CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY GIFT OF Donald Stetson UNDERGRADUATE LIBRARY autogtapi) ^ott» THE POETIC AND DRAMATIC WORKS OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON BOSTON AND NEW TOKK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 1910 COPYRIGHT, 18,8, BY HOUGHTON, M.FFUN AJ,D CO. ALL RIGHTS RESEEVKD Cornell University Library The original of tiiis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924008344594 fy^J(l% Cornell University Library PR 5550.F10 The poetic and dramatic works of Alfred, 3 1924 008 344 594 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Alfred Tennyson was bom August 6, 1809, at Somersby, a little village in Lincoln- shire, England. His father was the rector of the parish ; his mother, whose maiden name was Elizabeth Fytehe, and whose character he touched in his poem ' Isabel,' was the daughter of a clergyman ; and one of his brothers, who later took the name of Charles Turner, was also a clergyman. The religious nature in the poet was a constant element in his poetry, and with it may be named an abiding love of the natural world, which yielded its secrets to an observation which was singularly keen, and a philosophic reflection which made Tennyson reveal in his poetry an apprehension of the laws of life, akin to what Darwin was disclosing in his contemporaneous career. In his early ' Ode to Memory,' Tennyson has translated into verse the consciousness which woke in him in the secluded fields of his Lincolnshire birthplace. For companion- ship he had the large circle of his own home, for he was one of eight brothers and four sisters ; and in that little society there was not only the miniature world of sport and study, but a very close companionship with the large world of imagination. They had their jousts and tournaments, their revivification of knightly deeds in their sports, and Alfred was the improvisatore who gathered the other children about him and regaled them with tales of wonder, drawn partly from his reading, partly from his own fertile fancy. He had, moreover, the favoring poetic sympathy of two at any rate in the circle. From very childhood he lisped in numbers, for the numbers came on every wind, and his brothers Frederick and Charles, the one two years, the other one year his senior, were also given to poetic composition, so that after Charles and Alfred had been at school in Louth a short time, the brothers put their verses together and induced the local book- sellers and printers, Messrs. Jackson, to publish the book under the title Poems by Two Brothers. Frederick Tennyson indeed contributed four poems ; the rest were divided between Charles and Alfred, but in the absence of exact data, the present Lord Tenny- son, though he had memoranda as well as the memory of his uncles to rely upon, was unable, when he reprinted the volume sixty years after its first publication, to determine exactly the authorship of all the poems. The verses are interesting as indicating the careful scholarship of the boys and the impression made on them by Byron, rather than for any marked poetic quality. Frederick Tennyson was already at Cambridge when Charles and Alfred went up to that University in 1828, and were matriculated at Trinity College. Alfred Tennyson acquired there, like so many other notable Englishmen, not only intellectual discipline, but that close companionship with picked men which is engendered by the half monastic seclusion of the English university. There was a company which from its number was dubbed the Apostles, to which he found entrance, and here he met men who influenced his early life and in a few instances were close companions during his whole career. Chief among these was the brilliant Sterling, and others were James Spedding, the expositor of Bacon, Trench, afterward Archbishop of Dublin, Richard Monckton Milnes, better known BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH as Lord Houghton, Dean Alford, W. H. Brookiield, the intimate friend of Thackeray, J. M. Kemble, and Kinglake, the author of Eothen and historian of the Crimean War. Among these men, growing into manhood during the stirring times of Reform, Tennyson drew in the long breaths of political freedom and loyalty to the highest ideals of English life, which were later to find expression in Maud and the historical dramas. He was under the influence also of Maurice, whose friendship was a lifelong inspiration to him ; and perhaps more potent than all other influences was that which sprang from his intimacy with Arthur Hallam. This young collegian, a son of the historian, was looked upon as a man of great pro- mise who had already indeed demonstrated his power by writings of a mature order. His friendship with Tennyson brought him to the poet's home, and he became engaged to Tennyson's sister Emily. The two men shared their studies and hopes and dreams, and when in 1830 Tennyson published Poems chiefly Lyrical, Hallam came forward with a re- view of the volume in The Englishman's Magazine. In 1832 the volume was followed by Poems, by A Ifred Tennyson, and then there was a silence of ten years. Hallam died in 1833, and his death seems to have so stirred the depths of the poet's nature that he retired into a life almost of seclusion, in which he confronted the problems of life and eternity much as many a reformer or preacher has girded up his loins in the wilderness. It must not be supposed that this decade was one of brooding alone. At first indeed, in the privacy of the Somersby rectory he devoted himself with systematic industry to study rather than to composition. Once in a while he used his little hoard of savings in a visit to London to see his college friends living there, and he made a journey also into the Lake country. Yet he could not long withhold himself from his vocation, and little by little he showed poems to his friends and received their criticism. In 1842 appeared a fuller volume of Poems, in 1847 The Princess was published, and in 1850 appeared the great elegy In Memoriam A. H. ^., which set the seal upon his poetic reputation. His livelihood, during these years, had been mainly a small sum which had come from his grandfather, his father having died in 1831, but now there was sufficient security in the income from his writings to enable him to renew an engagement with EmUy Sell- wood, whose younger sister had married Charles Tennyson, and who herself on that occasion was bridesmaid, with Alfred Tennyson as groomsman. The marriage took place in the same month that In Memoriam was published, and the wedded life which followed was the great anchorage of the poet's soul. In after life he said : ' The peace of God came into my life before the altar when I wedded her.' He testified of his affection when he published the lyrical dedication to the Enoch Arden volume, beginning : ' Dear, near and true, — no truer Time himself,' and also the lines ' June bracken and heather ' which introduce the CEnone volume. The same year Tennyson was made Poet Laureate in successorship to Wordsworth. Tennyson regarded his post as Poet Laureate in the light of a high poetic and patriotic ardor. When he was meditating his first laureate poem ' To the Queen,' he was thinking especially of a stanza in which ' the empire of Wordsworth should be asserted : for he was a representative Poet Laureate, such a poet as kings should honor, and such an one as would do honor to kings ; — making the period of a reign famous by the utterance of memorable words concerning that period.' The laurel ' greener from the brows of him that utter'd nothing base,' was indeed worn with dignity and grace, and in the Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington, and the spirited ' Britons, guard your own,' 'The Third of February,' ' Hands all round,' and ' The Charge of the Light Brigade,' Tennyson BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH showed the passion of the English patriot in a manner which has been neither echoed nor eclipsed in the verses which in a similar spirit have been contributed by Rudyard Kipling in recent years to The Times. But it was in Maud that Tennyson concentrated the feel- ing which was roused in his nature by the compromise which he believed the commercial spirit of his day was seeking to effect between national honor and national prosperity ; and it is not strange that this poem, with its almost incoherent cries, should have seemed to many of his countrymen as almost the utterance of an insane man. The record of Tennyson's career from this time forward is marked by the successive publication of his works. He changed his home more than once, partly in obedience to an almost morbid fear of intrusion ; but a family grew up about him, and his domestic life was one of great serenity and beauty. He travelled little out of his own country, and he was not greatly given to letter writing ; but he numbered amongst devoted friends some of the greatest Englishmen of his time. His son has printed the letters which passed between him and the Queen, showing how genuine and deep was the emotion which each excited in the other. He was warmly attached to Robert Browning ; the Duke of Argyll was an intimate companion, and Edward FitzGerald, with his whim- sical hero worship, laid his tribute with affectionate constancy at Tennyson's feet. When in later life he was now and then a figure in London society, he cared most for the companionship which, in the Metaphysical Society, brought him in close contact with Dean Stanley, Cardinal Manning, James Martineau, Edmund Lushington, and many others among ecclesiastics. Carpenter, Huxley, Tyndall and other scientists, and Froude, Bagehot, Pattison, Harrison, Hutton, men of letters and learning. The Idylls of the King, published iu 1859, a less complete group than that now included under the title, continued his great poetic line, which was also in its purpose an epitome of the greater England of his soul's allegiance, but the most notable turn in his poetic career was when, in 1875, nearly fifty years after his earliest venture in verse, he pub- lished his drama of Qtieen Mary. He had no thought of writing what are known as closet dramas. The dramatic instinct iu him was powerful, even though it had thus far shown itself mainly in lyric form, and from this time forward he gave the best of his power to writing for the stage. With slight exceptions, these dramas are interpretations of English history. They are serious studies, and a serious attempt was made to give them proper stage presentation ; but the conditions of the theatre in England, and it may be said also Tennyson's too archaic conception of treatn^ent, seemed to stand in the way of anything like popular recognition. la 1884 the Queen raised him to the peerage, to which twice before he had been invited, and he became Baron Tennyson of Aldworth and Farringford. The elevation was in the direct line of English tradition, and the nobility of the kingdom was enriched by his succession. He continued to publish until his death. Indeed, the final volume of his poems was in press at the time of his death, which occurred October 7, ^892. He was buried in the • Poet's Corner ' of Westminster Abbey, on the 12th of the same month. TABLE OF CONTENTS TO THE QUEEN .... 1 JUVENILIA Clahibel . ... 3 Nothing will die 3 All Things will die i Leonine Elegiacs i Supposed Confessions op a Second-rate Sensitive Mind . 4, The Kraken .... 6 Song: 'The winds, as at their HODR of birth' .... 7 Lilian 7 Isabel 7 Mariana .... 8 To 9 Madeline . • . 9 Song: The Owl .... 9 Second Song, to the Same 10 Recollections op the Arabian Nights 10 Ode to Memory 11 Song: 'A spirit haunts the tear's last hours' .... 13 A Character .... 13 The Poet 14 The Poet's Mind 14 The Sea-Fairies .... 15 The Deserted House 15 The Dying Swan .... 16 A Dirge 16 Love and Death .... 17 The Ballad of Ohiana . 17 Circumstance .... 18 The Merman .... 18 The Mermaid 19 Adeline 20 Margaret .... 20 Rosalind . ... 21 Eleanore . ... 22 Kate . . . ._ 23 'My LIFE IS full of weary days' . 24 Early Sonnets I. To . . - 24 II. To J, M. K. . 24 III. 'Mine be the strength OF spirit, full and free' 24 IV. Alexander V. Buonaparte . VI. Poland VII. 'Caress'd or chidden by the blender hand ' VIII. 'The form, the form ALONE IS eloquent' . IX. 'Wan sculptor, weep- EST thou to take THE cast' . X. 'If I WERE LOVED, AS I PAGE 25 25 25 25 26 26 DESIRE TO be' . . 26 XI. The Bridesmaid 26 THE LADY OF SHALOTT, AND OTHER POEMS The Lady of Shalott . 27 Mariana in the South . 29 The Two Voices . . 30 The Miller's Daughter . 35 Fatima 38 CEnone .... 38 The Sisters . . 42 To . 42 The Palace of Art . 43 Lady Clara Verb de Verb 46 T^E May Queen . . 47 New- Year's Eve 48 Conclusion . . 49 The Lotos-Eaters . 51 Choric Song . 51 A Dream of Fair Women 53 . The Blackbird 58 The Death op the Old Year 58 To J. S . 59 On a Mourner . 60 'You ASK ME, why, THO' ILL AT ease' . 60 'Of old sat Freedom on t HE heights' . 60 'Love thou thy land, wi TH love fab-brought' . . 61 England and America in 1782 62 The Goose ... . 62 ENGLISH IDYLS, AND OTHl ER POEMS The Epic .... . 63 MoBTE d' Arthur 64 viu CONTENTS The Gabdener's Daughter Doha .... AtiDLET Court Walking to the Mail Edwin Morris Saint Simeon Sttlitbs The Talking Oak Love and Duty The Golden Year Ulysses Tithoncs Locebley Hall GODIVA .... The Dat-Drbam Prologue .... The Sleeping Palace The Sleeping Beauty The Arrival The Revival .... The Departure Moral .... L'Envoi .... Epilogue Amphion Saint Agnes' Eve Sib Galahad .... Edward Gray Will Waterproof's Lyrical Mon- ologue .... Lady Clare .... The Captain The Lord of Burleigh . The Voyage .... Sir Lacncelot and Queen Guin- evere .... A Farewell The Beggar Maid The Eagle ' Move eastward, happy earth 'Comb not, when I am dead' The Letters The Vision of Sin To , AFTER reading A LiFE AND Letters To E. L., ON HIS Travels in Greece 1 14 'Break, break, break' . . 115 The Poet's Song . . . 115 THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY Prologue 115 I The Princess . . . .119 Interlude 142 Conclusion . . . 160 IN MEMORIAM a. H. H. . . 163 MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS Maud; a Monodrama . . . 199 The Brook .... 817 The Daisy 221 72 74 75 77 79 82 85 87 88 89 90 95 96 96 97 97 97 98 99 99 100 101 102 102 105 106 107 108 109 109 110 110 110 110 110 111 114 To the Rev. F. D. Maurice . 222 Will 223 Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington . . . 223 The Charge op the Light Brigade 226 ENOCH ARDEN, AND OTHER POEMS Enoch Arden .... 228 Aylmbr's Field . . . 241 Sea Dreams .... 252 Ode sung at the Opening of the International Exhibition . 267 A Welcome to Alexandra . 257 The Grandmother . . . 258 Northern Farmer; old style . 261 Northern Farmer; new style . 262 In the Valley of Cautbeetz . 264 The Flower 264 Requiescat .... 265 The Sailor Boy . . . .265 The Islet 265 A Dedication .... 266 Experiments BOADICEA . . . .266 In Quantity On Translations op Ho- mer . . . .268 Milton . . .268 'O you chorus of indo- lent reviewers' . . 268 Specimen of a Transla- tion OP THE Iliad in Blank Verse . . 268 The Third of February, 1852 . 269 A Welcome to Her Royal Highness Marie Alexandhovna, Duchess of Edinburgh 270 In the Garden at Swainston . 271 Child Songs I. The City Child . . .271 II. Minnie and Winnie . . 271 The Spiteful Letter . . . 271 Literary Squabbles . . . 272 The Victim 272 Wages 273 The Higher Pantheism . . . 273 The Voice and the Peak . . 274 'Flower in the crannied wall' . 274 Lucretius . . . . 274 THE WINDOW; OR, THE SONG OP THE WRENS The Window On the Hill .... 279 At the Window . 279 Gone 279 Winter .... 279 Spring sjsq The Letter . . , jgQ CONTENTS No Answer . 280 TIRESIAS, and other POEMS No Answer 280 To E. Fitzgerald 488 The Answer . 280 Tirbsias 489 Ay 280 The Wreck 492 When .... 281 Despair 495 Marriage Morninq . 281 The Ancient Sage 497 The Flight .... 601 THE LOVER'S TALE 281 To-Morrow 504 The Golden Supper 296 The Spinster's Sweet-arts The Charge of the Heavy Bri- 506 IDYLLS OF THE KING gade at Balaclava Dedication .... 303 Prologue: to General Ham- The Coming op Arthur . 304 ley .... 508 The Round Table. The Charge 509 Gareth and Ltnette 311 Epilogue .... 510 The Marriage op Geraint 333 To Virgil 511 Geraint and Enid 344 The Dead Prophet 512 Balin and Balan 357 Early Spring .... 513 Merlin and Vivien 366 Prefatory Poem to my Brother's Lancelot and Elaine 380 Sonnets 514 The Holt Grail 400 'Frater Ave atqub Vale' 514 Pelleas and Ettarre 413 Helen's Tower .... 514 The Last Tournament . 422 Epitaph on Lord Stratford de Guinevere .... 433 Redclifpb .... 514 The Passing of Arthur 443 Epitaph on General Gordon . 514 To the Queen . 430 Epitaph on Caxton 515 To the Duke op Argyll 515 BALLADS, AND OTHER POEMS Hands all round 515 To Alfred Tennyson, mt Grand- Freedom 515 son ... 452 Poets and their Bibliographies 516 The First Quarrel . 452 To H. R. H. Princess Beatrice . 616 Rizpah 454 LOCKSLEY HALL SIXTY YEARS The Northern Cobbler . 456 AFTER, ETC. The Revenge 459 Locksley Hall Sixty Years af- The Sisters .... 461 ter The Fleet .... 617 523 The Village Wipe 465 In the Children's Hospital . 468 Opening op the Indian and Colo- Dedicatory Poem to the Princess nial Exhibition by the Queen . 524 Alice .... 470 To W. C. Macbeady 525 The Defence op Lucknow 470 Sir John Oldcastle, Lord Cobham 472 demeter, and other poems Columbus .... 476 To THE Marquis of Dupfebin and The Voyage op Maeldune . 479 AVA 626 Db Propdndis On the Jubilee op Queen Victo- The Two Greetings 482 ria 627 The Human Cry 483 To Professor Jebb 528 Sonnets Demeter and Persephone . 628 Prepatort Sonnet 483 OwD Roa 530 TotheRev.W.H.Bhookfield 483 Vastness 533 Montenegro 484 The Ring 534 To Victor Hugo 484 Forlorn 542 Translations, etc. Happy 643 Battle op Bhunanburh 484 To Ulysses 646 Achilles over the Trench . 486 To Mary Boyle 647 To Princess Frederica on her The Progress op Spring . 648 Marriage .... 487 Merlin and the Gleam . 650 Sib John Franklin . 487 Romney's Remorse 561 To Dante . . t_ ■ 487 Parnassus .... 564 CONTENTS By an Evolutionist Old Age Far — FAE — AWAY Politics .... Beautiful City The Roses on the Terrace The Play 5S4 554 555 555 555 555 555 On one who affected an Effemi- nate Manner .... 556 To one who ran down the Eng- lish 556 The Snowdrop .... 556 The Throstle .... 556 The Oak 556 In Memoriam W. G. Ward . . 566 QUEEN MARY: A DRAMA . 557 HAROLD: A DRAMA Show-DAT at Battle Abbey, 1876 622 Harold 623 BECKET 659 THE FALCON .... 708 THE CUP 717 THE PROMISE OF MAY . . 731 CROSSING THE BAR . . .753 INDEX OP FIRST LINES . 755 INDEX OF TITLES . .760 TO THE QUEEN Revered, beloved — O you that hold A nobler office upon earth Than arms, or power of brain, or birth Could give the warrior kings of old, Victoria, — since your Royal grace To one of less desert allows This laurel greener from the brows Of him that utter'' d nothing base s And should your greatness, and the care That yokes with empire, yield you time To make demand of modern rhyme If aught of ancient worth be there j Then — while a sweeter music wakes. And thro' wild March the throstle calls. Where all about your palace-walls The sun-lit almond-blossom shakes — Take, Madam, this poor book of song; For tho' the faults were thick as dust In vacant chambers, I could trust Your kindness. May you rule us long, And leave us rulers of yotir blood As noble till the latest day ! May children of our children say, ' She wrought her people lasting good j ' Her court was pure; her life serene; God gave her peace; her land reposed; A thousand claims to reverence closed In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen; TO THE QUEEN ' And statesmen at her council met Who knew the seasons when to take Occasion by the hand, and make The bounds of freedom wider yet 'By shaping some augiist decree Which kept her throne unshaken still, Broadbased upon herpeopUs will. And compass'' d by the inviolate sea.' March, lS«l. JUVENILIA CLARIBEL A MELODY Where Claribel low-lieth The breezes pause and die, Letting the rose-leaves fall; But the solemn oak-tree sigheth, Thick-leaved, ambrosial, With an ancient melody Of an inward agony, Where Claribel low-lieth. At eve the beetle boometh Athwart the thicket lone; At noon the wild bee hummeth About the moss'd headstone; At midnight the moon cometh. And looketh down alone. Her song the lintwhite swelleth, The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth, The callow throstle lispeth, The slumbrous wave outwelleth, The babbling runnel crispeth, The hollow grot replieth Where Claribel low-lieth. NOTHING WILL DIE When will the stream be aweary of flow- ing Under my eye ? When will the wind be aweary of blowing Over the sky ? When will the clouds be aweary of fleeting ? When will the heart be aweary of beating ? And nature die ? Never, O, never, nothing will die ; The stream flows, The wind blows, The cloud fleets. The heart beats, Nothing will die. Nothing will die; All things will change Thro' eternity. 'Tis the world's winter; Autumn and summer Are gone long ago; Earth is dry to the centre, But spring, a new comer, A spring rich and strange. Shall make the winds blow Kound and round, Thro' and thro'. Here and there, Till the air And the ground Shall be fiU'd with life anew. The world was never made ; It will change, but it will not fade. So let the wind range; For even and morn Ever will be Thro' eternity. Nothing was born; Nothing will die; All things will change. JUVENILIA ALL THINGS WILL DIE Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing Under my eye; Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing Over the sky. One after another the white clouds are fleeting; Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating Full merrily; Yet all things must die. The stream will cease to flow; The wind will cease to blow; The clouds will cease to fleet; The heart will cease to beat; For all things must die. All things must die. Spring will come never more. O, vanity I Death waits at the door. See ! our friends are all forsaking The wine and the merrymaking. We are call'd — we must go. Laid low, very low, In the dark we must lie. The merry glees are still; The voice of the birds Shall uo more be heard, Nor the wind on the hill. O, misery ! Hark ! death is calling While I speak to ye. The jaw is falling, The red cheek paling. The strong limbs failing; Ice with the warm blood mixing; The eyeballs fixing. Nine times goes the passing bell: Ye merry souls, farewell. The old earth Had a birth, As all men know. Long ago. And the old earth must die. So let the warm winds range. And the blue wave beat the shore; For even and morn Ye will never see Thro' eternity. All things were born. Ye will come never more. For all things must die. LEONINE ELEGIACS Low-flowing breezes are roaming the broad valley dimm'd in the gloam- ing; Thoro' the black-stemm'd pines' only the far river shines. Creeping thro' blossomy rushes and bowers of rose-blowing bushes, Down by the poplar tall rivulets babble and fall. Barketh the shepherd-dog cheerly ; the grasshopper caroUeth clearly; Deeply the wood-dove coos ; shrilly the owlet halloos; Winds creep; dews fall chilly: in her first sleep earth breathes stilly: Over the pools in the burn water-gnats murmur and inouru. Sadly the far kine loweth; the glimmering water outfloweth; Twin peaks shadow'd with pine slope to the dark hyaline. Low-throned Hesper is stayed between the two peaks; but the Naiad Throbbing in mild unrest holds him be- neath in her breast. The ancient poetess singeth that Hesperus all things bringeth, Smoothing the wearied mind: bring me my love, Rosalind. Thou comest morning or even; she cometh not morning or even. False-eyed Hesper, unkind, where is my sweet Rosaliiid ? SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS OF A SECOND-RATE SENSITIVE MIND God ! my God I have mercy now. 1 faint, I fall. Men say that Thou Didst die for me, for such as me. Patient of ill, and death, and scorii, And that my sin was as a thorn . Among the thorns that girt Thy brow, Wounding Thy soul. — That even now, SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS In this extremest misery Of ignorance, I should require A sign ! and if a bolt of fire lo Would rive the slumbrous summer noon While I do pray to Thee alone, Think my belief would stronger grow ! Is not my human pride brought low ? The boastings of my spirit still ? The joy I had in my free-will All cold, and dead, and corpse-like grown 7 And what is left to me but Thou, And faith in Thee ? Men pass me by ; Christians with happy countenances — 20 And children all seem full of Thee ! And women smile with saint-like glances Like Thine own mother's when she bow'd Above Thee, on that happy morn When angels spake to men aloud. And Thou and peace to earth were born. Good-will to me as well as all — I one of them ; my brothers they; Brothers in Christ — a world of peace And confidence, day after day; 30 And trust and hope till things should cease. And then one Heaven receive us all. How sweet to have a common faith ! To hold a common scorn of death ! And at a burial to hear The creaking cords which wound and eat Into my human heart, whene'er Earth goes to earth, with grief, not fear. With hopeful grief, were passing sweet I Thrice happy state again to be 40 The trustful infant on the knee. Who lets his rosy fingers play About his mother's neck, and knows Nothing beyond his mother's eyes I They comfort him by night and day ; They light his little life alway ; He bath no thought of coming woes ; He hath no care of life or death ; Scarce outward signs of joy arise. Because the Spirit of happiness 50 And perfect rest so inward is ; And loveth so his innocent heart. Her temple and her place of birth, Where she would ever wish to dwell. Life of the fovmtain there, beneath Its salient springs, and far apart. Hating to wander out on earth. Or breathe into the hollow air, Whose chillness would make visible Her subtil, warm, and golden breath, 60 Which mixing with the infant's blood, f'ulfils him with beatitude. O, sure it is a special care Of God, to fortrfy from doubt. To arm in proof, and guard about With triple-mailed trust, and clear Delight, the infant's dawning year. Would that my gloomed fancy were As thine, my mother, when with brows Fropt on thy knees, my hands upheld 70 In thine, I listen'd to thy vows, For me outpour'd in holiest prayer — For me unworthy ! — and beheld Thy mild deep eyes upraised, that knew The beauty and repose of faith, And the clear spirit shining thro'. O, wherefore do we grow awry From roots which strike so deep ? why dare Paths in the desert ? Could not I Bow myself down, where thou hast knelt, To the earth — until the ice would melt 81 Here, and I feel as thou hast felt ? What devil had the heart to scathe Flowers thou hadst rear'd — to brush the dew From thine own lily, when thy grave Was deep, my mother, in the clay ? Myself ? Is it thus ? Myself ? Had I So little love for thee ? But why Prevail'd not thy pure prayers ? Why pray To one who heeds not, who can save 90 But will not ? Great in faith, and strong Against the grief of circumstance Wert thou, and yet unheard. What if Thou pleadest still, and seest me drive Thro' utter dark a full-sail'd skiff, Unpiloted i' the echoing dance Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low Unto the death, not sunk ! I know At matins and at evensong. That thou, if thou wert yet alive, 100 In deep and daily prayers wouldst strive To reconcile me with thy God. Albeit, my hope is gray, and cold At heart, thou wouldest murmur still — ' Bring this lamb back into Thy fold. My Lord, if so it be Thy will.' Wouldst tell me I must brook the rod And chastisement of human pride ; JUVENILIA That pride, the sin of devils, stood Betwixt me and the light of God ; no That hitherto I had defied And had rejected God — that grace Would drop from His o'er-brimming love, As manna on my wilderness, If I would pray — that God would move And strike the hard, hard rock, and thence, Sweet in their utmost bitterness, Would issue tears of penitence Which would keep green hope's life. Alas ! I think that pride hath now no place no Nor sojourn in me. I am void. Dark, formless, utterly destroyed. Why not believe then ? Why not yet Anchor thy frailty there, where man Hath moor'd and rested ? Ask the sea At midnight, when the crisp slope waves After a tempest rib and fret The broad-imbased beach, why he Slumbers not like a mountain tarn ? Wherefore his ridges are not curls 130 And ripples of an inland mere ? Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor can Draw down into his vexed pools All that blue heaven which hues and paves The other ? I am too forlorn, Too shaken: my own weakness fools My judgment, and my spirit whirls. Moved from beneath with doubt and fear. ' Yet,' said I, in my morn of youth. The unsunn'd freshness of my strength, 140 When I went forth in quest of truth, ' It is man's privilege to doubt, If so be that from doubt at length Truth may stand forth unmoved of change. An image with profulgent brows And perfect limbs, as from the storm Of running fires and fluid range Of lawless airs, at last stood out This excellence and solid form Of constant beauty. For the ox ijo Feeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fills The horned valleys all about. And hollows of the fringed hills In summer heats, with placid lows Unfearing, till his own blood flows About his hoof. And in the flocks The lamb rejoiceth in the year, And raceth freely with his fere, And answers to his mother's calls From the flower'd furrow. In a time i6o Of which he wots not, run short pains Thro' his warm heart; and then, from whence He knows not, on his light there falls A shadow; and his native slope. Where he was wont to leap and climb. Floats from his sick and filmed eyes. And something in the darkness draws His forehead earthward, and he dies. Shall man live thus, in joy and hope As a yoimg lamb, who cannot dream, 170 Living, but that he shall live on ? Shall we not look into the laws Of life and death, and things that seem. And things that be, and analyze Our double nature, and compare All creeds till we have found the one. If one there be ? ' Ay me ! I fear All may not doubt, but everywhere Some must clasp idols. Yet, my God, Whom call I idol ? Let Thy dove 180 Shadow me over, and my sins Be unremember'd, and Thy love Enlighten me. O, teach me yet Somewhat before the heavy clod Weighs on me, and the busy, fret Of that sharp-headed worm begins In the gross blackness underneath. O weary life ! O weary death ! O spirit and heart made desolate I O damned vacillating state ! igo THE KRAKEN Below the thunders of the upper deep. Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea. His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights About his shadowy sides; above him swell Huge sponges of millennial growth and height; And far away into the sickly light. From many a wondrous grot and secret cell Unnumber'd and enormous polypi Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green. There hath he lain for ages, and will lie Battening upon huge sea-worms in his sleep. ISABEL Until the latter fire shall heat the deep; Then once by man and angels to be seen, In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die. SONG The winds, as at their hour of birth, Leaning upon the ridged sea, Breathed low around the rolling earth With mellow preludes, ' We are free.' The streams, through many a lilied row Down-carolling to the crisped sea. Low-tinkled with a bell-like flow Atweeu the blossoms, ' We are free.' LILIAN Airy, fairy Lilian, Flitting, fairy Lilian, When I ask her if she love me, Claps her tiny hands above me. Laughing all she c^n; She '11 not tell me if she love me, Cruel little Lilian. When my passion seeks Fleasance in love-sighs. She, looking thro' and thro' me Thoroughly to imdo me, Smiling, never speaks: So ii^nocent-arch, so cunning-simple, From beneath her gathered wimple Glancing with black-beaded eyes, Till the lightning laughters dimple The baby-roses in her cheeks; Then away she flies. Ill Pry thee weep. May Lilian! Gaiety without eclipse Wearieth me. May Lilian; Thro' my very heart it thrilleth When from crimson-threaded lips Silver-treble laughter trilleth: Pry thee weep. May Lilian! Praying all I can. If prayers will not hush thee. Airy Lilian, Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, Fairy Lilian. ISABEL Eyes not down-dropt nor over-bright, but fed With the clear-pointed flame oi^ chastity. Clear, without heat, undying, tended by Pure vestal thoughts in the translu- cent fane Of her still spirit; looks not wide-dispread. Madonna-wise on either side her head; Sweet lips whereon perpetually did reign The summer calm of golden charity. Were fixed shadows of thy fixed mood. Revered Isabel, the crown and head. The stately flower of female fortitude. Of perfect wifehood and pure lowli- head. The intuitive decision of a bright And thorough-edged intellect to part Error from crime; a prudence to with- hold; The laws of marriage character'd in gold Upon the blanched tablets of her heart; A love still burning upward, giving light To read those laws; an accent very low In blandishment, but a most silver flow Of subtle-paced counsel in distress. Right to the heart and brain, tho' uude- scried, Winning its way with extreme gentle- ness Thro' all the outworks of suspicious pride; A courage to endure and to obey; A hate of gossip parlance, and of sway, Crown'd Isabel, thro' all her placid life. The queen of marriage, a most perfect wife. The mellow'd reflex of a winter moon; A clear stream flowing with a muddy one. s JUVENILIA Till in its onward current it absorbs With swifter movement and in purer light The vexed eddies of its wayward bro- ther; A leaning and upbearing parasite, Clothing the stem, which else had fallen quite With cluster'd flower-bells and ambrosial orbs Of rich fruit-bunches leaning on each other — Shadow forth thee: — the world hath not another (The' all, her fairest forms are types of thee, And thou of God in thy great charity) Of such a finish'd chasten'd purity. MARIANA * Mariana in the moated grange. ' Measure for Measure. With blackest moss the flower-plots Were thickly crusted, one and all ; The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the pear to the gable-wall. The broken sheds look'd sad and strange: Unlifted was the clinking latch; Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange. She only said, ' My life is dreary. He Cometh not,' she said; lo She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead 1 ' Her tears fell with the dews at even; Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; She could not look on the sweet heaven. Either at morn or eventide. After the flitting of the bats. When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement-curtain by. And glanced athwart the glooming flats. 20 She only said, ' The night is dreary. He Cometh not,' she said; She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead I ' Upon the middle of the night. Waking she heard the night-fowl crow; The cock sung out an hour ere light; From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her; without hope of change, In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn, 30 Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange. She only said, ' The day is dreary. He Cometh not,' she said; She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead 1 ' About a stone-oast from the wall A sluice with blaoken'd waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small, The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. 40 Hard by a poplar shook alway, All silver-green with gnarled bark: For leagues no other tree did mark The level waste, the rounding gray. She only said, ' My life is dreary, He Cometh not,' she said; She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead ! ' And ever when the moon was low. And the shrill winds were up and away. In the white curtain, to and fro, 51 She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low. And wild winds bound within their cell, The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow. She only said, ' Tlie night is dreary, He Cometh not,' she said; She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead 1 ' 60 All day within the dreamy house. The doors upon their hinges creak'd ; The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd, Or from the crevice peer'd about. Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors, Old footsteps trod the upper floors. Old voices called her from without. She only said, ' My life is dreary. He Cometh not,' she said; 70 She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead I ' The sparrow's chirrup on the roof. The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof The poplar made, did all confound Her sense; but most she loathed the hour When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day SONG— THE OWL Was sloping toward his western bower. 80 Then said she, ' I am very dreary, He will not come,' she said; She wept, • I am aweary, aweary, O God, that I were dead ! ' TO I Clear-headed friend, whose joyful scorn, Edged with sliarp laughter, cuts atwain The knots that tangle human creeds, The wounding cords that bind and strain The heart until it bleeds, Kay-fringed eyelids of the morn Roof not a glance so keen as thine ; If aught of prophecy be mine, Thou wUt not live in vain. Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit; Falsehood shall bare her plaited brow; Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not now With shrilling shafts of subtle wit. Nor martyr-flames, nor trenchant swords Can do away that ancient lie; A gentler death shall Falsehood die. Shot thro' and thro' with cunning words. Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch, Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost need. Thy kingly intellect shall feed. Until she be an athlete bold. And weary with a finger's touch Those writhed limbs of lightning speed ; Like that strange angel which of old. Until the breaking of the light. Wrestled with wandering Israel, Past Yabbok brook the livelong night, And heaven's mazed signs stood still In the dim tract of Fennel. MADELINE I Thou art not steep'd in golden languors. No tranced summer calm is thine. Ever varying Madeline. Thro' light and shadow thou dost range. Sudden glances, sweet and strange, Delicious spites and darling angers. And airy forms of flitting change. Smiling, frowning, evermore, Thou art perfect in love-lore. Revealings deep and clear are thine Of wealthy smiles; but who may know Whether smile or frown be fleeter ? Whether smile or frown be sweeter, Who may know ? Frowns pei'fect-sweet along the brow Light-glooming over eyes divine. Like little clouds sun-fringed, are thine. Ever varying Madeline. Thy smile and frown are not aloof From one another, Each to each is dearest brother; Hues of the silken sheeny woof Momently shot into each other. All the mystery is thine ; Smiling, frowning, evermore. Thou art perfect in love-lore. Ever varying Madeline. A subtle, sudden flame. By veering passion fann'd. About thee breaks and dances : When I would kiss thy hand, The flush of anger'd shame O'erflows thy calmer glances, And o'er black brows drops down A sudden-curved frown : But when I turn away. Thou, willing me to stay, Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest. But, looking fixedly the wlule, ^1 my bounding heart entanglest In a golden-netted smile ; Then in madness and in bliss. If my lips should dare to kiss Thy taper fingers amorously. Again thou blushest angrily ; And o'er black brows drops down A sudden-curved frown. SONG — THE OWL I When eats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground. And the far-ofB stream is dumb, And the whirring sail goes round. And the whirring sail goes round ; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits. JUVENILIA When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay, Twice or thrice his roundelay; Alone and warming his five wits. The white owl in the belfry sits. SECOND SONG TO THE SAME Thy tuwhits are luU'd, I wot, Thy tuwhoos of yesternight, Which upon the dark afloat. So took echo with delight. So took echo with delight, That her voice, untuneful grown, Wears all day a fainter tone. I would mock thy chaunt anew; But I cannot mimic it; Not a whit of thy tuwhoo, Thee to woo to thy tuwhit. Thee to woo to thy tuwhit. With a lengthen'd loud halloo, Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o ! RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS Whkn the breeze of a. joyful dawn blew free In the silken sail of infancy. The tide of time flow'd back with me. The forward-flowing tide of time ; And many a sheeny summer-morn, Adown the Tigris I was borne. By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold, High- walled gardens green and old; True Mussulman was I and sworn, For it was in the golden prime lo Of good Haroun Alraschid. Anight my shallop, rustling thro' The low and bloomed foliage, drove The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove The citron-shadows in the blue; By garden porches on the brim. The costly doors flung open wide. Gold glittering thro' lamplight dim. And broider'd sofas on each side. In sooth it was a goodly lime, 20 For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Often, where clear-stemm'd platans guard The outlet, did I turn away The boat-head down a broad canal From the main river sluiced, where all The sloping of the moonlit sward Was damask-work, and deep inlay Of braided blooms unmown, which crept Adown to where the water slept. 30 A goodly place, a goodly time, ■ For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. A motion from the river won Ridged the smooth level, bearing on My shallop thro' the star-strown calm, Until another night in night I enter'd, from the clearer light, Imbower'd vaults of pillar'd palm. Imprisoning sweets, which, as they clomb 40 Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the dome Of hollow boughs. A goodly time. For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Still onward; and the clear canal Is rounded to as clear a lake. From the green rivage many a fall Of diamond rillets musical, Thro' little crystal arches low Down from the central fountain's flow 50 Fallen silver-chiming, seemed to shake The sparkling flints beneath the prow. A goodly place, a goodly time. For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Above thro' many a bowery turn A walk with vari-colored shells Wander' d engrain'd. On either side All round about the fragrant marge From fluted vase, and brazen urn 60 In order, eastern flowers large. Some dropping low their crimson bells Half-closed, and others studded wide With disks and tiars, fed the time With odor in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. ODE TO MEMORY Far off, and where the lemon grove In closest coverture npsprung, The Kving airs of middle night Died round the bulbul as he sung; jo Not he, but something which possess'd The darkness of the world, delight. Life, anguish, death, immortal love. Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd. Apart from place, withholding time. But flattering the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Black the garden-bowers and grots Slumber'd ; the solemn palms were ranged Above, unwoo'd of summer wind; 80 A sudden splendor from behind Flush'd all the leaves with rich gold-green. And, flowing rapidly between Their interspaces, counterchanged The level lake with diamond-plots Of dark and bright. A lovely time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead, Distinct with vivid stars inlaid, 90 Grew darker from that under-flame; So, leaping lightly from the boat. With silver anchor left afloat. In marvel whence that glory came Upon me, as in sleep I sank In cool soft turf upon the bank. Entranced with that place and time, So worthy of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Thence thro' the gaxden I was drawn — A realm of pleasance, many a mound, 101 And many a shadow-chequer'd lawn Full of the city's stilly soimd. And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round The stately cedar, tamarisks, Thick rosaries of scented thorn. Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks Graven with emblems of the time. In honor of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. no With dazed vision unawares From the long alley's latticed shade Emerged, I came upon the great Pavilion of the Caliphat. Right to the carven cedarn doors. Flung inward over spangled floors. Broad-based flights of marble stairs Ran up with golden balustrade, After the fashion of the time. And humor of the golden prime 120 Of good Haroun Alraschid. The fourscore windows all alight As with the quintessence of flame, A million tapers flaring bright From twisted silvers look'd to shame The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd Upon the mooned domes aloof In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd Hundreds of crescents on the roof Of night new-risen, that marvellous time To celebrate the golden prime 131 Of good Haroun Alraschid. Then stole I up, and trancedly Gazed on the Persian girl alone, Serene with argent-lidded eyes Amorous, and lashes like to rays Of darkness, and a brow of pearl Tressed with redolent ebony. In many a dark delicious curl. Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone ; 140 The sweetest lady of the time, Well worthy of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Six columns, three on either side, Pure silver, underpropt a rich Throne of the massive- ore, from which Down-droop'd, in many a floating fold, Engarlanded and diaper'd With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold. Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr'd 150 With merriment of kingly pride. Sole star of all that place and time, I saw him — in his golden prime, The Good Hakoun Alraschid. ODE TO MEMORY ADDRESSED TO Thou who stealest fire. From the fountains of the past. To glorify the present, O, haste. Visit my low desire ! Strengthen me, enlighten me ! I faint in this obscurity, Thou dewy dawn of memory. JUVENILIA Come not as thou earnest of late, Flinging the gloom of yesternight On the white day, hut robed in soften'd light "° Of orient state. Whilome thou camest with the morning mist. Even as a maid, whose stately brow The dew-impearled winds of dawn have kiss'd. When she, as thou, Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight Of overflowing blooms, and earliest shoots Of orient green, giving safe pledge of fruits. Which in wintertide shall star The black earth with brilliance rare. 20 Whilome thou camest with the morning mist, And with the evening cloud. Showering thy gleaned wealth into my open breast; Those peerless flowers which in the rudest wind Never grow sere. When rooted in the garden of the mind. Because they are the earliest of the year. Nor was the night thy shroud. In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest Thou leddest by the hand thine infant Hope. 30 The eddying of her garments caught from thee The light of thy great presence ; and the cope Of the half-attain'd futurity, Tho' deep not fathomless, Was cloven with the million stars which tremble O'er the deep mind of dauntless infancy. Small thought was there of life's distress; For sure she deem'd no mist of earth could dull Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and beautiful; Sure she was nigher to heaven's spheres, 40 Listening the lordly music flowing from The illimitable years. O, strengthen me, enlighten me I I faint in this obscurity, Xhou dewy dawn of memory. Come forth, I charge thee, arise, Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes ! Thou oomest not with shows of flaunting vines Unto mine inner eye, Divinest Memory ! 50 Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall Which ever sounds and shines A pillar of white light upon the wall Of purple cliffs, aloof descried: Come from the woods that belt the gray hillside. The seven elms, the poplars four That stand beside my father's door. And chiefly from the brook that loves To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand. Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves, 60 Drawing into his narrow earthen urn. In every elbow and turn, The filter'd tribute of the rough woodland; O, hither lead thy feet ! Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled folds. Upon the ridged wolds. When the first matin-song hath waken'd loud Over the dark dewy earth forlorn. What time the amber morn 70 Forth gushes from beneath a low -hung cloud. Large dowries doth the raptured eye To the young spirit present When first she is wed. And like a bride of old In triumph led, With music and sweet showers Of festal flowers, Unto the dwelling she must sway. Well hast thou done, great artist Memory, In setting round thy first experiment 81 With royal framework of wrought gold ; Needs must thou dearly love thy first And foremost in thy various gallery Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls Upon the storied walls; For the discovery A CHARACTER J3 And newness of thine art so pleased thee That all which thou hast drawn of fairest Or boldest since but lightly weighs 90 With thee unto the love thou bearest The flrst-born of thy genius. Artist-like, Ever retiring thou dost gaze On the prime labor of thine early days, No matter what the sketch might be: Whether the high field on the bushless pike. Or even a sand-built ridge Of heaped hills that mound the sea. Overblown with murmurs harsh. Or even a lowly cottage whence we see 100 Stretoh'd wide and wild the waste enor- mous marsh. Where from the frequent bridge. Like emblems of infinity, The trenched waters run from sky to sky; Or a garden bower'd close With plaited alleys of the trailing rose, Long alleys falling down to twilight grots. Or opening upon level plots Of crowned lilies, standing near Purple-spiked lavender: no Whither in after life retired From brawling storms. From weary wind. With youthful fancy re-inspired, We may hold converse with all forms Of the many-sided mind. And those whom passion hath not blinded, Subtle-thoughted, myriad-minded. My friend, with you to live alone Were how much better than to own 120 A crown, a sceptre, and a throne ! O, strengthen me, enlighten me ! I faint in this obscurity. Thou dewy dawn of memory. SONG I A SPIRIT haunts the year's last hours Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers. To himself he talks; For at eventide, listening earnestly. At his work you may hear him sob and sigh In the walks; Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks Of the mouldering flowers. Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock. Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. The air is damp, and hush'd, and close, As a sick man's room when he taketh repose An hour before death ; My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves, And the breath Of the fading edges of box beneath. And the year's last rose. Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. A CHARACTER With a half-glance upon the sky At night he said, ' The wanderings Of this most intricate Universe Teach me the nothingness of things; ' Yet could not all creation pierce Beyond the bottom of his eye. He spake of beauty : that the dull Saw no divinity in grass. Life in dead stones, or spirit in air; Then looking as 't were in a glass. He smooth'd his chin and sleek'd his hair, And said the earth was beautiful. He spake of virtue: not the gods More purely when they wish to charm Pallas and Juno sitting by; And with a sweeping of the arm. And a lack-lustre dead-blue eye, Devolved his rounded periods. Most delicately hour by hour He canvass'd human mysteries. And trod on silk, as if the winds Blew his own praises in his eyes. And stood aloof from other minds In impotence of fancied power. With lips depress'd as he were meek, Himself unto himself he sold: 14 JUVENILIA Upon himself himself did feed ; Quiet, dispassionate, and cold, And other than his form of creed, With ehisell'd features clear and sleek. THE POET The poet in a golden clime was born. With golden stars above; Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love. He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill. He saw thro' his own soul. The marvel of the everlasting will. An open scroll, Before him lay; with echoing feet he threaded The secretest walks of fame: The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed And wing'd with flame. Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue, And of so fierce a flight. From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung. Filling with light And vagrant melodies the winds which bore Them earthward till they lit ; Then, like the arrow -seeds of the field flower. The fruitful wit Cleaving took root, and springing forth anew Where'er they fell, behold. Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew A flower all gold. And bravely furnish'd all abroad to fling The winged shafts of truth. To throng with stately blooms the breath- ing spring Of Hope and Youth. So many minds did gird their orbs with beams, Tho' one did fling the fire; Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many dreams Of high desire. Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world Like one great garden show'd. And thro' the wreaths of floating dark up- curl'd, Rare sunrise flow'd. And Freedom rear'd in that august sunrise Her beautiful bold brow, When rites and forms before his burning eyes Melted like snow. There was no blood upon her maiden robes Sunn'd by those orient skies; But round about the circles of the globes Of her keen eyes And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame Wisdom, a name to shake All evil dreams of power — a sacred name. And when she spake, Her words did gather thunder as they ran, And as the lightning to the thunder Which follows it, riving the spirit of man. Making earth wonder. So was their meaning to her words. No sword Of wrath her right arm whirl'd. But one poor poet's scroll, and vrith his word She shook the world. THE POET'S MIND Vex not thou the poet's mind With thy shallow wit; Vex not thou the poet's mind, For thou canst not fathom it. Clear and bright it should be ever, Flowing like a crystal river, Bright as light, and clear as wind. Darfc-brow'd sophist, come not anear; All the place is holy ground; THE DESERTED HOUSE ^S Hollow smile and frozen sneer Come not here. Holy water will I pour Into every spicy flower Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it aronud. The flowers would faint at your cruel cheer. In your eye there is death, There is frost in your breath Which would blight the plants. Where you stand you cannot hear From the groves within The wild-bird's din. In the heart of the garden the merry bird chants. It would fall to the ground if you came in. In the middle leaps a fountain Like sheet lightning, Ever brightening With a low melodious thunder; All day and all night it is ever drawn From the brain of the purple mountain Which stands in the distance yonder. It springs on a level of bowery lawn, And the mountain draws it from heaven above, And it sings a song of undying love; And yet, tho' its voice be so clear and fuU, You never would hear it, your ears are so dull; So keep where you are ; you are foul with sin; It would shrink to the earth if you came in. THE SEA-FAIRIES Slow sail'd the weary mariners and saw, Betwixt the green brink and the running foam. Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest To little harps of gold; and while they mused. Whispering to each other half in fear. Shrill music reach'd them on the middle sea. Whither away, whither away, whither away ? fly no more. Whither away from the high green field, and the happy blossoming shore ? Day and night to the billow the fountain calls; Down shower the gambolling waterfalls lo From wandering over the lea; Out of the live-green heart of the dells They freshen the silvery-crimson shells. And thick with white bells the clover-hill swells High over the full-toned sea. O, hither, come hither and furl your sails, Come hither to me and to me; Hither, come hither and frolic and play; Here it is only the mew that wails; We will sing to you all the day. 20 Mariner, mariner, furl your sails. For here are the blissful downs and dales, And merrily, merrily carol the gales. And the spangle dances in bight and bay, And the rainbow forms and flies on the land Over the islands free; And the rainbow lives in the curve of the sand; Hither, come hither and see; And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave. And sweet is the color of cove and cave, 30 And sweet shall your welcome be. O hither, come hither, and be our lords. For merry brides are we. We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet words; O, listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten With pleasure and love and jubilee. O, listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten When the sharp clear twang of the golden chords Runs up the ridged sea. Who can light on as happy a shore 40 All the world o'er, all the world o'er ? Whither away ? listen and stay; mariner, mariner, fly no more. THE DESERTED HOUSE Life and Thought have gone away Side by side. Leaving door and windows wide; Careless tenants they ! i6 JUVENILIA All within is dark as night: In the windows is no light; And no murmur at the door, So frequent on its hinge before. Close the door, the shutters close, Or thro' the windows we shall see The nakedness and vacancy Of the dark deserted house. Come away; no more of mirth Is here or merry-making sound. The house was builded of the earth. And shall fall again to ground. Come away; for Life and Thought Here no longer dwell, But in a city glorious — A great and distant city — have bought A mansion incorruptible. Would they could have stayed with us ! THE DYING SWAN The plain was grassy, wild and bare, Wide, wild, and open to the air, Which had built up everywhere An under-roof of doleful gray. With an inner voice the river ran, Adown it floated a dying swan. And loudly did lament. It was the middle of the day. Ever the weary wind went on, And took the reed-tops as it went. lo II Some blue peaks in the distance rose, And white against the cold-white sky Shone oat their crowning snows. One willow over the river wept. And shook the wave as the wind did sigh; Above in the wind was the swallow, Chaaing itself at its own wild will. And far thro' the marish ereeu and still The tangled water-courses slept. Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow. „ The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy Hidden in sorrow. At first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear; And floating about the under-sky. Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear; But anon her awful jubilant voice. With a music strange and manifold, Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold; 30 As when a mighty people rejoice With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold, And the tumult of their acclaim is roU'd Thro' the open gates of the city afar. To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star. And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds. And the willow-branches hoar and dank. And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds. And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank. And the silvery marish - flowers that throng 40 The desolate creeks and pools among, Were flooded over with eddying song. A DIRGE I Now is done thy long day's work; Fold thy palms across thy breast, Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. Let them rave. Shadows of the silver birk Sweep the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. Thee nor carketh care nor slander; Nothing but the small cold worm Fretteth thine enshrouded form. Let them rave. Light and shadow ever wander O'er the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. Ill Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed; Chaunteth not the brooding bee Sweeter tones than calumny ? Let them rave. THE BALLAD OF ORIANA I? Thou wilt never raise thine head From the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. Crocodiles wept tears for thee ; The woodbine and eglatere Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear. Let them rave. Kain makes music in the tree O'er the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. Bound thee blow, self-pleached deep, Bramble roses, faint and pale. And long purples of the dale. Let them rave. These in every shower creep Thro' the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. VI The gold-eyed kingcups fine, The frail bluebell peereth over Rare broidery of the purple clover. Let them rave. Kings have no such couch as thine, As the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. VII Wild words wander here and there; God's great gift of speech abused Makes thy memory confused; But let them rave. The balm-cricket carols clear In the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. LOVE AND DEATH What time the mighty moon was gather- ing light Love paced the thymy plots of Paradise, And all about him roll'd his lustrous eyes; When, turning round a cassia, f nil in view. Death, walking all alone beneath a yew. And talking to himself, first met his sight. 'You must begone,' said Death, 'these walks are mine.' Love wept and spread his sheeny vans for flight; Yet ere he parted jsaid, ' This hour is thine; Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree Stands in the sun and shadows all beneath, So in the light of great eternity Life eminent creates the shade of death. The shadow passeth when the tree shall fall. But I shall reign for ever over all.' THE BALLAD OF ORIANA My heart- is wasted with my woe, Oriana. There is no rest for me below, Oriana. When the long dun wolds are ribb'd with snow. And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow, Oriana, Alone I wander to and fro, Oriana. Ere the light on dark was growing, lo Oriana, At midnight the cock was crowing, Oriana; Winds were blowing, waters flowing. We heard the steeds to battle going, Oriana, Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, Oriana. In the yew-wood black as night, Oriana, 20 Ere I rode into the fight, Oriana, While blissful tears blinded my sight By star-shine and by moonlight, Oriana, I to thee my troth did plight, Oriana. She stood upon the castle wall, Oriana; She watch'd my crest among them all,' 30 Oriana; She saw me fight, she heard me call, When forth there stept a foeman tall,, Oriana, Atween me and the castle wall, Oriana. The bitter arrow went aside, Oriana ; i8 JUVENILIA The false, false arrow went aside, Oriana; 40 The damned arrow glanced aside. And pierced thy heart, my love, my bride, Oriana ! Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, Oriana I O, narrow, narrow was the space, Oriana I Loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, Oriana. O, deathful stabs were dealt apace, 50 The battle deepen'd in its place, Oriana; But I was down upon my face, Oriana. They should have stabb'd me where I lay, Oriana ! How could I rise and come away, Oriana ? How could I look upon the day ? They should have stabb'd me where I lay, Oriana — 61 They should have trod me into clay, Oriana. O breaking heart that will not break, Oriana ! pale, pale face so sweet and meek, Oriana ! Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak. And then the tears run down my cheek, Oriana. 70 What wantest thou ? whom dost thou seek, Oriana ? 1 cry aloud; none hear my cries, Oriana. Thou comest atween me and the skies, Oriana. I feel the tears of blood arise Up from my heart unto my eyes, Oriana. Within thy heart my arrow lies, 80 Oriana. O cursed hand ! O cursed blow ! Oriana ! O happy thou that liest low, Oriana ! All night the silence seems to flow Beside me in my utter woe, Oriana. A weary, weary way I go, Oriana ! ' When Norland winds pipe down the sea, Oriana, I walk, I dare not think of thee, Oriana. Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, I dare not die and come to thee, Oriana. I hear the roaring of the sea, Oriana. CIRCUMSTANCE Two children in two neighbor villages Playing mad pranks along the heathy leas; Two strangers meeting at a festival; Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall; Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease; Two graves grass -green beside a gray church-tower, Wash'd with still rains and daisy -blos- somed ; Two children in one hamlet born and bred: So runs the round of life from hour to hour. THE MERMAN Who would be A merman bold, Sitting alone. Singing alone Under the sea, With a crown of gold. On a throne ? I would be a merman bold, I would sit and sing the whole of the day; I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power; But at night 1 would roam abroad and play With the mermaids in and out of the rooks, Dressing their hair with the white sea^ flower; And holding them back by their flowing looks I would kiss them ofteij|under the sea, THE MERMAID 19 And kiss them again till they kiss'd me Laughingly, laughingly; And then we would wander away, away, To the pale-green sea-groves straight and high, ' Chasing each other merrily, III There would he neither moon nor star; But the wave would make music ahove ns afar — Low thunder and light in the magic night — Neither moon nor star. We would call aloud in the dreamy dells. Call to each other and whoop and cry All night, merrily, merrily. They would pelt me with starry spangles and shells. Laughing and clapping their hands be- tween. All night, merrily, merrily. But I would throw to them back in mine Turkis and agate and almondine; Then leaping out upon them unseen I would kiss them often under the sea. And kiss them again till they kiss'd me Laughingly, laughingly. O, what a happy life were mine Under the hollow-hung ocean green ! Soft are the moss-beds under the sea; We would live merrily, merrily. THE MERMAID Who would be A mermaid fair. Singing alone. Combing her hair Under the sea. In a golden curl With a comb of pearl. On a throne ? I would be a mermaid fair; I would sing to myself the whole of the day; With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair; And still as I comb'd I would sing and say, ' Who is it loves me ? who loves not me ? ' I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall Low adown, low adown. From under my starry sea-bud crown Low adown and around. And I should look like a fountain of gold Springing alone With a shrill inner sound, Over the throne In the midst of the hall; Till that great sea-snake under the sea From his coiled sleeps in the Central deeps Would slowly trail himself sevenfold Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate With his large calm eyes for the love of me. And all the mermen under the sea Would feel their immortality Die in their hearts for the love of me. But at night I would wander away, away, I would fling on each side my low-flow- ing locks. And lightly vault from the throne and play With the mermen in and out of the rocks ; We would run to and fro, and hide and seek. On the broad sea^wolds in the crimson shells, Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea. But if any came near I would call, and shriek. And adown the steep like a wave I would From the diamond-ledges that jut from the dells; For I would not be kiss'd by all who would list Of the bold merry mermen under the sea. They would sue me, and woo me, and flat- ter me, In the purple twilights under the sea; But the king of them all would carry me. Woo me, and win me, and marry me. In thp branching jaspers under the sea. Then all the dry pied things that be In the hueless mosses under the sea Would curl round my silver feet silently. All looking up for the love of me. And if I should carol aloud, from aloft All things that are forked, and horned, and soft Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea, All looking down for the love of me. JUVENILIA ADELINE Mystery of mysteries, Faintly smiling Adeline, Scarce of earth nor all divine. Nor unhappy, nor at rest, But beyond expression fair With thy floating flaxen hair; Thy Tose-lips and full blue eyes Take the heart from out my breast. Wherefore those dim looks of thine, Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? Whence that aery bloom of thine, Like a lily which the sun Looks thro' in his sad decline, And a rose-bush leans upon. Thou that faintly smilest still, As a Naiad in a well. Looking at the set of day. Or a phantom two hours old Of a maiden past away. Ere the placid lips be cold ? Wherefore those faint smiles of thine. Spiritual Adeline ? Ill What hope or fear or joy Is thine 1 Who talketh with thee, Adeline ? For sure thou art not all alone. Do beating hearts of salient springs Keep measure with thine own ? Hast thou heard the butterflies What they say betwixt their wings ? Or in stillest evenings With what voice the violet woos To his heart the silver dews ? Or when little airs arise. How the merry bluebell rings To the mosses underneath ? Hast thou look'd upon the breath Of the lilies at sunrise ? Wherefore that faint smile of thine. Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? IV Some honey-converse feeds thy mind. Some spirit of a crimson rose In love with thee forgets to close His curtains, wasting odorous sighs All night long on darkaess blind. What aileth thee ? whom waitest thou With thy soften'd, shadow'd brow, And those dew-lit eyes of tliiue, Thou faint smiler, Adeline ? Lovest thou the doleful wind When thou gazest at the skies ? Doth the low-tongued Orient Wander from the side of the morn. Dripping with Sabsean spice On thy pillow, lowly bent With melodious airs lovelorn, Breathing Light against thy face, While his locks a-drooping twined Round thy neck in subtle ring Make a carcanet of rays. And ye talk together still. In the language wherewith Spring Letters cowslips on the hill ? Hence that look and smile of thine, Spiritual Adeline. MARGARET O SWEET pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, What lit your eyes with tearful power. Like moonlight on a falling shower ? Who lent you, love, your mortal dower Of pensive thought and aspect pale, Your melancholy sweet and fraU As perfume of the cuckoo flower ? From the westward-winding flood. From the evening-lighted .wood. From all things outward you have won A tearful grace, as tho' you stood Between the rainbow and the sun. The very smile before you speak, That dimples your transparent cheek. Encircles all the heart, and feedeth The senses with a still delight Of dainty sorrow without sound, Like the tender amber round Which the moon about her spreadeth. Moving thro' a fleecy night. II You love, remaining peacefully. To hear the murmur of the strife, ROSALIND But enter not the toil of life. YouT spirit is the calmed sea, Laid by the tumalt of the fight. You are the evening star, alway Remaining betwixt dark and bright; LuU'd echoes of laborious day Come to you, gleams of mellow light Float by you on the verge of night. Ill What can it matter, Margaret, What songs below the waning stars The lion-heart, Plantagenet, Sang looking thro' his prison bars ? Exquisite Margaret, who can tell The last wild thought of Chatelet, Just ere the falling axe did part The burning brain from the true heart, Even in her sight he loved so well ? A fairy shield your Genius made And gave you on your natal day. Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade. Keeps real sorrow far away. You move not in such solitudes. You are not less divine, But more human in your moods, Than your twin-sister, Adeline. Your hair is darker, and your eyes Toueh'd with a somewhat darker hue. And less aerially blue, But ever trembling thro' the dew Of dainty-woeful sympathies. O sweet pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, Come down, come down, and hear me Tie up the ringlets on your cheek. The sun is just about to set, ' The arching limes are tall and shady, And faint, rainy lights are seen. Moving in the leavy beech. Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady, Where all day long ygu sit between Joy and woe, and whisper each. Or only look across the lawn. Look out below your bower-eaves. Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves. ROSALIND My Rosalind, my Rosalind, My frolic falcon, with bright eyes. Whose free delight, from any height of rapid flight, Stoops at all game that wing the skies, My Rosalind, my Rosalind, My bright-eyed, wild-eyed falcon, whither. Careless both of wind and weather, Whither fly ye, what game spy ye, Up or down the streaming wind ? The quick lark's cloSest-caroU'd strains. The shadow rushing up the sea, The lightning flash atween the rains. The sunlight driving down the lea. The leaping stream, the very wind. That will not stay, upon his way. To stoop the cowslip to the plains. Is not so clear and bold and free As you, my falcon Rosalind. You care not for another's pains. Because you are the sonlof joy. Bright metal all without alloy. Life shoots and glances thro' your veins. And flashes off a thousand ways. Thro' lips and eyes in subtle rays. Your hawk-eyes are keen and bright. Keen with triumph, watching still To pierce me thro' with pointed light; But oftentimes they flash and glitter Like sunshine on a dancing rill. And your words are seeming-bitter. Sharp and few, but seeming-bitter From excess of svrift delight. Come down, come home, my Rosalind, My gay young hawk, my Rosalind. Too long you keep the upper skies; Too long you roam and wheel at will; But we must hood your random eyes. That care not whom they kill, And your cheek, whose brilliant hue Is so sparkling-fresh to view, Some red heath-flower in the dew, Toueh'd with sunrise. We must bind And keep you fast, my Rosalind, Fast, fast, my wild-eyed Rosalind, 22 JUVENILIA And clip your wings, and make you love. When we have lured you from above, And that delight of frolic flight, by day or night, From North to South, We '11 bind you fait in silken cords, And kiss away the bitter words From off your rosy mouth. ELEANORE Thy dark eyes open'd not. Nor first reveal'd themselves to English air, For there is nothing here Which, from the outward to the inward brought. Moulded thy baby thought. Far o£E from human neighborhood Thou wert born, on a summer morn, A mile beneath the cedar-wood. Thy bounteous forehead was not fann'd With breezes from our oaken glades, lo But thou wert nursed in some delicious land Of lavish lights, and floating shades; And flattering thy childish thought The oriental fairy brought, At the moment of thy birth. From old well-heads of haunted rills, And the hearts of purple hills. And shadow'd coves on a sunny shore, The choicest wealth of all the earth. Jewel or shell, or starry ore, 20 To deck thy cradle, Eleanore. Or the yellow-banded bees, Thro' half-open lattices Coming in the scented breeze, Fed thee, a child, lying alone. With whitest honey in fairy gardens cuU'd — A glorious child, dreaming alone. In silk-soft folds, upon yielding down, With the hum of swarming bees Into dreamful slumber luU'd. 30 III Who may minister to thee ? Summer herself should minister To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded On golden salvers, or it may be, Youngest Autumn, in a bower Grape-thicken'd from the light, and blinded With many a deep-hued bell-like flower Of fragrant trailers, when the air Sleepeth over all the heaven. And the crag that fronts the even, 40 All along the shadowing shore. Crimsons over an inland mere, Eleanore ! IV How may full-sail'd verse express. How may measured words adore The full-flowing harmony Of thy swan-like stateliness, Eleanore ? The luxuriant symmetry Of thy floating gracefulness, Eleanore ? Every turn and glance of thine. Every lineament divine, Eleanore, And the steady sunset glow That stays upon thee ? For in thee Is nothing sudden, nothing single; Like two streams of incense free From one censer in one shrine. Thought and motion mingle, Mingle ever. Motions flow To one another, even as tho' They were modulated so To an unheard melody. Which lives about thee, and a sweep Of richest pauses, evermore Drawn from each other mellow-deep; Who may express thee, Eleanore ? I stand before thee, Eleanore ; I see thy beauty gradually unfold. Daily and hourly, more and more. I muse, as in a trance, the while Slowly, as from a cloud of gold. Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile. I muse, as in a trance, whene'er The languors of thy love-deep eyes Float on to me. ' I would I were So tranced, so rapt in ecstasies. To stand apart, and to adore. Gazing on thee for evermore. Serene, imperial Eleanore ! KATE 23 Sometimes, with most intensity Gazing, I seem to see Thought folded over thought, smiling Slowly awaken'd, grow so full and deep In thy large eyes that, overpower'd quite, I cannot veil or droop my sight, But am as nothing in its light. As tho' a star, in inmost heaven set. Even while we gaze on it, 90 Should slowly round his orb, and slowly grow To a full face, there like a sun remain Fix'd — then as slowly fade again. And draw itself to what it was before; So full, so deep, so slow. Thought seems to come and go In thy large eyes, imperial Eleanore. As thunder-clouds that, hung on high. Roof 'd the world with doubt and fear. Floating thro' an evening atmosphere, 100 Grow golden all about the sky; In thee all passion becomes passionless, Touch'd by thy spirit's mellowness, Losing his fire and active might In a silent meditation, Falling into a still delight, And luxury of contemplation. As waves that up a quiet cove Rolling slide, and lying still Shadow forth the banks at will, no Or sometimes they swell and move, Pressing up against the land With motions of the outer sea; And the self-same influence Controlleth all the soul and sense Of Passion gazing upon thee. His bow-string slacken'd, languid Love, Leaning his cheek upon his hand, Droops both his wings, regarding thee. And so would languish evermore, 120 Serene, imperial Eleanore. VIII But when I see thee roam, with tresses un- confined. While the amorous odorous wind Breathes low between the sunset and the moon; Or, in a shadowy saloon, On silken cushions half reclined; I watch thy grace, and in its place My heart a charmed slumber keeps, While I muse upon thy face; And a languid fire creeps 130 Thro' my veins to au my frame, Dissolvingly and slowly. Soon From thy rose-red lips my name Floweth; and then, as in a swoon. With dinning sound my ears are rife. My tremulous tongue faltereth, I lose my color, I lose my breath, I drink the cup of a costly death, Brimra'd with delirious draughts of warm- est life. I die with my delight before 140 I hear what I would hear from thee ; Yet tell my name again to me, I would be dying evermore, So dying ever, Eleanore. KATE I KNOW her by her angry air. Her bright black eyes, her bright black hair. Her rapid laughters wild and shrill. As laughters of the woodpecker From the bosom of a hill. 'T is Kate — she sayeth what she will. For Kate hath an unbridled tongue. Clear as the twanging of a harp. Her heart is like a throbbing star. Kate hath a spirit ever strung Like a new bow, and bright and sharp As edges of the scimitar. Whence shall she take a fitting mate ? For Kate no common love will feel; My woman-soldier, gallant Kate, As pure and true as blades of steel. Kate saith ' the world is void of might.' Kate saith ' the men are gilded flies.' Kate snaps her fingers at my vows ; Kate will not hear of lovers' sighs. I would I were an armed knight. Far-famed for well-won enterprise, And wearing on my swarthy brows The garland of new- wreathed emprise; ■ For in a moment I would pierce The blackest flies of clanging fight. And strongly strike to left and right. 24 JUVENILIA In dreaming of my lady's eyes. O, Kate loves well the bold and fierce; But none are bold enough for Kate, She cannot find a fitting mate. 'MY LIFE IS FULL OF WEARY DAYS' My life is full of weary days, But good things have not kept aloof, Nor wander'd into other ways; I have not lack'd thy mild reproof, Nor golden largess of thy praise. And now shake hands across the brink Of that deep grave to which I go, Shake hands once more; I cannot sink So far — far down, but I shall know Thy voice, and answer from below. When in the darkness over me The four-handed mole shall scrape. Plant thou no dusky cypress-tree, Nor wreathe thy cap with doleful crape, But pledge me in the flowing grape. And when the sappy field and wood Grow green beneath the showery gray, And rugged barks begin to bud, And thro' damp holts new-flush'd with may. Ring sudden scritches of the jay. Then let wise Nature work her will. And on my clay her darnel grow; Come only, when the days are still. And at my headstone whisper low. And tell me if the woodbines blow. EARLY SONNETS I TO As when with downcast eyes we muse and brood. And ebb into a former life, or seem To lapse far back in some confused dream To states of mystical similitude. If one but speaks or hems or stirs his chair. Ever the wonder waxeth more and more. So that we say, ' All this hath been before, All this hath been, I know not when or where;' So, friend, when first I look'd upon your face. Our thought gave answer each to each, so true — Opposed mirrors each reflecting each — Tliat, tho' I knew not in what time or place, Methought that I had often met with you. And either lived in either's heart and speech. II TO J. M. K. My hope and heart is with thee — thou wilt be A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest To scare church-harpies from the master's feast; Our dusted velvets . have much need of thee: Thou art no Sabbath-drawler of old saws, Distill'd from some worm-canker'd hom- But spurr'd at heart with fieriest energy To embattail and to wall about thy cause With iron-worded proof, hating to hark The humming of the drowsy pulpit-drone Half God's good Sabbath, while the worn- out clerk Brow-beats his desk below. Thou from a throne Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the dark Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark. Mine be the strength of spirit, full and free. Like some broad river rushing down alone. With the selfsame impulse wherewith he was thrown From his loud fount upon the echoing lea; — Which with increasing might doth forward flee EARLY SONNETS 25 By town, and tower, and hill, and cape, and isle, And in the middle of the green salt sea Keeps his blue waters fresh for many a mile. Mine be the power which ever to its sway Will win the wise at once, and by degrees May into uncongenial spirits flow ; Even as the warm gulf-stream of Florida Floats far away into the Northern seas The lavish growths of southern Mexico. IV ALEXANDER Wakkior of God, whose strong right arm debased The throne of Persia, when her Satrap bled At Issus by the Syrian gates, or fled Beyond the Memmiau naphtha-pits, dis- graced For ever — thee (thy pathway sand-erased) Gliding with equal crowns two serpents led Joyful to that palm-planted fountain-fed Ammonian Oasis in the waste. There in a silent shade of laurel brown Apart the Chamian Oracle divine Shelter'd his unapproached mysteries: High things were spoken there, unhanded down; Only they saw thee from the secret shrine Returning with hot cheek and kindled eyes. BUONAPARTE He thought to quell the stubborn hearts of oak, Madman! — to chain with chains, and bind with bands That island queen who sways the floods and lands From Ind to Ind, but in fair daylight woke. When from her wooden walls, — lit by sure hands, — With thunders, and with lightnings, and with smoke, — Peal after peal, the British battle broke, Lulling the brine against the Coptic sands. We taught him lowlier moods, when Elsi- nore Heard the war moan along the distant sea. Rocking with shatter'd spars, with sudden fires Flamed over; at Trafalgar yet once more We taught him; late he learned humility Perforce, like those whom Gideon school'd with briers. VI POLAND How long, O God, shall men be ridden down. And trampled under by the last and least Of men? The heart of Poland hath not ceased To quiver, tho' her sacred blood doth drown The fields, and out of every smouldering town Cries to Thee, lest brute Power be in- creased, Till that o'ergrown Barbarian in the East Transgress his ample bound to some new crown, — Cries to Thee, ' Lord, how long shall these things be ? How long this icy-hearted Muscovite Oppress the region ? ' Us, O Just and Good, Forgive, who smiled when she was torn in three; Us, who stand now, when we should aid the right — A matter to be wept with tears of blood! Caress'd or chidden by the slender hand, And singing airy trifles this or that. Light Hope at Beauty's call would perch and stand, And run thro' every change of sharp and flat; And Fancy came and at her pillow sat. When Sleep had bound her in his rosy 26 JUVEmUTA" And chased away the still-recurring gnat, And woke her with a lay from fairy land. But now they live with Beauty less and less, For Hope is other Hope and wanders far, Nor cares to lisp in love's delicious creeds; And Fancy watches in the wilderness, Poor Fancy sadder than a single star. That sets at twilight in a land of reeds. The form, the form alone is eloquent ! A nobler yearning never broke her rest Than but to dance and sing, be gaily drest, And win all eyes with all accomplishment; Yet in the whirling dances as we went. My fancy made me for a moment blest To find my heart so near the beauteous breast That once had power to rob it of content. A moment came the tenderness of tears, The phantom of a wish that once could move, A ghost of passion that no smiles re- store — For ah! the slight coquette, she cannot love. And if you kiss'd her feet a thousand years. She still would take the praise, and care no more. Wan Sculptor, weepest thou to take the cast Of those dead lineaments that near thee lie? O, sorrowest thou, pale Fainter, for the In painting some dead friend from mem- ory ? Weep on; beyond his object Love can last. His object lives; more cause to weep have I: My tears, no tears of love, are flowing fast, No tears of love, but tears that Love can die. I pledge her not in any cheerful cup, Nor care to sit beside her where she sits — Ah ! pity — hint it not in human tones, But breathe it into earth and close it up With secret death for ever, in the pits Which some green Christmas crams with weary bones. If I were loved, as I desire to be, What is there in the great sphere of the earth. And range of evil between death and birth, That I should fear, — if I were loved by thee ? All the inner, all the outer world of pain Clear Love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert mine. As I have heard that, somewhere in the main. Fresh- water springs come up through bitter brine. 'T were joy, not fear, claspt hand-in-hand with thee. To wait for death — mute — careless of all ills. Apart upon a mountain, tho' the surge Of some new deluge from a thousand hills Flung leagues of roaring foam into the gorge Below us, as far on as eye could see. THE BRIDESMAID BRIDESMAID, ere the happy knot was tied, Thine eyes so wept that they could hardly see; Thy sister smiled and said, ' No tears for me ! A happy bridesmaid makes a happy bride.' And then, the couple standing side by side. Love lighted down between them full of glee. And over his left shoulder laugh'd at thee, ' O happy bridesmaid, make a happy bride.' And all at once a pleasant truth I learn'd, For while the tender service made thee weep, 1 loved thee for the tear thou couldst not hide. And prest thy hand, and knew the press return'd, And thought, 'My life is sick of single sleep: O happy bridesmaid, make a happy bride 1 ' THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS THE LADY OF SHALOTT PART I On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And thro' the field the road runs by To many-tower'd Camelot; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott. Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Thro' the wave that runs for ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers. Overlook a space of flowers. And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott. By the margin, willow-veil'd, Slide the heavy barges trail'd By slow horses; and unhail'd The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd Skimming down to Camelot: But who hath seen her wave her hand ? Or at the casement seen her stand ? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott ? Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to tower'd Camelot; And by the moon the reaper weary. Piling sheaves in uplands airy. Listening, whispers ' 'T is the fairy Lady of Shalott.' There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colors gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily. And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott. And moving thro' a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot; There the river eddy whirls, And there the surly village-churls. And the red cloaks of market girls, Pass onward from Shalott. Sometimes a troop of dainsels glad. An abbot on an ambling pad. Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad. Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, Goes by to tower'd Camelot; And sometimes thro' the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two: She hath no loyal knight and true. The Lady of Shalott. But in her web she still delights \ To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often thro' the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, went to Camelot; Or when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed: ' I am half sick of shadows,' said The Lady of Shalott. PART III A bow-shot from her bower-eaves. He rode between the barley-sheaves, 60 28 THE LADY OF SHALOTT^AND OTHER POEMS The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, 80 Beside remote Shalott. The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down to Camelot; And from his blazon'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armor rung, Beside remote Shalott. 90 All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burn'd like one burning flame together. As he rode down to Camelot; As often thro' the purple night. Below the starry clusters bright. Some bearded meteor, trailing light. Moves over still Shalott. 99 His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On bnrnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode. As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flash'd into the crystal mirror, ' Tirra lirra,' by the river Sang Sir Lancelot. She left the web, she left the loom. She made three paces thro' the room, no She saw the water-lily bloom. She saw the helmet and the plume. She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack'd from side to side; ' The curse is come upon me,' cried The Lady of Shalott. In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining. Heavily the low sky raining ui Over tower'd Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And round about the prow she wrote The Lady of Shalott. And down the river's dim expanse Like some bold seer in a trance. Seeing all his own mischance — . With a glassy countenance 130 Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott. Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right — The leaves upon her falling light — Thro' the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot; 140 And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among. They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott. Heard a carol, mournful, holy. Chanted loudly, chanted lowly. Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darken'd wholly, Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. For ere she reach'd upon the tide 13° The first house by the water-side. Singing in her song she died. The Lady of Shalott. Under tower and balcony. By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by. Dead-pale between the houses high. Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came. Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 160 And round the prow they read her name, The Lady of Shalott. Who is this ? and what is here ? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; 'And they cross'd themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot: But Lancelot mused a little space; He said, 'She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, 170 The Lady of Shalott.' MARIANA IN THE SOUTH 29 MARIANA IN THE SOUTH With one black shadow at its feet, The house thro' all the level shines, Close-latticed to the brooding heat, And silent in its dusty vines; A faint-blue ridge upon the right, An empty river-bed before, And shallows on a distant shore. In glaring sand and inlets bright. But ' Ave Mary,' made she moan, 9 And ' Ave Mary,' night and morn, And ' Ah,' she sang, ' to be all alone. To live forgotten, and love forlorn.' She, as her carpi sadder grew, From brow and bosom slowly down Thro' rosy taper fingers drew Her streaming curls of deepest brown To left and right, and made appear Still-lighted in a secret shrine Her melancholy eyes divine. The home of woe without a tear. 20 And ' Ave Mary,' was her moan, 'Madonna, sad is night and morn,' And ' Ah,' she sang, ' to be all alone. To live forgotten, and love forlorn.' Till all the crimson changed, and past Into deep orange o'er the sea. Low on her knees herself she cast. Before Our Lady murmur'd she ; Complaining, ' Mother, give me grace To help me of my weary load.' 30 And on the liquid mirror glow'd The clear perfection of her face. ' Is this the form,' she made her moan, ' That won his praises night and morn ? ' And ' Ah,' she said, ' but I wake alone, I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn.' Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat, Nor any cloud would cross the vault. But day increased from heat to heat, On stony drought and steaming salt; 40 Till now at noon she slept again. And seem'd knee -deep in mountain grass, And heard her native breezes pass, And runlets babbling down the glen. She breathed in sleep a lower moan, And murmuring, as at night and morn, She thought, ' My spirit is here alone. Walks forgotten, and is forlorn.' Dreaming, she knew it was a dream; She felt he was and was not there. 50 She woke ; the babble of the stream Fell, and, without, the steady glare Shrank one sick willow sere and small. The river-bed was dusty- white; And all the furnace of the light Struck up against the blinding wall. She whisper'd, with a stifled moan More inward than at night or morn, 'Sweet Mother, let me not here alone Live forgotten and die forlorn.' 60 And, rising, from her bosom drew Old letters, breathing of her worth. For ' Love,' they said, ' must needs be true, To what is loveliest upon earth.' An image seem'd to pass the door. To look at her with slight, and say ' But now thy beauty flows away, So be alone for evermore.' ' O cruel heart,' she changed her tone, ' And cruel love, whose end is scorn. Is this the end, to be left alone, 71 To live forgotten, and die forlorn ? ' But sometimes in the falling day An image seem'd to pass the door, To look into her eyes and say, ' But thou shalt be alone no more.' And flaming downward over all From heat to heat the day decreased. And slowly rounded to the east The one black shadow from the wall. 8a ' The day to night,' she made her moan, ' The day to night, the night to morn, And day and night I am left alone To live forgotten, and love forlorn.' At eve a dry cicala sung. There came a sound as of the sea; Backward the lattice-blind she flung, And lean'd upon the balcony. There all in spaces rosy-bright Large Hesper glitter'd on her tears, 90 And deepening thro' the silent spheres Heaven over heaven rose the night. 30 THE LADY OF SHALOTT, AND OTHER POEMS And weeping then she made her moau, ' The night comes on that knows not raoru, When I shall cease to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn.' THE TWO VOICES A STILL small voiee spake unto me, ' Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be ? ' Then to the still small voice I said: ' Let me not cast in endless shade What is so wonderfully made.' To which the voice did urge reply: ' To-day I saw the dragon-fly Come from the wells where he did lie. ' An inner impulse rent the veil lo Of his old husk; from head to tail Came out clear plates of sapphire mail. ■ He dried his wings; like gauze they grew; Thro' crofts and pastures wet with dew A living flash of light he flew.' I said: 'When first the world began, Young Nature thro' five cycles ran, And in the sixth she moulded man. ' She gave him mind, the lordliest Proportion, and, above the rest, 20 Dominion in the head and breast.' Thereto the silent voice replied: ' Self- blinded are you by your pride; Look up thro' night; the world is wide. ' This truth within thy mind rehearse, That in a boundless universe Is boundless better, boundless worse. ' Think you this mould of hopes and fears Could find no statelier than his peers Li yonder hundred million spheres ? ' 30 It spake, moreover, in my mind: ' Tho' thou wert scatter'd to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.' Then did my response clearer fall: ' No. compound of this earthly ball Is like another, all in all.' To which he answer'd scoffingly: ' Good soul ! suppose I grant it thee, Who 'II weep for thy deficiency ? ' Or will one beam be less intense, 4c When thy peculiar difference Is cancell'd in the world of sense ? ' I would have said, ' Thou canst not know,' But my full heart, that work'd below, Rain'd thro' my sight its overflow. Again the voice spake unto me: ' Thou art so steep'd in misery. Surely 't were better not to be. ' Thine anguish will not let thee sleep, Nor any train of reason keep ; 50 Thou canst not think, but thou wilt weep.' I said: ' The years with change advance; If I make dark my countenance, I shut my life from happier chance. ' Some turn this sickness yet might take. Even yet.' But he : ' What drug can make A wither'd palsy ce&se to shake ? ' I wept: 'Tho' I should die, I know That all about the thorn will blow In tufts of rosy-tinted snow; 60 ' And men, thro' novel spheres of thought Still moving after truth long sought, ^^ill learn new things when I am not.' ' Yet,' said the secret voice, ' some time, Sooner or later, will gray prime Make thy grass hoar with early rime. ' Not less swift souls that yearn for light, B.apt after heaven's starry flight. Would sweep the tracts of day and night. ' Not less the bee would range her cells, 70 The f urzy prickle fire the dells. The foxglove cluster dappled bells.' I said that ' all the years invent; Each month is various to present The world with some deyelopment. THE TWO VOICES 31 ' Were this not well, to bide mine hour, • Tho' watching from a ruin'd tower How grows the day of human power ? ' ' The highest-mounted mind,' he said, ' Still sees the sacred morning spread 80 The silent summit overhead. ' Will thirty seasons render plain Those lonely lights that still remain, Just breaking over land and main ? ' Or make that moru, from his cold crown And crystal silence creeping down, Flood with full daylight glebe and town ? • Forerun thy peers, thy time, and let Thy feet, millenniums hence, be set In midst of knowledge, dream'd not yet. 90 ' Thou hast not gain'd a real height, Nor art thou nearer to the light. Because the scale is infinite. ' 'T were better not to breathe or speak, Than cry for strength, remaining weak. And seem to find, but still to seek. ' Moreover, but to seem to find Asks what thou lackest, thought resign'd, A healthy frame, a quiet mind.' I said: ' When I am gone away, 100 " He dared not tarry," men will say. Doing dishonor to my clay.' ' This is more vile,' he made reply, ' To breathe and loathe, to live and sigh, Than once from dread of pain to die. ' Sick art thou — a divided will Still heaping on the fear of ill The fear of men, a coward still. ' Do men love thee ? Art thou so bound To men that how thy name may sound no Will vex thee lying underground ? ' The memory of the wither'd leaf In endless time is scarce more brief Than of the garner'd autumn-sheaf. 'Go, vexed spirit, sleep in trust; The right ear that is fiU'd with dust Hears little of the false or just.' ' Hard task, to pluck resolve,' I cried, ' From emptiness and the waste wide Of that abyss, or scornful pride ! 120 ' Nay — rather yet that I could raise One hope that warm'd me in the days While still I yeam'd for human praise. ' When, wide in soul and bold of tongue, Among the tents I paused and sung. The distant battle flash'd and rung. ' I sung the joyful Psean clear, And, sitting, burnish'd without fear The brand, the buckler, and the spear — ' Waiting to strive a happy strife, >3o To war with falsehood to the knife, And not to lose the good of life — ' Pome hidden principle to move. To put together, part and prove, And mete the bounds of hate and love — ' As far as might be, to carve out Free space for every human doubt, That the whole mind might orb about — ' To sea;rch thro' all I felt or saw. The springs of life, the depths of awe, 140 And reach the law within the law; ' At least, not rotting like a weed. But, having sown some generous seed, Fruitful of further thought and deed, ' To pass, when Life her light withdraws, Not void of righteous self-applause. Nor in a merely selfish cause — ' In some good cause, not in mine own. To perish, wept for, honor'd, known, And like a warrior overthrown ; 150 ' Whose eyes are dim with glorious tears, When, soil'd with noble dust, he hears His country's war-song thrill his ears : ' Then dying of a mortal stroke, What time the foeman's line is broke. And all the war is roU'd in smoke.' 'Yea !' said the voice, 'thy dream was good, While thou abodest in the bud. It was the stirring of the blood. 32 THE LADY OF SHALOTT, AND OTHER POEMS ' If Nature put not forth her power 160 About the opening of the flower, Who is it that could live an hour ? ' Then comes the check, the change, the fall, Pain rises up, old pleasures pall. There is one remedy for all. ' Yet hadst thou, thro' enduring pain, Link'd month to month with such a chain Of knitted purport, all were vain. ' Thou hadst not between death and birth Dissolved the riddle of the earth. 170 So were thy labor little worth. ' That men with knowledge merely play'd, I told thee — hardly nigher made, Tho' scaling slow from grade to grade; ' Much less this dreamer, deaf and blind, Kamed man, may hope some truth to find,' That bears relation to the mind. ' For every worm beneath the moon Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon. iSo ' Cry, faint not: either Truth is born Beyond the polar gleam forlorn. Or in the gateways of the morn. ' Cry, faint not, climb: the summits slope Beyond the furthest flights of hope, Wrapt in dense cloud from base to cope. ' Sometimes a little corner shines. As over rainy mist inclines A gleaming crag with belts of pines. ' I will go forward, sayest thou, 190 I shall not fail to find her now. Look up, the fold is on her brow. ' If straight thy track, or if oblique. Thou know'st not. Shadows thou dost strike. Embracing cloud, Ixion-like; ' And owning but a little more Than beasts, abidest lame and poor. Calling thyself a little lower ' Than angels. Cease to wail and brawl ! Why inch by inch to darkness crawl ? 200 There is one remedy for all.' ' O dull, one-sided voice,' said I, ' Wilt thou make everything a lie, To flatter me that I may die ? ' I know that age to age succeeds, Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, A dust of systems and of creeds. ' I cannot hide that some have striven. Achieving calm, to whom was given The joy that mixes man with Heaven; zn ' Who, rowing hard against the stream, Saw distant gates of Eden gleam, And did not dream it was a dream; 'But heard, by secret transport led. Even in the chamels of the dead. The murmur of the fountain-head — ' Which did accomplish their desire. Bore and f orebore, and did not tire, Like Stephen, an unquencbed fire. ' He heeded not reviling tones, 220 Kor sold his heart to idle moans, Tho' cursed and scom'd, and bruised with stones; ' But looking upward, full of grace. He pray'd, and from a happy place God's glory smote him on the face.' The sullen answer slid betwixt: ' Not that the grounds of hope were fix'd, The elements were kindlier mix'd.' I said: ' I toil beneath the curse. But, knowing not the universe, 23, I fear to slide from bad to worse; ' And that, in seeking to undo One riddle, and to find the true, I knit a hundred others new; ' Or that this anguish fleeting hence, Unmanacled from bonds of sense, Be fix'd and frozen to permanence: 'For I go, weak from suffering here; Naked I go, and void of cheer: What is it that I may not fear ? ' »,, ^ Consider well,' the voice replied, ■His face, that two hours since hath died; Wilt thou find passion, pain or pride ? THE TWO VOICES 33 ' Will he obey when one commands ? Or answer should one press bis bands ? He answers not, nor understands. 'His palms are folded on bis breast; There is no other thing express'd But long disquiet merged in rest. ' His lips are very mild and meek; 350 Tho' one should smite him on the cheek, And on the mouth, he will not speak. ' His little daughter, whose sweet face He kiss'd, taking his last embrace. Becomes dishonor to her race — ' His sons grow up that bear his name, Some grow to honor, some to shame, — But he is chill to praise or blame. ' He will not hear the north'-wind rave, Nor, moaning, household shelter crave 260 From winter rains that beat his grave. ' High up the vapors fold and swim; About him broods the twilight dim; The place he knew forgetteth him.' • If all be dark, vague voice,' I said, ' These things are wrapt in doubt and dread, Nor canst, thou show the dead are dead. •The sap dries up: the plant declines. A deeper tale my heart divines. Know I not death ? the outward signs ? 270 *I found him when my years were few; A shadow on the graves I knew, And darkness in the village yew. 'From grave to grave the shadow crept; In her still place the morning wept; Touch'd by his feet the daisy slept. ' The simple senses crown'd his head: " Omega ! thou art Lord," they said, " We find no motion in the dead ! " • Why, if man rot in dreamless ease, 280 Should that plain fact, as taught by these, Not make him sure that he shall cease ? ' Who forged that other influence. That heat of inward evidence. By which he doubts against the sense ? ' He owns the fatal gift of eyes. That read his spirit blindly wise. Not simple as a thing that dies. ' Here sits he shaping wings to fly; His heart forebodes a mystery; 290 He names the name Eternity. ' That type of Perfect in his mind In Nature can he nowhere find. He sows himself on every wind. ' He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend, And thro' thick veils to apprehend A labor working to an end. ' The end and the beginning vex His reason: many things perplex. With motions, checks, and counterchecks. ' He knows a baseness in his blood 301 At such strange war with something good, He may not do the thing he would. ' Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn. Vast images in glimmering dawn. Half shown, are broken and withdrawn. ' Ah ! sure within him and without. Could his dark wisdom find it out. There must be answer to his doubt, 'But thou canst answer not again. 310 With thine own weapon art thou slain. Or thou wilt answer but in vain. ' The doubt would rest, I dare not solve. In the same circle we revolve. Assurance only breeds resolve.' As when a billow, blown against. Falls back, the voice with which I fenced A little ceased, but recommenced: ' Where wert thou when thy father play'd In his free field, and pastime made, 32a A merry boy in sun and shade ? ' A merry boy they call'd him then, He sat upon the knees of men In days that never come again; ' Before the little ducts began To feed thy bones with lime, and ran Their course, till thou wert also man: 34 THE LADY OF SHALOTT, AND OTHER POEMS ' Who took a wife, who rear'd his race, Whose wrinkles gather'd on his face, Whose troubles number with his days; 330 ' A life of nothings, nothing worth, From that first nothing ere his birth To that last nothing under earth ! ' 'These words,' I said, 'are like the rest; No certain clearness, but at best A vague suspicion of the breast: ' But if I grant, thou mightst defend The thesis which thy words intend — That to begin implies to end; ' Yet how should I for certain hold, 346 Because my memory is so cold. That I first was in human mould ? ' I cannot make this matter plain. But I would shoot, howe'er in vain, A random arrow from the brain. ' It may be that no life is found. Which only to one engine bound Falls off, but cycles always round. ' As old mythologies relate. Some draught of Lethe might await 350 The slipping thro' from state to state; • As here we find in trances, men Forget the dream that happens then. Until they fall in trance again ; ' So might we, if our state were such As one before, remember much. For those two likes might meet and touch. • But, if I lapsed from nobler place, Some legend of a fallen race Alone might bint of my disgrace; 360 ' Some vague emotion of delight In gazing up an Alpine height, Some yearning toward the lamps of night; ' Or if thro' lower lives I came — Tho' all experience past became Consolidate in mind and frame — ' I might forget my weaker lot; For is not our first year forgot ? The haunts of memory echo not. ' And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unoonflned, 371 Oft lose whole years of darker mind. ' Much more, if first I floated free, As naked essence, must I be Incompetent of memory; ' For memory dealing but with time, And he with matter, could she climb Beyond her own material prime ? ' Moreover, something is or seems. That touches me with mystic gleams, 38c Like glimpses of forgotten dreams — ' Of something felt, like something here ; Of something done, I know not where ; Such as no language may declare.' The still voice laugh'd. ' Not with thy dreams. Thy pain is a reality.' ' I talk,' said he, Suffice it thee ' But thou,' said I, ' hast missed thy mark, Who sought'st to wreck my mortal ark. By making all the horizon dark. 39a ' Why not set forth, if I should do This rashness, that which might ensue With this old soul in organs new.? ' Whatever crazy sorrow saith. No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly long'd for death. ' 'T is life, whereof our nerves are scant, O, life, not death, for which we pant; More life, and fuller, that I want.' I ceased, and sat as one forlorn. Then said the voice, in quiet scorn, ' Behold, it is the Sabbath morn.' And I arose, and I released The casement, and the light increased With freshness in the dawning east. Like soften'd airs that blowing steal. When meres begin to unoongeal, The sweet church bells began to peal. On to God's house the people prest: Passing the place where each must rest, Each enter'd like a welcome guest. 40c THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER 35 One walk'd between his wife and child, With measured footfall firm and mild, And now and then he gravely smiled. The prudent partner of his blood Lean'd ou him, faithful, gentle, good, Wearing the rose of womanhood. And in their double love secure, The little maiden walk'd demure. Pacing with downward eyelids pure. 420 These three made unity so sweet, My frozen heart began to beat, Remembering its ancient heat. I blest them, and they wander'd ou; I spoke, but answer came there none; The dull and bitter voice was gone. A second voice was at mine ear, A little whisper silver-clear, A murmur, ' Be of better cheer.' As from some blissful neighborhood, 430 A notice faintly understood, ' I see the end, and know the good.' A little hint to solace woe, A hint, a whisper breathing low, ' I may not speak of what I know.' Like an .Slolian harp that wakes No certain air, but overtakes Far thought with music that it makes; Such seem'd the whisper at my side: 'What is it thou knowest, sweet voice ? ' 1 cried. 440 'A hidden hope,' the voice replied; So heavenly-toned, that in that hour From out my sullen heart a power Broke, like the rainbow from the shower. To feel, altho' no tongue can prove. That every cloud, that spreads above And veileth love, itself is love. And forth into the fields I went, And Nature's living motion lent The pulse of hope to discontent. 450 I wonder'd at the bounteous hours, The slow result of winter showers; You scarce could see the grass for flowers. I wonder'd, while I paced along; The woods were flU'd so full with song. There seem'd no room for sense of wrong; And all so variously wrought, I marvell'd how the mind was brought To anchor by one gloomy thought ; And wherefore rather I made choice 460 To commune with that barren voice. Than him that said, ' Rejoice ! Rejoice ! ' THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER I SEE the wealthy miller yet, His double chin, his portly size, And who that knew him could forget The busy wrinkles round his eyes ? The slow wise smile that, round about His dusty forehead drily curl'd, Seem'd half-within and half-without. And full of dealings with the world ? In yonder chair I see him sit, 9 Three fingers round the old silver cup — I see his gray eyes twinkle yet At his own jest — gray eyes lit up With summer lightnings of a sonl So full of summer warmth, so glad. So healthy, sound, and clear and whole. His memory scarce can make me sad. Yet fill my glass; give me one kiss: My own sweet Alice, we must die. There 's somewhat in this world amiss Shall be unriddled by and by. m There 's somewhat flows to us in life. But more is taken quite away. Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife. That we may die the self-same day. Have I not found a happy earth ? I least should breathe a thought of pain, Would God renew me from my birth, I 'd almost live my life again; 36 THE LADY OF SHALOTT, AND OTHER POEMS So sweet it seems with thee to walk, And once again to woo thee mine — 30 It seems in after-dinner talk Across the walnuts and the wine — To be the long and listless boy Late-left an orphan of the squire, Where this old mansion mounted high Looks down Upon the village spire; For even here, where I and you Have lived and loved alone so long, Each morn my sleep was broken thro' By some wild skylark's matin song. 40 And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan; But ere I saw your eyes, my love, I had no motion of my own. For scarce ray life with fancy play'd Before I dream'd that pleasant dream — Still hither thither idly sway'd Like those long mosses in the stream. Or from the bridge I lean'd to hear The milldam rushing down with noise, 50 And see the minnows everywhere In crystal eddies glance and poise. The tall flag-flowers when they sprung Below the range of stepping-stones. Or those three chestnuts near, that hung In masses thick with milky cones. But, Alice, what an hour was that, When after roving in the woods ('T was April then), I came and sat Below the chestnuts, when their buds 60 Were glistening to the breezy blue; And on the slope, an absent fool, I oast me down, nor thought of you, But angled in the higher pool. A love-song I had somewhere read, An echo from a measured strain. Beat time to nothing in my head From some odd corner of the brain. It haunted me, the morning long. With weary sameness in the rhymes, 70 The phantom of a silent song. That went and came a thousand times. Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood ' I watoh'd the little circles die; They past into the level flood, And there a vision caught my eye; The reflex of a beauteous form, A glowing arm, a gleaming neck, As when a sunbeam wavers warm Within the dark and dimpled beck. S< For you remember, you had set, That morning, on the casement-edge A long green box of mignonette. And you were leaning from the ledge; And when I raised my eyes, above They met with two so full and bright — Such eyes ! I swear to you, my love, That these have never lost their light. I loved, and love dispell'd the fear That I should die an early death; 90 For love possess'd the atmosphere. And fiU'd the breast with purer breath. My mother thought, What ails the boy ? For I was alter'd, and began To move about the house with joy. And with the certain step of man. I loved the brimming wave that swam Thro' quiet meadows round the mill, The sleepy pool above the dam. The pool beneath it never still, 100 The meal-sacks on the whiten'd floor, The dark round of the dripping wheel, The very air about the door Made misty with the floating meal. And oft in ramblings on the wold. When April nights began to blow. And April's crescent glimmer'd cold, I saw the village lights below; I knew your taper far away. And full at heart of trembling hope, no From off the wold I came, and lay Upon the freshly-flower'd slope. The deep brook groan'd beneath the mill; And ' by that lamp,' I thought, ' she sits ! ' The white chalk-quarry from the hill Gleam'd to the flying moon by fits. ' O, that I were beside her now ! O, will she answer if I call ? O, would she give me vow for vow, Sweet Alice, if I told her aU ? ' 120 Sometimes I saw you sit and spin; And, in the pauses of the wind, Sometimes I heard you sing within- Sometimes your shadow cross''d the blind. THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER 37 At last you rose and moved the light, And the loug shadow of the chair Flitted across into the night, And all the casement darken'd there. But when at last I dared to speak, The lanes, you know, were white with may; 130 Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek Flush'd like the coming of the day; And so it was — half-sly, half-shy. You would, and would not, little one ! Although I pleaded tenderly. And you and I were all alone. And slowly was my mother brought To yield consent to my desire : She wish'd me happy, but she thought I might have look'd a little higher ; 140 And I was young — too young to wed: ' Yet must I love her for your sake ; Go fetch your Alice here,' she said: Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake. And down I went to fetch my bride: Bnt, Alice, you were ill at ease; This dress and that by turns you tried. Too fearful that you should not please. I loved you better for your fears, I knew you could not look but well; 150 And dews, that would have fallen in tears, I kiss'd away before they fell. I watch'd the little flutterings. The doubt my mother would not see; She spoke at large of many things. And at the last she spoke of me; And turning look'd upon your face. As near this door you sat apart. And rose, and, with a silent grace 159 Approaching, press'd you heart to heart. Ah, well — bnt sing the foolish song I gave you, Alice, on the day When, arm in arm, we went along, A pensive pair, and you were gay With bridal flowers — that I may seem, As in the nights of old, to lie Beside the mill-wheel in the stream. While those full chestnuts whisper by. It is the miller's daughter, And she is grown so dear, so dear, 170 That I would be the jewel That trembles in her ear ; For hid in ringlets day and night, I 'd touch her neck so warm and white. And I would he the girdle About her dainty dainty waist, And her heart would heat against me, In sorrow and in rest ; And I should know if it beat right, I 'd clasp it round so close and tight. '80 And I would he the necklace. And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom, With her laughter or her sighs ; And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should he unclasp'd at night. A trifle, sweet ! which true love spells — True love interprets-^ right alone., His light npon the letter dwells. For all the spirit is his own. 190 So, if I waste words now, in truth You must blame Love. His early rage Had .force to make me rhyme in youth. And makes me talk too much in age. And now those vivid hours are gone. Like mine own life to me thou art. Where Past and Present, wound in one, Do make a garland for the heart; So sing that other song I made, Half-anger'd with my happy lot, 2c« The day, when in the chestnut shade I found the blue forget-me-not. Love that hath us in the net, Can he pass, and we forget ? Many suns arise and set ; Many a chance the years beget ; Love the gift is Love the debt. Even so. Love is hurt with jar and fret ; Love is made a vague regret ; s'" Eyes with idle tears are wet ; Idle habit links us yet. What is love ? for we forget : Ah, no ! no I Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife. Round my true heart thine arms entwine; My other dearer life in life, Look thro' my very soul with thine ! Untouch'd with any shade of years. May those kind eyes for ever dwell ! 220 They have not shed a many tears. Dear eyes, since first I knew them well. 38 THE LADY OF SHALOTT, AND OTHER POEMS Yet tears they shed; they had their part Of sorrow; for when time was ripe, The still affection of the heart Became an outward breathing type, That into stillness past again. And left a want unknown before; Although the loss had brought us pain, That loss but made us love the more, 230 With farther lockings on. The kiss. The woven arms, seem but to be Weak symbols of the settled bliss, The comfort, I have found in thee; But that God bless thee, dear — who wrought Two spirits to one equal mind — With blessings beyond hope or thought, With blessings which no words can find. Arise, and let us wander forth To yon old mill across the wolds; 240 For look, the sunset, south and north. Winds all the vale in rosy folds. And fires your narrow casement glass. Touching the sullen pool below; On the chalk-hill the bearded grass Is dry and dewless. Let us go. FATIMA ^atverai fiot K^fO; iffos 06010-11' ^Eftftev av-qp. — Sappho. O Love, Love, Love ! O withering might ! sun, that from thy noonday height Shudderest when I strain my sight. Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light, Lo, falling from my constant mind, Lo, parch'd and wither'd, deaf and blind, I whirl like leaves in roaring wind. Last night I wasted hateful hours Below the city's eastern towers; 1 thirsted for the brooks, the showers; I roll'd among the tender flowers; I orush'd them on my breast, my mouth; I look'd athwart the burning drouth Of that long desert to the south. Last night, when some one spoke his name, From my swift blood that went and came A thousand little shafts of flame Were shiver'd in my narrow frame. O Love, fire ! once he drew With one long kiss my whole soul thro' My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew. Before he mounts the hill, I know He Cometh quickly; from below Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow Before him, striking on ray brow. In my dry brain my spirit soon, Down-deepening from swoon to swoon. Faints like a dazzled morning moon. The wind sounds like a silver wire. And from beyond the noon a fire Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher The skies stoop down in their desire; And, isled in sudden seas of light. My heart, pierced thro' with fierce de- light. Bursts into blossom in his sight. My whole soul waiting silently. All naked in a sultry sky. Droops blinded with his shining eye; I udll possess him or will die. I will grow round him in his place, Grow, live, die looking on his face, Die, dying clasp'd in his embrace. CENONE There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. The swimming vapor slopes athwart the glen, Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine. And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars The long brook falling thro' the cloven ravine In cataract after cataract to the sea. Behind the valley topmost Gargarus lo btauds up and takes the morning; but in front The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal Iroas and Ihon's column'd citadel, The crown of Troas. CENONE 39 Hither came at noon Mournful (Enone, wandering forlorn Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest. She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine. Sang to the stillness, till the mountain- shade 20 Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff. ' O mother Ida, many-f onntain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. For now the noonday quiet holds the hill; The grasshopper is silent in the grass; The lizard, with his shadow on the stone. Rests like a shadow, and the winds are dead. The purple flower droops, the golden bee Is lily-cradled; I alone awake. My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, 30 My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim, And I am all aweary of my life. ' O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Hear me, O earth, hear me, O hUls, O caves That house the cold crown'd snake ! O mountain brooks, I am the daughter of a River-God, Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, 40 A cloud that gather'd shape; for it may be That, while I speak of it, a little while My heart may wander from its deeper woe. ' O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. I waited underneath the dawning hills; Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark. And dewy dark aloft the mountain pine. Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, Leading a jet-black goat white -horn'd, white-hooved, 5° Came up from reedy Simois all alone. ' O mother Ida, harken ere I die. Far-ofB the torrent eall'd me from the cleft; Far up the solitary morning smote The streaks of virgin snow. With down- dropt eyes I sat alone; white-breasted like a star Fronting the dawn he moved; a leopard skin Droop'd from his shoulder, but his sunny hair Cluster'd about his temples like a God's; And his cheek brighten'd as the foam-bow brightens 60 When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came. ' Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold, That smelt ambrosially, and while I look'd And listen'd, the full -flowing river of speech Came down upon my heart: ' " My own CEnone, Beautiful-brow'd CEnone, my own soul, Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingraven 70 ' For the most fair,' would seem to award it thine. As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace Of movement, and the charm of married brows." ' Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. He prest the blossom of his lips to mine. And added, "This was cast upon the board, When all the full-faced presence of the Gods Ranged in the halls of Peleus; whereupon Rose feud, with question unto whom 't were due ; 80 But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve. Delivering, that to me, by common voice Elected umpire. Here comes to-day, Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, Mayst well behold them nnbeheld, unheard Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods." ' Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. It was the deep midnoon; one silvery cloud 90 Had lost his way between the piny sides 40 THE LADY OF SHAL0t-l7 ^r,i^ v^±ijijia.v jr