heather-flower or vine. But bloomless buds of poppies, Green grapes of Proserpine, Pale beds of blowing rushes Where no leaf blooms or blushes ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. Save this whereout she crushes For dead men deadly wine. Pale, without name or number, In fruitless fields of corn. They bow themselves and slumber All night till light is born ; And like a soul belated, In hell and heaven unmated. By cloud and mist abated Comes out of darkness morn. Though one were strong as seven, He too with death shall dwell, Nor wake with wings in heaven, Nor weep for pains in hell ; Though one were fair as roses. His beauty clouds and closes ; And well though love reposes, In the end it is not well. Pale, beyond porch and portal. Crowned with calm leaves, she stands Who gathers all things mortal With cold immortal hands ; Her languid lips are sweeter Than love's who fears to greet her To men that mix and meet her From many times and lands. She waits for each and other. She waits for all men born ; Forgets the earth her mother. The life of fruits and corn ; And spring and seed and swallow Take wing for her and follow Where summer song rings hollow And flowers are put to scorn. I20 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. There go the loves that wither, The old loves with wearier wings ; And all dead years draw thither, And all disastrous things ; Dead dreams of days forsaken, Blind buds that snows have shaken, Wild leaves that winds have taken, Red strays of ruined springs. We are not sure of sorrow. And joy was never sure ; To-day will die to-morrow ; Time stoops to no man's lure ; And love, grown faint and fretful. With lips but half regretful Sighs, and with eyes forgetful Weeps that no loves endure. From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives forever ; That dead men rise up never ; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea. Then star nor sun shall waken, Nor any change of light : Nor sound of waters shaken, Nor any sound or sight : Nor wintry leaves nor vernal, Nor days nor things diurnal ; Only the sleep eternal In an eternal night. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 121 MEMORIAL VERSES ON THE DEATH OF THMOPHILE GAUTIERy^ Death, what hast thou to do with me ? So saith Love, with eyes set against the face of Death; What have I done, O thou strong Death, to thee. That mine own lips should wither from thy breath ? Though thou be blind as fire or as the sea. Why should thy waves and storms make war on me ? Is it for hate thou hast to find me fair, Or for desire to kiss, if it might be. My very mouth of song, and kill me there ? So with keen rains vexing his crownless hair, With bright feet bruised from no delightful way. Through darkness and the disenchanted air. Lost Love went weeping half a winter's day. And the armed wind that smote him seemed to say. How shall the dew live when the dawn is fled. Or wherefore should the Mayflower outlast May? Then Death took Love by the right hand, and said. Smiling : Come now, and look upon thy dead. But Love cast down the glories of his eyes, And bowed down like a flower his flowerless head. And Death spake, saying : What ails thee in such wise. Being god, to shut thy sight up from the skies ? If thou canst see not, hast thou ears to hear ? Or is thy soul too as a leaf that dies ? Even as he spake with fleshless lips of fear, But soft as sleep sings in a tired man's ear. Behold, the winter was not, and its might Fell, and fruits broke forth of the barren year. 122 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. And upon earth was largess of great light, And moving music winged for world-wide flight, And shapes and sounds of gods beheld and heard, And day's foot set upon the neck of night. And with such song the hollow ways were stirred As of a god's heart hidden in a bird, Or as the whole soul of the sun in spring Should find full utterance in one flower-soft word, And all the season should break forth and sing From one flower's lips, in one rose triumphing ; Such breath and light of song as of a flame Made ears and spirits of them that heard it ring. And Love beholding knew not for the same The shape that led him, nor in face nor name, For he was bright and great of thews and fair, And in Love's eyes he was not Death, but Fame. Not that gray ghost whose life is empty and bare And his limbs moulded out of mortal air, A cloud of change that shifts into a shower And dies and leaves no light for time to wear : But a god clothed with his own joy and power, A god re-risen out of his mortal hour Immortal, king and lord of time and space, With eyes that look on them as from a tower. And where he stood the pale sepulchral place Bloomed, as new life might in a bloodless face. And where men sorrowing came to seek a tomb With funeral flowers and tears for grief and grace, They saw with light as of a world in bloom The portal of the House of Fame illume The ways of life wherein we toiling tread, And watched the darkness as a brand consume. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 123 And through the gates where rule the deathless dead The sound of a new singer's soul was shed That sang among his kinsfolk, and a beam Shot from the star on a new ruler's head, A new star hghting the Lethean stream, A new song mixed into the song supreme Made of all souls of singers and their might, That makes of life and time and death a dream. Thy star, thy song, O soul that in our sight Wast as a sun that made for man's delight Flowers and all fruits in season, being so near The sun-god's face, our god that gives us light. To him of all gods that we love or fear Thou among all men by thy name wast dear. Dear to the god that gives us spirit of song To bind and burn all hearts of men that hear. The god that makes men's words too sweet and strong For life or time or death to do them wrong. Who sealed with his thy spirit for a sign And filled it with his breath thy whole life long. Who made thy moist lips fiery with new wine Pressed from the grapes of song the sovereign vine, And with all love of all things loveliest Gave thy soul power to make them more divine. That thou mightst breathe upon the breathless rest Of marble, till the brows and lips and breast Felt fall from off them as a cancelled curse That speechless sleep wherewith they lived opprest. Who gave thee strength and heat of spirit to pierce All clouds of form and color that disperse. And leave the spirit of beauty to remould In types of clean chryselephantine verse. 124 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Who gave thee words more golden than fine gold To carve in shapes more glorious than of old, And build thy songs up in the sight of time As statues set in godhead manifold : In sight and scorn of temporal change and clime That meet the sun re-risen with refluent rhyme — As god to god might answer face to face — From lips whereon the morning strikes sublime. Dear to the god, our god who gave thee place Among the chosen of days, the royal race. The lords of light, whose eyes of old and ears Saw even on earth and heard him for a space. There are the souls of those once mortal years That wrought with fire of joy and light of tears In words divine as deeds that grew thereof Such music as he swoons with love who hears. There are the lives that lighten from above Our under lives, the spheral souls that move Through the ancient heaven of song-illumined air Whence we that hear them singing die with love. There all the crowned Hellenic heads, and there The old gods who made men godlike as they were, The lyric lips wherefrom all songs take fire. Live eyes, and light of Apollonian hair. There, round the sovereign passion of that lyre Which the stars hear, and tremble with desire, The ninefold light Pierian is made one That here we see divided, and aspire, Seeing, after this or that crown to be won; But where they hear the singing of the sun, All form, all sound, all color, and all thought Are as one body and soul in unison. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 125 There the song sung shines as a picture wrought, The painted mouths sing that on earth say naught, The carven limbs have sense of blood and growth, And large-eyed life that seeks nor lacks not aught. There all the music of thy living mouth Lives, and all loves wrought of thine hand in youth And bound about the breasts and brows with gold And colored pale or dusk from north or south. Fair living things made to thy will of old. Born of thy lips, no births of mortal mould. That in the world of song about thee wait Where thought and truth are one and manifold. Within the graven lintels of the gate That here divides our vision and our fate, The dreams we walk in and the truths of sleep, All sense and spirit have life inseparate. There what one thinks, is his to grasp and keep ; There are no dreams, but very joys to reap. No foiled desires that die before delight, No fears to see across our joys and weep. There hast thou all thy will of thought and sight, All hope for harvest, and all heaven for flight; The sunrise of whose golden-mouthed glad head To paler songless ghosts was heat and light. Here where the sunset of our year is red Men think of thee as of the summer dead, Gone forth before the snows, before thy day, With unshod feet, with brows unchapleted. Couldst thou not wait till age had wound, they say. Round those wreathed brows his soft white blossoms ? Nay Why shouldst thou vex thy soul with this harsh air. Thy bright-winged soul, once free to take its way .-' 126 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Nor for men's reverence hadst thou need to wear The holy flower of gray time-hallowed hair; Nor were it fit that aught of thee grew old, Fair lover all thy days of all things fair. And hear we not thy words of molten gold Singing? or is their light and heat acold Whereat men warmed their spirits ? Nay, for all These yet are with us, ours to hear and hold. The lovely laughter, the clear tears, the call Of love to love on ways where shadows fall. Through doors of dim division and disguise. And music made of doubts unmusical ; The love that caught strange light from death's own eyes, And filled death's lips with fiery words and sighs. And half asleep let feed from veins of his Her close red warm snake's mouth, Egyptian-wise : And that great night of love more strange than this. When she that made the whole world's bale and bliss Made king of the whole world's desire a slave. And killed him in mid kingdom with a kiss ; Veiled loves that shifted shapes and shafts, and gave. Laughing, strange gifts to hands that durst not crave. Flowers double-blossomed, fruits of scent and hue Sweet as the bride-bed, stranger than the grave ; All joys and wonders of old lives and new That ever in love's shine or shadow grew. And all the grief whereof he dreams and grieves, And all sweet roots fed on his light and dew ; All these through thee our spirit of sense perceives. As threads in the unseen woof thy music weaves, ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 127 Birds caught and snared that fill our ears with thee, Bay-blossoms in thy wreath of brow-bound leaves. Mixed with the masque of death's old comedy Though thou too pass, have here our flowers, that we For all the flowers thou gav'st upon thee shed. And pass not crownless to Persephone. Blue lotus-blooms and white and rosy-red We wind with poppies for thy silent head. And on this margin of the sundering sea Leave thy sweet hght to rise upon the dead. A FORSAKEN GARDEN. In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland. At the sea-down's edge between windward and lee, Walled round with rocks as an inland island, The ghost of a garden fronts the sea. A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses The steep square slope of the blossomless bed Where the weeds that grew green from the graves of its roses Now lie dead. The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken, To the low last edge of the long lone land. If a step should sound or a word be spoken. Would a ghost not rise at the strange guest's hand ? So long have the gray bare walks lain guestless. Through branches and briers if a man make way. He shall find no life but the sea-wind's, restless Night and day. The dense hard passage is blind and stifled That crawls by a track none turn to climb To the strait waste place that the years have rifled Of all but the thorns that are touched not of time. 128 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. The thorns he spares when the rose is taken; The rocks are left when he wastes the plain. The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken, These remain. Not a flower to be prest of the foot that falls not ; As the heart of a dead man the seed-plots are dry ; From the thicket of thorns whence the nightingale calls not. Could she call, there were never a rose to reply. Over the meadows that blossom and wither Rings but the note of a sea-bird's song ; Only the sun and the rain come hither All year long. The sun burns sere and the rain dishevels One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless breath. Only the wind here hovers and revels In a round where life seems barren as death. Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping, Haply, of lovers none ever will know. Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleeping Years ago. Heart handfast in heart as they stood, ' Look thither,' Did he whisper ? ' Look forth from the flowers to the sea; For the foam-flowers endure when the rose-blossoms wither. And men that love lightly may die — but we ? ' And the same wind sang and the same waves whitened. And or ever the garden's last petals were shed. In the lips that had whispered, the eyes that had lightened, Love was dead. Or they loved their hfe through, and then went whither? And were one to the end — but what end who knows ? Love deep as the sea as a rose must wither. As the rose-red seaweed that mocks the rose. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 129 Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love them? What love was ever as deep as a grave ? They are loveless now as the grass above them Or the wave. All are at one now, roses and lovers, Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the sea. Not a breath of the time that has been hovers In the air now soft with a summer to be. Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons hereafter Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or weep, When as they that are free now of weeping and laughter We shall sleep. Here death may deal not again for ever ; Here change may come not till all change end. From the graves they have made they shall rise up never, Who have left nought living to ravage and rend. Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground growing, While the sun and the rain live, these shall be ; Till a last wind's breath upon all these blowing Roll the sea. Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble, Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink. Till the strength of the waves of the high tides humble The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink. Here now in his triumph where all things falter, Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand spread, As a god self-slain on his own strange altar. Death lies dead. 13° POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. MATHILDE BLIND. FROM 'THE PROPHECY OF ST. ORAN. ' " ' A CURSE is on this work ! ' Columba cried ; And with their daric robes flapping in the gale, The frightened monks came hurrying to his side, And looked at one another turning pale; For every night the work done in the day Strewn on the ground in wild confusion lay. ' A curse is on this work ! ' he cried again As his keen glances swept each face in turn : ' Behold, God smites us in the hurricane. And in the lightning doth His anger burn. Brethren, some secret deadly sin there is Known to the Lord for which we suffer this. 'The Lord rebukes us in His wrath ! I ask, Again I ask, what man among you all Living in deadly sin, yet wears the mask Of sanctity ? Yea, let him cleanse his soul. Confessing all the crying guilt of it. Or go for ever to the burning pit ! ' Again his eagle glances swept each face. While the assembled monks, with anxious sigh. Asked with a thrill of horror and amaze, ' Was it indeed a judgment from on high ? ' MATHILDE BLIND. 131 As with one voice then cried the saintly throng, ' Not I — not I — know of that hidden wrong.' And with uplifted arms they loudly prayed, ' Oh Lord, if in our midst the traitor bides Who breaks the sacramental vow he made. And takes Thy name in vain, and basely hides His wicked ways from every eye save Thine — Let his dark sin stand forth, and make a sign.' All day expectant, waiting on His will. The monks in reverential silence stand Beneath the rusthng pine-trees of the hill, Whence their eyes sweep across the level land : Lo, from afar the vision of a maid Comes o'er the shining pools the flood has made. Then in their midst all breathless did she stand. But paused bewildered and as one affrayed, — Even as a swift wave making for the strand With all its waters gathering to a head Delays, suspended with back-fluttering locks, Then breaks in showers of brine upon the rocks. So for a moment motionless she stood. From monk to monk her wildered glances stray. Immovable, like figures carved in wood, These waited what their master's lips would say, But ever and anon, in mute appeal. Her piteous eyes to Oran's face would steal. Only for one brief moment she delayed. Struck speechless at his cold averted mien. Then with a long low moan she blindly swayed With her fair arms towards him, and in keen Unutterable anguish cried aghast — ' Is this a dream, or am I mad at last ? 132 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. ' Dost thou not know me, Oran — Oran mine ? Look on me ; I am Mona, I am she For whom thy soul so thirstily did pine ! Nay, turn not from me ! Say, art thou not he Whose mouth to my mouth yearningly was pressed, Whose dearest head lay pillowed on my breast ? ' Dear, be not wroth with me in that I came ; For our love's sake look not so stern and grave ; Ah, surely thou wilt think me free from blame For having dared to break the word I gave. When I have told thee what has brought me here, How sore distraught I was with grief and fear. ' Oh love, when night came swooping o'er the sea. And on the poor folk's tired eyelids sleep Fell like a seabird's feather, stealthily I climbed the jagged overhanging steep Whose giddy summit looks towards thy home, Wondering if haply I might see thee come. ' When, lo ! the solid cliff began to shake As in an ague fit, and while I stood Trembhng, methought the maddening sea would break Its everlasting limits, for the flood Came crashing in loud thunder o'er the land. And swept our huts like seaweed from the sand. ' Then a great horror seized me, and I reeled And fell upon my face, and knew no more. When from that trance I woke, the sun had wheeled Far up the sky and shone upon the shore, And there beneath the bright and cloudless sky I saw a heap of mangled corpses lie. ' Shrieking I fled, and paused not in my fright Fleeing I knew not whither, but my feet MATHILDE BLIND. 133 Flew swift as ever arrow in its flight To thee, my love ! Hast thou no smile to greet Thy Mona with, — no kiss ? For pity's sake, Speak to me, Oran, or my heart will break.' All held their breath when she had made her moan : All eyes were fixed on that pale monk, who stood Unnaturally quiet — like a stone Whose flinty sides are fretted by the flood — When St. Columba turned on him, and said, ' I bid thee speak, — man, knowest thou this maid ? ' Then answered him the other, but his words Rang hollow like the toll of funeral bell. And on his humid brows like knotted cords The livid veins and arteries seemed to swell. Facing the accusation of his eyes, ' Master, I know her not — the woman lies ! ' A hum of indignation, doubt, alarm. Ran through their circle, but none durst to speak Before the Master, who with lifted arm And eyes whence fiery flashes seemed to break. Cried very loudly, ' Is it even so, — Then help me God but I will rout this foe ! ' Look, brethren, on this lovely maiden, fair As virginal white lilies newly blown. Fresh as the first breath of the vernal air, Pure as an incarnation of the dawn ; Look on that golden glory of her hair, — It is a man-trap, Satan's deadliest snare. 'Brethren, let the two eldest of you seize This fiend in angel's garb, this beast of prey Which lies in wait behind that snowy fleece Lusting to take our brother's name away, And blast his fame for purest sanctity With lies forged by our common enemy ! 134 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. ' Seize her, and bear her to that frightful steep Where, bristling with hugh pier and jagged spire, The spectre rock which overhangs the deep Pierces the ghastly clouds like frozen fire ; There standing, fling her from its giddiest cone — Into the ocean fling her, like a stone.' The sentence had gone forth ; the monks obeyed ; Two venerable brothers, deep in years, First crossed themselves, then seized the struggling maid In their stout arms ; despite her prayers and tears, And wild appeals on him she called her love, They with their burden now began to move. But he, whose human flesh seemed petrified To marble, started from that rigid mood. And blindly running after them, he cried, ' Hold ! hold ! stain not your hands with innocent blood ; I broke my vow, I am the sinner, I Seduced the maid, — spare her, and let me die.' They halted midway, marvelling, aghast. When St. Columba thundered to them 'Stay!' His voice was like a dreadful battle-blast. And startled coveys rose and whirred away : ' He broke his vow, he is the sinner ; aye Do as he says — spare her, and let him die ! ' Yea, well I saw the gnawing worm within. But wished to tear the mask from off his soul, That in the naked hideousness of sin He might stand pilloried before you all ; This is a judgment on me from above For loving him with more than woman's love.' His voice here failed him and he hid his face ; And as before some imminent storm all sound MATHILDE BLIND. 135 In earth, air, ocean ceases for a space. There fell a breathless silence on that mound ; But when Columba raised his voice once more, It seemed the muffled thunder's boding roar. ' Oh perjured one ! oh breaker of thy vow ! Oh base, apostate monk, whose guilt abhorred Weighed down our walls and laid our chapel low ! Thy life shall be an offering to the Lord, And with thy blood we will cement the fane Which for thy sin's sake still was built in vain. ' Seize him, and bear him to that dolorous site Where mid our ruined cells the chapel stands Whose holy walls and columns every night Have fallen beneath the blow of dsemon hands ; There, living, bury him beneath its sod, And so propitiate the Lord our God.' Three days, three nights have fled since in that spot. Where fiends and daemons revelled unforbid. They buried that false monk who was a blot Upon their rule : but since the earth has hid His bones accursed, God's sun has shone again. Nor has fresh ill assailed their prospering fane, Which now they enter, singing hymns of praise, Columba at their head — when lo, behold The grave yawns open and a bloodless face. The face of him they knew, rose from the mould: Slowly he rose from the incumbent clay Lifting the white shroud in the moonlight gray. Slowly his arm beneath the winding-sheet He waved three times, as though to bid them hear; Then in the moonlight rose he to his feet Showing his shrunken body, and his sere 136 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Discolored hair, and smouldering eyes that lie Sunk in their sockets, glaring hot and dry. Slowly he raised his voice — once rich in tone Like sweetest music, now a mournful knell With dull sepulchral sounds, as of a stone Cast down into a black unfathomed well — And murmured, ' Lo, I come back from the grave, - Behold, there is no God to smite or save. ' Poor fools ! wild dreamers ! No, there is no God ; Yon heaven is deaf and dumb to prayer and praise ; Lo, no almighty tyrant wields the rod For evermore above our hapless race ; Nor fashioned us, frail creatures that we be, To bear the burden of eternity. ' Hear it, self-torturing monks, and cease to wage Your mad, delirious, suicidal war ; There is no devil who from age to age Waylays and tempts all souls of men that are ; For ever seeking whom he may devour, And damn with wine and woman, gold and power. 'Deluded priests, ye think the world a snare. Denouncing every tender human tie ! Behold, your heaven is unsubstantial air. Your future bliss a sick brain's phantasy ; There is no room amid the stars which gem The firmament for your Jerusalem. ' Rejoice, poor sinners, for I come to tell To you who hardly dare to live for fright ; There is no burning everlasting hell Where souls shall be tormented day and night: The fever ye call life ends with your breath ; All weary souls set in the night of death. MATHILDE BLIND. 137 ' Then let your life on earth be life indeed ! Nor drop the substance, snatching at a shade ! Ye can have Eden here ! ye bear the seed • Of all the hells and heavens and gods ye made Within that mighty world-transforming thought Which permeates the universe it wrought — ' Wrought out of stones and plants and birds and beasts, To flower in man, and know itself at last : Around, about you, see what endless feasts The spring and summer bountifully cast ! " A vale of tears," ye cry — if ye were wise,- The earth itself would change to Paradise. 'The earth itself — the old despisM earth. Would render back your love a thousandfold. Nor yet afflict the sons of men with dearth, Disease, and misery, and drought and cold ; If you would seek a blessing in her sod. Instead of crying vainly on your God. ' Cast down the crucifix, take up the plough ! Nor waste your breath which is the life in prayer ! Dare to be men, and break your impious vow. Nor fly from woman as the devil's snare ! For if within, around, beneath, above There is a living God, that God is Love.' ' The fool says in his heart. There is no God,' Cried St. Columba, white with Christian ire. ' Seize Oran, re-inter him in the sod And may his soul awake in endless fire : Earth on his mouth — the earth he would adore, That his blaspheming tongue may blab no more.' Then like swart ravens swooping on their prey These monks rushed upon Oran ; when there came 138 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. One gliding towards them in wild disarray With hair that streamed behind her like a flame And face dazed with the moon, who shrilly cried, ' Let not death part the bridegroom from his bride.' But deeming her some fiend in female guise, They drive her forth with threats, till, crazed with fear, Across the stones and mounded graves she flies Towards that lapping, moon-illumined mere ; And like a child seeking its mother's breast She casts her life thereon, and is at rest. And while the waves close gurgling o'er her head, A grave is dug whence he may never stray. Or come back prophesying from the dead, — All shouting as they stifle him with clay : ' Earth on his mouth — the earth he would adore, That his blaspheming tongue may blab no more.' THE STREET-CHILDREN'S DANCE. Now the earth in fields and hills Stirs with pulses of the Spring, Nest-embowering hedges ring With interminable trills ; Sunlight runs a race with rain. All the world grows young again. Young as at the hour of birth : From the grass the daisies rise With the dew upon their eyes. Sun-awakened eyes of earth ; Fields are set with cups of gold ; Can this budding world grow old ? Can the world grow old and sere, Now when ruddy-tasselled trees MATHILDE BLIND. 139 Stoop to every passing breeze, Rustling in their silken gear ; Now when blossoms pink and white Have their own terrestrial light ? Brooding light falls soft and warm, Where in many a wind-rocked nest. Curled up 'neath the she-bird's breast, Clustering eggs are hid from harm ; While the mellow-throated thrush Warbles in the purpling bush. Misty purple bathes the Spring ; Swallows flashing here and there Float and dive on waves of air, And make love upon the wing ; Crocus-buds in sheaths of gold Burst like sunbeams from the mould. Chestnut leaflets burst their buds, Perching tiptoe on each spray, Springing towards the radiant day. As the bland, pacific floods Of the generative sun All the teeming earth o'errun. Can this earth run o'er with beauty, Laugh through leaf and flower and grain, While in close-pent court and lane. In the air so thick and sooty. Little ones pace to and fro. Weighted with their parents' woe ? Woe-predestined little ones ! Putting forth their buds of life In an atmosphere of strife. And crime breeding ignorance ; I40 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Where the bitter surge of care Freezes to a dull despair. Dull despair and misery Lie about them from their birth ; Ugly curses, uglier mirth, Are their earliest lullaby; Fathers have they without name. Mothers crushed by want and shame. Brutish, overburthened mothers, With their hungry children cast Half-nude to the nipping blast ; Little sisters with their brothers Dragging in their arms all day Children nigh as big as they. Children mothered by the street : Shouting, flouting, roaring after Passers-by with gibes and laughter, Diving between horses' feet. In and out of drays and barrows. Recklessly, like London sparrows. Mudlarks of our slums and alleys. All unconscious of the blooming World behind those housetops looming, Of the happy fields and valleys. Of the miracle of Spring With its boundless blossoming. Blossoms of humanity ! Poor soiled blossoms in the dust ! Through the thick defiling crust Of soul-stifling poverty. In your features may be traced Childhood's beauty half -effaced — MATHILDE BLIND. 141 Childhood, stunted in the shadow Of the light-debarring walls : Not for you the cuckoo calls O'er the silver-threaded meadow; Not for you the lark on high Pours his music from the sky. Ah ! you have your music too ! And come flocking round that player Grinding at his organ there, Summer-eyed and swart of hue. Rattling off his well-worn tune On this April afternoon. Lovely April lights of pleasure Flit o'er want-beclouded features Of these little outcast creatures. As they swing with rhythmic measure, In the courage of their rags. Lightly o'er the slippery flags. Little footfalls, lightly glancing In a luxury of motion, Supple as the waves of ocean In your elemental dancing. How you fly, and wheel, and spin. For your hearts too dance within. Dance along with mirth and laughter. Buoyant, fearless, and elate. Dancing in the teeth of fate. Ignorant of your hereafter That with all its tragic glooms Blindly on your future looms. Past and future, hence away ! Joy, diffused throughout the earth, 142 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN: Centre in this moment's mirth Of ecstatic holiday: Once in all their lives' dark story, Touch them, Fate ! with April glory. THE DEAD. The dead abide with us ! Though stark and cold Earth seems to grip them, they are with us still : They have forged our chains of being for good or ill; And their invisible hands these hands yet hold. Our perishable bodies are the mould In which their strong imperishable will — Mortality's deep yearning to fulfil — Hath grown incorporate through dim time untold. Vibrations infinite of life in death, As a star's travelling light survives its star ! So may we hold our lives, that when we are The fate of those who then will draw this breath, They shall not drag us to their judgment bar. And curse the heritage which we bequeath. SEBASTIAN EVANS. 143 SEBASTIAN EVANS. ARNAUD DE ME/? VEIL. AT THE ABBEY GATE. May I not sing, then ? Do I ask too much ? Pray you, forgive me. Father ! Yet I ween No longer since than summer I could touch My citole to a tune could charm a queen To hear and crown me for the lays I wove : Though well I wot, the tune of ' Time hath been,' Fair Father Abbot, hath less might to move. — Yea, steel is strong, and gold more strong than steel, And love than gold, and art more strong than love, Yet 't is not strongest ! Nay, I live to feel That a king's envy is more strong than art. — We, — I and King Alfonso of Castile, Were lovers of one lady — wherefore start.' I am a homeless waif, and only claim A few hours' house-room for a broken heart : Yet, Father, 't is of right I set my name Where she hath set my love — before the king's ; For I am Arnaud de Merveil, — the same. If aught remain the same of earthly things. The same, none other — though I walk forlorn And even the uplandish yeoman slights the strings That shook five kingdoms now my robes are torn. And deems a groat too lavish for my lay. Father, I fain would rest me here till morn. 144 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN: Being faint and footsore : pray you, let me stay ! By Him the Wandering Jew forbade to rest, Send me not forth this night upon my way ! I crave no largess save to be your guest For this one night — unless it be the prayer Of these pure brethren for a soul distressed. — I will requite you : — Mine are lays more rare Than Bertrand ever babbled — Tush ! I boast And am a beggar ! — Yet if thou canst spare One half-hour from devotion, good mine host, And these fair brethren — who perchance have strayed No farther from the cloister than the coast, And less are wont in gallant masquerade Of courts and camps than thou and I to stand — Will deign to hear such music as I made, I will essay a tale could once command The ears of queens and kings in hall and bower — Ho, boy, there ! Give the citole to my hand ! Once, I remember, by the Garden Tower Were three king's daughters playing at the ball ; I crossed the lawn, and plucked a lily-flower And waved it as I strode. They knew the call And followed, laughing : one had slipped her shoe And stayed to right it nigh the pleasaunce wall. Then sang I how a king's son went to woo The Lady of the Waste Lands by the Sea, Unweeting of the weird whereby she threw Each morn her womanhood aside, to be Till evening glimmered over brake and thorn, A milk-white hind under the greenwood tree. And all a summer day with hound and horn By ford and fell he chased that spotless hide ; Till, smit by shaft too sure, his love forlorn Fled to a wild cell by the wailing tide SEBASTIAN EVANS. 14S Mid spiky grass half-buried in the sand, Where, peering through the casement-chink, he spied A weeping breathless maiden, her right hand Stanching an arrow-hurt on her round arm : And in the sundown of that dreary strand. Knew her he loved, and how he had wrought her harm, And, shamed to threefold fondness by the feat, Kissed her the kiss that snapped the baleful charm. And then I sang them how a rustling fleet Of cygnets sailing from the Norland fords Stooped on a mountain mere one May day sweet. Where, with a chanted charming of strange words, The swan-skins fell from their white womanhood Among the sunlit shallows. Then with swords Men came to slay them, but the wailing brood Donned once again their feathers and were gone Into the sky, far from those men of blood. Back to their Norland homestead — all save one. That lost her swan-gear in the treacherous reeds. And she so fair, so pitiful, that none Of those rude sworders, swift to murderous deeds. But fain would bear her to his town as bride. And in their hearts, like wind among the gledes, Love kindled wrath, and even from undern-tide, Each fought on other till the sun was low: And one alone among his peers who died Was left to woo that Sister of the Snow. And thus they wedded : — but upon a day The swans again came sailing all arow. And when they brought her wings to flee away. There was no charm in love's sweet fellowships, No kiss of spouse nor babe could bid her stay. Then would I tell of one on haws and hips Starving among the woods, an Outlaw bold, To whom, the word sans pardon on his hps. The fiend, Dame Venus, proffered wealth untold. H^ POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. And fame and love at night to meet her there : Withal she gave him drink from cups of gold, And loosed a token from her golden hair : He swore, but laughing at the oath he swore, She turned and shrank into the wintry air. And lo, at midnight, through the forest hoar, When the dead walk and the sick moonbeam dims. He came — but found the trysting-glade no more, No more, no more ! Din of unhallowed hymns He heard, and once among the groaning trees That blinding beauty, those majestic limbs Flashed for a moment — then, like surging seas, A rout of huntsmen not of earth swept past ; And in the morn, footing the peaceful leas. The whistling charcoal-burner stopped aghast. Stumbling upon a corpse — and straightway knew What doom had dawned on that fond youth at last. Yea, but the song my singing made all true What time I summered by the sea i' the South Last June, was that which silenced me and slew. 'T was of a Princess, one in all men's mouth. Fair Rosiphel — no rose so fair to see In a queen's garden blooming after drouth — The widowed king's one child of Armenye. Yet, flower albeit of peerless maidenhood, For wealth, wit, wisdom, worth and sovereignty, A world to woo her, would she not be wooed. Heiress of all things save a heart to move. As if there ran no woman in her blood. All love she loved save love alone of love. Never was peer nor prince nor duke nor king Might win such grace as even wear her glove For token on his crest knight-erranting, Yea, though he spent a realm for such a meed. And all the treasure East or West could bring. Coldly she bade her wooers all God-speed, SEBASTIAN EVANS. 1 47 As if too careless or to smile or scorn : Let lovers live or die she took no heed, But loved, feared, hated none of woman born. She recked not, she ! One kingly-sceptred knight, Who for her sake full oft had watched till morn, Sought him a death more kindly in the fight : ' All die,' she said : ' we, too, would fighting die ' — And went her ways and loved her own delight, Daring love's noonday sun with phoenix-eye. Till on a Springtide as she went a-Maying, Joyous among her joyous company. With singing, dancing, laughter and sweet playing Some deal aweary, to a greenwood glade Beside a brook she loitered, lonely straying To rest her in the pleasaunce of the shade. And at her feet she saw the bells of Spring, And overhead horse-chestnut leaves that played With open hands, and buffeted the wing O' the warm May wind come wooing through the shaw. And ever among she heard the mavis sing Loud to his mate how Love is lord and law, And cushats coo how Love will woo by kind : And proud beneath the forest oaks she saw The red deer royal-antlered by his hind. And o'er his pastures green the moody bull With muttered thunder tramping forth to find His silky-dewlapped mate beside the pool. Yea, all the Spring had blossomed in her veins Ere on her eyne a show more beautiful Than Springtide's self among those greenwood lanes Dawned on a sudden. Lo, by twos and threes On palfreys ambling gay with tasselled manes And housings pranked with needled broideries, Rode forth a bevy of fair dames, more fair Than all king's daughters in all palaces : — 148 POETS OF LA TTER HALF OF REIGN: So lovesome all, so queenly debonair, She clean forgat to greet them ere they passed, And only woke to wonder what they were Who o'er the greensward rode so proud and fast. In state so royal and so rich array, All red-rose-garlanded from first to last. With kirtles rose and white of costliest say And copes of damasked green, all clad the same To glove, and boot, and girdle glistening gay. But while she marvelled, lo, another dame, In tattered russet weed unseemly rent And loose locks crownless through the greenwood came Spurring a gaunt-ribbed jennet, as if bent To follow that fair cavalcade in haste. Wan was her face, and even as she went A coil of halters dangled at her waist ; Yet, stranger still than all that went before, A golden bridle, rough with gem-work, graced The golden bit her spavined stumbler bore. Kindly, as one who could of courtesy. The Princess spake : ' Nay, spur not on so sore, Sweet sister mine : no robbers' nest is nigh. But prithee tell what be these dames so fair Who ride our valleys in such sovereignty? ' That other answered : ' These be they that bare Spotless their maiden fame and wedded troth : Who read aright their womanhood and sware To Love our Lord and King the holy oath. — Farewell, sweet friend : — my service calls me hence.' 'Nay, sister,' quoth the Princess ; 'we were loth To lose thee thus, not knowing whom nor whence. Gentle thou art, if I can read aright, And by thy seeming void of all offence : What chance hath brought thee to this sorry plight ? What be these halters ? What thy service due ? ' SEBASTIAN EVANS. 149 ' Fair friend,' she said, ' I, ere I left the light, Was Princess of Cathay and Cambalu : But I was slow to learn Love's kindly lore : Nothing I recked of tender hearts and true. But mateless aye my maiden chaplet wore : Therefore in this ungentle guise I ride. Meet penance of ungentle crime of yore. And mourn in death too late my living pride. And when these ladies in the lusty May Troop proudly forth upon the greenwood side To listen to the sweet birds' roundelay And from the Springtide quaff fresh loveliness, I in these tatters follow their array To hold their stirrups and their steeds to dress, And bear, for Love our Lord decreed the doom. These halters as their humble hostleress.' ' Doth Love wreak vengeance then beyond the tomb ? ' The Princess mused, but said : 'I prithee tell Why bears thy beast this bridle, or for whom ? ' With that the damsel blushed, and a tear fell. ' Madam,' she said : ' one fortnight ere my death I 'gan repent me that I did rebel So long 'gainst Him who giveth all things breath. There was a Minstrel in my father's hall. Around whose brow full oft I had twined a wreath More kingly than the king's own coronal For braver words and kinglier than the king's, And deeds as kingly in the tilt withal. Yet never, till his hand upon the strings , Waxed faint, and faint the voice that sang so sweet. And o'er him fell the shadow of the wings So soon to bear him where no pulses beat. Did I begin to love him, or to know 'T was mine own crime had woven his winding-sheet. But when within the fortnight he lay low. ISO POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. I bade them bury me, who wrought such ill, Beside him in the grave — -and died even so. Wherefore hath Love our Lord, who knew my will. And that my love, though late, was very truth. Granted me thus to ride by holt and hill ; And gave for guerdon of my tardy ruth This starry bridle which is all my weal. Farewell ! To Love give offering of thy youth ! ' So rode she forth, and vanished : ' Lo, I kneel. Love, Lord, before thee, thine unworthiest slave.' The Princess prayed, ' Lord, grant me now thy heal, So may I bear no halters in the grave ! ' Such lay I sang last year, and one who heard. No longer infidel to true-love, gave To him who sang the lay her plighted word : — Yseult de Beziers — Father mine, dost hear ? I say Yseult de Beziers hath preferred Myself the Minstrel, or to prince or peer ! Yea, King Alfonso of Castile in vain Whispered his witless wooings in her ear. And vowed her half the palaces of Spain ! But kings are strong and cruel ! He, this king. Would give Navarre to-day to have me slain ! But durst not slay me ! Look, this topaz ring She bade him send in token he hath sworn To harm me not nor kill, where'er I sing. So nevermore I risk me to return Within his marches nor nine leagues anear, But dwell within the land where I was born — She is Alfonso's love, and I — am here ! EDMUND WILLIAM COSSE. 151 EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE. FROM 'FIRDAUSI IN EXILE.'" At last one night, as lone Firdausi rode, The dawn broke gray across the starry sky. And far ahead behind the mountains flowed A sudden gush of molten gold on high ; The glory spread from snowy horn to horn. Tinged by the rushing dawn with sanguine dye, And Tous, the little town where he was born, Flashed at his feet, with white roofs clustered nigh. His aged sister fell upon his neck; His girl, his only child, with happy tears. Clung to his knees, and sobbing, with no check Poured out the story of her hopes and fears. Gravely his servants gave him welcome meet. And when his coming reached the townfolk's ears They ran to cluster round him in the street, And gave him honor for his wealth of years. And there in peace he waited for the end ; But in all distant lands where Mahmoud sent, Each Prince and Sultan was Firdausi's friend. And murmured, like a high-stringed instrument Swept by harsh fingers, at a quest so rude. And chid the zeal, austere and violent, That drove so sweet a voice to solitude, And bade the Shah consider and relent. IS2 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. And once from Delhi, that o'erhangs the tide Of reedy Ganges lilce a gorgeous cloud, The Hindu king, with Persia close allied, Sent letters larger than the faith he vowed, Smelling of sandalwood and ambergris, And cited from Firdausi lines that showed Friendship should be eternal, and the bliss Of love a gift to make a master proud. So while these words were fresh in Mahmoud's brain He went one night into the mosque to pray, And by the swinging lamp deciphered plain The verse Firdausi, ere he fled away, Wrote on the wall ; and one by one there rose Sad thoughts and sweet of many a vanished day, When his soul hovered on the measured close And wave-beat of the rich heroic lay. Mourning the verse, he mourned the poet too ; And he who oftentimes had lain awake Long nights in wide-eyed vision to pursue His victim, yearning in revengeful ache. Forgot all dreams of a luxurious death By trampling elephant or strangling snake, And thought on his old friend with tightened breath, And flushed, remorseful for his anger's sake. Back to his court he went, molten at heart, And all his rage on faithless Hasan turned ; For when he thought him of that tongue's black art. His wrath was in him like a coal that burned ; He bade his several ministers appear Before his throne, and by inquiry learned The cunning treason of the false vizier, And all his soul's deformity discerned. EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE. 153 Hasan was slain that night ; and of the gold His monkey-hands had thieved from rich and poor, The Sultan bade the money should be told Long due as payment at Firdausi's door ; But when the sacks of red dinars were full, Mahmoud bethought him long, and pondered sore, Since vainly any king is bountiful Not knowing where to seek his creditor. But while he fretted at this ignorance, A dervish came to Ghaznin, who had seen. In passing through the streets of Tous, by chance Firdausi in his garden cool and green ; At this Mahmoud rejoiced, and, with glad eyes Swimming in tears, quivering with liquid sheen, Wrote words of pardon, and in welcoming wise Prayed all might be again as all had been. But while Firdausi brooded on his wrong. One day he heard a child's clear voice repeat The bitter jibe of his own scathing song ; Whereat he started, and his full heart beat Its last deep throb of agony and rage ; And blinded in sharp pain, with tottering feet. Being very feeble in extremest age. He fell, and died there in the crowded street. The light of three-and-fourscore summers' suns Had blanched the silken locks round that vast brow ; If Mahmoud might have looked upon him once. He would have bowed before him meek and low ; The majesty of death was in his face, And those wide waxen temples seemed to glow With morning glory from some holy place Where angels met him in a burning row. 1 54 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. His work was done ; the palaces of kings Fade in long rains, and in loud earthquakes fall; The poem that a godlike poet sings Shines o'er his memory like a brazen wall ; No suns may blast it, and no tempest wreck, Its periods ring above the trumpet's call, Wars and the tumult of the sword may shake, And may eclipse it — it survives them all. Now all this while along the mountain road The mighty line of camels wound in state ; Shuddering they moved beneath their massy load. And swinging slowly with the balanced weight ; Burden of gold, and garments red as flame. They bore, not dreaming of the stroke of fate, And so at last one day to Tous they came And entered blithely at the eastern gate. But in the thronged and noiseless streets they found All mute, and marvelled at the tears men shed. And no one asked them whither they were bound, And when, for very shame discomfited, They cried, ' Now tell us where Firdausi lies ! ' A young man like a cypress rose and said — The anger burning in his large dark eyes — ' Too late Mahmoud remembers ! He is dead ! ' Speed ! haste away ! hie to the western port; Perhaps the convoy has not passed it yet ! But hasten, hasten, for the hour is short, And your short-memoried master may forget! Behold, they bear Firdausi to the tomb, Pour in his open grave your golden debt ! Speed ! haste ! and with the treasures of the loom Dry the sad cheeks where filial tears are wet. EDMUND WILLIAM COSSE. 155 ' Lead your bright-harnessed camels one by one, The dead man journeys, and he fain would ride ; Pour out your unctuous perfumes in the sun, The rose has spilt her petals at his side ; Your citherns and your carven rebecks hold Here when the nightingale untimely died, And ye have waited well till he is cold, Now wrap his body in your tigers' hide.' And so the young man ceased ; but one arose Of graver aspect, not less sad than he. ' Nay, let,' he cried, ' the sunshine and the snows His glittering gold and silk-soft raiment be ; Approach not with unhallowed steps profane The low white wall, the shadowy lotus-tree ; Nor let a music louder than the rain Disturb him dreaming through eternity. ' For him no more the dawn will break in blood. No more the silver moon bring fear by night ; He starts no longer at a tyrant's mood, Serene for ever in the Prophet's sight ; The soul of Yaraan breathed on him from heaven. And he is victor in the unequal fight ; To Mahmoud rage and deep remorse are given, To old Firdausi rest and long delight.' THE RETURN OF THE SWALLOWS. ' Out in the meadows the young grass springs. Shivering with sap,' said the larks, ' and we Shoot into air with our strong young wings, Spirally up over level and lea ; Come, O Swallows, and fly with us Now that horizons are luminous ! Evening and morning the world of light, Spreading and kindling, is infinite ! ' IS6 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Far away, by the sea in the south, The hills of olive and slopes of fern Whiten and glow in the sun's long drouth, Under the heavens that beam and burn ; And all the swallows were gathered there Flitting about in the fragrant air, And heard no sound from the larks, but flew Flashing under the blinding blue. Out of the depths of their soft rich throats Languidly fluted the thrushes, and said: ' Musical thought in the mild air floats. Spring is coming and winter is dead ! Come, O Swallows, and stir the air. For the buds are all bursting unaware. And the drooping eaves and the elm-trees long To hear the sound of your low sweet song.' Over the roofs of the white Algiers, Flashingly shadowing the bright bazaar, Flitted the swallows, and not one hears The call of the thrushes from far, from far ; Sighed the thrushes ; then, all at once. Broke out singing the old sweet tones. Singing the bridal of sap and shoot. The tree's slow life between root and fruit. But just when the dingles of April flowers Shine with the earliest daffodils. When, before sunrise, the cold clear hours Gleam with a promise that noon fulfils, — Deep in the leafage the cuckoo cried. Perched on a spray by a rivulet-side, Swallows, O Swallows, come back again To swoop and herald the April rain. EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE. 157 And something awoke in the slumbering heart Of the alien birds in their African air, And they paused, and alighted, and twittered apart, And met in the broad white dreamy square. And the sad slave woman, who lifted up From the fountain her broad-lipped earthen cup. Said to herself, with a weary sigh, ' To-morrow the swallows will northward fly ! ' THE APOTHEOSIS OF ST. DOROTHY. A MAIDEN wandering from the east, A saint immaculately white, I saw in holy dream last night. Who rode upon a milk-white beast ; Across the woods her shadow fell, And wrought a strange and silent spell, A miracle. With firm-set eyes, and changeless face. She passed the cities, one by one ; Her hair was colored like the sun, And shed a glory round the place Where'er she came, she was so fair That men fell down and worshipped there In silent prayer. And ever in her sacred hands She bore a quaintly carven pyx Of serpentine and sardonyx, The wonder of those eastern lands ; Wherein were laid preserved in myrrh. The gifts of vase and thurifer She bore with her. And after many days she came To that high mountain, where are built IS8 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. The towers of Sarras, carved and gilt And fashioned like their spires of flame : Then like a traveller coming home, She let her mild-eyed palfrey roam, And upward clomb. Oh ! then methought the turrets rang With shouting joyous multitudes. And through the tumult, interludes Of choral hosts, that played and sang ; Such welcome, since the world hath been, To singer, prophetess or queen. Was never seen. The golden gates were opened wide ; The city seemed a lake of light. For chrysopras and chrysolite Were wrought for walls on every side ; Without the town was meet for war. But inwardly each bolt and bar Shone like a star. Then, while I wondered, all the sky Above the city broke in light, And opened to my startled sight The heavens immeasurably high, A glorious effluence of air. And shining ether, pure and rare. Divinely fair. And, rising up amid the spires, I saw the saintly maiden go, In splendor like new-fallen snow. That robs the sun-rise of its fires ; So pure, so beautiful she was. And rose like vapory clouds that pass From dewy grass. EDMUND WILLIAM COSSE. 159 Between her hands, the pyx of gold She held up like an offering sent To Him, who holds the firmament And made the starry world of old ; It glimmered like the golden star That shines on Christmas eve afar, Where shepherds are. And clouds of angels, choir on choir. Bowed out of heaven to welcome her, And poured upon her nard and myrrh. And bathed her forehead in white fire, And waved in air their gracious wings, And smote their kindling viol-strings In choral rings. But she, like one who swoons and sees 'A vision just before he dies, With quivering lips and lustrous eyes Gazed up the shining distances ; But soon the angels led her on Where fiercer cloudy splendor shone. And she was gone. And then a voice cried : — ' This is she Who through great tribulation trod A thorny pathway up to God, The blessed virgin Dorothy. Still to the blessed Three-in-One Be glory, honor, worship done Beneath the sun ! ' LYING IN THE GRASS. Between two golden tufts of summer grass, I see the world through hot air as through glass. And by my face sweet lights and colors pass. l6o POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Before me, dark against the fading sky, I watch three mowers mowing, as I lie : With brawny arms they sweep in harmony. Brown English faces by the sun burnt red. Rich glowing color on bare throat and head, My heart would leap to watch them, were I dead ! And in my strong young living as I lie, I seem to move with them in harmony, — A fourth is mowing, and that fourth am I. The music of the scythes that glide and leap. The young men whistling as their great arms sweep. And all the perfume and sweet sense of sleep. The weary butterflies that droop their wings. The dreamy nightingale that hardly sings. And all the lassitude of happy things. Is mingling with the warm and pulsing blood That gushes through my veins a languid flood. And feeds my spirit as the sap a bud. Behind the mowers, on the amber air, A dark-green beech wood rises, still and fair, A white path winding up it hke a stair. And see that girl, with pitcher on her head. And clean white apron on her gown of red, — Her even-song of love is but half-said : She waits the youngest mower. Now he goes ; Her cheeks are redder than a wild blush-rose : They climb up where the deepest shadows close. But though they pass, and vanish, I am there. I watch his rough hands meet beneath her hair. Their broken speech sounds sweet to me like prayer. EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE. 16 1 Ah ! now the rosy children come to play, And romp and struggle with the new-mown hay; Their clear high voices sound from far away. They know so little why the world is sad, They dig themselves warm graves and yet are glad; Their muffled screams and laughter make me mad ! I long to go and play among them there ; Unseen, like wind, to take them by the hair, And gently make their rosy cheeks more fair. The happy children ! full of frank surprise. And sudden whims and innocent extacies ; What godhead sparkles from their liquid eyes ! No wonder round those urns of mingled clays That Tuscan potters fashioned in old days, And colored like the torrid earth ablaze. We find the little gods and loves portrayed. Through ancient forests wandering undismayed. And fluting hymns of pleasure unafraid. They knew, as I do now, what keen delight, A strong man feels to watch the tender flight Of little children playing in his sight ; What pure sweet pleasure, and what sacred love. Comes drifting down upon us from above, In watching how their limbs and features move. I do not hunger for a well-stored mind, I only wish to live my life, and find My heart in unison with all mankind. My life is Hke the single dewy star That trembles on the horizon's primrose-bar, — A microcosm where all things living are. II 1 62 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. And if, among the noiseless grasses, Death Should come behind and take away my breath, I should not rise as one who sorroweth ; For I should pass, but all the world would be Full of desire and young delight and glee, And why should men be sad through loss of me ? The light is flying; in the silver-blue The young moon shines from her bright window through : The mowers are all gone, and I go too. THE FEAR OF DEATH. Last night I woke and found between us drawn, — Between us, where no mortal fear may creep, — The vision of Death dividing us in sleep ; And suddenly I thought. Ere light shall dawn Some day, — the substance, not the shadow, of Death Shall cleave us like a sword. The vision passed, But all its new-born horror held me fast. And till day broke I listened for your breath. Some day to wake, and find that colored skies, And pipings in the woods, and petals wet, Are things for aching memory to forget ; And that your living hands and mouth and eyes Are part of all the world's old histories ! — Dear God ! a little longer, ah not yet ! HARRIET ELEANOR HAMILTON KING. 163 HARRIET ELEANOR HAMILTON KING. FROM 'THE DISCIPLES.' 16 FROM THE OVERTURE. I WRITE of the Disciples, because He Who was their Master, having left on earth The memory of a face that none could paint, The echo of a voice that none could reach. Hath left his own immortal words and works To be a witness for him. Who should dare To add one line or lesson unto these.'' And in this year of loss, this first blank year For us whom he held near and dear to him, The heart is far too full to speak of thee. Except through speaking of thy faithful ones, Joseph Mazzini, Master, first of those The Sons of Men who are the Sons of God ! O Book of mine, which he commanded ! long Waited and worked for, and achieved too late ! Whose first leaves flying over-seas, like flights Of white doves loosened sweeping straight to home. Were carried unto Pisa, and found there Mourning, and at the dead feet were laid low, Instead of in the master's living hand ; — One day too late, and so came short for all, And missed the confirmation of his eyes; Missed for this world the comfort of his voice ; — ■ But have not therefore been unknown to him. 164 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. I do but write as he inspired it me ; There is no passage but he knew it first; I know there is no line but must have passed Sometime or other through his brain to mine ; Though not by utterance, by the finer threads, Which we who live by vision more than speech, Are conscious of, but cannot frame again. But I loved thee ; I knew thee the first time My eyes fell on some words of thine by chance. I was a child then : — and when I am old, And my eyes fail from following in their flights The autumn birds into the far-off heavens. Still mid the youth of that day I shall stand Prouder than any in their pride of life. Having beheld what they shall never see, Having heard words that they can never hear, Having a face to make the darkness dawn. Ever within my memory for a friend ; Remembering through the twilight of those days This solace of the sunrise, this delight. Bought by such pain as then shall nigh be past. — For grace he gave me that outweighs all pain, And light of heart I follow, dark or clear; Because I hold a prouder laurel-leaf Than any singer of imperial courts : For he, the Seer, the Master, and the Saint, Named me his poet, crowned me laureate Of his Republic : — therefore are these words. I hold this charge for ever on my soul ; — He loved me, he looked on me with such eyes As sent forth many a young heroic life To die rejoicing on a lonely quest ; Saying to me, ' Do not die, but live, and speak HARRIET ELEANOR HAMILTON KING. 165 The words that God speaks to thee. Do not shrink For youth or for subjection : — I endorse Thy speecli beforehand, for I see thy soul. Hath not God written somewhat on tliy face To fade and flicker, for a few to see .■' Write it out large in words that will not fade, And that can travel farther than thy eyes, And will not die when thou art laid in dust. I lay it on thee that thou keep not back That fire of life that burns thy brow so clear. What springs from a pure heart and a true mind, And a will bound to the Eternal Will, With eyes that look beyond the world to God, Is worth the hearing. Do not doubt, but speak.' For nine long years I held my peace, while God, By tender tokens irresistible, Laid silence on me ; or by manifold Pressure of claims and voices from without; Or overmastering constancy of pain (The cares and troubles of the outer courts, Not of the inner, where the angels sing Ever, through clouds, through winds, through fires, through calm). And once he chided me because the songs Were slow in coming: — now I think he knows (Or would know were it not too small a thing) The truth he took in trust upon my word. For I made answer, ' If I must be dumb, If breath but lasts for labor, not for speech. It is not that I falter in my faith, It is not that I alter in my will. It is not that I fail from idleness : It is that God hath set such bounds for me, I cannot pass them ; — I can say no more. 1 66 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. But grant me this assurance once for all — By that obedience which is life to me, Binding me one with higher law of life — That thou wilt trust me ? I am true to thee. Dost thou believe it? And if, all the years, My lips are loosed not, and no word of mine Bear witness for me that my faith is firm. And still I follow in the speechless trance. Wilt thou beheve it ? ' And he looked at me With searching eyes, — then answered grave and clear, ' I will believe it' And we spake no more. And now I speak, not with the bird's free voice, Who wakens the first mornings of the year With low sweet pipings, dropped among the dew ; Then stops and ceases, saying, ' All the spring And summer lies before me ; I will sleep ; And sing a little louder, while the green Builds up the scattered spaces of the boughs ; And faster, while the grasses grow to flower Beneath my music ; let the full song grow With the full year, till the heart too is filled.' But as the Swan (who has passed through the spring. And found it snow still in the white North land. And over perilous wilds of Northern seas. White wings above the white and wintry waves. Has won, through night and battle of the blasts, Breathless, alone, without one note or cry) Sinks into summer by a land at last ; And knows his wings are broken, and the floods Will bear him with them whither God shall will; — And knows he has one hour between the tides; — And sees the salt and silent marshes spread Before him outward to the shining sea. Whereon was never any music heard. — HARRIET ELEANOR HAMILTON KING. 167 I am not proud for anything of mine, Done, dreamed, or suffered, but for this alone : That the great orb of that great human soul Did once deflect and draw this orb of mine (In the shadow of it, not the sunward side), Until it touched and trembled on the line By which my orbit crossed the plane of his ; And heard the music of that glorious sphere Resound a moment ; and so passed again, Vibrating with it, out on its own way ; Where, intertwined with others, it may yet Spin through its manifold mazes of ellipse, Amid the clangor of a myriad more, Revolving, and the dimness of the depths Remotest, through the shadows without shape, Arcs of aphelion, silences of snow : But henceforth doth no more go spiritless, But knows its own pole through the whirling ways, And hath beheld the Angel of the Sun, And yearns to it, and follows thereunto ; And feels the conscious thrill that doth transmute Inertia to obedience, underneath The ordered sway of balanced counter-force, That speedeth all life onward through all space ; And hears the key-note of all various worlds, Caught and combined in one vast harmony. And floated down the perfect Heavens of God. THE SERMON IN THE HOSPITAL. FROM 'UGO BASSI,' PART III. Now I heard Fra Ugo Bassi preach. For though in Rome He held no pubhc ministry this year, On Sundays in the hospital he took 1 68 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. His turn in preaching, at the service held Where five long chambers, lined with suffering folk. Converged, and in the midst an altar stood, By which on feast-days stood the priest, and spoke. And I remember how, one day in March, When all the air was thrilling with the spring. And even the sick people in their beds Felt, though they could not see it, he stood there ; Looking down all the lines of weary life, Still for a little under the sweet voice, And spoke this sermon to them, tenderly, As it was written down by one who heard : ' I am the True Vine,' said our Lord, ' and Ye, My Brethren, are the Branches ; ' and that Vine, Then first uplifted in its place, and hung With its first purple grapes, since then has grown, Until its green leaves gladden half the world. And from its countless clusters rivers flow For healing of the nations, and its boughs Innumerable stretch through all the earth, Ever increasing, ever each entwined With each, all living from the Central Heart. And you and I, my brethren, live and grow, Branches of that immortal human Stem. Let us consider now this life of the Vine, Whereof we are partakers : we shall see Its way is not of pleasure nor of ease. It groweth not like the wild trailing weeds Whither it willeth, flowering here and there ; Or lifting up proud blossoms to the sun, Kissed by the butterflies, and glad for life, And glorious in their beautiful array ; Or running into lovely labyrinths HARRIET ELEANOR HAMILTON KING. 1 69 Of many forms and many fantasies, Rejoicing in its own luxuriant life. The flower of the Vine is but a little thing, The least part of its hfe ; — you scarce could tell It ever had a flower ; the fruit begins Almost before the flower has had its day. And as it grows, it is not free to heaven, But tied to a stake ; and if its arms stretch out, It is but crosswise, also forced and bound; And so it draws out of the hard hill-side, Fixed in its own place, its own food of life ; And quickens with it, breaking forth in bud. Joyous and green, and exquisite of form. Wreathed hghtly into tendril, leaf, and bloom. Yea, the grace of the green vine makes all the land Lovely in spring-time ; and it still grows on Faster, in lavishness of its own life ; Till the fair shoots begin to wind and wave In the blue air, and feel how sweet it is. But so they leave it not ; the husbandman Comes early, with the pruning-hooks and shears, And strips it bare of all its innocent pride. And wandering garlands, and cuts deep and sure, Unsparing for its tenderness and joy. And in its loss and pain it wasteth not ; But yields itself with unabated life. More perfect under the despoiling hand. The bleeding limbs are hardened into wood ; The thinned-out bunches ripen into fruit More full and precious, to the purple prime. And still, the more it grows, the straitlier bound Are all its branches ; and as rounds the fruit, And the heart's crimson comes to show in it, And it advances to its hour, — its leaves Begin to droop and wither in the sun ; 17° POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN But still the life-blood flows, and does not fail, All into fruitfulness, all into form. Then comes the vintage, for the days are ripe. And surely now in its perfected bloom. It may rejoice a little in its crown. Though it bend low beneath the weight of it, Wrought out of the long striving of its heart. But ah ! the hands are ready to tear down The treasures of the grapes ; the feet are there To tread them in the winepress, gathered in; Until the blood-red rivers of the wine Run over, and the land is full of joy. But the vine standeth stripped and desolate, Having given all ; and now its own dark time Is come, and no man payeth back to it The comfort and the glory of its gift ; But rather, now most merciless, all pain And loss are piled together, as its days Decline, and the spring sap has ceased to flow Now is it cut back to the very stem ; Despoiled, disfigured, left a leafless stock, Alone through all the dark days that shall come. And all the winter-time the wine gives joy To those who else were dismal in the cold ; But the vine standeth out amid the frost ; And after all, hath only this grace left. That it endures in long, lone stedfastness The winter through : — and next year blooms again ; Not bitter for the torment undergone. Not barren for the fulness yielded up ; As fair and fruitful towards the sacrifice, As if no touch had ever come to it. But the soft airs of heaven and dews of earth ; — And so fulfils itself in love once more. HARRIET ELEANOR HAMILTON KING. 171 And now, what more shall I say ? Do I need here To draw the lesson of this life; or say More than these few words, following up the text : - The Vine from every living limb bleeds wine ; Is it the poorer for that spirit shed ? The drunkard and the wanton drink thereof ; Are they the richer for that gift's excess ? Measure thy life by loss instead of gain; Not by the wine drunk, but the wine poured forth ; For love's strength standeth in love's sacrifice ; And whoso suffers most hath most to give. I speak to those who suffer: — they will know, Better than I, the whole deep truth of it. I who stand here complete in all my flesh. Strong in the morning, sleeping fast at night, Taking the winds of heaven as they blow. Without a special sense save joy in each, Am not so much as worthy to stoop down And kiss the sacred foot-prints of my Lord Upon the feet of any such a one As lieth patient here beneath His hand ; Whom Christ has bound on His own cross, to lie Beside Him, till Himself shall give release ; And that shall not be, many a one knows well. Until his place knows him no more on earth. Many are pains of life ; — I need not stay To count them ; — there is no one but hath felt Some of them, — though unequally they fall. But of all good gifts, ever hath been health Counted the first, and loss of it to be The hardest thing to bear : I do not speak Of such imperfect passages of pain As show us we are mortal, and should stir 172 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Our hearts to greater diligence in life ; — But such long weakness, and such wearing pain As has no end in view, that makes of life One weary avenue of darkened days. The bitter darkness growing darker still. Which none can share or soothe, which sunders us From all desire, or hope, or stir of change. Or service of our Master in the world. Or fellowship with all the faces round Of passing pains and pleasures, — while our pain Passeth not, nor will pass ; — and only this Remains for us to look for, — more of pain, And doubt if we can bear it to the end. And furthermore, from any other ill. Except it be remorse, can men escape By work, the healing of divinest balm To whomso hath the courage to begin. Not yielding to the bitterness of grief. Or if that tyrannously be denied. And the soul languishes in utter loss. Still hope of an immortal, better life Is left to every suffering innocence ; And love of every sweet and noble thing. Though farther off than the far side of death ; And faith to feed upon, and keep the heart Alive, through all the winter of this time. But sickness holds the sick man in a chain No will can break or bend to earthly use ; Not only holding him in bond of space. Fixed in a rooted vegetable lot ; — • But bond of time, so that the Present makes All his possession, and he has no part In any other being, all his nerves Gathered and fixed in one intensest strain Upon the Present ; and no future bliss, HARRIET ELEANOR HAMILTON KING. 173 Nor harmony of past remembrances, Can draw him from the anguish of the hour, Or pay him back his loss, if loss it be. Is it indeed a loss, or is it gain ? His Life is Pain, and he has naught besides : Most miserable must he be indeed. If this be wholly evil, as it seems. But if this be the hardest ill of all For mortal flesh and heart to bear in peace, It is the one comes straightest from God's hand. And makes us feel him nearest to ourselves. God gives us light and love, and all good things Richly for joy, and power, to use aright ; But then we may forget Him in His gifts : We cannot well forget the hand that holds, And pierces us, and will not let us go. However much we strive from under iL If suffering be indeed our Law of Life, If this world through our fathers' sin and ours, May not be perfect any more until The slow development of centuries Do bring to birth a higher race than we. It is so much the more a fitting school Of patience, for the time we must remain, — Of charity towards fellow-wayfarers Beside us bearing each his human cross. In secret or in sight, but each his own ; And furthermore of hope, the unblamed hope Of the new world wherein all things are new, Where only their own works do follow them Who rest from pain and labor, and by faith And love have won a nearer step towards God. Hope thitherward for this life's recompense ; For here what one sows must another reap, 174 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. And children suffer for their fathers' sins While they live here ; but in that other world Shall each man reap his own inheritance : Such heritage as he has left behind P'or those who follow here, who are the worse Or better for his sojourning with them. But if it be the worse, if the foregone Sin of thy parents or some other one's, (For our lives here are mostly in the power Of other lives, and each of us is bound To be his brother's keeper), have made earth Alien to thee, and poisoned at the fount The natural springs of joy, and set within The wheels of life a crook, that never more Swiftly and smoothly they may turn, and bound Weights on thy ankles, — what is that to thee, Who livest not for one time, but for all ? God keeps account of that ; only take care Those same pathetic haunting eyes of thine. For which some soul doth suffer punishment, Do meet thee not again in wife or child, Or sick man at thy gates, or starving man That wrought thy goodly raiment, or the brute And ignorant fury of the brotherless. Whose firebrand lights the roofs of palaces. Look not on thine own loss, but look beyond, And take the Cross for glory and for guide. For one star differeth from another star In glory and in use ; and all are stairs Of the illimitable House of God ; And every one has its own name and place Distinguished, and some special word is given For each to utter in the mystic song Which is not found in speech of humankind, HARRIET ELEANOR HAMILTON KING. I7S Which is not understood by human heart, Even though heard by those caught up to Heaven, Who heard and saw, but could not tell the things Which they had heard and seen, — which neither men Nor angels, nor the conscious suns of space, Nor anything created, hears in whole; But that grows fuller, clearer, as we grow Nearer to God, with Whom is neither part Nor pause, Who gathers in one Infinite All number, sound, and space, and light, and law, Rejoicing utterly, eternally. And when God formed in the hollow of His hand This ball of Earth among His other balls. And set it in His shining firmament. Between the greater and the lesser lights, He chose it for the Star of Suffering. And that most closely we may follow Him By suffering, have all hearts of men allowed. Is suffering then more near and dear to God For its own sake than joy is ? God forbid ! We know not its beginning nor its end ; Is it a sacrifice ? a test.' a school ? The fruit of Evil ; — yet what Evil means None knoweth, though he spent his life to know. We suffer. Why we suffer, — that is hid With God's foreknowledge in the clonds of Heaven. The first book written sends that human cry Out of the clear Chaldean pasture-lands Down forty centuries ; and no answer yet Is found, nor will be found, while yet we live In limitations of Humanity. But if, impatient, thou let slip thy cross, Thou wilt not find it in this world again. 176 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Nor in another ; here, and here alone Is given thee to suffer for God's sake. In other worlds we shall more perfectly Serve Him and love Him, praise Him, work for Him, Grow near and nearer Him with all delight ; But then we shall not any more be called To suffer, which is our appointment here. Canst thou not suffer then one hour, — or two ? If He should call thee from thy cross to-day, Saying, It is finished ! — that hard cross of thine From which thou prayest for deliverance, Thinkest thou not some passion of regret Would overcome thee ? Thou wouldst say, ' So soon ? Let me go back, and suffer yet awhile More patiently ; — I have not yet praised God.' And He might answer to thee, — ' Never more. All pain is done with.' Whensoe'er it comes, That summons that we look for, it will seem Soon, yea too soon. Let us take heed in time That God may now be glorified in us ; And while we suffer, let us set our souls To suffer perfectly : since this alone, The suffering, which is this world's special grace, May here be perfected and left behind. — But in obedience and humility ; — Waiting on God's hand, not forestalling it. Seek not to snatch presumptuously the palm By self-election ; poison not thy wine With bitter herbs if He has made it sweet ; Nor rob God's treasuries because the key Is easy to be turned by mortal hands. The gifts of birth, death, genius, suffering, Are all for His hand only to bestow. Receive thy portion, and be satisfied. Who crowns himself a king is not the more HARRIE T ELEANOR HA MIL TON KING. 1 7 ^ Royal ; nor he who mars himself with stripes The more partaker of the Cross of Christ. But if Himself He come to thee, and stand Beside thee, gazing down on thee with eyes That smile, and suffer ; that will smite thy heart. With their own pity, to a passionate peace ; And reach to thee Himself the Holy Cup, (With all its wreathen stems of passion-flowers And quivering sparkles of the ruby stars), Pallid and royal, saying ' Drink with Me ; ' Wilt thou refuse ? Nay, not for Paradise ! The pale brow will compel thee, the pure hands Will minister unto thee ; thou shalt take Of that communion through the solemn depths Of the dark waters of thine agony, With heart that praises Him, that yearns to Him The closer through that hour. Hold fast His hand. Though the nails pierce thine too ! take only care Lest one drop of the sacramental wine Be spilled, of that which ever shall unite Thee, soul and body to thy living Lord ! Therefore gird up thyself, and come, to stand Unflinching under the unfaltering hand, That waits to prove thee to the uttermost. It were not hard to suffer by His hand, If thou couldst see His face ; — but in the dark! That is the one last trial : — be it so. Christ was forsaken, so must thou be too : How couldst thou suffer but in seeming, else ? Thou wilt not see the face nor feel the hand, Only the cruel crushing of the feet, When through the bitter night the Lord comes down To tread the winepress. — Not by sight, but faith, Endure, endure, — be faithful to the end ! 178 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. AG ESI LAO MILANO. Naples, 1856. For the glory and the passion of this midnight, I praise Thy name, I give Thee thanks, O Christ ! Thou that hast neither failed me nor forsaken. Through these hard hours with victory overpriced ; Now that I too of thy passion have partaken. For the world's sake called, elected, sacrificed. Thou wast alone through thy redemption-vigil, Thy friends had fled ; The angel at the garden from Thee parted, And solitude instead, More than the scourge, or cross, O tender-hearted. Under the crown of thorns bowed down Thy head. But I, amid the torture and the taunting, I have had Thee ! Thy hand was holding my hand fast and faster, Thy voice was close to me. And glorious eyes said, ' Follow me, thy Master, Smile as I smile thy faithfulness to see.' Master, our hearts can save us as thou spakest ! Have they not spent All night their uttermost on me unholpen? Behold my body rent And broken ; — but among the wounds wide open Ye will not find a broken sacrament. By the deed done, by torture overmastered. And death outbraved, For ever from denial and dishonor. Soul, thou this night art saved ! HARRIET ELEANOR HAMILTON KING. 179 Italia, with the purple robe upon her, Shall know me faithful by these scars engraved. ' Spared but till sunrise ; — else would Death forestall us, MercifuUest.' Yea, all their worst is done, they cannot keep me Now, should they do their best, Back from the gates of Paradise, nor steep me In any healing balm of earthly rest. Sunrise ! and it is summer, and the morning Waits glorified An hour hence, when the cool clear rose-cloud gathers About heaven's eastern side, And down the azure grottos where the bathers Loose the tired limbs, a lovely light will glide. Fold after fold the winding waves of opal The sands will drown ; And when the morning-star amid the pearly Light of the east goes down. Then my star shall arise, and late and early Shine for a jewel in the Master's crown. Mazzini, Master, singer of the sunrise ! Knowest thou me 'i I held thy hand once, and the summer lightning Still of thy smile I see ; Me thou rememberest not amidst the heightening Vision of God, and of God's Will to be. But thou wilt hear of me, by noon to-morrow, And henceforth I Shall be to thee a memory and a token Out of the starry sky ; And when my soul unto thy soul hath spoken. Enough, — I shall not wholly pass nor die. i8o POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Italia, when thou comest to thy kingdom, Remember me ! Me, who on this thy night of shame and sorrow Was scourged and slain with thee ; Me, who upon thy resurrection morrow Shall stand among thy sons beside thy knee. Shalt thou not be one day, indeed, O Mother, Enthroned of all. To the world's vision as to ours now only. At Rome for festival ; Around thee gathered all thy lost and lonely And loyal ones, that failed not at thy call. With goldeii lyre, or violet robe of mourning. Or battle-scar ; — And one shall stand more glorious than the others, He of the Morning-Star, Whose face lights all the faces of his brothers, Out of the silvery northern land afar. But grant to me there, unto all beholders. Bare to the skies. To stand with bleeding hands, and feet, and shoulders. And rapt, unflinching eyes, And locked lips, yielding to the question-holders Nor moanings, nor beseechings, nor replies. Is the hour hard ? Too soon it will be over. Too sweet, too sore ; The arms of Death fold over me with rapture. Life knew not heretofore ; Heaven will be peace, but I shall not recapture The passion of this hour, for evermore. THOMAS GORDON HAKE. THOMAS GORDON HAKE. THE SUN-WORSHIPPER. As a wild comet through the night she hies, Her face bent towards the temple of the sun, With golden hair that on the darkness lies Like break of dawn when daylight, scarce begun, Meanders into flame whose flashes run Along the lower skies. Soon as the sun lifts up the morning haze She rushes towards him ; sinks unto the ground And, clasping the all-shining Presence, prays In his first beams : again her god is found ; The startled shadows that her heart surround Are dizzy in his rays. ' Thee I adore, O Sun ! this heart is thine ! The youth who blindly claims its ecstasy Seeks not thy temple, honors not thy shrine ; He kneels not, utters not his vows to thee Who all the worlds beyond this world can'st see, And mak'st all things divine.' The sun-flowers turn to heaven as still she kneels, Shall then her heart its coming vow deplore .'' Not uttered yet, all utterance it reveals, And she restrains her ecstasy no more : Her burning lips the hasty vow outpour Which her heart trouble seals. 1 82 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. ' Never, O Sun ! till sinking in the west Thou risest where thy wondrous setting spreads, While all who love thee slumber in thy rest, Shall he, who proudly in thy presence treads Enthrall me in the light his beauty sheds, Or wed me to his breast! ' Silence has tongues ; she hears a sister say, 'List to the voice of thy companion-mind ! Thy love is still the same as yesterday ; It has not passed, it only lags behind, And thou art lonely as the wistful wind Thou meet'st upon the way.' Yet she repeats her vow, her heart in pain. To draw some love from heaven, as from the well Whose radiant springs she once craved not in vain ; But ebbing hope allures her by its spell To past despair, on other days to dwell, — And suffer them again. Across the hills of heliotrope she creeps. Or winds within the many-shadowed wolds. Till once again the sun her pathway sweeps, And from her weary feet the way withholds ; The sacred flowers embrace her in their folds ; From dawn to dawn she sleeps. She sleeps ; so still, not even her shadow veers Save when from side to side the moonflood roves ; But in sky-dreams the sun to her appears. Yet with the visage of the one she loves ; — All through her sleep in phantom light he moves. And still that face he bears. She sleeps, and with the beaming of a bride Beholds that face ; ah ! never to be wed ! Yet why a tear, no sorrow shall betide : THOMAS GORDON HAKE. 1 83 Though distant borne, his rays on her are shed ; Her soul, along its way of glory sped. Shall in his light abide. She wakes up with the sun, but in his rise Sees the rich twilight of her love-dream wane : Day seems to sink in the deserted skies. Whose broken, many-colored beams remain As of her dream whose night comes back again ; 'T was dawn had closed her eyes. The cloud-slopes blossom still, but cold and lone; Down them she floated in those heavenly dreams, And still the veil that o'er her slumbers shone Hangs gold-wrought in the fervor of those beams. She kneels while watching the last fading gleams O'er the gray twilight thrown. With speechless lips she questions the chill blaze: Behold the sun returns ; that brighter flush Were surely day ? Yet she mistrusts her gaze Though the light widens and with lordly rush The sun bursts forth in morning's youthful blush And floods the heaven with rays. Trembling she sees the paleness of her face In those white clouds which now the sun surround, Who doth in heaven his spectral way retrace. Behold, the days brought back, the hours unwound, The angry sun unto the zenith bound And the pale moon replace ! Perplexed, all lost, she staggers to the height Where the twelve pillars in their beauty shine, The temple circling in the blessed light ; There prostrate doth she o'er her vow repine; But fears to meet the arbiter divine Who banishes the night. 1 84 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. From the lone steps at length she looks above : Behold the face is there that filled her dreams ; The youth adored, triumphant o'er her love, There radiant shines amid descending beams ; His lustrous hair in the rich sunshine streams. With golden lights inwove. She lifts her arms, she falls upon the face She loved in heaven ; her yearning heart, too blest, Doth in deep sobs its erring way retrace. All passion weeps, while gathers in her breast A bliss that bears her spirit to its rest In that divine embrace. THE SNAKE-CHARMER. The forest rears on lifted arms A world of leaves, whence verdurous light Shakes through the shady depths and warms Proud tree and stealthy parasite, There where those cruel coils enclasp The trunks they strangle in their grasp. An old man creeps from out the woods. Breaking the vine's entangling spell ; He thrids the jungle's solitudes. O'er bamboos rotting where they fell ; Slow down the tiger's path he wends Where at the pool the jungle ends. No moss-greened alley tells the trace Of his lone step, no sound is stirred. Even when his tawny hands displace The boughs, that backward sweep unheard. His way as noiseless as the trail Of the swift snake and pilgrim snail. THOMAS GORDON HAKE. 185 The old snake-charmer, — once he played Soft music for the serpent's ear, But now his cunning hand is stayed ; He knows the hour of death is near. And all that live in brake and bough, All know the brand is on his brow. Yet where his soul is he must go : He crawls along from tree to tree. The old snake-charmer, doth he know If snake or beast of prey he be ? Bewildered at the pool he lies And sees as through a serpent's eyes. Weeds wove with white-flowered lily crops Drink of the pool, and serpents hie To the thin brink as noonday drops. And in the froth-daubed rushes lie. There rests he now with fastened breath 'Neath a kind sun to bask in death. The pool is bright with glossy dyes And cast-up bubbles of decay : A green death-leaven overlies Its mottled scum, where shadows play As the snake's hollow coil, fresh shed, Rolls in the wind across its bed. ■• No more the wily note is heard From his full flute — the riving air That tames the snake, decoys the bird, Worries the she-wolf from her lair. Fain would he bid its parting breath Drown in his ears the voice of death. Still doth his soul's vague longing skim The pool beloved : he hears the hiss 1 86 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. That siffles at the sedgy rim, Recalling days of former bliss, And the death-drops, that fall in showers, Seem honied dews from shady flowers. There is a rustle of the breeze And twitter of the singing bird ; He snatches at the melodies And his faint lips again are stirred : The olden sounds are in his ears ; But still the snake its crest uprears. His eyes are swimming in the mist That films the earth like serpent's breath: And now, — as if a serpent hissed, — The husky whisperings of Death Fill ear and brain — he looks around — Serpents seem matted o'er the ground. Soon visions of past joys bewitch His crafty soul ; his hands would set Death's snare, while now his fingers twitch The tasselled reed as 'twere his net. But his thin lips no longer fill The woods with song ; his flute is still. Those Mps still quaver to the flute, But fast the life-tide ebbs away ; Those lips now quaver and are mute. But nature throbs in breathless play : Birds are in open song, the snakes Are watching in the silent brakes. In sudden fear of snares unseen The birds like crimson sunset swarm, All gold and purple, red and green. And seek each other for the charm. THOMAS GORDON HAKE. 187 Lizards dart up the feathery trees Like shadows of a rainbow breeze. The wildered birds again have rushed Into the charm, — it is the hour When the shrill forest-note is hushed, And they obey the serpent's power, — Drawn to its gaze with troubled whirr, As by the thread of falconer. As 't were to feed, on slanting wings They drop within the serpent's glare : Eyes flashing fire in burning rings Which spread into the dazzled air ; They flutter in the glittering coils ; The charmer dreads the serpent's toils. While Music swims away in death Man's spell is passing to his slaves : The snake feeds on the charmer's breath, The vulture screams, the parrot raves, The lone hyena laughs and howls, The tiger from the jungle growls. Then mounts the eagle — flame-flecked folds Belt its proud plumes ; a feather falls : He hears the death-cry, he beholds The king-bird in the serpent's thralls. He looks with terror on the feud, •;— And the sun shines through dripping blood. The deadly spell a moment gone — Birds, from a distant Paradise, Strike the winged signal and have flown, Trailing rich hues through azure skies : The serpent falls ; like demon wings The far-out branching cedar swings. 1 88 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. The wood swims round ; the pool and skies Have met ; the death-drops down that cheek Fall faster ; for the serpent's eyes Grow human, and the charmer's seek. A gaze like man's directs the dart Which now is buried at his heart. The monarcli of the world is cold : The charm he bore has passed away : The serpent gathers up its fold To wind about its human prey. The red mouth darts a dizzy sting, And clenches the eternal ring. AUGUSTA WEBSTER. 189 AUGUSTA WEBSTER. FROM 'SISTER ANNUNCIATA.'" But ah the long ascent ! It was enough At first to learn the patience that subdued My throbbing heart to its new quiet rule, The hope of Heaven that bore down earth's despair - But these were comfort, and the craving grew As natural for them as the sick man's For the pain-soothing draught he learned perforce To school his palate to. But then the effort To be another self, to know no more The fine-linked dreams of youth, the flying thoughts Like sparkles on the wave-tops changing place And all one scattered brightness, the high schemes And glorious wild endeavors after good, Fond, bubble-soaring, but how beautiful ! The sweet unreal reveries, the gush Of voiceless songs deep in the swelling heart, The dear delight of happy girlish hopes — Of, ah my folly ! some hopes too strange sweet That I dare think of them even to rebuke — Ah, not to be forgotten though they lie Too deep for even memory. Alas ! Even if I would, how could I now recall To their long-faded forms those phantasies Of a far, other, consciousness which now Beneath the ashes of their former selves 190 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Lie a dead part of me, but still a part, Oh evermore a part. I do not think There can be sin in that, in knowing it. I am not nursing the old foolish love Which clogged my spirit in those bitter days. Ah no, dear as it was even in its pain, I have trampled on it, crushed its last life out. I do not dread the beautiful serpent now ; It cannot breathe again, not if I tried To warm it at my breast, it is too dead And my heart has grown too cold ; the Lord himself, I thank Him, has renewed it virgin-cold To give to Him. I do but recognize A simple truth, that that which has been lived, Lived down to the deeps of the true being, Even when past for ever, has become Inseparable from the lifelong self : But yet it lives not with the present life. So, in this wise, I may unshamed perceive That the dead life, that the dead love, are still A part of me. Have I slept ? But no, I think I was in prayer The whole time that I knelt — unless indeed A little heavy moment at the last ; It is too chill for sleep. How strange and gray The morning glimmers ! What an awful thing. Although one feels not why, the silence is When the new creeping light treads on the dark Like a white mist above it, and beside Its leaden pallor hollow blacknesses Lurk, shifting into limp uncertain shapes. No place so long famiiiar but it seems Weird and unwonted in such eery hours. AUGUSTA WEBSTER. 191 I wish my taper could have lingered out Until the yellow dawn. Was that the wind Hissing between the jarring lattice crannies, Or a whispering voice in the room ? Hush there again ! Nay, 't is the wind. What voice should come to me ? I hear no voices, I ; no visions yet Break on my trancM eyes when I seek God. I have not risen so high ; neither I think Fallen so at Satan's mercy that he dare Front me with open tokens of the watch Which he keeps whensoe'er one of his foes Keeps holy watch alone. Yea, there again ! It is the rising wind-gust. How it moves The shadow of that pine-bough on the wall, Just growing plain-defined upon the square The window makes of light across the room. One might see it like an arm now, finger-stretched In act to curse — a withered witch-like arm Waving its spells. But then another shadow, The cross from the muUions, lies athwart it there And that is steady. So the cross prevails Over the curse. I have thought too long, I lose myself. What wonder ? In one night To live back all one's youth — though mine was short. And yet it seems a long long age of life Remote by longer ages. Strange it is That the brief exquisite mood of a deep bliss Which, being lived, seemed to be some few hours, Seems, being lost, as if a long life's whole Had passed in it. 'T was but a year or so, Count it by days upon the calendar. And now — Oh living days ! oh happy days ! 192 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Oh days a dream with happiness ! — a dream — A dream — lam with you — Ah yes — a dream I am with you What was I pondering Before this drowsy languor stole my will ? Let me remember. Yes the sins and follies Of my vain youth. But I had almost done — Or had I ? Where was I in the blurred page Whose half-forgotten fragment — facts from days That were no more all faults than all good deeds I am bidden read in the dusk that time has made ? Ah me ! how to be-think me ? When there grows The counterfeit of some large landscape known In past familiar days upon that sense Which seems an inward memory of the eye — Grows, at the plainest even, half as if One looked upon it with the former sight — If one were bidden break the vivid whole Into its several parts traced point by point, Or more, if one were bidden duly note The rocks that broke the smoothness of the lake. Or the black fissures on the great snow-hills, Or say the pools along the marshy wastes, How the thought-picture would become perplexed Into a shifting puzzle, and the sight Would ache that vainly tried to scan by units. Even so it seems to me when I essay To singly look upon the marring flaws That foiled my youth's best virtues, or on those That of its evil made the blackest scars. Weary, so weary of the effort ! Nay I will remember ! Well my girlish days' Were full of faults — were doubtless full of faults - AUGUSTA WEBSTER. 193 Were full of faults : but what were the faults' names ? I am forgetting what I seek — their names ? Why there was many a paltry selfishness — Many no doubt, for I was often shamed To be so much below the self I dreamed — Only I cannot call them singly back. And there were pettish quarrels, girlish-wise, With one or other of the rest at home, Oftenest with Leonora, though, I think. We chose each other most, and she has kept My memory dearest of them ; she alone Remembers my old name-day, comes to me, As if it still were festival to me. With flowers, and calls me Eva. Does she guess, I wonder, that I could have stolen her greatness ? Poor Leonora, would she have lost much ? Wife's sister to the prince instead of wife ; That dowry he designed her for amends, To make her welcome to some simpler home — Perhaps with love with it, such as we hoped When we were lovers — Yes, perhaps with some one Who could have taught her smiles : she only laughs. I would I knew her happy now ! She says She is most happy : but she says she knows Nothing worth sorrow. Nothing ! Nothing worth The weeping out one's life for ! Nothing worth The wearying after in a waking dream Of all one's days, the straining to one's heart As a mother her one child, her one dead child, Although a plague had stricken it and the end Were her own dying ! Nothing worth a sorrow Dearer than any future joy could be. Stronger than love, oh ! longer lived than love, Than love itself, a sorrow to be lived for 13 194 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Like love itself, to be one's closest life ! If only one were free to sorrow thus ! Oh to be left my sorrow for a while, Only a little while ! to weep at will ! Oh let me weep a while if but for shame Because I cannot check the fooHsh passion, Because I weep despite myself. Alas ! Oh Lord my helper, when shall I find rest ? How sweet those roses smell ! Look, Angelo, That cluster of red roses pictured back From the still water. See ! see ! Catch that branch By your left hand — the boat will drift away ! How the boat rocks ! how it rocks ! Am I ashore? I thought I was in the boat with you. How it rocks ! Oh Angelo ! What is it? Where am I ? Who was it screamed ? Was it I ? I have been dreaming — How plain it was at first ! We in the boat On the still lake, just as we were that day. The roses drooping on us, and, far spread On the clear water, greenness of the trees. A strangely real dream ! And then the change — The tossing waters, I ashore alone Watching — and then — Oh ! that white anguished face Uplifting from the waters as they heaved About him sinking ! Whence came such a dream ? He is with Guilia happy. I — Am here Vowed to the convent, vowed to Heaven's service, And happy in the faith of Heaven's reward. I have not quite forgotten Whose I am, And in the waking day can call to mind AUGUSTA WEBSTER. 195 What higher lot is mine and be in it In peace. But yet I would I had not seen That haggard face. I fear me many days Will find it haunting me. It was too like The look he gave me when our eyes last met, When all was over, and there was for us No farewell but that sudden chance-caught look In a busy street, and then we had passed on. The chapel bell at last. Never its sound Has fallen kinder on my ear. Now comes The rest of prayer ; and so the day begins Its round df holy duties, and my strength Will grow again towards them. It will pass, This querulous weakness with my weariness — • It has passed; I am strong; I am myself; My God did but forsake me for a while. He hears. He calls me to Him at the shrine. He will forgive me, me whom He has chosen; He will fold me in His love. Am I not His ? But yet I would I had not seen that face. TO ONE OF MANY. What ! wilt thou throw thy stone of malice now. Thou dare to scoff at him with scorn or blame ? He is a thousand times more great than thou : Thou, with thy narrower mind and lower aim, Wilt thou chide him and not be checked by shame .'' He hath done evil — God forbid my sight Should falter where I gaze with loving eye. That I should fail to know the wrong from right. He hath done evil — let not any tie Of birth or love draw moral sense awry. 196 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. And though my trust in him is yet full strong I may not hold him guiltless, in the dream That wrong forgiven is no longer wrong, And, looking on his error, fondly deem That he in that he erreth doth but seem. I do not soothe me with a vain belief ; He hath done evil, therefore is my thought Of him made sadness with no common grief. But thou, what good or truth has in thee wrought That thou shouldst hold thee more than him in aught ? He will redeem his nature, he is great In inward purpose past thy power to scan, And he will bear his meed of evil fate And lift him from his fall a nobler man, Hating his error as a great one can. And what art thou to look on him and say ' Ah ! he has fallen whom they praised, but know My foot is sure ' 1 Upon thy level way Are there the perils of the hills of snow? Yea, he has fallen, but wherefore art thou low ? Speak no light word of him, for he is more Than thou canst know — and ever more to me. Though he has lessened the first faith I bore, Than thou in thy best deeds couldst ever be ; Yea, though he fall again, not low like thee. IN THE STORM. A WILD rough night : and through the gloomy gray One sees the blackness of the headland grow. One sees the whiteness of the upflung spray, The whiteness of the breakers down below. AUGUSTA WEBSTER. 197 A wild wild night : and on the shingly rim The furious sea-surge roars and frets and rives ; And far away those black specks, growing dim, Are tossing with their freights of human lives. And all the while upon the silent height The strong white star, beneath the starless sky, Shines through the dimness of the troubled night, Shines motionless while the vexed winds hoot by. Oh ! steadfast light, across dark miles of sea How many straining eyes whence sleep is chased Are watching through the midnight-storm for thee Large glimmering through the haze to the gray waste ! And in the night, fond mothers, scared awake. And lonely wives, pushing the blind aside. See thee and bless thee for their sailor's sake, And thank God thou art there, the dear ship's guide. Oh ! strong calm star, so watching night by night, And hour by hour, when storm-winds are astir. They find thee changeless with thy patient light, A beacon to the sea-tossed wanderer. Oh strong and patient ! Once upon my life Shone such a star, and, when the trouble wave Reached me and I grew faint with tempest strife, Through all I saw that hope-star and was brave. Oh my lost star ! my star that was to me Instead of sunlight that the happy know ! Oh weary way upon life's trackless sea ! And through the gloom there shines no beacon glow. 198 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. THOMAS ASHE. PSAMA THE. The earliest keel, that sowed with snowy foam The deep sea-furrows, scared the wondering Nymphs : But grown more bold, ere long, they learned to trust The white-winged wanderers ; and grew to think The rowers' well-timed stroke a pleasant song. And curious, — as where not, the sex? — to pry In hidden mysteries, they began to haunt The peopled shores and loiter near the ports. And many a wonder of the noisy world By rumor reached them, or their eyes beheld. O'er Psamathe there came a strange desire : She longed to hear the music of men's speech. And clasp their hands in love. And she forsook The sweet sea-cradled sisterhood, her friends : Nor missed the quiet bliss of wandering, — So many linked together, hand in hand. Like wavering sea-flags, — in the depths serene : And only pined to compass her delight. So, glimmering upward to the rosy day, And looking wistfully, as birds that wait Their comrades, gathering on a northland coast, To follow wandering summer on the wing. Desire prevailed. And so she gained, ere noon, Gersestum. Then, unwearied, skilfully. With lithe swift movement made the troubled strait, THOMAS ASHE. 199 Where rugged wave crowds rugged wave, aroar, Between grim Macris' rude unfooted strand And Attic Sunium's white and wave-cooled foot : Then took the bold Saronic bay, and found What seemed the goal ; wind-swept CEnopia; Ere sunset faded on the lazy sails. Chant, weeping, sing, how gladly she beheld The white-walled houses. Up the rocky bay Of snowy arm she made an even oar, By cliff and cave ; and in a quiet cove She found, — whom, hapless ? — yEacus, the king. O soft, pale lids, with what a fire they burned ! Her heart leaped out toward men, and chose the first. 'Mid whelk and slippery limpet, in the gloom. She drew the smooth weeds, blue and emerald. Around her beauty, like a wave-made shroud ; And, stretched, a waif, upon the strand, she seemed Some drifted treasure of a wreck forlorn. So, grave and weighty matter pondering. The king came nearer and this waif beheld. And wonderingly he drew the dripping hair, — Such, haply, he had seen in dreams of old, — From brine-wet lips, and eyelids of her eyes : He watched the weed-spread bosom's swell betray Its fluttering guest : and memory of his sons. And dead Endeis, and the love of years, Oblivion sealed, in blushes like a boy's. No weak misgivings for the future vexed This amorous king. He took the cloak he wore ; And spread it on the sand, and daintily Enwrapped his prize ; and smoothed from sight each limb ; And bore her lightly in his brawny arms. She, slumbering on the couch that one time held The queen Endeis, dared show her blue eyes 200 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF RELGN. Unhooded, to the wondering handmaidens : And so they robed her in a queenly way, And bound her hair. And then it was the king First kissed her on the lips, nor was she loth. She held not back, unskilled in maiden guile : Yea, even, the well-made vesture, at the first, Seemed foolish labor to this wave-nursed one. Their ways bewildered, and their speech was strange. And so the king was fain to be content To have it still unknown what mother bore : But yet proclaimed his nuptials in the land ; And held a feast, and summoned lordly guests. And Telamon and Peleus scorned to come ; His sons ; disdainful ; thinking old men's eyes Should cease from doting on a maiden's charms. So, linked with memory and forgetfulness. And making old things new, and new things old. The seasons, hand in hand, danced round the world. Spring shook a beauteous blossom from her urn ; A gift for Psamathe, a boy, her flower. And she had all she longed for. Speech of men Became familiar. IVIusically fell. Now from her lips, now on her ear, its sound. She lived content, and trusted in the king. O weak the tendrils of unwise desire ! Awhile he loved her, with the love which clings. Like flickering fire, round dotage of the old. He strove to teach her to be worldly-wise, Though Nereids only learn the sweet love-lore. But soon the stormier passions of the man Outlived its fever, and the charm dissolved. Soon, disenchanted of his dreams, he held His lingering kindness for a fault to mend ; Soon, — as men hate the meek ones whom they wrong, ■ THOMAS ASHE. 20 Her timorous fondness with rough touch repelled. Sing, weeping, sing : her bliss is all outworn. But, as a weak man leans upon a staff, She trusted in the future. O, as soon That staff should blossom, as dead love revive ! Ah, child ! the hopeless, withered years, ungreened With even one leaf ! She could not long have borne To linger here, where once she yearned to bide. But since she loved the little prattler well, Moons filled their horns anew, and new moons waned. And, — hankering towards the sisters, she endured ; Yet often, holding fast the tender hand, Would slink away, to loiter on the shore, Her blue eyes wandering wistful down the bay. It fell upon a morning, — when the boy Would cling about their knees ; and him as well They hated, for his mother's sake ; — it fell Upon a morning, in an angry mood. As hatred hardens men to evil deed. One hurled a quoit, and smote him on the crown, And all his brains lay white about the ground. Yet no-way sorry, they took up the child, And laid him at the feet of Psamathe : And none cared, nor the king. Then she at length Burst into passionate anger, and her words Thrilled each to marrow of the bones : some god Inspired her then, to read the wrath foredoomed. ' O mad ! ' she cried, ' O fools ! whom men think wise ! Whose rule dispenses justice in the land ! Untaught that love is wisdom, and the crown Of justice pity, and gentleness of man ! And now I see the end, who rue the end ; Being tender, wishing happy days for all ! O pity, for the sons of these thy sons ; 202 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Of these, thy sons, so apt at slaying sons ; Ajax, Achilles, noble ones, both slain ; One by the sword which slew his foes, and one By treacherous bow-shaft on his bridal morn ! — And thou, gray king, — yea ! upright doom of heaven ! — Made king in Hades, where no pity dwells, Where, found just still, thou shalt be feared and scorned. O selfish in your love, O race of men ! O hearts, more cruel than the dog-fish tooth ! Words, sweet and false, like easy-falling death ! Now I will go,' — she wept, — ' now I will go,' — Weeping she sighed, — ' who truly much have learned ! ' So she deceived, and undeceived, grown wise, On instant fixed her sometime wavering will. And crossed the fear-thrilled halls. Nor dared the three Obstruct the resolute exit, nor desired. But following thief-like, craftily, afar. They watched her gain the quiet cove, wherein The king first drew salt drift-weed from her eyes ; And halting, pensive, where smooth ripples curled, Unclasp her girdle ; round her glittering feet The fair queen's vesture heedlessly let fall ; About her much-wronged beauty, with a smile, Unloop the wild profusion of her hair ; And slip beneath green waves, and glide away. They, wondering, trembled ; and still wondering, gazed ; Till they could see no more the snowy arm And pearl-white shoulder glancing mid the foam. JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. 203 JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. INTELLECTUAL ISOLA TION. I WILL out-soar these clouds, and shake to nought The doubts that daunt my spirit : that is free, Invincible by death or destiny ; Nor need she take of love or friendship thought. Self-centred, self-sustained, self-guided, fraught With fervor of the brain enlightening me, Alone with God upon a shoreless sea, I '11 find what men in crowds have vainly sought. I am at one with solitude, and loathe The tumult of those hopes and fears that fret Weak hearts in throbbing bosoms. Haply yet Some Titan vice or virtue shall unclothe Her mighty limbs for my sole sight, and I, Sufficing to myself and wisdom, die. The world of human woe and weal I shun, Not forasmuch as I despise the joy That lightens when life wakes in girl or boy, And glittering sands through passion's hour-glass run ; Of mortal joys there is not any one But I have made it for myself the toy Of fancy, nor hath love had power to cloy Him who leaves all the deeds of love undone. Despair of full fruition drives me hence, Uncomforted to seek repose in God : Those tyrannous desires that stung my sense 204 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. At every turn upon the road I trod, Seek their assuagement in a sphere where nought Dares to dispute the sovereignty of thought. Nay, soul, though near to dying, do not this ! It may be that the world and all its ways Seem but spent ashes of extinguished days, And love the phantom of imagined bliss : Yet what is man among the mysteries Whereof the young-eyed angels sang their praise ? Thou know'st not. Lone and wildered in the maze, See that life's crown thou dost not idly miss. Is friendship fickle ? Hast thou found her so? Is God more near thee on that homeless sea Than by the hearths where children come and go? Peechance some rotten root of sin in thee Hath made thy garden cease to bloom and glow : Hast thou no need from thine own self to flee ? Couldst thou clasp God apart from man, or dwell Merged in the ocean of that infinite good Where truth and beauty are beatitude. This earth might well appear a living hell, The prison of damned spirits that rebel. Matched with thy paradise of solitude : Nathless it is not clasping God to brood Upon thine own delusive dreams ; the cell Built by an anchorite that strives with fate And kindly fellow feeling, may be found Like to a maniac's chamber, when too late. Abandoned to his will, without or sound Or sight of men his brethren, on the ground He lies, and all his life is desolate. It is the centre of the soul that ails : We carry with us our own heart's disease ; JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. 205 And craving the impossible, we freeze Tlie lively rills of love that never fails. What faith, what hope will lend the spirit sails To waft her with a light spray-scattering breeze From this Calypso isle of phantasies. Self-sought, self-gendered, where the daylight pales ? Where wandering visions of foregone desires Pursue her sleepless on a stony strand ; Instead of stars the bleak and baleful fires Of vexed imagination, quivering spires That have nor rest nor substance, light the land, Paced by lean hungry men, a ghostly band ! Oh that the waters of oblivion Might purge the burdened soul of her life's dross. Cleansing dark overgrowths that dull the gloss Wherewith her pristine gold so purely shone ! Oh that some spell might make us dream undone Those deeds that fret our pillow, when we toss Racked by the torments of that living cross Where memory frowns a grim centurion ! Sleep, the kind soother of our bodily smart, Is bought and sold by scales-weight; quivering nerves Sink into slumber when the hand of art Hath touched some hidden spring of brain or heart : But for the tainted will no medicine serves ; The road from sin to suffering never swerves. What skill shall anodyne the mind diseased ? Did Rome's fell tyrant cure his secret sore With those famed draughts of cooling hellebore ? What opiates on the fiends of thought have seized ? This fever of the spirit hath been eased By no grave simples culled on any shore ; No surgeon's knife, no muttered charm, no lore Of Phoebus Paian have those pangs appeased. 206 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Herself must be her saviour. Side by side Spring poisonous weed and helpful antidote Within her tangled herbage ; lonely pride And humble fellow-service ; dreams that dote, Deeds that aspire; foul sloth, free labor: she Hath power to choose, and what she wills, to be. AT AMALFI. Here might I rest forever ; here, Till death, inviolate of fear. Descended cloud-like on calm eyes. Enjoy the whisper of the waves Stealing around those azure caves. The gloom and glory of the skies ! Great mother, Nature, on thy breast Let me, unsoiled by sorrow, rest. By sin unstirred, by love made free : Full-tried am I by years that bring The blossoms of the tardy spring Of wisdom, thine adept to be. In vain I pray: the wish expires Upon my lip, as fade the fires Of youth in withered veins and weak ; Not mine to dwell, the neophyte Of Nature, in her shrine of light. But still to strive and still to seek. I have outgrown the primal mirth That throbs in air and sea and earth; The world of worn humanity Reclaims my care ; at ease to range Those hills, and watch their interchange Of light and gloom, is not for me. JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. 207 Dread Pan, to thee I turn : thy soul That through the hving world doth roll, Stirs in our heart an aching sense Of beauty, too divinely wrought To be the food of mortal thought, For earth-born hunger too intense. Breathless we sink before thy shrine ; We pour our spirits forth like wine ; With trembling hands we strive to lift The veil of airy amethyst, That shrouds thy godhood like a mist ; Then, dying, forth to darkness drift. Thy life around us laughs, and we Are merged in its immensity ; Thy chanted melodies we hear. The marrying chords that meet and kiss Between two silences ; but miss The meaning, though it seems so clear. From suns that sink o'er silent seas, From myrtles neath the mountain breeze Shedding their drift of scented snow. From fleeting hues, from sounds that swoon On pathless hills, from night and noon. The inarticulate passions flow. That are thy minions, mighty Pan ! No priest hast thou ; no muse or man Hath ever told, shall ever tell. But each within his heart alone. Awe-struck and dumb hath learned to own The burden of thine oracle. 208 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. VINTAGE. I FOUND him lying neath the vines that ran Grape-laden o'er gray frames of oak and beech ; A fair and jocund Faun, whose beard began, Like dewy down on quince or blushing peach. To soften chin and cheek. He bade me reach My hand to his, and drew me through the screen Of clusters intertwined with glistening green. Sunrise athwart us fell — a living fire, That touching turned our tendrilled roof to red ; Network of shade from many a flickering spire And solid orb upon the youth was shed ; With purple grapes and white his comely head Was crowned, and in his hand a bunch he pressed Against the golden glory of his breast. Gourds with the grapes, and hops, and serpentine Wreaths of blue bindweed tangling built a bower, Where lying we could watch 'twixt vine and vine Young men and maidens move, and singing shower On wattled crates the fruit whose hoary flower With dew still glistened ; for the kiss of night Lay yet on vale and mountain misty-bright. Some trod the press ; some climbed the elms that hung Vine-burdened ; and beneath, a beardless boy Tuning his melancholy lute-strings sung A wild shrill song, that spake of only joy, But was so sad that virgins cold and coy Melted, and love mid sorrow-sweetness fell On careless hearts that felt the powerful spell. JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. 209 BE ATI ILLI. Blest is the man whose heart and hands are pure ! He hath no sickness that he shall not cure, No sorrow that he may not well endure : His feet are steadfast and his hope is sure. Oh, blest is he who ne'er hath sold his soul, Whose will is perfect, and whose word is whole. Who hath not paid to common sense the toll Of self-disgrace, nor owned the world's control ! Through clouds and shadows of the darkest night He will not lose a glimmering of the light, Nor, though the sun of day be shrouded quite. Swerve from the narrow path to left or right. 14 210 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. AGNES MARY FRANCES ROBINSON. THE SCAPE-GOAT. She lived in the Iiovel alone, the beautiful child. Alas, that it should have been so ! But her father died of the drink, and the sons went wild; And where was the child to go ? Her brothers left her alone in the lonely hut. Ah, it was dreary at night When the wind whistled right through the door that never would shut. And sent her sobbing with fright. She never had slept alone ; for the stifling room Held her, brothers, father — all. Ah, better their violence, better their threats, than the gloom That now hung close as a pall ! When the hard day's washing was done, it was sweeter to stand Hearkening praises and vows. To feel her cold fingers kept warm in a sheltering hand, Than crouch in the desolate house. Ah, me ! she was only a child ; and yet so aware Of the shame which follows on sin. A poor, lost, terrified child ! she stept in the snare, Knowing the toils she was in. AGNES MARY FRANCES ROBINSON. 21 1 Yet, now, when I watch her pass with a heavy reel, Shouting her villanous song, Is it only pity or shame, do you think, that I feel For the infinite sorrow and wrong ? With a sick, strange wonder I ask, Who shall answer the sin. Thou, lover, brothers of thine ? Or he who left standing thy hovel to perish in ? Or I, who gave no sign ? JUTZI SCHULTHEISSP Toss, 1300. The gift of God was mine ; I lost For aye the gift of Pentecost. For seven long years the gift was mine, I often saw the angels shine Suddenly down the cloister's dark Deserted length at night ; and oft At the high mass I seemed to mark A stranger music, high and soft, That swam about the heavenly Cup, And caught our ruder voices up ; And often, nay, indeed at will, I would lie back and let the still Cold trance creep over me — and see Mary and all the Saints flash by. Till only God was left and I. The gift of God was mine ; I lost For aye the gift of Pentecost. 212 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN: Now sometimes in the summer time I stood beneath the orchard trees, And in their boughs I heard the breeze Keep on a low continuing rhyme, And nothing else was heard beside The little birds that sang and cried Their Latin to the praise of God. And under foot new grass I trod. And overhead the light was green, And all the boughs were starred and gay With apple-blossoms in between The fresh young leaves as sweet as they. And as I looked upon the sun, Who made these fair things every one To sprout and sing and wax so strong. My whole heart turned into a song. ' For, God,' I thought, ' this sun art Thou, And Thou art in the orchard bough. And in the grass whereon I tread. And in the bird-song overhead. And in my soul and limbs and voice, And in my heart which must rejoice — God ! ' And my song stopped weak and dazed, I seemed upon the very verge Of some great brink, wherefrom amazed My soul shrank back, lest should emerge Thence — Nay, what then ? What should I fear ? I to whom God was known and dear ? Once so possessed with God, I stood In prayer within the orchard wood, When some one softly called my name. And shattered all my happy mood. Towards me an ancient Sister came, ' Quick Jutzi, to the hall ! ' she cried ; And swiftly after her I hied, AGNES MARY FRANCES ROBINSON. 213 And swiftly reached the convent hall, Now full of struggle and loud with brawl. Close to the door aghast I stayed, Too much indignant and afraid To ask who wrought this blasphemy. Then the old nun crept nearer me. And whispered how some knights to-day, Riding to Ziirich's tourney-fray, Had craved our shelter and repast, And how we made the postern fast, Because they were so rough a crew. Yet gave them food and rest enew In the great barn outside the gate ; And how they feasted long and late Till, drunk, they stormed the postern door. And sacked the buttery for more. Nor this the end ; for having done, One shouted ' Nassau ; ' straightway one ' Hapsburg.' The battle was begun. She looked at me afraid and faint. With eyes that mutely begged for aid ; For I was safe and I a saint. She thought, who was a frightened maid ; And through the clamor and the din I heard her say, ' They can but sin. Having not God within their heart; But we, who have the better part. Must pray for them to Christ above, That in the greatness of His love He pardon them their sins to-day.' And then she turned her eyes away. But I looked straight before me where The unseemly blows and clamors were. And cold my heart grew, stiff and cold. 214 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. For I had prayed so much of old, So vainly for these knights-at-arms, Who filled the country with alarms — Too often had I prayed in vain, Too often put myself in pain For these irreverent, brawling, rough, And godless knights — I had prayed enough ! ' Let God,' I cried, ' do all He please ; I pray no more for such as these.' Then swift I turned and fled, as though I fled from sin, and strife, and woe, Who fled from God, and from His grace. Nor stayed I till I reached the place Where I had prayed an hour ago. I stood again beneath the shade The flowering apple-orchard made; The grass was still as tall and green, And fresh as ever it had been. I heard the little rabbits rush As swiftly through the wood ; the thrush Was singing still the self-same song. Yet something there was changed and wrong. Or through the grass or through my heart Some deadly thing had passed athwart, And left behind a blighting track ; For the old peace comes never back. God knows how I am humbled, how There is in all the convent now No novice half so weak and poor In all esteem as I ; the door I keep, and wait on passers-by, And lead the cattle out to browse, And wash the beggars' feet; even I, Who was the glory of our house. AGNES MARY FRANCES ROBINSON. 215 Yet dares my soul rejoice because, Though I have failed, though I have sinned, Not less eternal are the laws Of God, no less the sun and wind Declare His glory than before. Though I am fallen, and faint, and poor. Nay should I fall to very Hell, Yet am I not so miserable As heathen are, who know not Him, Who makes all other glories dim. O God, believed in still though lost, Yet fill me with Thy Holy Ghost — Let but the vision fill mine eye An instant ere the tear be dry; Or, if Thou wilt, keep hid and far, Yet art Thou still the secret star To which my soul sets all her tides, My soul that recks of nought besides. Have I not found Thee in the fire Of sunset's purple after-glow ? Have I not found Thee in the throe Of anguished hearts that bleed and tire ? God, once so plain to see and hear. Now never answering any tear. O God, a guest within my house Thou wert, my love thou wert, my spouse; Yet never known so well as now When the ash whitens on my brow ; And cinders on my head are tossed. Because the gift I had I lost. 2l6 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. LE ROI EST MORT. And shall I weep that Love's no more, And magnify his reign ? Sure never mortal man before Would have his grief again. Farewell the long continued ache, The days a-dream, the nights awake, I will rejoice and merry make, And never more complain. King Love is dead and gone for aye. Who ruled with might and main, For with a bitter word one day, I found my tyrant slain. And he in Heathenesse was bred. Nor ever was baptized, 't is said, Nor is of any creed, and dead Can never rise again. A CLASSIC LANDSCAPE. This wood might be some Grecian heritage Of the antique world, this hoary ilex wood ; So broad the shade, so deep the solitude. So gray the air where Oread fancies brood. Beyond, the fields are tall with purple sage ; The sky bends downward like a purple sheet — A purple wind-filled sail — i' the noonday heat ; And past the river shine the fields of wheat. O tender wheat, O starry saxifrage, O deep-red tulips, how the fields are fair ! Far off the mountains pierce the quivering air, Ash-colored, mystical, remote, and bare. AGNES MARY FRANCES ROBINSON. 217 How far they look, the Mountains of Mirage, Or northern hills of Heaven, how far away ! In front the long paulonia blossoms sway From leafless boughs across that dreamy gray. O world, how worthy of a golden age ! How might Theocritus have sung and found The Oreads here, the Naiads gathering round. Their pallid locks still dripping to the ground. For me, O world, thou art how mere a stage. Whereon the human soul must play alone, In a dead language, with the plot unknown, Nor learn what happens when the play is done. INVOCATIONS. O SONG in the nightingale's throat, O music, Dropt as it fell, by a falling star, — All of the silence is filled with thy pain. Listening till it shall echo again. O song in the nightingale's throat, O music, Thou art the soul of the silence afar ! O space of the moon in the starless heaven. Raining a whiteness on moorland and sea, Falling as lightly and purely as dew. All of the shadow thou filterest through — O space of the moon in the starless heaven. Surely the night is the shadow of thee ! O silence of Death, O world of darkness. When over me the last shadow shall fall, Holdest thou safe in the night all around Any moon to arise, any music to sound ? O silence of Death, O world of darkness. Shall we perceive thee, or know thee at all .'' 2l8 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. REMEMBRANCE. O Night of death, O night that bringest all, Night full of dreams and large with promises, O night, that holdest on thy shadowy knees Sleep for all fevers, hope for every thrall ; Bring thou to her for whom I wake and call. Bring her when I am dead, for memories Our vanished love, and all our vanished ease ; And I shall live again beneath the pall ! Then let my face, pale as a waning moon. Rise on thy dark and be again as dear ; Let my dead voice find its forgotten tune And strike again as sweetly in her ear. As when, upon my lips, one far-off June, Thy name — O Death — she could not brook to hear. WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. 21Q WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. WOODSTOCK MAZE. ' O NEVER shall any one find you then ! ' Said he, merrily pinching her cheek ; ' But why ? ' she asked, ^ he only laughed, — ' Why shall it be thus, now speak ! ' ' Because so like a bird art thou, Thou must live within green trees, With nightingales and thrushes and wrens. And the humming of wild bees.' Oh, the shower and the sunshine every day Pass and pass, be ye sad, be ye gay. ' Nay, nay, you jest, no wren am I, Nor thrush nor nightingale, And rather would keep this arras and wall 'Tween me and the wind's assail. I like to hear little Minnie's gay laugh, And the whistle of Japes the page. Or to watch old Madge when her spindle twirls. And she tends it like a sage.' Oh, the leaves, brown, yellow, and red, still fall, Fall and fall over churchyard or hall. 'Yea, yea, but thou art the world's best Rose, And about thee flowers I '11 twine. And wall thee round with holly and beech, Sweet-briar and jessamine.' 220 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. ' Nay, nay, sweet master, I 'm no Rose, But a woman indeed, indeed. And love many things both great and small, And of many things more take heed.' Oh, the shower and the sunshine every day Pass and pass, be ye sad, be ye gay. 'Aye, sweetheart, sure thou sayest sooth, I think thou art even so ! But yet needs must I dibble the hedge. Close serried as hedge can grow. Then Minnie and Japes and Madge shall be Thy merry-mates all day long, And thou shalt hear my bugle-call For matin or even-song.' Ob, the leaves, brown, yellow, and red, still fall. Fall and fall over churchyard or hall. ' Look yonder now, my blue-eyed bird, See'st thou aught by yon far stream ? There shalt thou find a more curious nest Than ever thou sawest in dream.' She followed his finger, she looked in vain, She saw neither cottage nor hall. But at his beck came a litter on wheels, Screened by a red silk caul ; He lifted her in by her lily-white hand. So left they the blithe sunny wall. Oh, the shower and the sunshine every day Pass and pass, be ye sad, be ye gay. The gorse and ling are netted and strong. The conies leap everywhere. The wild briar-roses by runnels grow thick; Seems never a pathway there. Then come the dwarf oaks knotted and wrung Breeding apples and mistletoe, WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. 22 And now tall elms from the wet mossed ground Straight up to the white clouds go. Oh, the leaves, brown, yellow, and red, still fall. Fall and fall over churchyard or hall. ' O weary hedge, O thorny hedge ! ' Quoth she in her lonesome bower, ' Round and round it is all the same ; Days, weeks, have all one hour; I hear the cushat far overhead. From the dark heart of that plane ; Sudden rushes of wings I hear. And silence as sudden again. Oh, the shower and the sunshine every day Pass and pass, be ye sad, be ye gay. ' Maiden Minnie she mopes by the fire. Even now in the warmth of June ; I like not Madge to look in my face, Japes now hath never a tune. But, oh, he is so kingly strong, And, oh, he is kind and true ; Shall not my babe, if God cares for me, Be his pride and his joy too.'' Oh, the leaves, brown, yellow, and red, still fall. Fall and fall over churchyard or hall. ' I lean my faint heart against this tree Whereon he hath carved my name, I hold me up by this fair bent bough, For he held once by the same ; But everything here is dank and cold, The daisies have sickly eyes, The clouds like ghosts down into my prison Look from the barred-out skies. Oh, the shower aitd the sunshine every day Pass and pass, be ye sad, be ye gay. 22 2 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. I tune my lute and I straight forget What I minded to play, woe 's me ! Till it feebly moans to the sharp short gusts Aye rushing from tree to tree. Often that single redbreast comes To the sill where my Jesu stands ; I speak to him as to a child; he flies, Afraid of these poor thin hands ! Oh, the leaves, brown, yellow, and red, still fall. Fall and fall over churchyard or hall. ' The golden evening burns right through My dark chamber windows twain : I listen, all round me is only a grave. Yet listen I ever again. Will he come ? I pluck the flower-leaves off, And at each, cry, yes, no, yes ! I blow the down from the dry hawkweed, Once, twice, ah ! it flyeth amiss ! Oh, the shower and the sunshine every day Pass and pass, be ye sad, be ye gay. ' Hark! he comes ! yet his footstep sounds As it sounded never before ! Perhaps he thinks to steal on me, But I'll hide behind the door.' She ran, she stopped, stood still as stone — It was Queen Eleanore ; And at once she felt that it was death The hungering she-wolf bore ! Oh, the leaves, brown, yellow, and red, still fall. Fall and fall over churchyard or hall. WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. 223 SAINT MARGARET. The wan lights freeze on the dark cold floor, Witch lights and green the high windows adorn ; The cresset is gone out the altar before, She knows her long hour of life 's nigh worn, And she kneels here waiting to be re-born, On the stones of the chancel. ' That door darkly golden, that noiseless door. Through which I can see sometimes,' said she, ' Will it ever be opened to close no more ; Will those wet clouds cease pressing on me ; Shall I cease to hear the sound of the sea ? ' Her handmaids miss her and rise. ' r ve served in life's prison-house long,' she said, ' Where silver and gold are heavy and bright, Where children wail and where maidens wed. Where the day is wearier than the night. And each would be master if he might.' Margaret ! they seek thee. The night waxed darker than before ; Scarce could the windows be traced at all. Only the sharp rain was heard rushing o'er ; A sick sleeper moaned through the cloister wall. And a horse neighed shrill from a distant stall. And the sea sounded on. ' Are all the dear holy ones shut within, That none descend in my strait ? ' said she ; ' Their songs are afar off, far off and thin. The terrible sounds of the prison-house flee About me, and the sound of the sea.' Lights gleam from room to room. 224 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Slowly a moonshine breaks over the glass, The black and green witchcraft is there no more ; It spreads and it brightens, and out of it pass Four angels with glorified hair, — all four With lutes ; and our Lord is in heaven's door. Margaret ! they hail thee. Her eyes are a-wide to the hallowM light, Her head is cast backward, her bosom is clad With the flickering moonlight pale-purple and white ; Away to the angels her spirit hath fled. While her body still kneels, — but is it not dead ? She is safe, she is well ! PARTING AND MEETING AGAIN. Last time I parted from my dear The linnet sang from the briar-bush, The throstle from the dell ; The stream too carolled full and clear, It was the spring-time of the year, And both the linnet and the thrush I love them well, Since last I parted from my dear. But when he came again to me The barley rustled high and low. Linnet and thrush were still ; Yellowed the apple on the tree, 'T was autumn merry as it could be, What time the white ships come and go Under the hill ; They brought him back again to me. Brought him safely o'er the sea. WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. 225 OUTSIDE THE TEMPLE. I STOOD before the vail of the Unknown, And round me in this hfe's dim theatre Was gathered a whole townsfolk, all astir With various interludes : I watched alone, And saw a great hand lift the vail, then shone, Descending from the innermost expanse, A goddess to whose eyes my heart at once Flew up with awe and love, a love full-blown. Naked and white she was, her fire-girt hair Eddied on either side her straight high head, Swaddled within her arms in lambent flame. An unborn life, a child-soul, did she bear. And laid it on a young wife's breast and fled. Yet no one wondered whence the strange gift came ! II. Again that stage was vacant, that dusk crowd Was murmuring as before : again that hand Gathered the curtain; I saw rise and stand Against the inmost blackness like a cloud. No feature seen, but o'er his brows a proud Spiked crown that held the thick mist clothing him, A strong imperious creature, tall and slim, And hateful too, thus hid within that shroud. Stooping he raised within his long thin arms A scared old man and rolled him up, and fled : IS 226 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. And all the crowd shrieked out, and muttering charms, Threw down their fiddle-bows and merchandise, — Around the stark corpse knelt with suppliant cries. Nor ceased still wondering where was gone — the dead ! PARTED LOVE. EVENING. As in a glass at evening, dusky-gray, The faces of those passing through the room Seen like ghost-transits thwart reflected gloom, Thus, darling image ! thou, so long away, Visitest sometimes my darkening day : Other friends come ; the toy of life turns round. The glittering beads change with their tinkling sound. Whilst thou in endless youth sit'st silently. How vain to call time back, to think these arms Again may touch, may shield, those shoulders soft And solid, never more my eyes can see ; But yet, perchance — {speak low) — beyond all harms, I may walk with thee in God's other croft. When this world shall the darkling mirror be. PYGMALION. ' Mistress of gods and men ! I have been thine From boy to man, and many a myrtle rod Have I made grow upon thy sacred sod. Nor ever have I passed thy white shafts nine Without some votive offering for the shrine, Carved beryl or chased bloodstone; — aid me now. And I will live to fashion for thy brow Heart-breaking priceless things: O, make her mine.' WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. 227 Venus inclined her ear, and through the Stone Forthwith slid warmth like spring through sapling-stems, And lo, the eyelid stirred, beneath had grown The tremulous light of life, and all the hems Of her zoned peplos shook — upon his breast. She sank by two dread gifts at once oppressed. 228 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN: ARTHUR WILLIAM EDGAR O'SHAUGH- NESSY. ODE. We are the music makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams ; — World-losers and world-forsakers, On whom the pale moon gleams : Yet we are the movers and shakers Of the world forever, it seems. With wonderful deathless ditties We build up the world's great cities, And out of a fabulous story We fashion an empire's glory : One man with a dream, at pleasure. Shall go forth and conquer a crown ; And three with a new song's measure Can trample a kingdom down. We, in the ages lying In the buried past of the earth. Built Nineveh with our sighing. And Babel itself in our mirth ; And o'erthrew them with prophesying To the old of the new world's worth ; For each age is a dream that is dying, Or one that is coming to birth. ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. 229 A breath of our inspiration Is the life of each generation; A wondrous thing of our dreaming Unearthly, impossible seeming — The soldier, the king, and the peasant Are working together in one, Till our dream shall become their present, And their work in the world be done. They had no vision amazing Of the goodly house they are raising ; They had no divine foreshowing Of the land to which they are going : But on one man's soul it hath broken, A light that doth not depart ; And his look, or a word he hath spoken, Wrought flame in another man's heart. And therefore to-day is thrilling With a past day's late fulfilling ; And the multitudes are enlisted In the faith that their fathers resisted. And, scorning the dream of to-morrow. Are bringing to pass, as they may. In the world, for its joy or its sorrow. The dream that was scorned yesterday. But we, with our dreaming and singing. Ceaseless and sorrowless we ! The glory about us clinging Of the glorious futures we see. Our souls with high music ringing : O men ! it must ever be That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing, A little apart from ye. 23° POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. For we are afar with the dawning And the suns that are not yet high, And out of the infinite morning Intrepid you hear us cry — How, spite of your human scorning. Once more God's future draws nigh, And already goes forth the warning That ye of the past must die. Great hail ! we cry to the comers From the dazzling unknown shore ; Bring us hither your sun and your summers, And renew our world as of yore ; You shall teach us your song's new numbers. And things that we dreamed not before : Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers. And a singer who sings no more. OUTCRY. In all my singing and speaking, I send my soul forth seeking : soul of my soul's dreaming. When wilt thou hear and speak ? Sorely and lonely seeming. Thou art there in my dreaming; Hast thou no sorrow for speaking ? Hast thou no dream to seek? In all my thinking and sighing, In all my desolate crying, 1 send my heart forth yearning, O heart that mayst be nigh ! Like a bird weary of flying, My heavy heart, returning. ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. 231 Bringeth me no replying, Of word, or thought, or sigh. In all my joying and grieving, Living, hoping, believing, I send my love forth flowing, To find my unknown love. O world that I am leaving, O heaven where I am going, Is there no finding and knowing. Around, within, or above ? O soul of my soul's seeing, heart of my heart's being, O love of dreaming and waking And living and dying for — Out of my soul's last aching. Out of my heart just breaking — Doubting, falling, forsaking, 1 call on you this once more. Are you too high or too lowly To come at length unto me ? Are you too sweet or too holy For me to have and to see ? Wherever you are, I call you. Ere the falseness of life enthral you. Ere the hollow of death appal you, While yet your spirit is free. Have you not seen, in sleeping, A lover that might not stay. And remembered again with weeping. And thought of him through the day? — Ah ! thought of him long and dearly, Till you seemed to behold him clearly. 232 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. And could follow the dull time merely With heart and love far away? Have you not known him kneeling To a deathless vision of you, Whom only an earth was concealing, Whom all that was heaven proved true ? O surely some wind gave motion To his words like a wave of the ocean ; Ay ! so that you felt his devotion, And smiled, and wondered, and knew. And what are you thinking and saying, In the land where you are delaying ? Have you a chain to sever? Have you a prison to break ? O love! there is one love forever, And never another love — never ; And hath it not reached you, my praying And singing these years for your sake ? We two, made one, should have power To grow to a beautiful flower, A tree for men to sit under Beside life's flowerless stream : But I without you am only A dreamer, fruitless and lonely ; And you without me, a wonder In my most beautiful dream. TO A YOUNG MURDERESS>^ Fair, yellow murderess, whose gilded head Gleaming with deaths ; whose deadly body white. Writ o'er with secret records of the dead ; Whose tranquil eyes, that hide the dead from sight ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. 233 Down in their tenderest depth and bluest bloom ; Whose strange unnatural grace ; whose prolonged youth — • Are for my death now and the shameful doom Of all the man I might have been in truth — Your fell smile, sweetened still, lest I might shun Its lingering murder, with a kiss for lure, Is like the fascinating steel that one Most vengeful in his last revenge and sure The victim lies beneath him, passes slow, Again and oft again before his eyes And over all his frame, that he may know And suffer the whole death before he dies. Will you not slay me ? Stab me ; yea, somehow Deep in the heart : say some foul word to last And let me hate you as I love you now : Oh, would I might but see you turn and cast That false fair beauty that you e'en shall lose, And fall down there and writhe about my feet, The crooked loathly viper I shall bruise Through all eternity ! — Nay ; kiss me. Sweet ! 234 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. ROBERT BULWER, EARL OF LYTTON. MADAME LA MARQUISE. The folds of her wine-dark videt dress Glow over the sofa, fall on fall, As she sits in the air of her loveliness, With a smile for each and for all. Half of her exquisite face in the shade Which o'er it the screen in her soft hand flings : Through the gloom glows her hair in its odorous braid : In the firelight are sparkling her rings. As she leans, — the slow smile half shut up in her eyes Beams the sleepy, long, silk-soft lashes beneath ; Through her crimson lips, stirred by her faint replies. Breaks one gleam of her pearl-white teeth. As she leans, — where your eye, by her beauty subdued. Droops — from under warm fringes of broidery white The slightest of feet — silken-slippered, protrude. For one moment, then slip out of sight. As I bend o'er her bosom, to tell her the news. The faint scent of her hair, the approach of her cheek, The vague warmth of her breath, all my senses suffuse With HERSELF : and I tremble to speak. So she sits in the curtained, luxurious light Of that room, with its porcelain, and pictures, and flowers. When the dark day 's half done, and the snow flutters white. Past the windows in feathery showers. ROBERT BULWER, EARL OF LYTTON. 235 All without is so cold, — 'neatli the low leaden sky ! Down the bald, empty street, like a ghost, the gendarme Stalks surly : a distant carriage hums by : — All within is so bright and so warm ! Here we talk of the schemes and the scandals of court. How the courtesan pushes: the charlatan thrives : We put horns on the heads of our friends, just for sport : Put intrigues in the heads of their wives. Her warm hand, at parting, so strangely thrilled mine. That at dinner I scarcely remark what they say, — Drop the ice in my soup, spill the salt in my wine. Then go yawn at my favorite play. But she drives after noon ; — then 's the time to behold her, With her fair face, half hid, like a ripe peeping rose, 'Neath that veil, — o'er the velvets and furs which enfold her. Leaning back with a queenly repose, — As she glides up the sunlight ! — you'd say she was made To loll back in a carriage, all day, with a smile. And at dusk, on a sofa, to lean in the shade Of soft lamps, and be wooed for a while. Could we find out her heart through that velvet and lace ! Can it beat without ruffling her sumptuous dress? She will show us her shoulder, her bosom, her face ; But what the heart's like, we must guess..' With live women and men to be found in the world — ( — Live with sorrow and sin, — live with pain and with passion, — ) Who could live with a doll, though its locks should be curled, And its petticoats trimmed in the fashion ? 236 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. 'T is so fair ! — would my bite, if I bit it, draw blood ? Will it cry if I hurt it ? or scold if I kiss ? Is it made, with its beauty, of wax or of wood ? — Is it worth while to guess at all this ? THE CHESS-BOARD. My little love, do you remember. Ere we were grown so sadly wise, Those evenings in the bleak December, Curtained warm from the snowy weather, When you and I played chess together. Checkmated by each other's eyes ? Ah, still I see your soft white hand Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight. Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand. The double Castles guard the wings : The Bishop, bent on distant things. Moves, sidling through the fight. Our fingers touch ; our glances meet. And falter ; falls your golden hair Against my cheek ; your bosom sweet Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen Rides slow her soldiery all between, And checks me unaware. Ah me ! the little battle 's done, Disperst is all its chivalry; Full many a move, since then, have we 'Mid life's perplexing checkers made. And many a game with Fortune played, — What is it we have won? This, this at least — if this alone ; — ROBERT BULWER, EARL OF LYTTON. 237 That never, never, nevermore. As in those old still nights of yore (Ere we were grown so sadly wise), Can you and I shut out the skies, Shut out the world, and wintry weather, And, eyes exchanging warmth with eyes. Play chess, as then we played, together ! FROM 'LUCILE.'i9 FROM CANTO IV. Alas, friend ! what boots it, a stone at his head And a brass on his breast, — when a man is once dead ? Ay! were fame the sole guerdon, poor guerdon were then Theirs who, stripping life bare, stand forth models for men. The reformer's? — a creed by posterity learnt A century after its author is burnt ! The poet's ? — a laurel that hides the bald brow It hath blighted ! The painter's ? — ask Raphael now Which Madonna 's authentic ! The statesman's ? — a name For parties to blacken, or boys to declaim ! The soldier's ? — three lines on the cold Abbey pavement ! Were this all the life of the wise and the brave meant, All it ends in, thrice better, Neaera, it were Unregarded to sport with thine odorous hair, Untroubled to lie at thy feet in the shade And be loved, while the roses yet bloom overhead. Than to sit by the lone hearth, and think the long thought, A severe, sad, blind schoolmaster, envied for naught Save the name of John Milton ! For all men, indeed. Who in some choice edition may graciously read. With fair illustration, and erudite note. The song which the poet in bitterness wrote. Beat the poet, and notably beat him, in this — 238 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. The joy of the genius is theirs, whilst they miss The grief of the man: Tasso's song, — not his madness ! Dante's dreams, — not his waking to exile and sadness ! Milton's music, — but not Milton's bhndness ! — yet rise, My Milton, and answer, with those noble eyes Which the glory of heaven hath blinded to earth ! Say — the life, in the living it, savors of worth : That the deed, in the doing it, reaches its aim : That the fact has a value apart from the fame : That a deeper dehght, in the mere labor, pays Scorn of lesser delights, and laborious days : And Shakespeare, though all Shakespeares's writings were lost. And his genius, though never a trace of it crossed Posterity's path, not the less would have dwelt In the isle with Miranda, with Hamlet have felt All that Hamlet hath uttered, and haply where pure On its death-bed wronged Love lay, have moaned with the Moor! EMILY PFEIFFER. 239 EMILY PFEIFFER. BROKEN LIGHT. It was cruel of them to part Two hearts in the gladsome spring, Two lovers' hearts that had just burst forth With each blithe and beautiful thing ; Cruel, but only half — Had they known how to do us wrong, They had barred the way of the odorous May, They had shut out the wild bird's song. Your kisses were so embalmed With spices of beech and fir. That they haunt my lips in the dead o' the night, If the night-winds do but stir ; When I rise with the rising dawn, To let in the dewy south, Like a fountain spray, or the pride of the day, They fall on my thirsty mouth. They should never have let our love Abroad in the wild free woods, If they meant it to slumber on, cold and tame, As the locked-up winter floods ; They should never have let it hide 'Neath the beeches' lucent shade, Or the upturned arch of the tender larch That blushed as it heaved and swayed. 240 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGlSr. Now the young and passionate year Is no longer itself, hwtyou; Its conniving woods, with their raptures and thrills, You have leavened them through and through. The troubadour nightingale And the dove that o'erbends the bough, Have both learnt, and teach, the trick of your speech. As they echo it vow for vow. My heart is heavy with scorn. Mine eyes with impatient tears. But the heaven looks blue through the cherry-blooms, And preaches away my fears ! From the burning bush of the gorse, Alive with murmurous sound, I hear a voice, and it says, ' Rejoice ! ' I stand as on holy ground. O flower of life ! O Love ! God's love is at thy root ; They may dim thy glory, but cannot blight Or hinder thy golden fruit. Yet all the same, I am mad. However the end may fall, That they dare to wring, in the gladsome spring, Two hearts that were gladdest of all. TO NATURE. IN HER ASCRIBED CHARACTER OF UNMEANING AND ALL- PERFORMING FORCE. O Nature ! thou whom I have thought to love. Seeing in thine the reflex of God's face, A loathed abstraction would usurp thy place, — With Him they not dethrone, they but disprove. Weird Nature ! can it be that joy is fled, EMILY PFEIFFER. 241 And bald unmeaning lurks beneath thy smile ? That beauty haunts the dust but to beguile, And that with Order, Love and Hope are dead ? Pitiless Force, all-moving, all unmoved, Dread mother of unfathered worlds, assuage Thy wrath on us, — be this wild life reproved. And trampled into nothing in thy rage ! Vain prayer, although the last of human kind, — Force is not wrath, — but only deaf and blind. Dread force, in whom of old we loved to see A nursing mother, clothing with her life The seeds of Love divine, with what sore strife We hold or yield our thoughts of Love and thee ! Thou art not ' calm,' but restless as the ocean. Filling with aimless toil the endless years — Stumbling on thought, and throwing off the spheres, — Churning the Universe with mindless motion. Dull fount of joy, unhallowed source of tears. Cold motor of our fervid faith and song. Dead, but engendering Hfe, love, pangs, and fears, Thou crownedst thy wild work with foulest wrong When first thou lightedst on a seeming goal, And darkly blundered on man's suffering soul. Blind Cyclop, hurling stones of destiny, And not in fury ! — working bootless ill, In mere vacuity of mind and will — Man's soul revolts against thy work and thee ! Slaves of a despot, conscienceless and nill, Slaves, by mad chance be fooled to think them free. We still might rise, and with one heart agree To mar the ruthless ' grinding of thy mill ! ' Dead tyrant, tlio' our cries and groans pass by thee, Man, cutting off from each new ' tree of life ' Himself, its fatal flower, could still defy thee, 16 242 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. In waging on thy work eternal strife, — The races come and coming evermore, Heaping with hecatombs thy dead-sea shore. If we be fools of chance, indeed, and tend No whither, than the blinder fools in this : That, loving good, we live, in scorn of bliss. Its wageless servants to the evil end. If, at the last, man's thirst for higher things Be quenched in dust, the giver of his life, Why press with glowing zeal a hopeless strife, — Why — born for creeping — should he dream of wings ? O Mother Dust ! thou hast one law so mild. We call it sacred — all thy creatures own it — The tie which binds the parent and the child, — Why has man's loving heart alone outgrown it ? Why hast thou travailed so to be denied ? So trampled by a would-be matricide ? THE STING OF DEA TH. O Thou whom men affirm we cannot know, It may be we may never see Thee nearer Than ' in the clouds,' nor ever trace Thee clearer Than in that garment which, howe'er aglow With love divine, is still a changing show, A little shadowing forth, and more concealing, A glory which, in uttermost revealing, Might strike us dead with one supreme life-blow. We may not reach Thee through the void immense Measured by suns, or prove Thee anywhere. But hungry eyes that hunt the wilds above For one lost face, still drop despairing thence To find Thee in the heart — life's ravished lair — Else were the ' sting of death ' not sin, but love ! EMILY PFEIFFER. 243 THE GOSPEL OF DREAD TIDINGS. If that sad creed which honest men and true Are flouting in the cheerful face of Day, Are teaching in the schools, and by the way, — Tho' only guesses on a broken clue, — If such should in the end quench all the blue Above us, then the saddest souls were they Who knew and loved the best, and could not lay The ghost of Hope, and hold the grave in lieu. O Christ, Thou highest man ! if it were so. And Thou couldst see it, that great heart of Thine Would burn to come amongst us, — not to preach Thy law again, or set our loves a-glow, Still less in glory, — but to blot each line, Each thought, each word. Thou earnest first to teach. EVOLUTION. Hunger that strivest in the restless arms Of the sea-flower, that drivest rooted things To break their moorings, that unfoldest wings In creatures to be wrapt above thy harms ; Hunger, of whom the hungry-seeming waves Were the first ministers, till, free to range. Thou madest the Universe thy park and grange. What is it thine insatiate heart still craves .? Sacred disquietude, divine unrest ! Maker of all that breathes the breath of life. No unthrift greed spurs thine unflagging zest. No lust self-slaying, hounds thee to the strife ; Thou art the Unknown God on whom we wait : Thy path the course of our unfolded fate. 244 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF RELGN. PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. FALSE REST AND TRUE REST. 'And thou hast taken from me my fair faith, Which like a star lit the waste night of death — A light I thought no blast could ever kill. friend of mine, was it with me so ill To fancy that my lips when void of breath Should open in that land one entereth Through portals of the grave — how dark, how chill? 'What hast thou set me in my dear hope's place But thy stern truth, with white, implacable face, Cold eyes, shut lips, clenched hand, and barren breast? 1 stand, of all my sweet faith dispossessed — Discrowned of my belief. Death hath no grace. But seems a thing to shudder at. My days Are joyless and my nights are void of rest. ' I thought that I, in some far paradise, Should hear the old, sweet voices, and that eyes Of those I loved and lost my eyes should greet. visionary fields that felt the feet Of my impatient thought, which no more flies From you to me, but in my cold heart lies Quite cold and dead, once warm with my heart's heat. ' O, life was full of comfort in those years ; Sweet things I dreamed of the impossible spheres, 1 had a haven. If the winds were strong, PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. 245 Above their roar I caught from far the song Of beckoning angels. Now no light appears — No song at all, my heart, desirous, hears ; The day is short, but O the night is long ! ' O long, O dreary long, that night of death ! No dawn it hath, no star that hghteneth. There comes no love, no passionate memory Of all the dear delights that used to be. Shall one see God there, lying without breath ; Or shall the dead give thanks ? the psalmist saith, Nay, if the dead thank, they thank silently. ' There is no dreariness in death for one Who sets his eyes on Truth, that cold, calm sun. By whose impartial and unvarying light Men might walk surely, who now grope in night. Who fears, when labor of the day is done. To rest and sleep? Then wherefore should ye shun The sleep no dream, no waking, come to spite ? ' Lift up and fix on truth thy timorous eyes. Till they can tolerate her awful skies. Thy rest was warm and sweet, but could it save ? Would thy hope's torch have lasted to the grave .' How suddenly the grim mistrusts arise — " My soul, wilt thou find hell or paradise.' Pray, dear life, keep me till I grow more brave. ' " Oh mighty mystery of mysteries, I venture forth upon the unsailed seas. I go to face the awful, the unknown ; Oh Death, how full of terror art thou grown ! I trust I go to lands of perfect peace. Wherein are all the mighty companies, Of the illustrious dead, and those my own. 246 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN: ' " My own, whose loss was such sharp gall to drink. I trust ! Yet what are we, that we should think Eternal peace and rapture must be ours ? Again by fear appalled my spirit cowers In abject terror on the grave's dark brink. Can I believe that through a coffin-chink From dust of me it breaks anew and flowers ? ' " But nay, I do believe and will attest That God is good, and on my Saviour's breast I shall lie safely, when this life is over " — So say thy lips ; but thy soul sees above her No visible heaven of deep joy and rest ; She knoweth not the end of her long quest, And deathly fears once more about her hover. ' Youth, being eager, may be confident Of things it really knows not ; well content False rest to follow, and to feed on lies ; But will these for the later years suffice ? I speak not of the unintelligent. Who go, like sheep, the way their leader went, But of those souls who have, and use, their eyes. ' That music which of old so loud did seem Comes faint, as from a dawn-receding dream. How has it paled — thy hope of future bliss ! Lo, by chill winds thy light extinguished is — Not quite, for by its fluctuating gleam, Its little, wandering, insufficient beam, Death has a ghastly look, not really his. ' Were it not best all thought to concentrate Upon this life in which we work, and wait, And love, and grieve, and bear. Life is a day, And death the night that follows it? Nay, nay, If, when our days of toil we terminate, PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. 247 We go to be a very part of fate, Or, no end serving, simply pass away. ' How shall death be, or night be, when we know not That life has ceased in us ; that wild winds blow not For us again ; for us no more the sun Fulfils the earth, when winter-time is done ; For us the tender things of Spring they show not ; For us the birds are mute, the rivers flow not — What pain is there in this sweet dissolution ? 'A slothful soul, in time of war I slept. While other men their dangerous outposts kept ; And when you did command me to arise, And with the light and air familiarize My spiritual senses, I had crept Back to my lair, by wholesome winds unswept. Had you not fixed on Truth my coward eyes. ' If life be full of comfort, fair and sweet, I will be meekly thankful that my feet Are spared the stones that wound, and as I may Try to make smooth for others a rougher way ; But should life bitter prove, and incomplete. This pain of living it is very fleet. And rest will come with quiet set of day. ' I feel an ardor never felt till now — A stimulus to work, to keep the vow I take to help each weary woman and man. There was no room before in my life's plan For this — my dreams and visions filled it so ; But now I know the way my soul shall go, Shall I not use it here as best I can ? ' Death holds no longer any fear for me. Now that my hopes and doubts cease equally. 248 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF RELGN. I know, at length, the place I journey to, I know the work in life I have to do. This rest of ours is true rest, verily. O power of undeniable Truth, set free All souls that from false rest a false joy drew.' BEYOND REACH. Dear Love, thou art so far above my song. It is small v^onder that it fears to rise, Knowing it cannot reach my Paradise ; Yet ever to dwell here my thoughts among, Nor try its upward flight would do thee wrong. What time the lark soars singing to the skies, We know he falters, know the sweet song dies. That fain would reach Heaven's gate sustained and strong. But angels bending from the shining brink Catch the faint note, and know the poor song fails, Having no strength to reach their heavenly height ; So listen thou, beloved, and so think. More for the earth than Heaven his song avails. Yet sweetest heard when nearest to God's light. BESIDE THE DEAD. Sad seems the room, and strangely still, where lies Some form quite motionless, in which of late Glad life exulted. Mark the changed estate. The helpless hands, clasped now in peaceful wise. The speechless lips, and unbeholding eyes Which might not look into the eyes of Fate ; And as about the bed you watching wait, What pleading pity to your spirit cries ! PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. 249 But, surely, yet a sadder thing is this. To look upon Love's face, where Love lies dead, While all his memories of pain and bliss. Thorn-crowned and rose-crowned, watch beside the bed. Gone souls may live again, no man can tell ; But dead Love shall not break Death's awful spell. BRIDAL EVE. Half robed, with gold hair drooped o'er shoulders white. She sits as one entranced, with eyes that gaze Upon the mirrowed beauties of her face ; And through the distances of dark and light She hears faint music of the coming night ; She hears the murmurs of receding days ; Her future life is veiled in such a haze As hides, on sultry morns, the sun from sight. Upon the brink of imminent change she stands. Glad, yet afraid to look beyond the verge ; She starts, as at the touch of unseen hands ; Love's music grows half anthem and half dirge. Strange sounds and shadows round her spirit fall, Yet to herself she stranger seems than all. 250 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI. DREAM-LAND. Where sunless rivers weep Their waves into the deep, She sleeps a charmM sleep : Awake her not. Led by a single star, She came from very far To seek where shadows are Her pleasant lot. She left the rosy morn, She left the fields of com, For twilight cold and lorn And water springs. Through sleep, as through a veil, She sees the sky look pale. And hears the nightingale That sadly sings. Rest, rest, a perfect rest Shed over brow and breast ; Her face is toward the west, The purple land. She cannot see the grain Ripening on hill and plain ; She cannot feel the rain Upon her hand. CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI 251 Rest, rest, for evermore Upon a mossy shore ; Rest, rest at the heart's core Till time shall cease : Sleep that no pain shall wake, Night that no morn shall break, Till joy shall overtake Her perfect peace. BIRD RAPTURES. The sunrise wakes the lark to sing, The moonrise wakes the nightingale. Come darkness, moonrise, everything That is so silent, sweet, and pale : Come, so ye wake the nightingale. Make haste to mount, thou wistful moon, Make haste to wake the nightingale : Let silence set the world in tune To hearken to that wordless tale Which warbles from the nightingale. O herald skylark, stay thy flight One moment, for a nightingale Floods us with sorrow and delight. To-morrow thou shalt hoist the sail; Leave us to-night the nightingale. AMOR MUNDL ' O WHERE are you going with your love-locks flowing. On the west wind blowing along this valley track ? ' ' The downhill path is easy, come with me an it please ye, We shall escape the uphill by never turning back.' 252 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. So they two went together in glowing August weather, The honey-breathing heather lay to tlieir left and right; And dear she was to doat on, her swift feet seemed to float on The air like soft twin pigeons too sportive to alight. ' Oh, what is that in heaven where gray cloud-flakes are seven, Where blackest clouds hang riven just at the rainy skirt ? ' ' Oh, that 's a meteor sent us, a message dumb, portentous, An undeciphered solemn signal of help or hurt' ' Oh, what is that glides quickly where velvet flowers grow thickly. Their scent comes rich and sickly?' — 'A scaled and hooded worm.' ' Oh, what 's that in the hollow, so pale I quake to follow ? ' ' Oh, that 's a thin dead body which waits the eternal term.' ' Turn again, O my sweetest, — turn again, false and fleetest : This beaten way thou beatest, I fear is hell's own track.' ' Nay, too steep for hill mounting ; nay, too late for cost counting : This downhill path is easy, but there 's no turning back.' AFTER DEATH. The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay, Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept. He leaned above me, thinking that I slept And could not hear him; but I heard him say : ' Poor child, poor child : ' and as he turned away CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI. 253 Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept. He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold That hid my face, or take my hand in his, Or rufifle the smooth pillows for my head : He did not love me living ; but once dead He pitied me ; and very sweet it is To know he still is warm though I am cold. SONG. When I am dead, my dearest. Sing no sad songs for me ; Plant thou no roses at my head. Nor shady cypress-tree : Be the green grass above me With showers and dew-drops wet ; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget. I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain ; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain : And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember. And haply may forget. CONSIDER. Consider The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief : - We are as they ; Like them we fade away, As doth a leaf. 254 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Consider The sparrows of the air of small account : Our God doth view Whether they fall or mount, — He guards us too. Consider The lilies that do neither spin nor toil, Yet are most fair : — What profits all this care And all this coil ? Consider The birds that have no barn nor harvest-weeks ; God gives them food : — Much more our Father seeks To do us good. UP-HILL. Does the road wind up-hill all the way ? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day ? From morn to night, my friend. But is there for the night a resting-place ? A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face ? You can not miss that inn. Shall I meet other wayfarers at night ? Those who have gone before. Then must I knock, or call when just in sight ? They will not keep you standing at the door. Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak ? Of labor you shall find the sum. Will there be beds for me and all who seek .' Yea, beds for all who come. ERNEST MYERS. 255 ERNEST MYERS. RHODES. Beyond the ages far away, When yet the fateful Earth was young, And mid her seas unfurrowed lay Her lands uncitied and unsung, The Gods in council round their King Were met for her apportioning. Then shook the Sire the golden urn Wherefrom the lots leapt forth to view, And God by God took up in turn The symbol of his kingdom due ; Till each had linked some heavenly name To human hope and human fame. When lo, a footstep on the floor, A radiance in the radiant air ; A God august, forgot before. Too late arrived, was lastly there ^ The Sun-god from his fiery car Unyoked beneath the evening star. Then said the Sire : ' For thee no lot, O Sun, of all the lots is drawn. For thy bright chariot, well I wot, Hath held thee since the broadening dawn. But come, for all the gods are fain For thy fair sake to cast again.' 2S6 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. ' Nay now, for me is little need New lots to cast ' (so spake the Sun); ' One isle assign me for the meed Of that diurnal course I run : Behold beneath the glimmering sea A land unclaimed, the land for me.' Therewith he shot an arrowy ray Down through the blue /Egean deep ; Thrilled by that magic dart of day. The hidden isle shook off her sleep. She moved, she rose, and with the morn She touched the air, and Rhodes was born. Then all about that starry sea There ran a gratulating stir. Her fellows for all time to be In choral congress greeting her. With air-borne song and flashing smiles, A sisterhood of glorious isles. And still as from his car on high Her Lord his daily splendor sent. She joyed to know his gladdening eye On her, his best-beloved, was bent : And ever in that fostering gaze Grew up the stature of her praise. What early wondrous might was hers, The craftsmanship of cunning hands, Of that wise art the harbingers Whose fame is uttered through all lands Then Rhodians by the Sun-god's side Besought Athene to abide. She came, she loved the Rosy Isle, And Lindos reared her eastward fane ERIVEST MYERS. 257 To Rhodian chiefs she brought the while New thoughts, new valiance in her train, New hope to bind about their brows The olive of her father's house. Then won Diagoras that prize Yet fairer than his silvery crown, That voice whereby in godlike wise His name through time goes deathless down. In graven gold her walls along Flamed forth the proud Pindaric song. She too her own Athenians stirred To that fair deed of chivalry, That high imperishable word That set the Rhodian Dorieus free. And linked in unison divine Her Lindian to her Attic shrine. Bright hours, too brief! The shadowing hand Half barbarous of a giant form Even the strong Sun-god's loyal land Must wrap in mist of sombre storm, When Hellas bowed, her birthright gone. Beneath the might of Macedon. Yet even then not lightly bound Was Rhodes of any vanquisher ; With all his engines thundering round The City-stormer stormed not her. In vain : anon the Roman doom Had sealed her spirit in the tomb. Long ages slept she. Then a dream Once more across her slumber shone, Cleaving the dark, a quickening gleam All-glorious as in days foregone ; 17 258 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. A new God's presence nobler far Than any Lord of sun or star. He showed her him whose chosen head Had leaned upon his holy breast; ' For John my well-beloved,' he said, ' Stand forth, a champion of the West, Sealed with my name, and his in mine, Our vanguard in the war divine.' She rose, she stemmed the Moslem flood That roared and ravined for her life, Till drop by drop the knightly blood Was drained in that stupendous strife ; Then, sole amid the o'erwhelming sea. Sank in heroic agony. Twice born, twice slain ! all this is o'er Three hundred years ; yet may there be (So strong a life is in thy core), O Rhodes, another birth for thee. Look up, behold this banner new, The white cross on the field of blue. Through all the Isles the broadening light Creeps on its sure but lingering way. And half are in the fading night And half are in the dawning day : Thou too, O Rhodes, shalt make thee one Once more with freedom and the Sun. FROM 'THE JUDGMENT OF PROMETHEUS.' 2« Again the Thunderer spake : ' Titan, thy task Is ended, but not ended be thy stay Among thy peers, this company of Gods. Here is thy place prepared, here dwell content. ERNEST MYERS. 259 Our counsellor at need, our new-won friend. Rest here at ease, and learn the unfolded tale By all these ages wrought in Heaven and Earth, And changeful tribes of men, thy chosen care. Once loved by thee alone ; but now, be sure. There is no God that hath not linked his name. Perchance his race, to human hope and fear. Stay then, for change by change is recompensed, And new things now wax old, and old are new.' He spake, and all the approving throng divine With acclamation free applauded loud. Bidding the Titan welcome and all hail; Henceforth, they cried, a counsellor of Heaven, Interpreter of Fate, and friend of Man. But when their greeting ceased, and sought reply, He raised his eyes, and with slow-moving gaze Looked round on that celestial company. Then with deep voice and mild he answering said : 'Deem not, O Gods, I lightly prize your call. Thought of inveterate wrong, no longer now By hourly instant anguish riveted, Hath fallen from my soul, and left her free To sweep on ample circles of her wing Amid dim visions, slowly growing clear, Of rolling age on age, her proper realm, Her proper lore ; yet all I gladly learn : Either of this new kindlier life of Heaven, Or of that once-scorned world of suffering men, Whereto your world is linked for ever now. Right gladly would I hear, yet not as one Quite shut from knowledge all these exiled years. Think ye my Mother dear, deep-murmuring Earth, Could find no means of message, when I lay On the bare rock between her breast and Heaven ? — That starry Heaven that made me know my life Not unbefriended of celestial Powers, 26o POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Though other than Olympian ; year by year, Through height ineffable of frozen air, Stooped the keen stars, and graved upon my soul. In fateful characters of golden fire. Deep and more deep, their slow-unfolding lore. And more of what they told I too must tell. Sometime, not now : enough of things to be Hath been to-day revealed. But now, O Gods, Farewell ; I may not tarry for your voice. Your friendly voice ; but other voices call. Inaudible to you, but to this heart Admonitory, o'erraastering, deeply dear. Yea, my racked being yearns for great repose. Deep sleep and sweet, almost the sleep of death : And after that, long time my life must pause In meditative musing, now no more Pierced by abrupt assault of arrowy pain. Not here my place of rest ; far hence I seek. Beyond or world of Gods or world of men, The Tower of ancient Kronos, where he dwells Amid the Blessed Isles, his final home. The habitation of a holy calm. There evermore the West-winds dewy-winged, Borne o'er the Ocean-river, lightly breathe ; And over all that sweet and solemn realm Broods a mild golden light of mellow beam. Less bright by far than this celestial splendor, A low warm light, as of eternal eve. And there are gathered, or shall gather soon, All my dear kindred, offspring of the Earth, The brotherhood Titanic, finding there Harbor desired, and after sore exile Rejoining well content their ancient King. Nor these alone ; for to that saving shore A race far other surely shall be called, Of seed far humbler sprung, but by decree ERNEST MYERS. 261 Of dooms august, that doom both God and Man, Raised to high meed, the spirits of just men Made here companions of immortal Gods; Themselves perchance — grudge not, O seed of Heaven ! — Destined, despite their clay, to conquer death. There for long years, how long I know not yet, My lot is fixed with that dear folic to dwell ; But not for ever ; sometime yet to be (Thus far I know and tell) I come again, To counsel, and to do, and endure. But whether to this glorious hall of Heaven, Or whether unto Man's long-suffering brood, I know not — nay nor even surely know If this my shape wherein I stand to-day Be changed at my new coming : on such wise Wears my great Mother many a form and name, Yet holds through all her one identity. Thus may I too. Or if the time shall come When all the storM counsel of my soul Is spent, and all mine oracles outworn. There shall not fail a prophet in my place. Some hand to bear the torch, new wisdom bringing Wiser than Promethean ; yet that too Taught him not only by the all-teacher Time, But by long toil and travail, hate and love, Design, and disappointfnent, and defeat, And by rapt converse held with Earth, and Stars, And with deep hidden well-springs of the world. But now to my much yearned for rest afar I must be gone. Wherefore, for that long way, I pray ye, deathless Presences of Heaven, Suffer one moment in your shining halls The appointed convoy that shall bear me hence. They wait without, and now are near at hand. My strength is spent in speaking: Gods, farewell ! ' He ceased, but with his word they saw descend 262 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Two Shapes benign that with wide-hovering wing, Noiseless as birds' that through the brooding night Flit all unheard, and of like feathery form. Close to the Titan's side came floating down. Well known the one, and welcome even in Heaven, For even in Heaven who shall not welcome Sleep? But round his brother twin a halo hung. Well-nigh invisible, a filmy veil. And his calm lips were paler : through the Gods A brief scare-heeded shudder lightly ran At that mild Presence, for they looked on Death. Not for dominion came he there that day. But helpmeet of his brother, bound with him To welcome succor of the weary God. So to his side those Forms fraternal drew. His faint eyes half had closed, his failing head Sank on the breast of Sleep : together both Raised him with reverend touch, and spread their plumes Inaudibly. One beat of those wide wings. Fraught with their sacred burden, bare them forth ; And in a moment, lo, the heavenly hall Held them no more, but far they fleeted on Down through the glimmering deep of empty air. HERMAN CHARLES MRRIVALE. 263 HERMAN CHARLES MERIVALE. OLD AND NEW ROME. What came we forth to see ? a fair or race ? Some hero feted by an eager crowd ? Or would we do some favored princeling grace, That thus we herd so close, and talk so loud ? Pushing and struggling, fighting, crushing, shouting, What are these motley gazers here to seek. Like merry-makers on a summer outing? 'T is but the services of Holy Week. The Eternal City swarms with eager strangers From every quarter of the busy earth ; Who fill the temples like the money-changers, And say some prayers — for what they may be worth. A never-ending tide of restless motion, They come to burn, in fashion rather odd, The incense of their polyglot devotion. Before the altars of the Latin God. As flock the Londoners to Epsom Races, Or form a ' queue ' to see the newest play. So do the pilgrim-tourists fight for places Before the chapels in their zeal to pray. From holy place to holy place they flit, To 'do' as many churches as they can ; And humbly kneeling, for the fun of it, They climb the ladder of the Lateran. 264 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Here some fair maid, her Heavenward journey steering, Where by Swiss bayonets the way is barred, Nor Law, nor Pope, nor Antonelli fearing — Breaks through the lines of the astonished guard. In customary suit of solemn blaclc, With string of beads and veil d, I' Espagnole, She means to ' see it ' all ; to keep her back Would be to peril her immortal soul. There a slim youth, while all but he are kneeling Through levelled opera-glass looks down on them, When round the Sistine's pictured roof is pealing Our buried Lord's majestic Requiem. For him each storied wonder of the globe is ' The sort of thing a fellow ought to see ; ' And so he patronized Ora pro nobis, And wanted to encore the Tenebrtz. Stranger ! what though these sounds and sights be grandest Of all that on Earth's surface can be found .'' Remember that the place whereon thou standest, Be thy creed what it may, is holy ground. Yet I have gaped and worshipped with the rest — L too, beneath St. Peter's lofty dome Have seen, in all their richest colors dressed, The golden glories of historic Rome ; Have heard the Pontiff's ringing voice bestow, 'JVIid cheering multitudes and flags unfurled. Borne by the cannon of St. Angelo, His blessing on the ' City and the World ; ' Have seen — and thrilled with wonder as I gazed — Ablaze with living lines of golden light. Like some fire-throne to the Eternal raised. The great Basihca burn through the night ; HERMAN CHARLES MERIVALE. 265 Have heard the trumpet-notes of Easter Day, Their silver echoes circling all around, In strange unearthly music float away, Stones on the lake translated into sound ; — Yet would I wander from the crowd apart. While heads were bowed and tuneful voices sang, And through the deep recesses of my heart A still small voice in solemn warning rang. ' Oh vanity of vanities ! ye seem. Ye pomps and panoplies of mortal state. To make this text the matter of your theme, That God is little, and that Man is great. ' Is this parade of the world's wealth and splendor The lesson of the simple gospel-word ? Is this the sacrifice of self-surrender Taught by the lowly followers of the Lord ? ' Do we, who broider thus the garment's hem, Think of the swaddling-clothes the child had on? Grace we the casket, to neglect the gem? Forget we quite the manger for the throne ? ' While thus in moralizing mood I pondered, I turned me from the hum of men alone ; And, as my vagrant fancy led me, wandered Amid the maze of monumental stone. The crowd their favorite lions now forswore. Left galleries and ruins in the lurch ; The cicerone's glory was no more, For all the world was gathered in the church. So at my will I strayed from place to place, From classic shrines to modern studios — 266 POETS OF LATTER HALF OF REIGN. Now musing spellbound, where Our Lady's face In nameless godhead from the canvas glows. Now, from the still Campagna's desolate rise, I saw the hills with jealous clasp enfold The lingering sunhght, while the seaward skies Paled slowly round the melting disc of gold ; Now gazed, ere yet on dome and tower had died The glory of the Roman afterglow. Over the map-like city lying wide, Half-dreaming, from the Monte Mario. Traveller, do thou the like ; and wouldst thou learn How Rome her faithful votaries enthralls With all the memories that breathe and burn Within the magic circle of her walls, Leave pomp of man and track of guide-led tourist, And drink of history at the fountain-head ; For living minds and living things are poorest In that vast mausoleum of the dead. There, where the stately Barberini pile Like some new Nimrod's fabric heav'nward climbs, Enduring monument of Christian guile. By outrage wrested from the Pagan times ; Where lulled and drowsy with the distant hum. The sentinel keeps watch upon the town. And from the heights of old Janiculum On Father Tiber's yellow face looks down ; Where in their southern grace the moonbeams play On Caracalla's tesselated floors. And rescue from the garish light of day The Colosseum's ghostly corridors ; HERMAN CHARLES MERIVALE. 267 Where Raphael and all his great compeers Art's form divine in giant-mould have cast, The very air is heavy with the years, The very stones are vocal of the past. Still, as we saunter down the crowded street. On our own thoughts intent, and plans, and pleasures, For miles and miles, beneath our idle feet, Rome buries from the day yet unknown treasures. The virhole world's alphabet, in every line Some stirring page of history she recalls ; Her Alpha is the Prison Mamertine, Her Omega, St. Paul's Without the Walls. Above, beneath, around, she weaves her spells. And ruder hands unweave them all in vain : Who once within her fascination dwells, Leaves her with but one thought — to come again. So cast thine obol into Trevi's fountain — Drink of its waters — and, returning home. Pray that by land or sea, by lake or mountain, ' All roads alike may lead at last to Rome.' THE WRITERS OF VERS DE SOCIETE. THE WRITERS OF VERS DE SOCIETE. MORTIMER COLLINS. THE KING AND THE BEGGAR MAID. A NEW READING. The young King stands by his palace-gate, O what a joy is the youth of a King ! Tired a Httle of splendor and state — Hark in the valley the sweet birds sing. Like a lion's mane his yellow hair, His eye as keen as a hawk's on the wing, The ladies gaze and tremble there — Ah, is it not sweet, the love of a King? He sees the towers of his city below, O shining river ! O ships that swing! Through wide white streets his people flow, Hark, the bells of the Minster ring ! The beggar comes by with a nut-brown skin. Ah, deep in the heart lies misery's sting ! Her eye has a blue to the sky akin, Tirra-lirra, he hears her sing. Forward he strides as the girl he sees, O how wild is the will of a King ! 272 WRITERS OF VERS DE S0CI£T£. The ladies titter under the trees ; Still the bells of the Minster ring. What the young King whispers none has heard, Hey for the heath where the wild birds sing ! But the echo is caught of the Beggar's word : ' I love my love, and he is not a King.' THE IVORY GATE. Sunt geminae Somni portae ; quorum altera fertur Cornea^ qua veris facilis datur exitiis umbris : Altera, candenti perfecta nitens elephanto ; Sed falsa ad ccelum mittuni insomnia Manes. Virgil. When, loved by poet and painter The sunrise fills the sky, When night's gold urns grow fainter. And in depths of amber die — When the moon-breeze stirs the curtain. Bearing an odorous freight — Then visions strange, uncertain, Pour thick through the Ivory Gate. Then the oars of Ithaca dip so Silently into the sea, That they wake not sad Calypso — And the Hero wanders free : He breasts the ocean-furrows, At war with the words of Fate — And the blue tide's low susurrus Comes up to the Ivory Gate. Or, clad in the hide of leopard, 'Mid Ida's freshest dews, Paris, the Teucrian shepherd. His sweet CEnone woos : MORTIMER COLLINS. 273 On the thought of her coming bridal Unuttered joy doth wait — While the tune of the false one's idyl Rings soft through the Ivory Gate. Or down from green Helvellyn The roar of streams I hear, And the lazy sail is swelling To the winds of Windermere : That girl with the rustic bodice 'Mid the ferry's laughing freight Is as fair as any goddess Who sweeps through the Ivory Gate. Ah, the vision of dawn is leisure — But the truth of day is toil : And we pass from dreams of pleasure To the world's unstayed turmoil, Perchance, beyond the river Which guards the realms of Fate, Our spirits may dwell for ever 'Mong dreams of the Ivory Gate. APRIL FOOLS. Comes April, her white fingers wet with flowers. And we might well enjoy her sunny showers, If the malignant Fate which o'er us rules Did not bring April Fools. Fools who will whisper, you and I together Ought not to wander in the sweet spring weather, For I 'm a boy and you 're a girl, and so 'T is very wrong, you know. 18 274 WRITERS OF VERS DE SOCI£t£. To hunt for violets in meadows fair Till April rains her diamonds on your hair, Is really such a silly girlish fashion, It puts them in a passion. Youth's joy must have its grim concomitants, Its sulky sisters and its maiden aunts. Well, let them scowl at us, and keep their rules ■ We won't be April Fools. MY THRUSH. All through the sultry hours of June, From morning blithe to golden noon. And till the star of evening climbs The gray-blue East, a world too soon. There sings a Thrush amid the limes. God's poet hid in foliage green. Sings endless songs, himself unseen ; Right seldom comes his silent times. Linger, ye summer hours serene ! Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes ! May I not dream God sends thee there, Thou mellow angel of the air, Even to rebuke my earthlier rhymes With music's soul, all praise and prayer ? Is that thy lesson in the limes? Closer to God art thou than I : His minstrel thou, whose brown wings fly Through silent aether's sunnier climes. Ah never may thy music die ! Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes ! MORTIMER COLLINS. 275 A LITTLE LECTURE. Sit still, child, if you know the way, Cross your white arms upon your breast ; Let the dark glory of your hair From bands escape. 'T is weary always to be gay ; And sweet is silence, sweet is rest : We drink the juices of despair From Life's crushed grape. Why should I lecture ? You are young. And tameless as a dragon-fly And beautiful to look upon. And sweet to touch. Nothing you know of nerves unstrung. Nor can believe that you will die. And go where other girls have gone. I ask too much. Pshaw ! Flutter like a pretty bird. Outrun the wind, outlaugh the brooks, Flout the frail ferns with flying feet, Outblush the rose ; Let your young petulant voice be heard Joyous through all the forest-nooks. But have you got a soul, my sweet ? Who knows .? Who knows ? A GAME OF CHESS. Terrace and lawns are white with frost. Whose fretwork flowers upon the panes — A mocking dream of summer, lost 'Mid winter's icy chains. 276 WRITERS OF VERS BE SOCI£t£. White-hot, indoors, the great logs gleam, Veiled by a flickering flame of blue : I see my love as in a dream — Her eyes are azure, too. She puts her hair behind her ears (Each little ear so like a shell). Touches her ivory Queen, and fears She is not playing well. For me, I think of nothing less : I think how those pure pearls become her- And which is sweetest, winter chess Or garden strolls in summer. O linger, frost, upon the pane ! O faint blue flame, still softly rise ! O, dear one, thus with me remain. That I may watch thine eyes ! MULTUM IN PARVO. A LITTLE shadow makes the sunrise sad, A little trouble checks the race of joy, A little agony may drive men mad, A little madness may the soul destroy : Such is the world's annoy. Ay, and the rose is but a little flower Which the red Queen of all the garden is : And Love, which lasteth but a little hour, A moment's rapture and a moment's kiss, Is what no man would miss. MORTIMER COLLINS. 211 TO F. C. 2oth February, 1875. Fast falls the snow, O lady mine, Sprinkling the lawn with crystals fine. But by the gods we won't repine While we 're together, We '11 chat and rhyme and kiss and dine, Defying weather. So stir the fire and pour the wine, And let those sea-green eyes divine Pour their love-madness into mine : I don't care whether 'T is snow or sun or rain or shine If we're together. 278 WRITERS OF VERS DE SOCI£t£. FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON. TO MY GRANDMOTHER. Suggested by a picture by Mr. Romney. Under the elm a rustic seat Was merriest Susan^s ^et retreat To merry make. This relative of mine, Was slie seventy-and-nine When slie died ? By the canvas may be seen How she looked at seventeen, As a bride. Beneath a summer tree, Her maiden reverie Has a charm ; Her ringlets are in taste ; What an arm ! — what a waist For an arm ! With her bridal-wreath, bouquet, Lace farthingale, and gay Falbala, — Were Romney's limning true. What a lucky dog were you. Grandpapa ! FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON. 279 Her lips are sweet as love ; They are parting ! Do they move ? Are they dumb ? Her eyes are blue, and beam Beseechingly, and seem To say, ' Come ! ' What funny fancy slips From atween these cherry lips ? Whisper me, Sweet sorceress in paint, What canon says I may n't Marry thee ? That good-for-nothing Time Has a confidence sublime ! When I first Saw this lady, in my youth, Her winters had, forsooth, Done their worst. Her locks, as white as snow. Once shamed the swarthy crow ; By-and-by That fowl's avenging sprite / Set his cruel foot for spite Near her eye. Her rounded form was lean. And her silk was bombazine : Well I wot With her needles would she sit, And for hours would she knit, — Would she not? Ah, perishable clay ; Her charms had dropped away One by one : 28o WRITERS OF VERS DE S0CI£TJS. But if she heaved a sigh With a burthen, it was, Thy Will be done. In travail, as in tears, With the fardel of her years Overprest, In mercy she was borne Where the weary and the worn Are at rest. O, if you now are there, And sweet as once you were. Grandmamma, This nether world agrees 'T will all the better please Grandpapa. THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL. Her eyes and her hair Are sujjerb ; She stands in despair On the kerb. Quick, stranger, advance To her aid: — She *J across, ivith a glance You We repaid. She ^s fair, and you We tall, fal-lal-la ! "What will come of it all ? Chi lo sa. Cupid on the Crossing. My little friend, so small, so neat. Whom years ago I used to meet In Pall Mall daily. How cheerily you tript away To work, it might have been to play, You tript so gayly. FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON. And Time trips too ! This moral means You then were midway in the teens That I was crowning; We never spol