mM'^-. (\.aq(iH'^(i aslTjn/i" Cornell University Library PR 5222.R5T3 Teresa, and other poems. 3 1924 013 539 741 The original of tliis book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013539741 TERESA AND OTHER POEMS BY JAMES RHOADES LONDON LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. AND NEW YORK : is EAST le'" STREET 1893 tV. All rights reservtd TO yf.Y CHILDREN CONTENTS PAGE TERESA -. A TRAGEDY IN ONE ACT 3 foi:ms A FRENCH FIDDLER - 33 ROSES ,37 AN OLD MILL .... 38 WAGES 40 FOUR FAIR THINGS (from'DuxRechix') 42 SPES "VICTRIX. 43 love's GLASS ... ... .44 AT LYME REGIS • ... 45 A BALLAD OF ST. VALENTINE'S . .... 47 MY LADY 48 ' HIGHER AND HARDER ' . . ... .49 THE PRIMROSE AND THE ROCK $1 TO FOUR SISTERS $2 MOSS . . .53 THE MUMMY-PEA . .... • • ■ SS LOST? 57 SONGS I "■ • 58 II ■ 59 III. {From ' Dux Redux ') 5o IV. „ ,, ■ 61 CONTENT 62 vi CONTENTS PAGB Oloj &jr' iXSMV . 63 ■ MEN SAY THAT THOU HAST PLUMBED THE DEEP ' . . 65 AUF WIEDERSEHN 66 A QUATRAIN 66 A VOICE FROjM THE FOREST 67 A CHRISTMAS CAROL 70 AN EASTER CAROL 71 IN MEMORIAM — FREDERICK III., GERMAN EMPEROR 73 C. G. GORDON 75 G. D. W. D . . . .76 E. H .... 78 B. S. D . .80 SONNETS— I. TO THE EARL OF SHAFTESBURY . . . . 81 II. TO A GREAT THINKER 82 III. W. F. D 83 IV. DRESDEN 84 V. PRESENCE IN ABSENCE 85 VI. ' I MAY NOT HOPE THROUGH LIFE TO COMPREHEND ' 86 VII. ' WHEN I REFLECT HOW POOR A PART OF ALL ' . 87 VIII. LONELY GREATNESS 88 IX. AT SEATOWN 89 X. THE SCHILLER-HOUSE AT LOSCHWITZ . . . 90 XI. DAWN 91 XII. FROM MOFFAT DALE 92 XIII. NORMAN NfiRUDA _ 93 XIV. HIDDEN GRIEF 94 XV. AFTER THE FUNERAL 95 XVI. THE SILENT POOL 96 XVII. AT THE ENGLISH LAKES 97 XVIII. 'THE INTEGRITY OF THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE' . . 98 XIX. AT AYR 99 XX. GARPEL GLEN lOO XXI. MORS MORTE PEREMPTA lOI XXII. THE POWER OF THE SPOT . . . . 102 CONTENTS vij TAGE GHOSTS 103 LAY OF THE OUBLIETTE 10$ THE GENTLE HEART I08 A LEGEND OF ST. PETER IIO RONDELS — AT HOLNE 112 THOU HAST SAID II3 DOROTHY 114 WORTHY OF THEE IIS ACROSS THE YEARS II6 TIME 117 SUN AND AIR II8 MOTHER SPOKE II9 AFTER EURIPIDES 120 TRANSLATIONS — THE DYING HEROES {from UHLAND) 121 THE ELVES (from LECONTE DE LISLE) .... 123 WAITING (from VICTOR HUGO) . . . . . . 125 FROM CALLISTRATUS 126 FROM LUCAN's ' PHARSALIA ' 127 FROM A GERMAN VERSION OF A POLISH SONG . . . I28 A poet's PRAYER (from REINICK) 129 FROM VICTOR HUGO I30 FROM RONSARD I3I THE PUBLIC AND THE POET I32 TERESA A TRAGEDY IN ONE ACT TERESA A TRAGEDY IN ONE ACT Scene : A Vaulted Chamber in an Italian Castle. Bart stone walls hung with antique arms. In the back wall an arched doorway, showing passage beyond when the tapestry curtain is withdrawn. In the right wall a large open jfireplace, and in a line with it, near the front of the stage, another arch, also curtained, leading through a passage into the Chapel. In the left wall a window with deep embrasure. An old table near the fireplace : two high-backed chairs in front of it, and several ethers against the walls. Time : Thirteenth Century. Afternoon. I'ERSONS. Cod NT Alberto, the young Lord of the Castle. LuiGl, his half-brother. The Castellan. Teresa, his blind daughter BiAnca, Alberto's bride. A Priest. The Steward of the Household Envoy from Count Carlo, Bianca's guardian. Officer and soldiers of Count Carlo. .Singing-boys, page, men-at-arms. Other members of the household, men and women. li 2 TERESA [On the rising of the curtain two men-at-arms are dis- covered, keeping guard on each side of door B. Tst. I like not this ofiSce. Hast any liquor about thee ? 2nd. Nay, I have not moistened these two hours. I keep my pipkin dry for supper. There will be old wassail to-night. 1st. I doubt I cannot last till then. My gullet is cracking like a lizard's back. How many hours ere night- fall? and. Not so many to thee as to our master, the Count. With him, I warrant, 'tis the longest day. ist. Love was ever a midsummer madness : but, is the Lady Bianca so fair as 'tis said ? 2nd. She had need be, and rich to boot, to weigh against the crowns that will be cracked for her. ist. What, think you Count Carlo will up falcon, and fly after? 2nd. Why, man, he was to wed her, willy nilly, and her lands beside. 1st. Marry ! Cannot a man wed a lass of his own folk, without filching from his neighbour ? An' I couldn't compass a wife fair and peaceable, I'd as Uef let her be. 2nd. It's the blood, man, the blood thatxioes it. There's no more likelihood between his blood and thine, than between good drink and standing water. Great folks be so swelled out wi' what belongs to 'em, that they fall to hanker- ing after what don't : and the more it don't belong, the more they hanker. ist. There's Mistress Teresa, the Castellan's lass j ain't she tall enow and comely ? 2nd. Ay, but blind, man, bhnd. There's no cowing of 'em, when they can't look you in the face. In words, mark TERESA 5 you, they have the upper tongue of us. You can't tame 'em else. It's the eye that does it. \st. Well, there'll be knocks anon. I care little, so they Set not me to keep the door. [During this conversation the men-at-arms have left their posts, and gradually advanced towards the front of the stage. ' Enter Steward of the Household. Steward. Now, you scurvy knaves, what were my orders ? . Stand to your posts. The bride is coming. [They fly back to their posts. So, stand there till the procession is past. Then close up, fall in five paces to the rear, and follow. [Exit B. 1st. I'm all of a quake. There's a kind of backbiting here betwixt my shoulders. Prithee, chafe me with thy halberd. 2nd. Prate not ; they are coming. [Trumpets. [Enter B, the bridal procession. First, Steward with wand, then singing-Boys, a Priest robed. Page carry- ing helmet and gauntlets, Alberto and Bianca, as affianced Bride and Bridegroom, Soldiers, Men and Women of the household, last, the Castellan, leading his blind Daughter. • Th^ latter totters, quits her father's hand, and sinks into a seat. The rest, followed by the two men-at-arms, pass out at door JR. Castellan. Teresa, child, what ails thee ? Teresa. I am sick. And can proceed no further. Let me be. Go thou and join the pageant. Castellan. Nay, nay, nay, This must be looked to. Thou art more to me Than all the pomps of pope and cardinal. Without thee, dear, the wedding-mirth is marred, The garlands withered, and the lights put out. Can'st thou not cheer a little ? 6 TERESA Teresa. Father, father, It is the mirth that maddens. What have I To do with bridal feasts and merriment — All the delights that I shall never know ? — A living corse, condemned by God to grope In its own grave, dead without death's repose. Castellan. If death's dull handiwork can look like thee. We'll have no burials, or inter the quick. A living corse ! Thou art more beautiful Than any bride that e'er these eyes beheld, Except — except thy mother. Teresa. Tell me, father. Was she like me, so proud and passionate, Quick to spurn insult and to plot revenge ? Had she all Etna boiling in her veins. And spurting out in fire ? or was she staid. Sober and self-contained, meek and demure. And cold as yonder northern icicle ? (Hoarsely in his ear) Would she have killed you had you loved her not ? Castellan. That would have killed me, to have loved her not. O child ! you fright me : this pent heat of heart Springs not from her, or springs without the poise Of that which tempered passion, the calm sway Of a pure spirit that half Uved in heaven. Teresa. Alas ! alas ! I am unworthy her. Unworthy thee. My mind is on the earth. And earth's a hell : I cannot think of heaven. Castellan. You must not, must not say it. Sometimes we lie Deep in the ^ea's dark hollow, but anon. Washed upward on its glittering back, we mount Into the sunlight. Such a wave, perchance, Of happiness awaits thee. Teresa. Such a wave Of sorrow has engulfed me. TERESA Castellan. I have that Within my mind, Teresa, which I fear Almost to tell thee, and yet speak I must. Teresa. I can bear anything that thou would'st say. Castellan. The Count Luigi is a noble knight ; And I do think he loves thee. Were it so, And so it is, say, would'st thou marry him ? Teresa. Marry an asp, a viper, a vile toad Tricked by some witch-wife, for despite of man. Into the shape of manhood ! Castellan. There it is ! I do but bruise thee with my bluhdering wit Go to ! when blacksmiths can shoe butterflies. Then shall I cope with maidens in their moods. Teresa. Nay, but first learn to read the moods of men. Castellan. To me he seemed a loyal gentleman : And, sure, he doats upon thee. Teresa. - I perceive, Father, I must e'en tell thee all my tale. Say, wilt thou heed it ? Castellan. Ay. Teresa. Rememberest thou. When first the plague of blindness smote our vale, How Count Alberto, then a child, and I Groped in the dark together ? Oh, 'tis strange How one great misery, falling upon twain. So singling them, can sort the odds of birth Or inward difference, and make yoke-fellows Whom Nature else had strangered ! Well, we roamed Our little world together, and explored A thousand nooks and crannies of the rocks, * And winding secrets of the vaulted gloom Beneath the Castle-bases, till we learnt ' To dare with eyeless footsteps what with eyes Had scared us ; so that one sense lost became, By quickening of the rest, a new sense found. 8 TERESA Then came the wise physician, who had skill To ope the filmed orbs, let in the light ; And so we saw, yet saw not, being bound Fast with closed eyelids for some certain days, Lest seeing should unsight us. Castellan. Well do I Remember, and our hope, and then the grief, The bitter grief, when in the curtained room Your eyes were opened, and you saw me not, And the glad triumph of his eyes, that saw. Teresa. And so I lost my playmate ; but the cause None ever knew ; and I will tell thee. When The doctor left us we were set to sleep In the same chamber ; but no sleep had I, Doubting and wondering, could I really see. Methought the hours would stretch them into days. The days seem years, ere I could solve my doubt. So I lay tossing. 'Twas a fearful night — I hear it now^the dykes of heaven were burst. And the pent floods, a solid water-wall, ' Drove up against the tower : all winds at once Made rummage in the sky, whose huge dome shook. Split like a potsherd, and came shattering down In thunder. Then a sudden thought was bom — The lightning ! I shall know if I can see, See him ! In a moment I had stole from bed. And was beside him, with the band torn off. That held my sight, almost my soul, within it. I stood beneath the window ; a flash came, A quick, fierce spasm, convulsing heaven and me — No fork, but blackness spattered o'er with fire. O father, in that instant I beheld. Beheld him, as he slumbered. A wild pang Shot through both eyeballs, but his face was there. Burnt in upon my brain. Then all was dark. Long, long I waited : still the thunder rolled. TERESA 9 Ay, still the thunder, but no lightning more, No lightning, nor no light ; the face alone ! And from that moment — from that moment — Castellan. Ah ! What from that moment ? nay, fear not to say it. Teresa. Methinks, methinks I have been— blind. Castellan. And I Blinder. God send thee patience ! Teresa. Not unless He would unmake His handiwork. My blood Is mixed with patience, as the fire with snow. When men from flint strike water, or babes suck Vesuvius' boihng bosom, when the sea Lies flat beneath Sirocco, then will I, Teresa, cower before the blasts of fate. And curb me to quiescence. Let them Wow ! My depths shall heave in answer. I have that Seething within me which no heart could hold, Such passion as would toss above the clouds And crunch a thousand of such petty craft As dare to override me. By the doom Of that dread hour I claim him, by the bond Writ red in lightning letters, and sealed fast With pitch-black darkness ! — Patience, father ! no ; That is not in me, but revenge, or death ! {Trumpets. Castellan. Hush, hush ! allay your ecstasy : they come ! This is mere madness. O my child ! my child ! [He-enter R the bridal procession, as before. The Boys, as they pass the door, begin singing. Bring every dainty disk and bell, That are the eyes of May, Her beauty and her fame to swell, Who is more fair than they. From opening-hour to shut of flower Love lead her all the way ! lo TERESA Hang up the bow, put by the spear, And crown with dance the day. While every nymph of moat or mere Doth curtsey to our fay : Come, lover bold, come, maiden cold, And lift the bridal lay ! Oh, blessed is the bridal bower, Where love alone hath sway ! His sceptre to the weak is power, His staff the mourners' stay : All else must end 'twixt friend and friend, But love endures for aye. Now, squire and damsel, lass and lad, For these fair lovers pray ; And of their gladness be ye glad, And shout aloud, and say, ' Deign, noble knight, and lady bright, To list our roundelay.' Luigi. Live, Count Alberto and his lovely bride ! Friends, give them welcome with your voices ! Now ! \They all shout. My noble kinsman, let that shout attest — More eloquent than more prepared speech. That oft, like honey from a hollow trunk Drips sweetness, when the heart is false within — What love we bear you, and how every pulse, Tuned to one note, as in one bosom beats. We have been bred together, and sometimes, It may be, a chance word, or a chance blow, Put wrath betwixt us : we were men, not girls. Now pecked like falcons, and now cooed like doves. I have no skill, if aught be done amiss. To salve the sore with words, nor will attempt it. Rather let this poor gift my pleader be, This sword, an emblem not of war, but peace. TERESA II The blade is past unkindness, which do thou Bury in its fair sheath, forgetfulness. If 'tis accepted, as 'tis offered, thus. Then shall I know myself forgiven. [Alberto takes the sword. Wine ho ! And let us drink together. \A Page brings wine. Alberto. Brother, thanks ! Thus wash we down all bitterness ! I take This blade of battle with the like goodwill That prompted to the giving. And, friends all,. Believe I love you, though my words be few. I am tongue-tied to-day. My heart swells o'er, And cannot hold the too much happiness. For Nature knows no measure in her gifts. Or scants, or scatters bounty, drought or flood ; Nor can the soul build reservoirs, wherein What's waste and over may be husbanded. So now my bUss chokes utterance, and half drowns What it should quicken. May the sweet excess Flow over upon you. I thank you all. To-night we will hold wassail, and, till then Speed on the empty hours with dance and song. [They all shout again. T'ervsa. seizes a harp from the wall, with wild gesture, and sings. Teresa. O blushing bride and gallant groom, Hark hither, while ye may ! A spectre rises from the gloom. To mock your mirth and play. With grief and fear the boding hear, And when ye hear, obey ! Break up the feast, crush flower and crown, Bid mask and revel stay ! Bold warrior, fling the wine-cup down. Fair lady, turn to pray ! 12 TERESA 'Mid shriek and shout the lights go out, And darkness ends the day. Soft eyes may burn, hot lips may kiss, And fool the hours away ; But there's a fire that is not bliss. And it endures for aye. 'Twixt bridal bell and funeral knell, What boots it to be gay ? Ay, feast and frolic as ye will ; Ere many an eve be grey All mirth, all measures must be still. And in the cold dank clay. Wrapped head to feet in winding-sheet. King Death alone have sway. \She rises, flings down the harp, totters, and sinks senseless into her father's arms. General consterna- tion and uproar. Alberto. This from Teresa ! Luigi. I had ne'er believed it. Voices. Away with her ! She's mad. A witch ! A witch ! Castellan. Friends, I beseech you patience. Let her be. I am quite sure that no unholy spell, Or evil sprite, hath power upon my child. 'Tis but a passing passion, that at times, Bred of dull musing and mere loneliness. Brews like a storm within the heart, then breaks. And all is clear again. It is the sound Of mirth and happiness, she may not see. So shakes her from herself. Pray, think of her As of a bird, that, flying out of night To the warm brightness of some festal hall, Strikes the barred window, and falls hurt. I^riest. Methinks There is more in it. Either she hath held Communion with forbidden arts, that are TERESA 13 Familiar to the darkness, that she dares Pry into fate, and wag a wanton tongue, Blighting with curses what the Church hath blest, 'Or else some demon hath — which God forbid ! — Made his foul home in her fair form, and must Be exorcised and ousted. In the name Of God, I charge thee Castellan. And I charge thee, keep The holy charm for them that need it, lest Nor scalp nor scapular protect thee. \A trumpet is heard. Luigi. Hark ! I hear a trumpet ! Has the curse come true ? Alberto. Hie thee, Luigi, to the tower, and see Who blows so loud a summons, friend or foe, And, -so that he come single, friend or foe, Let him have entrance, and conduct him hither. [Exit Luigi, B. \A buzz of talk, then a pAuse, all eyes turned toward the door. Enter Luigi, leading 'Envoy Jrom Count Carlo. Luigi. A foe, my lord, but on such errand sent As we perforce must countenance his suit. Graves audience from Count Carlo. Alberto. Welcome, sir. Your trumpet sounded no uncertain note : Be the word spoken as concise and clear. Envoy. It shall, my lord. My master bids me ask Why, like a ruffian-thief, with force and guile, You have seduced from lawful custody His ward, the fair Bianca — a foul scorn Both to himself, and his afSanced bride. That cries aloud for vengeance. And unless You shall make restitution here and now, And, in my escort, send the lady home, This very hour he'll thunder at your gate, 14 TERESA Break down the wall, o'erturn the battlements, And leave you dangling from your tallest tower. \Murmurs of indignation, amidst which Teresa {aside). 'Mid shriek and shout the lights go out, And darkness ends the day. Alberto. A most clear message, and my answer this : Say that you found us in fair bridal gear, But at a word our armour shall be on, Our bows strung ready, and our hearts as light As the vain breath of his most idle boast. We bore our lady with her sweet consent From where a treacherous villain and a churl Held her imprisoned, and with coward threats Sought by main force to wed. His caitiff blood Is all unworthy of my knightly sword, But if he durst confront it, let him come. And so farewell ! Some of you, lead him safe Beyond the barbican. \Exit Envoy with guard. Alack ! dear friends. We must defer our mirth. Castellan, see The swords be keen, the arrows winged and trim, And all our war-gear ready : then at once Up with the drawbridge, man the walls, and so Bid we fair welcome to our vaunting foe ! \Exit with BiANCA. [Castellan leads Teresa to a seat, where she remains. All the rest hurry from the chamber. Teresa. When all the earth is full of stir, to lack What makes the meanest creature serviceable ! Enter LuiGi, B When all the vault is full of burning eyes, To be a dull dead orb, that cannot shine, Quenched and forgotten in the firmament ! Luigi. Not quenched, and not forgotten j yet there lives. TERESA IS Whose bark were lost, but for thy saving ray ; By Heaven ! who holds thee for the brightest star That ever swum the welkin ! Teresa. Stop ; no more ! The love whereto your tongue importunes me — No need of eyes for blackness to be seen — Sorts not with honour ; and I spit upon it. You have oft dared it ; let me tell you, then, For the last time, wild beasts are for the woods, Not ladies' bowers. We are of gentle birth, Our blood more wine than water : and I bear That in my bosom which can ward off shame. [Handling a dagger. Luigi. He were thrice knave, and ten times o'er a fool, Who, knowing you, should need it. Your scorn cuts Deeper than any dagger. Teresa. To what end So thriftless of your breath then ? Luigi. How if love Had from a beast transformed me to a man ? Teresa. A man, with eyes, were face to face with men At such an hour, not paltering with a girl. Luigi. A man, with eyes to read a woman's heart, As I read yours Teresa. As you read mine ! ah ha ! What read you there ? Luigi. Love, jealousy, and hate. Teresa. I have heard say that love is born of sight ; And, without love, no jealousy. But hate — Hate is the child of darkness : I can hate. Luigi. Well then, how hatCyou your new mistress ? Teresa. How ? As the bare foot the hidden flint, as fire The wave that's dashed upon't, as dying beasts The vulture, as Luigi. Nay, hearken then to me. 1 6 TERESA I too have cause to hate her, for she stands Betwixt me and my hope. Teresa. What hope is that ? Luigi. To be the lord of these fair lands and thee, When a chance blow in some wild border war Has robbed me of his Countship. Nay, you know He is my brother by the half-blood only : I am the elder, but the bastard's ban Rests on my birth. Were that not hard enough. Once in a moment of wild anger he Put that vile name upon me, half a score Of grooms and lackeys Ustening, and with scoffs Drave me from door. Therefore I love him not. Teresa. And to this ' love him not ' what sequel, say ; My aid, belike, to deal him a chance blow, As you so delicately frame the phrase ? Luigi. Men, who make booty of betrothed brides. Fall ere they ripen, in rough times like these : But let him live, so he live single. Teresa. Ha ! What hell-snake wreathes his coils about my heart ? Is villainy so catching ? Luigi. Marked you not, With what a glance she eyed you ? Teresa. You forget I see no glances, but, O God ! I feel them. Luigi. And heard you not, ' Alberto, who is that Proud vassal, whom you smile on, she who blights Our bridal with a frown, like frost in May ? ' And then his answer, ' She is blind and poor ; Sweet, set it down to her infirmity : You have no rival. I am only thine ? ' Teresa. Can souls, that swim in fire, so thirst for more ? Then welcome hell hereafter ! Luigi. ^ Think of it. To be in bondage to the thing you hate ! TERESA 17 How, on the rack of injured pride, one hour Is, with the sufferer, stretched to thrice its bulk ! And then to linger out days, months, and years In hearing of her praises, while she twines Close and yet closer round his fostering stem. Incorporate, grown indissolubly one, And bears him goodly clusters ! you the while Outsplendouring her beauties, as the dark Yet iiery mantle of a stormy sun The pale-rimmed ocean ere he rose. Teresa. I knew it ! I knew the colour from her voice and touch. God ! how I hate their happiness ! Luigi. Dare then To thwart it, and divorce them. I have means Of secret access to Count Carlo. He, Though confident of conquest, fears some slip Of fortune, lest the prey, within his grasp, Thrid soirie dark outlet, or amid the crash Of falling towers escape him. Teresa. Hie thee back, Bid him await her, and set men to watch All day till sunset by the fallen oak, That hides the entrance of a low-browed cave Beneath the western tower. She shall be there, I leading by a subterranean way Known to none else. For I can shape it so, Persuading her to safety. If to-night She come not, then to-morrow, or whene'er Terror or treachery drives her from the hold. Luigi. O glorious woman ! were one word unsaid, I could set foot on fate, bestride the clouds. Storm heaven 1 We must about it, I and thou ; Be those three words my motto, ' I and thou ! ' No tenderer thought possess thee till 'tis done, And I return 1 8 TERESA Teresa. Return no more ! If God Have any vaster gulf than hell and heaven, Further than east from west, or north from south. Two points so hugely sundered as scarce leaves An inch of distance between pole and pole, I pray Him of His bounty place us there. Housed each in one, for time so long as makes Eternity a moment, and to weld, Wherefrom His fiercest thunderbolts are wrought. Through point and point a sacramental ring. Our troth-plight of abhorrence ! Thus will I Wed thee. And now begone ! Yet, ere thou go. First be one lie unspoken : for behold ! As fire bursts upward, breaks the mountain's heart. That bred, but cannot hold it, and anon Spills over in destruction, so this deed Is measure of the might wherewith I love, Love, love him, as I loathe myself and thee. \Sinks into a seat. Luigi. Loving or loathing, she shall yet be mine. {Exit, R. Enter B, Bianca. Bianca. Our poor blind maiden here, and all alone ? Nay, do not stir ; the terror is so great. That by your leave I'll bear you company. Teresa. Madam, you may command. I pray you sit. Bianca. Nay, but we'll sit together. How brave you are ! I see it in your face — a troubled face, Albeit so beautiful : a while ago. Indeed, I almost feared it, feared some wrong Had reft you of the sweetness that must dwell Within the heart that owns so fair a face, And left you seared and smarting. Is it so ? Teresa. O madam ! you are kind— I know not well Something there is that visits me at times, TERESA 19 A gloom, not of the body, that hath power To make me what you saw : regard it not. Bianca. What is your name ? Teresa. Teresa. Bianca. A sweet name : My husband told me, I remember now, And said how you and he — why do you start ? — Were blind together. You would blush to know How much he praised you : happily for me I am not jealous. Teresa. He is very good : I do not well deserve it. What was that ? Hark! Bianca. I heard nothing more than the dull thud Of the ram battering at the wall, and that Less loud than my own heart against my ribs. Is it so very dreadful to be blind ? I shut my eyes, and try to picture it, But cannot. Teresa. None so blind as they that see. Bianca. That is all one as if you said outright I am the blinder. Teresa. Madam, there is that. Which too much seeing will not let you see. Sight, like a silk-rigged vessel of the mind, Skims but life's surface ; if it burn or break. The thought sinks deeper. Bianca. Ah ! I dread the depth, And would float ever with the stars to guide. Who knows, alas ! what shadowy monster-shapes Loom into being as you dive below ? Teresa. All happy souls are cowards, and fear change. Bianca. Then not to be so happy may be best. Teresa. That is a comfort which is sure to come. Bianca. You speak too sadly ; for methinks that God Had never made us what we are, the world 20 TERESA So full of tender uses, to break up Our brooding solitude, nor hung from heaven So many a curtain to shut out despair, Were we not meant to move toward happiness. Teresa. Out of the heart's abundance the mouth speaks : My heart is empty, therefore I speak not. Bianca. See now, my talk offends you ; but 'tis best, At such an hour, whate'er the theme, to stir Dull musing with some ripple of discourse. I seem to have known you, oh, so long, so long ! Teresa. And I myself ne'er to have known myself. Terrible ! terrible ! Bianca. There, take my hand ; 'Twill comfort both of us : the strength of two Is more, methinks, than twice the strength of one. Teresa. I cannot do it : mine is a raging fire : One touch of it would burn you to the bone. Bianca. Dear child, I care not : 'tis the best of grief That in its bitter bulk a loadstone lies. To draw sad hearts together. Teresa (aside). Would that I Were deaf as blind, since hearing strikes me dumb ! Bianca. See ! we are almost strangers, and yet I Love you, Teresa ; and will you not, too, Love me a little for my dear lord's sake ? Teresa. Did you say — love me — for my dear lord's sake ? O God ! my wits are reeling ! let me rise And pace the room awhile. Bianca. Try to be calm ; And let us wait the issue. I have known Worse hours than this, that, like a feverish night. Passed, and 'twas sunny morning. That was when Yon tiger-Count, now ramping at the gate. Had me in dutch — the man that knew not love. Yet would have wed me. Then my hero sl'one, And wrought deliverance. I could laugh at death TERESA 21 If he came now. To love and to be loved — What need we more ? that is the perfect sum. Teresa. Death, yes : but thraldom, how if that ensue, To mar your sum's perfection ? My lord Death Comes late or early, ne'er in nick of time. Bianca. Thraldom ! to whom ? Teresa, if you think — I would live on — ah ! then, you have not loved. Why, girl, a prick, a leap, a plunge would do it. I hold it were no sin to save from shame. Teresa, Methinks the noise comes nearer. Enter a Soldier. Bianca. Now, what news ? Soldier. My lord commends him to his noble wife. Bianca. Say, is he well? — What fortune? — find thy tongue ! Soldier. The wall' was breached, and they had thrice poured in, And thrice their back-flung bodies dammed the moat, When Count Luigi — ne'er had I believed it. Had not mine own eyes seen him — slips aside. Unbolts the postern, and lets in the flood, That washed us, flank and rear, with bloody waves — Teresa. O noble brother ! — Soldier. And beat us from the wall, That many fell. He bids you have good hope. For God fights with him : every sword-swing cleaves Some breast or basnet, and his war-axe, whirled. Mows like the scythe in summer. Fare you well. Bianca. Say that, whate'er the issue, I am his. And know not fear. Back to his side, and fight ! \Exit Soldier. Out on these tidings ! How my heart belies The courage of my tongue ! Teresa. Lady, I fear The best of life is over. Say that I 22 TERESA Could in a minute, by some secret way, Such as the blind may thrid, through dripping vaults Beneath the lowest dungeons, and by stairs Of slippery rock, that know no foot but mine, Now lead you safe to the grey convent walls" That crown the mere's steep edges — would you come ? Bianca. My answer ? — nay, you know it. The hounds of hell, With (^arlo mounted on Death's carrion flanks Behind them, and Luigi's hunting-cry. Choked with the sulphurous breath from whence he came. Should never stir nor scare me, while he lives. But, O Teresa ! if indeed you know Of such a haven, and have learnt the way To find it, and dare tread it all alone. Now, while the doors are fast, the strong walls stand, And no red fire-tongues leap from floor to floor, Leave me, my sister : you are young, and free. And beautiful ; and surely some brave arms Wait to enfold you, and on your sweet breast Some heart to find its heaven. Teresa O God ! O God ! Bianca. Hark ! I hear hurrying steps ! 'tis he, 'tis he ! \Enter Alberto, B. The noise outside increases. Alberto. Bianca, my Bianca, one last kiss, And then — and then Bianca. Hush ! hush ! you shall not say it. Alberto. Love, all is lost. Teresa, my poor child. Your father's — slain. Teresa {wildly). I knew it. 'Tis well, 'tis well. I saw him hurl into the foemen's ranks. And leap on damned Luigi. A good end ! Bianca. She is half mad with sorrow : mark her not. Alberto. No man died better ; I can tell you that ; But all fought nobly, and the day seemed won, TERESA 23 When, by a treacherous hand the gate thrown wide, Oacwitted and outnumbered, fast we fell. So sick of slaughter, where no hope appeared, Still fighting backward, till the door was gained, I bade the remnant for dear life give o'er, And seek a happier master. It is done. I am the last man left alive and free. Sianca. And now ? Alberto. Our halls are empty, but you hear The guest knock loud for entrance ; and anon The host will open, and to no mean fare Of iron entertainment, if God will. Give him such welcome as may pierce his heart. O my white wonder, is it come to this ? — A few short minutes Bianca. And we die together. Seems it so bitter hard ? Alberto. It cannot be. Bianca. That is the first harsh word that you have spoke In all our wedded life — one dear long day. Alberto. Think it unspoken then. Forgive me, sweet, But love like ours can say to Time, ' Stop here ' : So will you live, live always in this hour. No past, no future : you will feel and know My arms wound close about you, and amid The aching silence hear each accent still. Look, what the heart speiks, that alone is true : Death is a liar : you can laugh at lies. Bianca. Yea, were time longer, I would laugh at yours. Love, 'tis a lie to say it cannot be : See how I cling ! one sword shall end us both. Alberto. Nay, you say nothing, sweet. Why, who would strike A lily-flower, a snow-flake ? Bianca. I know who. There is a man, or else a woman,, shall. 24 TERESA Give me this dagger, if you fear to do it. \He holds her hand. Fie on your love then ; would you let me drop Back into hell, that am halfway to heaven ? I live to be — I cannot name the thing — The minion of a miscreant ! Alberto. Nay, but hear How I shall save you both from death and hell. Yon heart of oak, time-tough, and ribbed with iron, Will blunt them many an axe, bend many a bar. Ay, and they know it, for the knaves e'en now Hew faggots, and bring fire-brands, and full soon The valves will blacken, and the ribs glow red, And the beams burst ; for what can fight with fire ? Bianca. So your white maid, that was, becomes a heap Of whiter ashes ; nay, if die I must, Quicker and colder is the death for me. Alberto. All through the battle he has shunned my sight ; But when the doors go down, and the smoke clears, Backed by some fifty, he perchance will dare it. He has met fortune, and with traitors dealt : There shall I meet him : he must deal with me. Now hark, Teresa : to your faithful charge ■ I yield your mistress. There is store of food. Water to drink, and covering from the cold : Take them, and lead her to the secret cell In the thick dungeon-wall, below the crypt. You know the mystery of the door : no fire Could ever reach it, and no foe surprise. So one more kiss, and then good night — good night ! \She sinks clinging to his knees. Teresa. Men are brave lovers for an hour or twain. And some few faithful, if the wind hold fair : But when it comes to this — quick easy death, And glory with it, or life's dull decay, Marry ! to perish is man's privilege ; But for the woman— oh, 'tis good enough TERESA 25 To wear black weeds, and waste in solitude, Stretched, a pale martyr, on Time's torturing cross, That pride, called courage, doomed her to endure. Bianca. Alberto, she but speaks the bitter truth : I do not leave you, or you leave not me. \_Ske rises and clings closer. Teresa {Aside). Dare I to do it? yes, I dare and must. I lived not till this moment : they are mine. {Aloud) My lord, do you remember, years ago. Ere darkness fell upon Us, how we strayed. Child-playmates, by the margin of the mere, And came to a low cave, and hand in hand Entered, and feared the blackness ? Alberto. Ay, right well. Teresa. 'Twas fringed with daisies at the mouth, whereof You wove a wreath to crown me ; and we knelt Together on the turf, and feigned to wed. Then on we groped, and lo ! it wound and wound By tortuous ways, now narrow, and now wide. Now soaring to a dome, now sinking low. That I for fear fell weeping, till you said, ' Maids that are married should take shame to fear.' And so we walked or crawled, till the one way Split into many : — that to rightward leads To a blind outlet by a fallen oak Beneath the western tower — but we held on. And came at last unto a little door That opened in a wall, and, peering up, Saw stairs in the wall's thickness, and you too Grew fearful, and we fled. That door I found In a forgotten vault. The way is hard, And dark, and slippery ; but once learn the clue. And win to that low cave, the lake is nigh : Ere nightfall you will gain the convent towers. Alberto. I could not find it with a thousand eyes Teresa. And I, with none, can guide you. 26 TERESA Alberto. This indeed Is light from darkness. Bianca. Let us go. Alberto. But how Can memory serve you to retrace the way ? Teresa. Perchance things vanish from the boy's quick brain, Which girls forget not. 'Tis enough to say, Waking or sleeping, I could find the track. Dear was the spot to me in life, and, dead. My ghost shall haunt it. Will you come, my lord ? Alberto. Lea^ forward in God's name. Count Carlo, live Till our next meeting ! Teresa. First, strip off your arms : Their bulk would sore impede you, and one clank Against the hollow rock might ruin all. Alberto. How if we meet the foe ? Teresa. That must be dared : There is no going else. The narrow walls So pinch and hamper, 'tis with much ado A great-limbed man may pass them. I smell fire ! Bianca. Alberto, we may trust her. [She unbinds his armour, which, with his sword and dagger, he lays on the table. Teresa. Follow me. [Exeunt, B. [A short pause, during which the stage remains empty, and the battering of the outer door is heard, till a louder crash, followed by shouts, announces that it has fallen. A sound of footsteps approaching ; after which enter, B, Iajigi, followed by an Officer and five or six of Count Carlo's soldiers. Twilight falls gradually. Luigi. This is the chamber where I left her last, And thought to find both ; but the birds are flown. TERESA 27 Officer. Being no birds, it is not to be thought They can have quit the castle, therefore search. [To the soldiers, who begin searching. Luigi. Search as you please, and yet 'tis like enough They have escaped our clutches, birds or no, Having a mole to guide them. Officer. So to fall Into Count Carlo's ambush ? Luigi. Ay, unless — But no, for there's naught womanish in her. Though woman ; and what makes the weak heart crack. Fierce jealousy, and fire of slighted love. Welds her stern fibre into constant iron. Officer. Whose are these weapons, and this armour ? Luigi. Ah ! Whose but my brother's ? 'tis the very sword I gave him for his bridal-gift to-day, Unbrotherly, ungraciously cast off, As in assurance of escape. \Goes to the window. Officer {to soldiers). What ho ! Leave loitering here, and search the castle through, Some this way, and some that. (Eoceunt soldiers^ Now, by your leave, I'll after them, and rummage high and low. From roof to dungeon. Luigi. Stop ! Betrayed, by heaven ! Officer. Ha ! see you aught ? Luigi. Come hither ! Is it so, Or are mine eyes fooled by the failing light ? Officer. I see a boat that creeps along the lake In the dark shadow of the shore. Luigi. And in it ? Officer. Two forms, methinks, a woman and a man. Luigi. Yes, yes, but where's the third ? there should be three. Yet no, she would not join them, howsoe'er 28 TERESA The plot miscarried, but would break away, Mad with baulked passion, or creep back to die. Hie thee to Carlo ! while I tarry here. [Re-enter soldiers hastily. Officer {to soldiers). Well, what's amiss ? why stand you gaping thus ? Soldier. The castle's wrapped in fire that gains apace : Black smoke e'en now comes billowing up the stair, And smothers all. We know not where to turn. Luigi. Death and confusion ! I had thought to trap The fox in her own hole, and you must needs With your curs'd fire-brands smoke me out of it. I'll guide you to the water-gate, then back. And the fiend help me : there may yet be time. \Exeunt, B. [Another short pause. Music. Smoke curling up in places through the floor. The dusk increases. Enter Teresa, B, with distracted air. Teresa. What have I done ? I cannot compass it. God, help me to remember ! O undo This double being, or make me not to be ! Two visions are before me : ay, two hearts Knock at my bosom, two brains burst my brow ! And all I can serves nothing to atone The clamorous discord. Let me think it out. [Sinks into a seat. First, step by step, that, like an anvil's clang. Smote on the winding stair ; the strait low door. That would not yield, and yielded ; the loud breaths In the pent passage, the slow-feeling hands And groping feet between the gallery-walls. Walking and crouching, till we came — we came To the diverging ways. There doubt begins. TERESA 29 Which did I take, and whither ? That is what Confounds me. Am I doomed never to know ? Yet it seems plain ; the pause, the leftward path, The low-browed cavern, and the fallen oak. The rush of men, the shriek, Alberto dead ! Alberto dead ! Yes, yes, for now I scent The breath of hell already ! hell within. Hell all around ! both smouldering, soon to burst ! O what wild storm of greeting will there be, When fire meets fire ! Yet tarry, not so fast ! As plain, or plainer, to my thought comes back The quick turn rightward, the heaped stones to scale, Scarce yielding body-room, where the low roof Bowed down to meet them ; the one stone that fell. And woke the yelping echoes ; the five bells Pealing and dinning in mine ear through all, ' Alberto, we may trust her ' ; then at last That other cave, our childl^ood's bridal bower ; Yes, yes, the daisied turf, the lake, the boat, And in it I beside them ; the wild leap To shore, and the wet garments ! Let me feel : Joy ! I have found it : they are dripping still ! But is it blood — Alberto's blood ? No, no, \Putting Iter face to them. The sweet lake water ! I have lost, and won. Burn up, brave fire ! seethe, curdling smoke ! 'tis yours To crown this sacrifice ! Lui^ {without). Teresa, where, Where art thou ? Teresa. Hark ! It is the fiend that calls ! No, no, not now, you cannot claim me now. The sweet lake water, it has washed me pure. Lui^ {without). 'Tis I, Luigi ! help is at hand : Wait but a moment ! Teresa. Where's my dagger? — gone! l^Takes Alberto's from the table. 30 TERESA Ah ! here's a better. (Kisses the hilt.) Be Alberto's self, Dear dagger ; pierce me to the heart ! \S?ie thrusts it into her side, and sinks to the ground. Luigi {bursting in, B, through the smoke). Help ho ! Teresa, wake ! I come to rescue thee. Teresa (half-rising. Rescued — already ! . \Dies. Lui^. Death and hell ! too late ! \He staggers towards door, R, but falls stifled by the smoke I Curtain. POEMS 33 A FRENCH FIDDLER In all sweet Surrey, to my mind) No sweeter hamlet you will find, For pensive grace or sylvan cheer. Than bowery, hill-encircled Shere, Crowned with each charm the lowlands yield- Bright orchard, sunny breadth of field. Grey holt and homestead ; twilight spaces By huge elms shadowed, from whose bases Uptowers a precipice of leaves ; A river, whose still bend receives The wayside cattle's shortening limbs, While close the venturous swallow skims. Then fieldward flows with sudden stir, Haunt of the flashing kingfisher ; And yon dark mill, that now doth seem Tormented with some fearful dream (Whose spell it cannot break, I trow) By power of bid enchantment, now In utter silence slumbereth So deep, you tremble lest the breath Of its own wheel should waken it. Ay, fair the region, nor unfit To live in some sweet poet's lay With loveliest Auburn, or where Gray Was left, the dews of evening shed. Alone with darkness and the dead. 34 A FRENCH FIDDLER Here, as beneath an August sky, . With kindred souls for company, I mused or talked, with heart half-gay, Half-saddened by the summer day— For how should ruffled souls express The heavens' reflected loveliness ? — We chanced adown the village street A wandering minstrel there to meet, Of mien once noble, now through waste Of thriftless penury debased — The light within burnt low, the lamp Itself sore tarnished, blurred with damp But, feed the flame, you wakened yet A glow not easy to forget. In sooth a spirit-kindled glance, ■And sunny with the smiles of France. Around him peasant lass and lad Thronged close, and many a jest they had At his quaint ways and torn attire : A rustic Orpheus ! and for lyre. This fiddle, broken in a brawl. And one string wanting ! Therewithal He led them tripping to the time Of such rank tune and boisterous rime As with dull clods of English earth Passes for music and for mirth. We paused, and to our side came he. With antic gesture, not of glee. Still fingering, singing still the same Dull nothings, with no sense of shame ; A tipsy stare in that dead eye. Once kindled froih his native sky With the pure hght of chivalry j Now, starving, in a foreign sty A FRENCH FIDDLER 35 With swine he wallowed, ill at ease, And fain with such coarse husks as these To fill their bellies and his own. At length, impatient, with a frown, ' Come, sing us something French,' I said ; When lo ! as starting from the dead, A quick thrill o'er his features ran ; He stood translated to a man. With face grown eager and aware As erst his sire's, some brave Trouvfere, What time amid the spearmen's clang The war-light filled it, and he sang To knight and squire in Norman hall Of Roland's death at Roncesvalles. ' Mourir, mourir, pour la patrie ' Now rose his altered strain, and we Stood awed and Ustening, as he cast His looks to heaven and lived the past. And knew the drink-fiend fierce and strong Exorcised by that noble song, That brought with every burning line Fire to his eyes and tears to mine. Then silence followed for a space. Until with grave and tender grace. As gentle minstrel doth behove. His theme he changed from war to love, And, preluding so soft an air As might entrance some lady fair, Upwafted in the moonlight hour Through pleachfed bows to latticed bower. He sang, as if on bended knee, ' Les beaux yeux de Castalie.' A few brief moments, clear and strong. Borne heavenward like a lark, the song 36 A FRENCH FIDDLER Too soon fell quivering to its close ; But with the silence there arose A rapture in his heart, in ours A freshness as of sudden flowers Sweet-springing from the desert dust, Undreamed of : and if ask you must The purpose of my simple tale, A simple answer must avail — To catch, before it fade away And melt into the common grey Of memory's distance, that sweet scene And him, the living link between Our souls and nature : for the tie Knit there of human sympathy So binds us, we shall ne'er forget The hills, the village where we met, The creeping cloud, the burnished vane, The cool and elm-o'ershadowed lane. The very birds upon the wing. Where first we stopped and heard him sing ' Mourir, mourir, pour la patrie,' And ' Les beaux yeux de Castalie.' 37 ROSES Roses red and white On the wild-rose tree ; Once 'twas heaven in your sweet light Here to breathe and be. Larks were loud, skies blue, Earth ablaze with June ; What had lovers' hearts to do But to beat in tune ? t Ah ! when next I stood In the trysting-glade, On each bough were drops like blood Where the flower had swayed : Winds were loud, leaves few, Birds no song could make ; What have lonely hearts to do But to bear, or break ? Ye that pipe on bough Ditties of love-lore. Mute be all your music now. For she hears no more. On the wild-rose tree, Roses white and red, Old and out of date are ye, For my love is dead. 38 AN OLD MILL An old mill stands at the gloomy head Of a narrow gorge profound : But many a generation 's fled Since millers there made flour for bread, Or the water-wheel went round — So long, that a sapling ash, you see, Found leisure a march to steal. And grew right through to a sturdy tree, As Nature's self had, in scorn or glee. Put a spoke in the mighty wheel. What need ? There are rents in the oaken ring. And the worm there bores its bed ; The loud, lithe water, with splash and spring, May 16ap the rock like a living thing. But the wheel — it is hushed and dead. And down the gully with splendid force The rain-fed cataracts pour, Mining the rocks without remorse, And scooping the cr^gs in their idle course : For the wheel goes round no more. The truth is as old as when earth first woke, And as young as yesterday : The nave may be rotten, the axle broke. The spider may spin from spoke to spoke, But the stream will hold its way. AN OLD MILL 59 Hast never read what is written here In the lives of men ? Heigh-ho ! The life-stream flows, but with empty cheer, For the heart is broken, or out of gear : Would God that it were not so ! 40 WAGES It is weary to be waking In the grey before the dawn. When birds about the lawn Are silence breaking. ' Can maiden-vows be mended ? Or a soul with slaying ended ? No ; nor of death be won The undoing of deeds done.' So ring the bird-notes blended In the grey before the dawn. He came to my white pillow In the dusk before the dawn, When winds from oif the lawn Were in the willow. With kiss of fire he cleft me, And of God's face bereft me : But I cried, ' No lie shall screen us ; Is it love or death between us ? ' Without one word he left me In the dusk before the dawn. I stole where he was sleeping In the dark before the dawn, When mists along the lawn Were slowly creeping. WAGES 41 He woke, and horror filled him, And he shrieked ; but kisses stilled him. At my heart hell-fire was licking. In my hand a death-blade pricking : Oh, I kissed to sleep and killed him In the dark before the dawn. 42 FOUR FAIR THINGS Thkre are three things fair upon earth — may a fourth be found ? — The seed of song in the heart, of a flower in the ground ; The third is the seed of love. Shall there yet be shown A fourth thing fair upon earth, when these are flown ? Sweet was the new-found gift of a voice to cry When the pent soul sprang to the lips to sing, or die ; Well, but O aching heart ! what is left of it now ? — The shatne of a quenched desire, and a burning brow. A poppy shot up to the sun : 'twas of regal red ; Floating on air seemed the disc of its delicate head. When the corn fell, what remained of its glory to cull ? — Naught but a scant green stalk, and a naked skull. As we filled the loud air with our laughter, the silent with love, The hour was as swift, was as sweet, as the wings of a dove. Say now, what is left of a joy that was earth's despair ? — A thought, and a sigh, and a glance at the empty chair. The^e are three things fair upon earth — may a fourth be found ? — The seed of song in the. heart, of a flower in the ground ; The third is the seed of love, and a fourth shall be shown — The soul of a man, that endures when these are flown. 43 SPES VICTRIX If thou upon the heavenly way Should'st meet, dear Angel of the Spring, A maiden-spirit eyed like May, And sweet 'beyond imagining ; If robed in meekness she appear. Though circled with immortal breath. And round about her brows she wear The sign of ' faithful unto death ' ; And if the flowers, that know thy hand. And tarry thy returning feet, Beholding her, without command Come forth to blossom and be sweet : If thou should'st light on such an one, So pure and peerless, brave and free. With eyes that blench not at the sun, Yet earthward turned for mine and me. Oh, speak not of the days of pain — The days of pain, the nights of tears, Of sighs that rend the heart in twain, Of rude remorse or faithless fears ; Oh, say that hope shines calm above The eddying storms of wild regret ; Oh, tell her grief is lost in love. And I no hopeless lover yet. 44 LOVE'S GLASS I^ove's is a glass of magic power, that charms All futures into focus, Since erst, half-veiled, within our mother's arms, Life's glimmering dawn awoke us ; Till lo ! one glance, and forth the lover fares. Nor long the journey reckons, Though still, through manhood, on to hoary hairs, The same blue distance beckons. If 'wildering darkness on his feet should fall. The sun in heaven denied him. He lacks no light who sees the end of all — Love's magic glass to guide him ; And where life's fading lines the boundary kissed, As if in faith's derision, Death melts before him like a wall of mist. Nor intercepts the vision. 45 AT LYME REGIS When the storm-spirit rides on the waters, O friend ! it is glorious to be Where the great ocean ridges roll shoreward, upheaved from the plain of the sea ; Deaf and blind with the smoke and the thunder, to watch from the old sea-wall Where the breakers upshoot into foam-trees, that burst into blossom, and fall. And recoil on the wave-ranks to rearward, and meet in explosions of spray. Till they rally, and rush on the rampart that holds them for ever at bay. But their crests leap like hoarse-hissing serpents, that writhe, intertwined and grotesque. Plashing doiyn on the pavement beneath them in fretwork of milk Arabesque ; And the remnant, sucked back by the shingle, goes, seething and curdled and churned Into froth-balls, a toy for the tempest, from ocean's lip spattered and spurned. Still, rank after rank, come the rollers, white-edged where the water-break falls ; Alp on alp, see ! the avalanche flashes, o'ertoppling their emerald walls ; With roar as of ruin and eardiquake, whose crash strikes the thundercloud dumb. With the breath of their fury before them, quick-panting they come, and they come. 46 AT LYME REGIS As if all the pent fiends of mid-ocean, broke loose, from the bottom were hurled, Their frantic arms reared in defiance to clutch at the bounds of the world. Oh, rapture to spirits long stagnant, or caught in the eddies of change. Thus to feel the strong tide of a passion that knows not to rest or to range, Free to swell 'neath the breeze of emotion, borne on as the billows are driven. And e'en in the heart's wildest tumult at one with the pur- pose of Heaven ! 47 A BALLAD OF ST. VALENTINES 'TwAS of St. Valentine the day He found her sighing, ' Wellaway ' ; By chance they met, 'twas plain to see, Beneath the leafless trysting-tree. ' Now, wherefore sad at heart, sweet maid. And yet so beautiful ? ' he said. ' Alack ! fair sir, for grief I pine That I have no true Valentine.' So kind he was, his bow dropped he, And tossed his arrows 'neath the tree ; Though close was heard a rabbit stir. He stayed his sport to comfort her ; So good, though merry mates were nigh, He laid all thought of frolic by ; But more he soothed, the more wept she Beneath the leafless trysting-tree ; Till in his arms he caught her fast, And through those blinding tears at last The blue of heaven began to shine, For she had found her Valentine. 48 MY LADY My lady is so fair and dear That all my heart to her is giv6n ; One word she whispered in mine ear, And earth for me was changed to heaven. Of her perfections I lack skill Or form or semblance to portray ; By inward sweetness, when she will. Over men's hearts she holdeth sway. Her hair's dark hue may not be said, But when she lifts her brow to mine . Earth in so deep a dusk is laid That all the stars of love do shine. Like waters in a summer grove, Her speech is musical and low ; Her eyes are fountains of pure love, From whence the streams of honour flow. They praise her voice, they praise her songs ; Such gift to all men doth she dole : They know not that to me belongs The secret music of her soul. Her mien so pure, her glance so bright, The thoughts that in her bosom be. Her hopes, her fears, from dawn to night Are angel-choirs that sing to me. 49 'HIGHER AND HARDER' The blood that warms each English heart Sprang from heroic veins ; The birthright of a glorious past Our heritage remains : And still we kindle at the thought Of souls to honour true, And duty done beneath the sun — But what is ours to do ? The fiery moment bids not all For country or for faith, From war's red sleep, transfigured, leap, Immortalised by death. The fame of Garfield's dying hours, Or Coghill's matchless end — To ride through conquering hosts, then turn, To perish with his friend — Such deed to dare, such fate to bear, May not be yours or mine ; But stars whose spark on earth shows dark. As fair to heaven may shine : Live pure, without reproach, we can, As valiant sons and true, The race not shame from whence we came — And that is ours to do. JO 'HIGHER AND HARDER' What else avails to con the tales Of mythic hero-lore — Alcmena's son, the fights he won, The sufferings that he bore ? To none that live doth Heaven now give The powers of hell to tame ? No fiends or foes as fierce as those, And breathing deadlier flanie ? Have we no stern Tirynthian king In conscience to obey ? In hearts uncleansed as Lerna's fens Have we no worm to slay ? O comrades, hark ! 'tis honour calls : ' Who is on my side ?— who 1 ' Whate'er the deed, if honour lead, This, this is ours to do. SI THE PRIMROSE AND THE ROCK Primrose, to this bare rock So closely clinging, Fear'st thou the North's keen shock And stormy singing ? Or is it love, not fear, (Sweet flower, I knew it) Holds thee heart-rooted here?— Thou dost not rue. it. Cold though his flinty arms. Boon warmth they yield thee : E'en his uncouthness charms. Serving to shield thee. Far will the fancy range. Love's balm to borrow ; As if a rock could change, Or thou know sorrow ! Ah ! should our fates agree, Though widely parted — Thy love all stone to be. Mine, stony-hearted ! SJ TO FOUR SISTERS In this degenerate age of brass, When childhood apes the world at ten, And maidens at their looking-glass Affect the modish airs of men ; While yet in scattered homes abound The artless-gay, the simple-sweet. More richly prized, as rarer found, The poet worships at their feet. O bright dispellers of our gloom ! O breathing flowers of happiness ! Four such I know, that shyly bloom. Unconscious of their power to bless. Forgive the praise, and take from one, Who fain in your white book would be, This portrait, painted by the sun, The likeness of your devotee. 53 MOSS Where dips the wood floor to a cup, My lady in her hand held up A tuft of moss — each tiny frond Fraught with a molten diamond Of dew, set ready for the sip Of pixy's or of fairy's lip. Awhile she gazed in pensive case ; Then, as she pressed it to her face, ' O fairer in thy forest-bed. And sweeter than all flowers,' she said. Howe'er it be, one thing I wot, Thou hast a virtue these have not ; Ay, modest weed, for matched with thee The snowdrop flaunts her purity. Pride lifts the cowslip, the wild rose As conscious of her beauty glows. The violet so demurely bent, Of her own heart is redolent ; Each lovely sister, as is meet. Breathes sweetness in itself complete, Ere tasted, past imagining ; But thou, a tear-born, holy thing, In whose dim fragrance we recall Earth's odour, the dear source of all. Whose forms a myriad tints unfold, Coral and amber, green and gold, Deem'st not thyself too fair or sweet To spread a carpet for man's feet ; 54 MOSS And more, belike, in thee is found Of heaven, as nearer to the ground. So, in God's sight, methinks, 'tis true. That of all deeds we mortals do, All thoughts that harbour in the breast The sweetest are the lowliest. 55 THE MUMMY-PEA Here blooms in England, and to-day, Unmarked, a miracle of flowers, Whose seed far centuries away Was orbed in other climes than ours Strange thought ! the very parent-stem That rocked its pendent cradle-pod Once haply met the gaze of them That spake with him who spake with God Or in some garden of great kings, Which erst the Sire of nations knew. Unfurled the selfsame snowy wings . That next were spread for me and you. When last the parent pea-flower's scent Did o'er the fields of summer flit, Pharaoh's dark daughter may have bent Her stately head to feast on it. Then sudden darkness fell : the seed Lay coffined with the mighty dead. While centuries of human deed. Unheard, were passing overhead. 56 THE MUMMY-PEA When next it woke, the earth was old : Four thousand years had ceased to be, As from this plot of English mould It looked and breathed on you and me. Hail ! fair white flower and fragrant breath, That, symbols of a hope sublime, Sprang quickened from the dust of death, And foiled the flashing scythe of Time ! 57 LOSTl Lost kisses from remembered lips, Lost arms that once enwound us, Lost tears that memory sadly keeps. Lost hopes that never found us ; Lost eyes that blessed, lost words that cheered Our fruitless, fond endeavour ; Lost sorrows, by their loss endeared — Are these, then, lost for ever ? Oh, hers and mine ! believe it not. But in your childish blisses Still, still survive, by you forgot, Her looks, her words, her kisses : The tireless heart and tearless home We leave, as lost, behind us ; But these, though o'er the world we roam, Will follow till they find us. S8 SONG I In days of the orchard-blossom, In nights of the brown bird's song, When the wan earth bares her bosom To the sun that has tarried long ; By streams where of old we wandered, In woods where the violet blew, Where the wealth of the spring I squandered To weave in a garland for you ; Oh, day will seem long to my sorrow, And night all too brief for my tears, To-morrow, and yet to-morrow, And years on years. When the glances of fell December Are death to the dancing brook. And hope is sweet to remember In the warmth of the ingle-nook ; When the song goes up to the rafter. And frolic and feast befall. And the thought of change hereafter Is hid from the heart of all ; Oh, night will seem long to my sorrow. And day all too brief for my tears, To-morrow, and yet to-morrow. And years on years. 59 SONG II Love, before I loved you. And was loved again, What had life to live for, Or what balm had pain ? Half the world's hid wonder Dark to you and me, Locked from our heart's reading Till love lent the key ! In the soul's lone garden Flowers were few to cull, And hard toil was hateful, And dark days were dull : Now — old hopes behind us. From old cares estranged, Is the change in us, Love, Or are all things changed ? The new earth beneath us ! The new heaven o'erhead ! Why should winter boughs be Greenly garlanded, Winter-skies, why stretch them Blue without a stain, But because I love you. And am lovad again ? 6o SONG III 'Tis an old, old tale, I trow : Be not fooled with outward show ; Deep within love's treasures lie : Trust the heart, and not the eye. Though your faith in man be gone, Or in woman, still love on ; Still believe against belief : Love is lasting, falsehood brief. 6t SONG IV In the green forest-spaces, Brimful of bright flower-faces, The sum of all their graces. She stood before me, And on my spirit such a shower Of radiance shed, that hour by hour I know no respite from the power Love wieldeth o'er me. As with presumptuous motion Streams vex the vast of ocean, What can my poor devotion But shame and flout her ? So weak my worth, so low my lot. Life's very self sufficeth not To cast upon Love's heap : for what Were life without her ? Yet, be the thought forgiven, That I with sins unshriven Dare lift so nigh to heaven A heart so earthy ; Though not its hi^est, holiest sighs To thy pure atmosphere may rise, One look of love from those dear eyes Would make me worthy. 62 CONTENT High hopes we build like towers ; they fall like toys ; The foolish heart beneath hes crushed and bleeding : We scan the past and future for our joys, When on joy's very wing the hour is speeding. The future comes not, as all lives attest ; A vanished hour, nor tears nor prayers will send thee : Do present duties, leave to Heaven the rest. And every dawn shall with fresh hope attend thee. 63 Olos air aKKav Sometimes amid the festal throng One pallid face I see ; The dancers start, but stay not long To question, Who is he ? He heeds not them, but passes by, As dead to blame or praise ; His life is with the things that lie Beneath the buried days. On lonely crag by mountain lake I've watched him swiftly stride, With that far look, as he would take The distance for his bride : Grey cloud and wintry summit seemed His kith and kin to be ; But that whereof his spirit dreamed Was not in earth or sea. A soldier, beneath alien suns The weary march he's plied, Has stormed the breach, and charged the guns, Sought death, but never died. The fevered lips and fainting knees, The bowed and burdened head — He knows a heavier weight than these, A heart to pleasure dead. 64 Oios air' aXXtov And once, amid the shouting ranks, With songs of loud acclaim, I saw him when a people's thanks Rang to his honoured name : He recked not of their minstrelsy, Nor saw the flower-hung street ; His heart was where the pine-trees sigh Above his buried Sweet, 6s Men say that Thou hast plumbed the deep, And drained the cup, of woe. Wept every tear that mortals weep. — It was, and was not so. That Thou didst taste each outward sting. Breathe every inward sigh That guilt from innocence can wring, Who doubts, or dares deny ? But ah ! remorse, that sinks the soul Lower than hell below — Life's one irreparable dole — Thou didst not, couldst not know. 66 AUF WIEDERSEHN When they have writ above me That I am dust, my dear, Believe you not, Nor grieve you not, And waste no tender tear. Think this. Love, if you love me- That every hour you hear Brings meeting-time And greeting-time The nearer and more near. A QUATRAIN In life's hill-journey, howso' strait And stern the rock-hewn pass may be, Time's blackest boulder-chinks are lit With foam-white threads of memory. 67 A VOICE FROM THE FOREST We are oak-trees old, that have long endured, Under sun and moon, in the wind and rain ; Not above ground may our like be found — So many ages of pride and pain. We cannot remember what stars waxed wan. What flowers flushed red, as the dawn rose up. Or if any bird sang when first we sprang From the rent ripe egg of the acorn-cup. But silently over us gloomed and grew The sense of an unseen canopy ; And hot hushed days in the woodland ways Were startled at times by a stormy cry ; For centuries since, as in some far dream. We heard the hounds bay, and the bugle blow ; The hart fell dead on the leaves we shed Hundreds and hundreds of years ago. From Spring to Fall, and from year to year, Lonely we stand, and alone have stood ; Never a tree so lone as we In the heart of the woodland solitude ; For the air above and the earth beneath, The grass, the wonderful insects' wings. Even we ourselves, seem strange to ourselves — ■ Strange the forms of all living and lifeless things. 68 A VOICE FROM THE FOREST The birds and the flowers, that caress our feet, Or carol about us, and so pass by, Back to the earth that gave them birth, Mute, and quenched of their fire and their minstrelsy ; And the vain generations of toiling man. Whose days are so few and so clamorous — All, all are changed that round us ranged. But the same sad moon looking down on us. Nay, deeper yet, through the dry, dead hours. Deeper and deeper we search, and see ! — Whose locks are these wave white on the breeze, 'Mid the pomp of an high solemnity? Lo ! the murmured rites of the mystic ones. With slow procession and chanted prayers ; Young were we then by the hoary men. The priests of the grove, the star-gazers. Lo ! these upon earth that have left no peer. With mute pale lip, and with trembling limb — Even these stood in awe as they heard and saw The sights and sounds of the forest dim. Lowly they bowed them when summer burned O'er the dark of our pillared aisles divine ; Deep was their grief at the falling leaf. For the rent green roof of their ruined shrine. And still are we sacred, and round us clings The mistletoe, mighty to ban or bless ; Its spell is not dead, nor its virtue fled. Though steeped in a blank forgetfulness. A VOICE FROM THE FOREST 69 And still are we kings, though man disdain, Though winter discrown us in wild revolt. Though the arrows of the air make flame our hair. And our zones be scorched with the thunderbolt. Wherefore go forth, make "known to men, O wind ! thou voice of the silent wood, The hearts of oak, and the words they spoke From the depth of the old-world solitude : We smile at your pity, your pride we scorn, That were, and that are, and are yet to be ; And we bid you revere, and leave us here. Alone with our immortality. 70 A CHRISTMAS CAROL Eighteen hundred years and moe ! The earth grows old, and the time is long ; But make ye the doors upon wind and snow, And sing, sweet choir, with the angel-throng ! The Babe in the oxen's stall, I trow, He savfed of old, and He saveth now : Ding-ding, ding-dong, with a merry sound. Let the bells, let the Christmas bells go round ! ' No hymns in our hearing the angels sing ; No sages of eastland come from far ; Yet joy have we of the gifts we bring Who follow the flight of His guiding-star.' Oh, let your songs to Him soar like fire, Sweet Mary's babe, and the world's desire ; Ding-ding, ding-dong, with a merry sound, As the bells, as the Christmas bells go round ! ' Say, how shall we find Him, so far to seek ? To yon dear manger we may not win.' — ' He houseth Him still with the poor and meek, And maketh the mourner His lowly inn : Who empties his heart as the oxen's stall. He findeth it filled with the Lord of all : Ding-ding, ding-dong, let the bells go round. And sing, sweet choir, for the Christ is found ! ' I rede ye worship Him, maids and men ; So bring us all to His bliss. Amen. AN EASTER CAROL {First semi-chorus) Wherefore make ye this ado, With high pomp and revelry, Wreathing daffodils for rue ? Who is it ye worship ?-^-who ? {Second semi-chorus) Let the flowers of earth reply. {Flowers) 'Tis to greet the immortal Vine Our fresh coronals we twine. {Chorus) Every bud bid April bring, Let the field her incense wave ; All the lilies of the spring. Let them cry aloud and sing, 'Risen, risen With the Lord of life from winter and the grave.' {First semi-chorus) Wherefore lift ye, clear and strong. Your triumphant melody, As the lark into a song Melts amid the starry throng ? 72 AN EASTER CAROL {Second semi-chorus) Let the birds of heaven reply. {Birds) To the eternal Dayspring we Mount on wings of ecstasy. {Chorus) In the blue air bid them float, All their plumes in sunshine lave, Pipe and tune each feathered throat To the sweet and solemn note, 'Risen, risen With the Lord of all from silence and the grave.' {First semi-chorus) What is this your carol saith ? Shall they rise in dust who he ? Are not all things that have breath Serfs and vassals to King Death ? {Second semi-chorus) Let the sons of men reply. {Sons of Men) Raised by Him who rose again, The dead live, and Death is slain. {Cko korus) Fruit in us shall all men see. Pure to taste and quick to save, Of bright immortality If indeed with Christ we be Risen, risen, If our heart with Him be risen from the grave. 73 3n flDemodam FREDERICK III., GERMAN EMPEROR 1888 Dead Emperor, loved where'er thy name is heard, Tried captain, foremost when great fields were won, And — meeker, loftier title, self-conferred — Servant of God, sleep well ; thy task is done. Brief task ! But what is time to such as thou. Though years of promise yield but fruit of days ? No length of empire gilds a tyrant's brow ; Three months have crowned thee with thy people's praise. O dauntless heart, which yet for suffering bled, And in the hour of conquest sought to save ! Peace held her breath above thy dying-bed. And the world trembles lest she share thy grave. The lust of power, ambition's lurid stream. That would a world in conflagration roll, More insignificant than weakness seem. Matched with the gentle greatness of thy soul. O high example of heroic will, That, doomed to battle with a dumb disease. Could to the last of ebbing life fulfil The burden of a nation's destinies ! 74 IN MEMORIAM Heroic patience, that in those dark hours, Without a murmur of mistrust, resigned, Ev'n at the height of manhood's noblest powers, Their glorious use, the service of mankind ! All Europe, gazing, seemed to understand That mute pathetic eloquence of eye, Which helped thee, passing to the silent land, Though silent, not without farewell, to die. All Europe mourns thee ; England more than all. Sad for her daughter, mourns thee as a son : — Now close the curtain : let the silence fall : Thy task is o'er ; servant of God, well done ! IN MEMORIAM 75 C. G. GORDON Not here he sleeps : the gentlest of the brave, A name world-famous, fills a nameless grave ; Nor here be writ his triumphs or his doom, Fighting for China, dying for Khartoum. Of life he recked not, but for God to spend ; God's sword he was, and servant to the end. In all his deeds heroic found, as few. Nor faithful least in what he failed to do ; Yet to such meekness did his soul attain Men's praise he feared, as others their disdain. And hid his greatness, like a pearl of price, In the rough casket of self-sacrifice. So living, dying, passed he from our ken. Apostle, hero, martyr, king of men ; And yet unspeak it, for he leaves a name Too high for title and too pure for fame ; And this poor pillar mourns not Gordon's death : ' Praise God for Gordon's noble life,' it saith. 76 IN MEMORIAM G D. W. D. Or e'er a blossom blanched the thorn, When scarce from winter's wing Were shed the last cold plumes that scorn Earth's promise of the spring, By eighty summers overweighed With patriarchal bloom, One silver head we gently laid Within the marble gloom. No hollow form or flattering show In yon dark pomp appears, No selfish mourners force the flow Of ceremonious tears ; For never kindlier heart, more just. And free from sordid stain. Was gathered to the glorious dust Of Ina's ancient fane. O comrades ! guard his memory well In Honour's golden urn ; Such spirits cease, but who may tell If ever such return ; If noble manners shall engage. And reverence rule as yore. Or from this mammon-minded age Pass, and be seen no more ? IN MEMORIAM 77 By simple dignity sublime, By tenderness untold, By man's best triumph over time — The heart that grows not old, — By chivalry of days long past, We hailed within our ken A star late-risen — Oh, not the last ! — ■ Of England's gentle men ; Who loved life's bounteous cup to drain, Filled from no earthy bowl, Nor grew by glut of worldly gain A bankrupt of the soul, Nor soared on folly's waxen wing, Nor sank in vile repose. Nor plucked at pride, the meanest thing That in God's garden grows. For him, so courteous to his peers. But kindest to the poor, Griefs choicest flowers are fed with tears By many a cottage-door. Ay, though the ripe shock falleth well, And riper fall but few, Not oft hath boomed yon funeral-bell So dear a loss to rue ; Nor shall our inmost hearts reprove A nobler tribute yet, That none e'er knew himt, but to love. Nor loved him, to forget. 7S JN MEMORIAM E. H. Dead noble face beneath this coffin lid, Too beautiful, we deem, for death's decay ; Needs must we close thee in, and sadly say, ' Farewell, dear face ; henceforth shalt thou be hid From earth and day ; From the grey villages and heathy downs, The silent pool, and never-silent rills ; From the wide landscape with its windy mills. And the dark wood, and tender light that crowns These Surrey hills.' Ay, but hid also from the thousand aches Of maid and wife and mother ; from the wear Of slow disease, from ever-haunting fear. And hope that comes not — the long fret that makes Life hard to bear ; From clamorous tongues and rancours without end. False lights that lure, blind perils that beset ; From low desires that spread their gilded net, And all the gaudy nothings that we spend Our souls to get. Ah ! the glad wonder of that deathless change. From lapse of time, from age and weakness free, That, wearied with thy seventy years and three, In some still region, beautiful and strange. Begins for thee ! IN ME MORI AM 79 Bitter it is for us who cannot steel Our hearts to lose thee ; not for thee to go. Yet by thine empty shrine, for all our woe, Thyself not far nor unaware we feel, Not lost we know. Thy smile, thy voice, thy form— to these we bid Indeed farewell, beneath the closing sod Thus much of thee to Death's relentless nod Yielding perforce ; but thy true life is hid With Christ in God. 8o JN MEMORIAM B. S. D. Not dead ; transplanted to a soil more light By tenderer hands than ours, Where never nipping frost or cankering blight Profanes the flowers, Your little darling blows, your mignonette, In God's sequestered garden set. Oh, sweeter such a loss than sad or strange ! Up-gathered from our gloom, Earth's fading petals she doth there exchange For deathless bloom, And the salt rain from clouds of sorrow driven For dew-drops on the lawn of heaven. 8i SONNETS TO THE EARL OF SHAFTESBURY 1885 Grey Knight of God, new-gathered to thy rest, Old hero-chief of many a bloodless fight, Who with no party-strokes didst cleave the night Of social darkness by no dawn-streak blest ; Of women, babes, and all sad souls confessed The lifelong champion, who, in birth's despite. Amid proud peers a toil-worn eremite. To this aspired — the friendship of the oppressed ! Thee the grim mine and whirring factory-loom Felt when, like eucalyptus of the fen. Thou cam'st to purge the poisonous haunts of men. Long shall thy country mourn thee ; long shall bloom Wealth's one immortal flower thy dust above — The tear-dewed garland of the poor man's love. SONNETS II TO A GREAT THINKER O LIFELONG pilgrim to a nobler shrine Than e'er was knee'd by trembling worshipper ! No thrall to visionary hope and fear, But in the light of sovereign thought divine, Thou madest Truth thy temple : she did shine O'er the waste leagues that led thy feet to her, And now thou art entered in ; but we stand here , Halting, not helpless, for these tracks are thine. O mighty champion ! who didst dare to clutch Earth-strangling Error, at whose every touch Loose fell some link of Superstition's chain, The patience of thy soul forbad disdain Even those who flung the theologic crutch, Wherewith their souls limped after thee in vain . SONNETS 83 III W. F. n. He had known sorrow, and not sought, as some, To strike with fate a bargain of new bliss. But betwixt two worlds, as one tired of this, Hung on the skirts of Heaven, and made his home Adventurous heights, where Science whispered, ' Come, And thou shalt commune with what was, and is. And shall be, wring her secret from the abyss, And mount in spirit to the eternal dome.' So, purged of sense, as in prophetic eld, He through the veil saw, ere Death lifted it, Light wiihin darkness, and heard gush the springs That murmur in the mystic heart of things. Till on the bounds of being he beheld Man's finite melt into God's infinite. 84 SONNETS IV DRESDEN Who lives at Dresden without ears and eyes Lives a lost soul in heaven. What best may be She lacks not — music in a golden sea, Majestic dramas, art that deifies. And treasures that adorn her walls ; her skies Smile on a landscape rife with history : You wake to live, and live to hear and see What fires the heart and helps the mind to rise. Float down the river till her towers appear: No fog, no smoke, a city virgin-bright ! Then that great marvel of the atmosphere, The arch of heaven so high, the air so light ! While faithful to their seasons, day or night, Summer is summer, winter winter here. SQNNETS 85 V PRESENCE IN ABSENCE If this be trae within my heart which saith That thou, sweet soul, art nearer than before To my lone spirit, wreck'd amid the roar Of thy life's waters on the shoals of death ; If I, whose earthlier token was thy breath Upon my brow, thy footstep at my side, Now feel thy presence like a circling tide Within me, and around, above, beneath, — Why, then, let perishable dust repine ! I am not, sure, the wretchedest of men. Who hold thee still indissolubly mine : Though hand with hand no longer intertwine. Though thou art made to mortal ear and ken Invisible, unvoiced — what then ? what then ? 86 SONNETS VI I MAY not hope through life to comprehend, As earth does sea, this ocean of my loss, Nor bind its foamy waters to emboss Thus far the sea-mark, and no farther tend, Nor sail beyond its barrier, nor descend To that still region where no storm can toss — Too deep to fathom, and too vast to cross, Whatever help a coming hour shall send. I can but skirt its borders, and explore The devious creeks, with islets interlaced. And probe each gloom-filled cavern to the core ; Or wade amid the short'ning shoals, and taste The bitter of its waves, that rage and waste With moan immortal round this mortal shore. SONNETS 87 VII When I reflect how poor a part of all Our soul's fulfilment lies within the brief And brittle zone that binds one human sheaf Of months and years ; how doubts did ne'er appal, Nor change afflict thy spirit ; when I recall Our love's eternal promise, and that grief Which is love's self in absence — as the leaf Is spring's leaf still, though saddened ere it fall By winter's widowing finger— and no less Muse on the power that from deep suffering springs To elevate and awe, to cleanse and bless — Then, from the heaven within the heart, glad rays Of hope illume with dawn-like glimmerings The sad and watery sunset of my days. 88 SONNETS VIII LONELY GREATNESS Unto the sea said God, ' I thee create Naked of all the kind air nourisheth ; Be thou tempestuous, terrible as death, And bitter, and of man's life insatiate : The melancholy wind be thy sole mate ; The lone moon vex thee, as she wandereth ; Yet shalt thou chide not for these things,' God saith, ' Seeing that for greatness' sake I have made thee great.' O man ! if thou, too, from sweet helpful art Be driven, and all the harvest of thine hand. Fair hopes of fruitful promise, fall from thee. Remember to be great ; accept thy part ; Bethink thee of the waste time-sifted sand And sovereign desolation of the sea. SONNETS 89 IX AT SEA TOWN As love breaks in upon the simple dreams Of some shy maid, whose spirit, lowly-wise, Ne'er ranged beyond the sober sanctities Of home affection — sudden the air teems With unknown rapture ; earth's strait valley seems To widen, and her life's low dome to rise High as the wing-flown region, whilst her eyes Yearn toward some light that in the distance gleams ; So may the wanderer in these vales descry A change come o'er the landscape, as the fells Heave bolder, and a sense of liberty And ampler distance to the heart foretells What yon bare brow shall consummate^ — the free Expanse and breathing brightness of the sea. 90 SONNETS X THE SCHILLER-HOUSE AT LOSCHWITZ Two shrivelled oak-leaves of a vanished year Blown by the breeze into that garden-bower Where Schiller once sang mightily ! His power Haunts the dim chamber yet, and you may hear, Outside, a shuddering fountain, no less dear To the Nine Sisters than Peirene's shower, Or where the twin Parnassian peaks uptower, Castalia's murmur, as the god drew near. Still stands the oak, though its frail honours fell ; Low lies the bard, but from his boughs were shed Imperishable garlands ; it is well : And, earthward stooping, in my hand I take The withered emblems, for sweet fancy's sake, And to leaves living dedicate leaves dead. SONNETS 91 XI J) AWN At every tick of time — when eve is grey, When skies are scorched with noon, or blurred with night, Somewhere, on opening wings of early light, The young Dawn breaketh ; without haste or stay Moves the bright Wizard on his lustral way. To wind-blown seas, or cities glimmering white, Hamlet and homestead, or bleak mountain-height, Or misty vale, each moment bringing day. O midnight watcher, woe-distraught, and sick Of the blind heaven, whose very hopes do lour Like clouds upon thee palpable and thick — Thyself thy sole horizon ! — in that hour Be such sweet thought thy pillow : 'twill have power To cleanse and calm, and make thee catholic. 92 SONNETS XII FJROM MOFFAT DALE Come, friend, with me, if simple thoughts console, To our glad session bring no wiser brain ; Come where, betwixt the mountain and the plain. The billowy uplands of the Border roll. Better than yon bleak alps to travail'd soul This half-way heaven, and happier far to gain, Than heights of ecstasy o'er gulfs of pain, The grey-green hills of sober self-control. Be wisely passive ; strive not here to find. But ope thy heart, and, when the hills have sway. Let the great Minstrel of the Border-lay About thy spirit all his witchery wind. Or travel to the height of Wordsworth's mind. And with some glorious sonnet crown the day. SONNETS 93 XIII NORMAN NERUDA She stood with lifted bow in act to sweep The strings : sound flashed ; the silent air caught fire ; And, wave on wave upsurging high and higher, The waters of our soul — one stormy heap — Hung menacing. Anon she bade them sleep. She woke the winds of Memory : dead desire Revived ; hope grappled with the eternal liar ; Love saw the end, and deemed the forfeit cheap. She pierced the bounds of Being ; with one breath Of that prevaiUng strain she fell on fate And slew it ; back swung the adamantine gate, Self-opening ; there was no more time or death. And then she ceased. And oh, how steep the fall From heaven to that dark, disenchanted hall ! 94 SONNETS XIV HIDDEN GRIEF When Grief had lost his ancient mastery, One morn I wandered in a forest-dell Whose floor was tricked with many a trembling bell And starry blossom far as eye could see. There grew white violet, pale anemone. Sweet orchis — all the flowers she loved so well ; But fast-immured in some more secret cell Sorrow lay bound, and these had not the key. Anon I turned me where the woodman's axe Had cleft an opening ; there, by trunks laid whole, Stood piled-up faggots for the burning kept. One waft of fragrance from the withered stacks Reached me ; a gust of anguish caught my soul ; I bowed my forehead to the earth, and wept. SONNETS 95 XV 1 AFTER THE FUNERAL When all the funeral-train were passed away, Stood one beside the gaping earth who said, ' Into this grave, leaf after leaf, I shred The garland of my life, there to decay Till she rise with it at the Judgment Day.' First, the fair dreams whereon his childhood fed. Then youth's high promise, half-accomplished. Dropped into Death's irrevocable Nay ; Pleasure, and all sweet sense of lovely things, Fell fluttering next, and that fond parasite, Hope, that to life's frail stem s'b closely clings ; Last, trailing Memory, hung with dead delight. When all these blossoms in the dust were strown, He, with his empty heart, returned alone. 96 SONNETS XVI THE SILENT POOL Was ever lake so calm, so clear, so deep ? Distinct as birds in a blue heaven might show The fish lie poised, or, flashing to and fro, Shiver the crystal surface as they leap. Yet, Silent Pool, funereal boughs o'erweep Thy margin, and about thy bason cold Black horror broods. Nor is the tale untold — Making the blood freeze and the flesh to creep — How, centuries since, as her pure Umbs she laves Here, 'twixt thy banks, a maid who might not win From that vile prince to save her maidenhead, Sought deeper refuge, till she took the waves For garments of her shame, and, robed herein. Sank to thy silver floor — her virgin bed. SONNETS 97 XVII AT THE ENGLISH LAKES This is a land where earth to heaven aspires In multitudinous pinnacles of prayer, And doth a thousand altar-heights lay bare Unto the rising and the setting fires. The enraptured eye, the foot that never tires, 111 here bestead, if custom or if care Have doomed the soul with Tantalus to fare. Starving in sight of unfulfilled desires. Spirit of beauty ! that on each lone lake And hoary summit hast thy breathing shrine, What ban forbids our spirits to partake The dumb world's worship ? Do thou blend with thine My being, conform me to thy likeness, make Each day with beatific thought divine. 98 SONNETS XVIII ' THE INTEGRITY OF THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE ' 1878 There' was a time when he had feared to sit At England's helm who had not feared to own 'Twas England's aim to prop the tyrant's throne, The oppressor's chain not rive, but rivet it. Once Freedom's cause was England's ; she would pit •Her voice against the world's in thunder-tone When captive's shriek or patriot's dying moan Made discord of her music. Now we fit Those heaven-tuned numbers to a harsher key, Where loud self-interest dominates the scale, And apes the tone of honour. Best be mute When, sick with guilty fear lest good prevail, We arm the sovereign instinct of the brute, And bid rebellious manhood bow the knee. SONNETS 99 XIX AT AYR Heaven rent his cloud-hung curtain of despair, And lo ! the sea glowed golden, sunset-kissed. While, like some stranded monster, through the mist Loomed Ailsa Crag beyond the Heads of Ayr. But who shall paint how delicately fair Arran's clear outline, cut in amethyst, From level ocean like a wraith uprist, Till Goatfell soared in empyrean air ? Or who with such high commerce hath been blest As yon lone peak, for all its buffetings. Now holds with heaven in ecstasy of rest ? Such peace alone the enfranchised spirit knows — The deep unutterable calm that springs Of aspiration blended with repose. joo SONNETS XX GARPEL GLEN Dear friends, forget not — I shall ne'er forget — That summer-tide at eve when Carpel's Glen Lay like an inkblot flung from Nature's pen Between the sun-bleached uplands ; whilst afret To overleap his mountain parapet The stream, here curdling like a wisp of wool. Flung out his gold fleece pendent o'er the pool. Where, far below, beech, oak, and ilex met. A spirit-haunted spot ! As there we stood. Behold the form of ancient Solitude ! That, chin on hand, slow-dropping tear on tear. Sat, Sphinx-like, crouched upon a ledge of stone, One moment seen ; the next his very throne Had vanished, and the cliff rose stark and sheer. SONNETS XXI MORS MORTE PEREMPTA From the far Soudan desert comes a voice, ' Slain, on my breast heroic Gord'on sleeps : Mourn all true hearts ! '—and England, Europe weeps. Yet mourn not him, nor mar with funeral noise His birth in heaven : and, Wordsworth's soul, rejoice ! For he of all men in these latter days Hath earned the meed of that melodious praise — ' The happy warrior,' hero of thy choice. Mourn for who fill life's cistern to the brim With lust of having, and desire to slay, Wrath, pride, and vengeance : mourn for these who may j But with your thriftless pity mock not him Who died to life with every passing breath. And, breath resigning, died at last to death. SONNETS XXII THE POWER OF THE SPOT Well, if my heart beat quicker at the sight, Let it be heard in music. But was he Indeed a hero that here fell — Dundee, In Killiecrankie's woful-glorious fight. Or, sworn to a bad cause, darkness for light, A monster steeped in blood and bigotry, His country's evil genius, and we Slaves but to fanc/s witchery and time's flight ? I know not, and if, gazing thus to-day, Beclouds our eye one sympathetic tear, If not unmoved we conjure to our ear The silver summons that no charm could stay, In Urrard Garden 'tis enough to say He perished bravely, and he perished here. 103 GHOSTS When from Rugby's time-worn tower Peals the magic midnight hour, When the latest light is out, And no footstep stirs about, But deep slumber for the nonce Makes the wisest as the dunce, In the dark, which is their day, Spirit-shapes come forth to play ; Through barred gate and bolted door, Moon-washed court and corridor, In they stream, and on they flow. The grey ghosts of long ago. By the lips of men long dead Names are called and answered ; Then the phantom-game begins. With hard hacks on shadowy shins, And bruised limb, and broken crown. And thin shrieks of ' touch ' and ' down ' Soothly all the bitter-sweet Of their boyhood they repeat. Con hard books in study pent, Or home-letters, tear-besprent, Acting o'er in empty show The lost days of long ago. Foolish fable, if you will. Launched on idle ears ; but still 104 GHOSTS Teems not all our life to-day With their labour and their play, Wrought through thrice a hundred years, Half of laughter, half of tears ? For men's thoughts and deeds are what But the Spirit of the Spot? And grey court and grassy lea By our deeds must haunted be, When above our dust shall flow The dark waves of long ago. I05 LAY OF THE OUBLIETTE (see "the dove in the eagle's nest ") The lady-Baroness lay in her bed, With twin-born sons upon either side — Widow and mother, whom none knew wed Till three months since, when her lord had died, The bold young Baron of Adlerstein, Slain in a raid by ruthless foes — He and his sire the last of their line ! And never a mass for soul's repose ! For the Baron of old was a bloody man. Had hacked and harried and burned and spoiled, And recked no whit of the Church's ban : But this sweet lady had half-assoiled The guilt of a race that was not hers, Had tamed the heart of her wolfish mate, And, dowered with the mother-she-wolfs curse, Gave pity for scorn and love for hate. On a jut of the mountain crags it stood — The castle where that fair creature lay, And built, 'twould seem, for the eagle's brood, Or men as fearless and fierce as they : For over a chasm of yawning air 'Twixt lip a\id lip of the rock 'twas set ; And high o'erhead as the eagle's stair, So deep below lay the oubliette. io6 LAY OF THE OUBLIETTE The mouth of the oubliette, unseen, Was wrought in the huge hall's oaken floor ; And close were the grim teeth clenched, I ween, Till traitor or foeman crossed the door : Then — one brief stride through the vaulted room. And a fierce wild cry from his lips would go, As into the void earth's gaping gloom He plunged to the dreadful depth below. Now hark ! from the castle wall they cry, ' Who dares mount hither, of death so fain ? ' ' Sir Kasimir of Wildschloss I, And next of kin to the slaughtered twain.' * Ay, marry, but yesternight were bom Twin sons to our fallen lord — ' ' Yea, yea, Who died unwedded ' he laughs in scorn : ' Come in, come in ' quoth the she-Wolf grey. He stands in the chamber ; his doubts fall dead At a glance from the mother's guileless eyne ; There needeth no word between them said ; She points to the heir of Adlerstein. To hail him chief of his lordly race The knight stoops low upon bended knee ; ' So Heaven, sweet lady, lend me grace. As I deal nobly with thine and thee.' She lifted her eyes with tears a-brim. Though well I wot 'twas a joyful day ; And but for the she-wolf scowling grim, Her lips would have blessed him where she lay. What sound is it makes her bosom swell ? What blanches the pale cheek paler yet ? Mother of God ! now shield him well, For they loosen the bolts of the oubliette. LAV OF THE OUBLIETTE 107 Then a thought of splendour, a deed of grace, By the gentle lady was dared and done, Though the heart stopped beating, the sweet young face Grew old with the anguish ere speech was won : ' Farewell, sir kinsman, but, ere you go, Come, pledge we our faith by a simple sign ; Take these two babes to your serfs below ; Proclaim them the heirs of Adlerstein. He laughed, as he lingered, 'twixt mirth and fear, Or ever he clasped his infant freight : But the she-wolf vanished, and one might hear The bolts made fast on the mouth of fate. The mother lay calm, with smile on lip, Till strength died out with the closing door ; Then the beat of her heart was a tiger's grip, And the pulse at her brain the Maelstrom's roar. But hark ! a shout from the serfs below. And step by step, a returning tread ! Till Ursel, ascending, old and slow. Stood safe with her burden^beside the bed. So women have dared since time began ; So women will dare till suns have set ; But match, who can, from the deeds of man This tale of the babes and the oubUette ! lo8 THE GENTLE HEART I've wandered high, and I've wandered low, A pilgrim wight on a weary quest, And many a hostel fair I know, But in one, one only, have found my rest. Who were its builders might no man tell ; 'Twas ruinous old in every part ; But the name thereof I remember well : They called it 'The Sign of the Gentle Heart.' It stood at the bend of a mountain-road ; Far under, a smoke-veiled city lay ; And many a back with many a load Taused at the portal, but few would stay. They saw beneath them a lurid glare. Or heard the hum of the distant mart. And they loathed the calm of the mountain-air, And turned from the Sign of the Gentle Heart. But I, fore-wearied, and come from far, The wayside shelter to seek was fain. And with me a youth outworn in war, And an old man bowed with age and pain ; When lo ! at the threshold my limbs grew light. The soldier forgot both toil and smart. And the old man's eyes gleamed strangely bright, As we passed 'neath the Sign of the Gentle Heart. THE GENTLE HEART 109 Oh, thence how fair was the prospect spread ! We pored on the summer's open page, Where river and city, copse and mead, Seemed touched with the glow of the Golden Age. The course of our life grew clear and plain ; So long we had toiled without star or chart ! And the haven of death not hard to gain As we gazed from the door of the Gentle Heart. Mine host was of angel mien and brow ; Methought, as he stood there, grave and high, What was, what shall be, and what is now, Lay glassed in the calm of his brooding eye ; Like one that pines for a purer air, He seemed in spirit to dwell apart ; But he found us a chamber cool and fair, And bade us rest in the Gentle Heart. He showed us a well of virtue rare. That whoso' gazeth therein shall see No image of self reflected there. But the semblance of One more sad than he : It flows from a fount unknown to men ; Its bason of pearl mocks human art ; And seldom, he said, they thirst again Who drink of the springs of the Gentle Heart. O lost self-seeker, whom lust of gold, Or pride, or pleasure, hath left forlorn ! wrath-tormented, who pay tenfold Hate to the hater, and scorn for scorn ! Poor fevered spirits agape for rest, By passion lured from the better part, 1 bid you forth on a saner quest : Go seek the Sign of the Gentle Heart. A LEGEND OF ST. PETER Saint Peter stood by the golden gate, In his hand the golden key ; And he spake early and spake late Unto the Angel who brought in The souls of the dead shrived clean of sin ; And, ' Angel of Death,' said he, ' Of all the throngs that have hither pressed. Whom day by day to the shining door. Morn, noon, and night, thou marshallest. None Cometh of mine own kith and kin ; Yet one there was who, from earthly din Long cloister-pent, should have grace to win Where the few-found rich and the many poor Among the white-robed rest.' To him, thus oft importuned, When many a year of time had sped, At last did the Angel Death reply : ' Thy sister's hour to-night draws nigh ; To-morrow, my Lord, shall she behold The shining portal, the gates of gold.' ' I praise Thee, O God,' Saint Peter said, ' Who hast wrought full graciously ; For long to the world hath she been dead ; Its loves forgotten, its joys foregone. In convent-cell she hath waited lone. The bride of Heaven to be. A LEGEND OF ST. PETER Her younger sister, more soft and fair, Alack ! for bliss that avails not yearned, Nor the yoke of her Lord endured to bear, That brings high guerdon beyond the grave ; To mortal lover her heart she gave. Hoarded the treasure she could not save. With the fire of an earthly passion burned. Too gross for heavenly air.' Then thus the Angel Death replied : ' Such soul, by sorrow crucified, E'en at the late eleventh hour The Blood of Christ to save hath power : So by that dear one's loss may she Plucked brand- wise from the burning be.' Saint Peter stood by the golden gate As Dawn spread wide her wing ; And he watched early and watched late. Till dusk eve hung the heaven with stars ; Then one peered through the portal-bars. Wan-faced with suffering. 'Ah ! what is this, dear Lord? ' he cried, ' Or dream, or miracle, I ween ! ' For a babe borne dead in her arms he spied. And she was clad in heaven's own blue. And white wings from her shoulders flew. He looked, and bowed the head, and knew Once more nor common nor unclean What God had purified. RONDELS AT HOLNE At Holne in the Church-House who sojourns, marry ! Blesses the name of Easterbrook, and vows No inn from it the palm of praise can carry ; Nor care he lacks, nor comforts culinary, At Holne in the Church-House. Beneath the frown of Dartmoor's rugged brows With far-thrown fly he strikes the dappled quarry, Wading, or where the safer bank allows. He hath not learned the thrusts of fate to parry. Nor plucked the brightest blossom from life's boughs, Who, April-led, hath ne'er been taught to tarry At Holne in the Church-House. RONDELS 113 THOtJ HAST SAID Thou hast said it, though no word was spoken By the face that on my coming fed, By the tell-tale eyes that gave the token, Thou hast said. Fie upon the flush that came and fled For a secret clue to let the foe ken Of the fort abandoned, guards abed ! Fast as iron bolts on portals oaken Lips may lock them, but the tale is sped : That which cannot but by death be broken Thou hast said. 114 RONDELS DOROTHY Dorothy, my daughter, said. As her merry heart had taught her, ' Of your poems that ne'er paid Publishing — so poor the trade Upon either side the water — Give me one ' : so laughed and prayed Dorothy, my daughter. Wherefore, saucy as I thought her For so asking, I obeyed ; One of my own books I bought her. And wrote in it, with the aid Of a kiss, when I had caught her, ' To the winsome little maid, Dorothy, my daughter.' RONDELS 115 WORTHY OF THEE^ Worthy of thee ? So many cares oppress, Passions assail, and doubts dishearten me, That, day by day, not more I grow, but less Worthy of thee. Moon of my soul, if this reluctant sea Falter at ebb, and thy bright lovehness Lift it no more against the sandy Jea, Then may some cloud obscure thy power to bless, That, if love draw not, my life's tide may be, At least in its fierce hour of wild distress. Worthy of thee. 1 1 6 RONDELS ACROSS THE YEARS Across the years upon me shine Eyes full of heaven, but veiled in tears ; A face love-lifted yearns to mine Across the years. In happier moments it appears The harbinger of peace divine ; But, in dark hours of doubts and fears, Each glittering grief in those dear eyne With unavailing anguish sears A heart that knows no anodyne Across the years. RONDELS 117 TIME Time, the rich soil wherefrom we reap In age the sowing of our prime ; Time, the sad grave wherein we weep Our loves and laughters buried deep, Our loftiest deed, our sweetest rime. Why do we waste thee, hold thee cheap, Why lose thee, waking or asleep — Time? Oh, swift to fly ! Oh, slow to creep ! — Set to the measured march subhme And music of the eternal chime. What wonder if our souls o'erleap, Or, lagging after, cannot keep Time? li8 ROhDELS SUN AND AIR Sun and air, when storm-clouds lower O'er November's dripping lair, How the thought of you has power, When each breath is a despair, To dispel the stifling hour. And bring back the vernal shower — Sun and air ! Yet more winsome, yet'more fair Than the beam on summer bower, Than the breeze that stirs the flower Yet more blithe and debonair Is the baby-breath, I swear, And the laughing eyes of our Son and heir. RONDELS 119 MOTHER SPOKE Mother spoke, ' Come, write me, sir, a sonnet ' Idle 'twas to treat it as a joke ; As she speaks her thought, when bent upon it, Mother spoke. ' And the subject, Mother ? ' But she broke Silence with ' the subject, sir ? my bonnet,' That with laughter I came nigh to choke. Opening then a book, I tried to con it, But in vain for thinking ' Who could yoke To such measure, having seen her don it. Mother's poke ? ' RONDELS AFTER EURIPIDES Farewell, my sometime Master ! Oh, to think On what a journey, from how loved a home, He went, who now returns not ! Till to-day. Lord of the lives of myriads — yours and mine — Now beggared of his own, and lowlier laid To-night than yon poor drudge who day-long toiled For a mere pittance, pleased with menial fare. Lo ! such an one scarce lives, and Death to such ((Tomes in the nick of time, come when he will ; Nor finds him at the feast, but plying sore This or that other service, nowise great. His customary burden. Therefore, too. Death loves to spare him, and goes forth in quest Of prosperous folk and princes, lords of earth. These suddenly beneath the nadir world — How better prove his preference ? — these he takes Untimely, not as recompense for sin. But reaping for himself the worthier wage ; For who so rich can purchase not to die ? But hush ! to her who sits and weeps within I will proclaim your coming, though with grief Her soul be nigh reft from her, and both cheeks Drenched with the tears' eye-moistening overflow. 121 TRANSLATIONS THE DYING HEROES FROM UHLAND The Danesmen's swords drave Sweden's chivalry To the wild sea ; The chariots clashed afar, steel flittered bright In the moonlight ; | There, on the corse-strewn field a-dyihg lay Young Sweyn the fair, and Ulf the hero grey. SWEYN Father ! the Norn to reave me without ruth In strength of youth ! Now, nevermore my mother will divide These locks, my pride ; And vainly she, my song-bird, strains to spy Through all the distance from her tower on high. Ulf They'll moan in shuddering midnights, as we seem To haunt their dream ; But have good cheer : soon must the bitter ache Her true heart break ; Then, guest of Odin, shall thy gold-haired bride Smile as she sets the wine-cup at thy side. 1 2 2 TRANS LA TIONS SWEYN I have a wassail-song begun, to fret Of harp-string set, Of loves and wars of kings and heroes grey — A glorious lay ; Now hangs the harp forlorn, and bodefuUy The wavering winds awake its melody. Ulf All-father's house doth high and holy gleam In the sun's beam ; The stars roll on beneath it, and the forms Of travelling storms ; There, feasting with our sires, we'll seek repose ; Lift then thy song, and sing it to its close. SwEYN Father ! the Norn to reave me without ruth In strength of youth ! No picture of high deeds in battle-field Shines on my shield ; The twelve dread judges from their awful seat Deem me unfit with gods to sit at meat. Ulf One deed there is doth many deeds outweigh ; Thereof reck they — In Fatherland's sore need to yield thy breath— The hero's death. See ! yonder flee the foemen ! Lift thine eyes ! Heaven gleams above thee— there our pathway lies. TRANSLATIONS 123 THE ELVES FROM LECONTE DE LISLE With thyme and marjoram crowned for jollity, .The elves are dancing over lawn and lea. From forest-pathway known to foot of deer, On sable steed rides forth a cavalier ; His gold spur sparkles in the dusky night, And, as he moves athwart the moonbeam's light, Above his tresses, with uncertain sheen, A silver helmet flashes o'er the green. With thyme and marjoram crowned for jollity, The elves are dancing over lawn and lea. A nimble swarm, they close around him there ; They seem to hover in the soundless air. ' Now, whither goest thou through the night serene So late, bold rider ? ' quoth their youthful queen ; ' 111 spirits haunt the forest ; be our fere," And foot it rather on the greensward here.' With thyme and marjoram crowned for jollity. The elves are dancing over lawn and lea. ' Nay, for she waits, my sweet-eyed lady bright Waits, and to-morn our marriage-vows we plight : Give place, ye meadow-sylphs, whose footprints graze The flowery mosses in your airy maze ; 124 TRANSLATIONS Nor from my true-love keep me far away, For lo ! e'en now the glimmerings of the day.' With thyme and marjoram crowned for jollity, The elves are dancing over lawn and lea. ' Abide, sir warrior, and for gift I'll bring The magic opal and the golden ring. And that which fame and fortune doth outshine — My robe, whose weft is of the moonbeams fine : Nay ? then begone ! " and with her finger white She touched the bosom of the trembling .knight. With thyme and marjoram crowned for jollity, The elves are dancing over lawn and lea. No need of spur ; the black steed starts away ; He speeds, he bounds, he gallops without stay ; But the knight shudders, and bows down with fear : He sees a white form on his path appear. With noiseless gait, and arms towards him spread : ' Elf, spirit, demon, stay me not,' he said. With thyme and marjoram crowned for jollity. The elves are dancing over lawn and lea. ' Now stay me not, loathed vision of the air ! I go to wed my sweet-eyed lady-fair.' ' O, dear my lord, for evermore,' quoth she, ' The grave, alas ! our bridal couch must be ; For I am dead ! ' — and dead too at the sight From fear and sorrow fell her faithful knight. With thyme and marjoram crowned for jollity, The elves are dancing over lawn and lea. TRANSLATIONS 125 WAITING FROM VICTOR HUGO Mount, squirrel, mount yon oak-tree proud ; To thy slim branch, that nigh the cloud Bends quivering like a bulrush, leap. Lover of antique turrets high, O stork ! thine airy pinion ply, From fane to fortress mount and fly. From belfry tall to frowning keep. Old eagle, from thine eyry soar To yon time-battered mountain hoar, Blanch'd with eternal frost ! And thou, Whom on thy restless couch the round Of daylight never silent found. Mount, mount, gay skylark, from the ground - Gay skylark, mount to heaven ! And now, From topmost branch of leafy bower, From pinnacles of marble tower, High peak, and burning heaven, oh see ! Amid the horizon's misty gloom Floats on the breeze a helmet-plume ? And speeds a war-horse white with spume ? And comes my true-love back to me ? 126 TRANSLATIONS FROM CALLIS7RATUS Hid in myrtle be the brand I shall bear within my hand, Like Harmodius, one of two With Aristogeiton, who Erst the tyrant did to die, And gave Athens liberty. Not among the dead, I trow, Loved Harmodius, art thou ; But, men say, thou sojoumest In the Islands of the Blest, With Achilles, famed for speed, And, son of Tydeus, Diomede. Hid in myrtle be the brand I shall bear within my hand. Like Harmodius, one of two With Aristogeiton, who At Athena's festival Smote the tyrant to his fall — Lord Hipparchus : evermore Upon earth the fame ye bore, Loved Harmodius, shall remain, And Aristogeiton, twain Who the tyrant did to die, And gave Athens liberty. TRANSLATIONS 127 FROM LUCAN'S ' PHARSALIA; VII., 7-27. But night, to Magnus last of happy nights, With hollow semblance fooled his anxious sleep. Seated in Pompey's theatre he seemed The phantom thousands of Rome's folk to see ; While shouts of rapture tossed his name to heaven, And bench on bench with emulous plaudits rang. So looked the people, with such cheers of old Hailed him at dawn of manhood, in his youth's First triumph, when, victorious o'er the tribes Hemmed by the rushing Ebro, with what hosts Sertorius, slippery foeman, launched afield — The West now quelled — in pure white toga he, Majestic as in 'broidered chariot-robe. Sat 'mid the applauding senators, as yet But Knight of Rome. Whether at fortune's ebb. Mistrustful of the future, sleep fled back To times of gladness, or, with wonted maze. By counter boding vision presage brought Of mighty wailing, or — as doomed no more To see thy native land, thus far did fate With Rome indulge thee. Break not his repose, Camp-sentries ; let no trumpet scourge the ear ; To-morrow's slumber, terror- fraught and gloomed With day's dark image, shall one scene present Of boundless slaughter and of boundless war. 128 TRANSLATIONS FROM A GERMAN TRANSLATION OF A POLISH SONG Field and plain are flow'ring 'Neath the sun's warm kisses ; Nightingale, thou tellest Tidings of spring-blisses. Oft hast thou disburdened My sad heart of sorrow ; Welcome to thee, herald Of the blithe May-morrow ! Thy melodious numbers Still entrance my hearing. To the far-oif distance Thought and fancy bearing — To the fair and dear one. My sole earthly gladness, Who with thy brief music Left me here in sadness. On her mother's bosom Still she lingered, weeping. Then, a bride, departed In her soldier's keeping. Nightingale, fly quickly. See if joy betide her ; Say if yet she liveth, Or Death's darkness hide her. TRANSLATIONS 129 A POETS PRAYER FROM REINICK O Thou, the source from whence our life-springs flow ! What life there is in me Thou, Lord, dost know ; Illumine of Thy grace my every thought, That what there ails me I may cherish naught ; And what death-worthy is, that do Thou slay; And let me in a grave all silent lay. But whatso' of Thy Ukeness doth partake, Into a clear-limned picture let me make ; Set it to numbers and to notes, that I May unto men give forth its melody ; So that the sparks, which strew this heart of mine, In others may ignite, as fire to shine. And through the happiness which I have found Full many a heart grow fresh again and sound. Thou, of all truth, all hfe, foundation sole ! Lord, make me true and happy, make me whole. TRANS LA TIONS FROM VICTOR HUGO So be we as a bird That on too frail a spray Poised, for a moment clings, Feels it beneath him fail, Yet pipes away. Knowing that he hath wings. TRANSLATIONS FROM RONSARD Come, see, my darling, if the rose, That did with morning light disclose Her crimson robe to the sunshine, At eventide doth aught retain Of her rich mantle's crimson stain, The vermeil blush that vied with thine. Ah ! look, my darling, see how soon Low on the earth, alas ! lies strewn Her loveliness in disarray. A very step-dame, Nature, thou. Since such a flower but lasts, I trow, From day-dawn until eve be grey. Then, darling, be admonish^, And while the rose of life is red. And its first verdure grows not less, Pluck, while 'tis yours, your bloom of youth. For, as with this poor flower, in sooth. Old age will dim your loveliness. 132 THE PUBLIC AND THE POET Buy your books, sir, and read them ? Nay, not if we know it. Rather starve the whole brood— ^poetaster and poet ! If you and your fellows must splash us with verse From a stagnant Peirene, to drink it were worse. Ay, not though we squander our shillings to swill At the rubble- fed bookstall's perennial rill. And trample each other to pounce on the prize, When the flesh-prophet caters for prurient eyes. Time was when a poet was deemed rara avis ; Now they babble on bough Uke the merle or the mavis. One or two in a lifetime was all very well ; But who 's to keep pace when some sixty break shell ? True, the painters outswarm you as twenty to one, Year by year, till their canvas would curtain the sun. But that craves no thinking, yields something to show. Has an air so aesthetic ; so, gaily we go To the great colour-crushes, and stare through our part, Winning cheap reputation as lovers of art. Then, too, there is music : that tickles our ears With a tender shampooing, that moves us to tears ; The meaning lies hidden, but somehow it's sweet, So we crowd into concerts, ten shillings a seat. Yes, our pleasure we purr, our approval we clap When some brave singer turns on the tremolo-tap. And those simply wade ankle-deep in our money Who can write, sing, or play what is clever and funny. THE PUBLIC AND THE POET 133 But you, who would have us look inward, give ear Unto vague spirit-voices the flesh cannot hear, Purge sense of its grossness, strip wealth of its lure, In the soul and in Nature seek charms that endure ; To the old mythic virtues look backward, and scan How woman's love wakens the God in a man ; Through the roar of life's labour find silence and ease In the thought of high mountains, and heaven over these ; Catch anon the far music of stars in their spheres. Dive to life's hidden meaning through laughter and tears — Oh, it's all very splendid, and high, and sublime, But, to put the thing plainly, we can't spare the time ; Our palate affects not Pierian lore ; Till the Muses amuse us we count them a bore. So be warned, Minor Poet, nor frown and look cross, But take note, if you scribble 'twill be to your loss. M.P. Well, well, there are losses and losses. Suppose That your loss were the greater, my Public. Who knows ? BY THE SAME AUTHOR. POEMS. Macmillan & go. 1870. Kegan Paul & Co. 1885. TIMOLEON. A Dramatic Poem. Henry King & Co. 1875- THE GEORGICS OF VIRGIL IN ENGLISH VERSE. Kegan Paul & Co. Second Edition. 1891. DUX REDUX. Kegan Paul & Co. 1887. THE ^NEID OF VIRGIL. Books I.-VI. Longmans, Green, & Co. 1893. '.3^}<